Flags of Sin (10 page)

“But I
would have been emperor,” he whispered.

Mei
shook her head. “Your grandmother would never have allowed it. You would be
dead now, of that there is no doubt.”

He
shoved himself from his chair and stood. Mei did the same, only slower, and by
the time she was on her feet, he had already gone into the house, returning
moments later with a money belt, and a small bag.

He
marched off the porch without a word, and Mei called after him. “Where are you
going?”

But he
never replied.

She
watched as he stormed off the property, then turned toward the village. And
with horror, she gasped as he walked up to the pole holding the fluttering flag
of the Qing Dynasty, the symbol of his true family, and hacked the cord with a
knife, sending the flag quivering to the ground.

What
have I done?

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Three days ago

Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, BD for short, leader
of Delta Team Bravo, peered through his scope, eyeing Niner’s target. Five dead
center, one off by an inch.

“You’re
slipping, Sergeant.”

Niner,
his parents South Korean immigrants from the war, his self-chosen nickname a
variation on “nine iron”, a racist insult spat at him during a bar fight, gave Dawson
the “Is that a second head growing out of your shoulder” look.

“If
putting five in the right testicle, and one in the left, is slipping, I’ll take
slipping any day.”

Dawson
chuckled.

“Or,
five in the HT, one in the hostage.”

“Wind
shift,” piped in Jimmy, Niner’s customary spotter, his own nickname given after
the unit had found out he was editor of his school paper, Jimmy Olsen
apparently sticking in someone’s mind.

“Yeah,
Jimmy broke wind, caused me to shift.”

Dawson
shook his head, Niner’s crude, constant humor, legendary.

“Lucky
you’re the best shot in the unit, otherwise I’d put you on the bench for your
sense of humor.”

“You
know you love me.”

Dawson’s
eyebrow shot up, as did Spock’s who had just walked up.

“BD, the
Colonel wants to see you, ASAP.”

Dawson
nodded and handed Spock the clipboard.

“You
take over. Everyone requalifies today.”

“Hey,
what about you?” asked Niner with a teenage whine.

“Check
the first page,” said Dawson as he walked off the outdoor range.

“Holy
shit, I thought he said I was the best shot in the unit!” exclaimed Niner in
the distance. Dawson smiled and climbed into his 1964½ Mustang convertible, in
original poppy red, and fired up the engine. Several minutes later he was in
front of HQ, and in Colonel Thomas Clancy’s office.

“Have a
seat, Sergeant Major.”

“Thank
you, sir,” said Dawson as he sat down in front of the Colonel’s desk. Clancy
was a man he respected, a man he even admired. If Dawson had gone the officer
route, he hoped he would have turned out to be a man like Clancy—no nonsense,
respected by his men, and loyal to them as well. When Clancy was Control on a
mission, Dawson always knew his back was covered from home.

And
Clancy would stop at nothing to get him out of whatever shit he had managed to
get himself into.

London
was a prime example of that.

For those
of his men that had survived, at least.

Dawson
eyeballed the desk.

Something’s
different.

Clancy
seemed to pick up on it, waving at a prominently empty section.

“Humidor.
Promised my wife I’d try to quit smoking cigars, or at least cut back. With
them calling out to me from two feet away I knew I’d surrender like a Frenchman
when he hears a German, so I declared my office Vichy France and banned the
cigars, rather than admit complicity with my wife’s desires.”

Dawson
grinned, enjoying Clancy’s sometimes unique take on history. Dawson had loved
history as a kid, and with his recent escapades with two archaeology
professors, his interest had been rekindled, and he spent many a night sitting
in front of the TV with a beer and his iPad, browsing Wikipedia, reading about
long dead people, and events too many had forgotten about.

“Well,
sir, unlike the French, I’m sure you won’t need Ike to come in here and save
your ass.”

“Funny
you should mention him. Just watched a great movie about him the other day with
Magnum PI. If any Frenchman wonders why half the world thinks they’re arrogant,
they should watch that movie. The actor playing that de Gaulle bastard portrays
the stereotype perfectly.”

Dawson
leaned forward, nodding. “Ike with Tom Selleck. I watched that too. Wanted to
put a few rounds through my plasma when de Gaulle was on screen. Fortunately
that’s frowned upon on base, so I’m not in the market for a new TV.”

Clancy
chuckled, then became all business.

“I have
a mission for you.”

Dawson
leaned back in his chair, the smile gone.

“Yes,
sir.”

“We’ve
got a situation developing in China that we’re concerned about.”

Dawson’s
eyebrows shot up.

“China?”
He’d been all over the world on missions, but hadn’t expected China to be one
of them.

“Yup.”
Clancy pushed a file across his desk and Dawson took it, flipping it open.
“Tourists, American tourists, are turning up dead, shot by a sniper using a
high-powered rifle. Very professional. It appears to be politically motivated,
at least that’s what our sources tell us. The Chinese were denying everything,
and only yesterday finally acknowledged they have the bodies of over three
dozen foreigners in their morgues across the country.”

“What’s
the motive?”

“It
seems to be one of those China for the Chinese type things.”

“Has
this gone public?”

“Sort
of, just not the extent of it. A couple from Michigan failed to return from a
radio contest vacation earlier in the week. That’s what set off the alarms. A
bunch of disparate stories from around the world started to be reported, and
now the Chinese have been forced to acknowledge, privately, that they have a
problem. Shit’s going to hit our news any minute now.”

“And
what do you want us to do?”

“We’re
concerned about our diplomatic assets over there. I want you to take a team of
four, unarmed, on diplomatic passports, to Beijing and review our security
arrangements for the embassy and our other key assets over there, especially
the Ambassador. Apparently that idiot drives by Tiananmen every day on his way
home. Identify the holes, recommend how they can be plugged before that moron
gets himself, or more likely one of his security staff, killed, then get your
asses out. We don’t want another Benghazi.”

“Why us?
Why not Secret Service? Isn’t this their job?”

“Oh,
they’re doing their own review, but ever since Columbia, the President hasn’t
exactly been in a mood to put all his eggs in one basket. Especially when the
basket tends to turn out to be a whorehouse.”

Dawson
grinned from half his mouth.

“You can
count on us, sir.”

“I can
count on you not to get caught,” said Clancy, returning the grin. He waved at
the door. “Now get out of here.”

Dawson
stood up and paid his respects with a brief moment at attention, then strode
out of the Colonel’s office.

China!
He had always wanted to go there, to see the incredible history,
but as long as he was active, it was an impossibility. But on an op? He had
never thought that would happen. But here he was, on his way to arguably
America’s biggest military threat that everyone loved to buy from, essentially
as a spy.

And he
knew what could happen if they were identified.

Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China

November 16, 1908

Li Mei sat on the porch of her son’s estate, waiting as she had done
for over a month. There had been no word from him since the day he had stormed
away and sliced the flag from its poll, an act that had not gone unnoticed. She
had been questioned. They all had. And the story she gave them was that she had
had a fight with him over him having more children, and he had left, angry, and
had lashed out at the flag in anger at her, not the Emperor.

The
story had been believed, but they still wanted to question him when he
returned.

And they
wanted an apology.

And it
wasn’t something she was certain he would give.

His
return terrified her, as she knew what was expected of him. She found herself
torn between desperately wanting her son to return, regardless of whether or
not he was her son by blood, or love, and between wanting him to stay away,
safe from the authorities who demanded answers.

But the
mother in her wanted him back.

And so
her vigil. Every day she sat on the porch, waiting for his return, and every
day she went inside disappointed. And as the temperature got colder, she found
she could stand fewer and fewer hours outside, and would instead warm up
inside, in front of the fire, with a view out the window, at the path that led
to their door.

And so
it had been for six weeks. Six long weeks of waiting, six long weeks of
worrying. And as she warmed her hands over the fire, she thought of whether or
not she should have told him the truth, but she knew she was right. It was a
promise made to her Emperor, a man she barely knew, but all these years later,
was still intensely loyal to. A man who in the end had treated her with honor
by bestowing his greatest treasure to her care, and had saved her life, by
standing his ground and refusing to tell where they had gone.

A man
who would have been a wonderful leader, had he ever been given the chance.

She
realized she had romanticized the idea of him. For all she knew he might have
been the same tyrant his mother was, but in her heart she felt that he was
different. And when he had stood up to his mother, yelled at her, demanding the
respect of his position, Mei had felt both a surge of fear and pride.

And as
she sat back in her chair and looked out the window once again, she saw him
walking up the walkway, haggard and old, and for a moment thought she was
dreaming, until she realized it wasn’t her Emperor at all, but his son, her
son, returning.

Her eyes
immediately burned with tears as she leapt from her chair and rushed to the
doorway. She threw it open and ran down the steps and through the light dusting
of snow, closing the final few feet between her and her boy with her arms
outstretched.

She
buried her head in his chest and hugged him hard, and she felt his arms
envelope her, and she knew everything was going to be alright. She looked up at
him, and frowned.

“You
look so old, my son.”

He
sighed, then looked at the house.

“I feel
old, mother.”

“Where
have you been?”

She drew
him toward the house and up the steps. The rest of the family stood
respectfully on the porch, and when he had stepped onto it, he stopped and
looked at them.

“I’ve
been gone too long.”

He was
immediately smothered in hugs and pats from the huge family. Tears and laughter
spilled off the porch and down the path, so loud she was certain it could be
heard in the nearby village. She looked up and saw the gold and blue flag
rustle in the wind, flying high above the town entrance, as if snubbing its
nose at her son in defiance.

She
looked away from the flag she once adored, and now feared.

She
looked up at her son, and she saw that he too was looking at the flag. When he
looked away, his eyes came to rest on her face, and her expression of concern.
He shook his head at her questioning look, then urged the family and servants
inside the house, soon leaving the two of them alone together.

“The
town magistrate wants to meet with you.”

“I’m
sure he does.”

“What
will you tell him?”

“That
the flag of Qing reigns over us no more.”

She
shuddered. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“I mean
the Empress Dowager Cixi will never haunt this family again.”

He
patted her on the back, then stepped into the house.

Mei
looked over her shoulder, and saw the flag suddenly jerk, then drop several
feet, then stop. Another few feet, and another stop. She squinted, trying to
make out what was happening, when she noticed several people gathered at the
base of the pole, lowering the flag. More began to gather, and stand, staring
up, agape.

And
Mei’s heart sank. She turned back toward her son, who stood in the doorway,
looking at the flag, then at her, a curious smile on his face. Not one of
happiness, but of satisfaction.

And he
looked even older than when he had walked up the steps only minutes before.

She felt
her chest tighten, and she grabbed the railing to steady herself.

“What
have you done?”

He
looked back at the flag, then her, and turned away, entering the house. Mei
looked back, and saw dozens were gathered around the pole now, the flag having
halted its descent halfway.

And she
had to know.

She
found her feet carrying her down the steps, along the path to the road, then
rushing as fast as she could in her slippered feet toward the growing crowd.

She
rushed into the midst, trying to calm the thundering that filled her ears as
she listened for some explanation.

“What’s
wrong, what’s happened?” she demanded of her neighbor when she saw him.

“The
Emperor and the Empress Dowager are dead!” he cried, tears flowing freely down
his cheeks.

Her own
tears burst forth, burning paths of fear, relief and pride down her own.