Read Online A Time for War by Michael Savage - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Savage
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Jack thanked him, hung up, and wandered out of the marketplace. Apparent outsiders, a singularly targeted location, and now forged papers used to rent an SUV. Plus a getaway site that was blind to the SFPD. There was something here; it was a wedge for something else. Whatever that was, it was well organized if initially overconfident. The men would be back.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Sammo Yang had never been to America. He spoke English adequately, having undertaken its mandatory study for seven years in primary and secondary school. But he knew nothing about America other than what he saw on the news or heard at the China National Space Administration, where he worked for his entire professional life. Now that he was here, the thirty-five-year-old Beijing native felt distaste pooling in the back of his throat.
His credentials as an attaché enabled him to pass quickly through Customs at the San Francisco International Airport. The diplomatic papers, on a China-based aircraft, would make it virtually impossible for American authorities to find out his true identity. He spotted a radiation detector tucked in a corner of the ceiling. He noted the security cameras, which would not help the Americans identify him. Though he had happily shaved the beard he had worn in Afghanistan, he had on a fishermanâs black wool cap with a brim and sunglasses. He also wore a white windbreaker specially made with magnesium fibers for seam threads. The garment was highly reflective and created a lens flare that smeared the video image whenever he moved. The large plastic case he carried was not inspected, set off no alarms. He was met by a tall, efficient consulate employee who ushered Sammo to the van waiting curbside.
âDid you have a pleasant flight?â the youthful consulate worker asked.
Sammo didnât care that the question was banal. It was a joy to hear his language being spoken on the ground in this awful, arrogant land. Sammoâs father had overseen a shoe factory for an American firm in Nanjing. When the firm got a better deal in India, they closed the shop literally overnight and Sammoâs father was out of work. His parents had died within weeks of one another four years ago. They had both been in their fifties.
Sammo earned a degree in physics from Nanjing University with a doctorate in acoustics and engineering. He went to work for the CNSA in their top-security spy satellite program where he developed a method of intercepting secure wireless signals even in the vacuum of space. That brought him to the attention of the science office of the Central Military Commission. That brought him to Afghanistan, challenging himself in ways undreamed of, equipped with skills he had never expected to possess.
Now it brought him here.
Mistreating the citizens of the Peopleâs Republic of China was bad enough. It represented everything the Chinese people had fought against, going back over a century to the Boxer Rebellion: the exploitation of hardworking citizens by foreign powers. But the actions the Americans had taken in the past six months had been intolerable. They would be made to pay dearly for that.
Sammo looked through the dark-tinted window at the airplanes riding gray plumes skyward while others seemed to float to earth. He looked at the towers of some city in the distance, at identical-looking stores offering food and electronics, at the occasional gleaming flashes of the waters of the Bay. He had read on the governmentâs Xinhua News Agency website that Chinese banks effectively owned America. That did not instill him with feelings of pride but with revulsion: he did not want to own this place, he wanted to see it crushed and dismantled, the way his father had lost face for being unable to keep his factory, the way his family had been broken.
âThis is the freeway called the 101,â the consulate employee said helpfully. âWe are headed north to San Francisco. That
Jack thanked him, hung up, and wandered out of the marketplace. Apparent outsiders, a singularly targeted location, and now forged papers used to rent an SUV. Plus a getaway site that was blind to the SFPD. There was something here; it was a wedge for something else. Whatever that was, it was well organized if initially overconfident. The men would be back.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Sammo Yang had never been to America. He spoke English adequately, having undertaken its mandatory study for seven years in primary and secondary school. But he knew nothing about America other than what he saw on the news or heard at the China National Space Administration, where he worked for his entire professional life. Now that he was here, the thirty-five-year-old Beijing native felt distaste pooling in the back of his throat.
His credentials as an attaché enabled him to pass quickly through Customs at the San Francisco International Airport. The diplomatic papers, on a China-based aircraft, would make it virtually impossible for American authorities to find out his true identity. He spotted a radiation detector tucked in a corner of the ceiling. He noted the security cameras, which would not help the Americans identify him. Though he had happily shaved the beard he had worn in Afghanistan, he had on a fishermanâs black wool cap with a brim and sunglasses. He also wore a white windbreaker specially made with magnesium fibers for seam threads. The garment was highly reflective and created a lens flare that smeared the video image whenever he moved. The large plastic case he carried was not inspected, set off no alarms. He was met by a tall, efficient consulate employee who ushered Sammo to the van waiting curbside.
âDid you have a pleasant flight?â the youthful consulate worker asked.
Sammo didnât care that the question was banal. It was a joy to hear his language being spoken on the ground in this awful, arrogant land. Sammoâs father had overseen a shoe factory for an American firm in Nanjing. When the firm got a better deal in India, they closed the shop literally overnight and Sammoâs father was out of work. His parents had died within weeks of one another four years ago. They had both been in their fifties.
Sammo earned a degree in physics from Nanjing University with a doctorate in acoustics and engineering. He went to work for the CNSA in their top-security spy satellite program where he developed a method of intercepting secure wireless signals even in the vacuum of space. That brought him to the attention of the science office of the Central Military Commission. That brought him to Afghanistan, challenging himself in ways undreamed of, equipped with skills he had never expected to possess.
Now it brought him here.
Mistreating the citizens of the Peopleâs Republic of China was bad enough. It represented everything the Chinese people had fought against, going back over a century to the Boxer Rebellion: the exploitation of hardworking citizens by foreign powers. But the actions the Americans had taken in the past six months had been intolerable. They would be made to pay dearly for that.
Sammo looked through the dark-tinted window at the airplanes riding gray plumes skyward while others seemed to float to earth. He looked at the towers of some city in the distance, at identical-looking stores offering food and electronics, at the occasional gleaming flashes of the waters of the Bay. He had read on the governmentâs Xinhua News Agency website that Chinese banks effectively owned America. That did not instill him with feelings of pride but with revulsion: he did not want to own this place, he wanted to see it crushed and dismantled, the way his father had lost face for being unable to keep his factory, the way his family had been broken.
âThis is the freeway called the 101,â the consulate employee said helpfully. âWe are headed north to San Francisco. That
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