Five Tribes Read online

  He tried not to think about it, yet it was the thing he thought about the most. You never could give her a child, the voice in his head said, so why wouldn’t she find a man who could give her what you couldn’t?

  He was wracked by another fit of coughing. When it finally stopped, he felt a mass of tissue and phlegm in his mouth. Spitting it into his hand he saw that it was marbled with blood.

  The next morning, three new prisoners arrived at the mining camp. This was big news, and the other prisoners began whispering and gossiping about them.

  “One of the guards told me they were from the mainland.”

  “He’s lying to you! They came from the copper laogai.”

  “No, it was timber,” another prisoner said. “And they tried to mutiny. That’s why they’ve been beaten.” This seemed to make the most sense to Xiao-ping. He had heard rumors about unrest in some of the other camps, perhaps inspired by the protests in China. The new men had bruises on their faces and arms, and they refused to speak to anyone. Clearly they had been threatened and were scared.

  And they weren’t the only ones who were afraid. Xiao-ping could tell that the managers were nervous: they doubled the guards and gave them orders to crack down on the smallest infractions. By lunch time, three inmates had been disciplined with cattle prods for gossiping.

  For the next three days, the newcomers were kept apart from everyone else, but slowly they were integrated into the camp and began to talk.

  One of them was a short and frail man who wore thick plastic glasses that he was always pushing up his nose. Despite the glasses, he always seemed to be squinting, as if he couldn’t quite make out what he was seeing. At dinner one night he sat next to Xiao-ping. He said his name was Zhang Yong and he admitted that he was a hopeless worker. “At the timber laogai, I crashed two trucks. They put me in solitary confinement for two weeks. The first day back I cut down a tree, and it landed on another truck.”

  Xiao-ping knew that Yong was the type of man who would die quickly in the mines if he wasn’t careful. A person who was clumsy by nature never lasted long, and there was little anyone could do to help them. But for some reason, perhaps because of his cough and the inevitability of his death, Xiao-ping decided to take Yong under his wing. Over the next few days, he taught him how to protect his skin from the sun, how to prevent foot rot by rubbing rotten fruit on his skin, and, most importantly, telling him who in the camp he could trust and who would betray him.

  It was soon apparent that it was a miracle that Yong had lasted this long. He had an amazing capacity for breaking everything he touched. The guards noticed too and began to kick him and slap him for the most minor transgressions like spilling his soup in the mess or breaking a shovel.

  It also didn’t take long for the “Corpse Squad” to single him out. Their leader, Suen Peng, began to taunt Yong. “Don’t worry, we will take good care of you,” he snickered.

  One of the most sadistic ways the guards toyed with the prisoners was by pitting them against each other. Those who spied on or tortured other prisoners for the guards were rewarded with extra rations and little bottles of liquor. The Corpse Squad was a group of prisoners responsible for disposing of dead bodies, a job that terrified the guards because they were so afraid of catching one of the many diseases that ran rampant in the camps. Since the calories from extra rations could mean the difference between life and death, the Corpse Squad often grew impatient if people were not dying fast enough. At first they targeted those who were taken to the infirmary, but eventually they began suffocating people in their sleep. The unspoken rule was that they couldn’t touch a man who was meeting their quota in the mines. But a chronic underperformer, like Yong, was fair game.

  One night after dinner, Peng and his friends cornered Yong between two of the cellblocks. They began smacking him and pushing him around. When he tried to run, they pinned him to the ground.

  “Help! Please somebody,” Yong cried. A guard in the watchtower looked down at them but did nothing.

  “See? They don’t care,” Peng said. “You belong to us now.”

  “Should we break his leg or just suffocate him?” one of the inmates asked.

  That’s when Xiao-ping shoved Peng to the ground.

  “Leave him alone!” He tried to strike a menacing pose but a sudden coughing fit doubled him over.

  Peng stood and smiled. “You don’t sound so good, Xiao-ping. Maybe you should check into the infirmary.” His friends chuckled.

  Xiao-ping got control of himself and raised his fists. Peng circled around him calmly, then rushed forward as if to strike him, stopping at the last second. Xiao-ping flinched and cowered, and Peng laughed at him. But then Xiao-ping noticed Peng looking over his shoulder to the guard tower. The guard was now watching them closely. While Yong was prey for the corpse squad, Xiao-ping was not. He was a good worker and always made quota.

  “Fine,” Peng said, addressing Xiao-ping, but loud enough so the guard could hear. “We can wait. But sooner or later, you’re both going in the pit.” He and the other men left.

  Xiao-ping helped Yong to his feet. Wet mud made his clothes stick to his skin. “Thank you,” he said. “But what did they mean by the pit?”

  “Do you ever hear the hyenas going wild at night?”

  Yong nodded.

  “The pit is an old mine at the far end of the camp where they put the dead. The hyenas can smell the bodies, but they can’t get through the fence. That’s why they go wild.”

  “I don’t want to go there,” Yong said.

  Xiao-ping wrapped his arm around Yong’s shoulder and led him back toward their cellblock. “Me either,” he said.

  The next day he and Yong were on top of the sluice bucket, using a high-powered hose on tons and tons of earth. No one could hear them over the rush of the water. Xiao-ping took the chance to ask about the mutiny. Yong looked around furtively, nodded slowly, then began to tell the story.

  “It started early in the morning,” Yong began. “Six or seven prisoners attacked the guards with chainsaws. That was the signal for the other prisoners to rise up. I don’t think I’ll ever get it out of my head, the men cutting into the guards, the sound of it . . . The fighting probably only lasted a half hour, but it felt like forever.”

  “How many escaped?”

  “At least forty. Some fled into the woods, others stole trucks and got away. But many died. Some of the guards were ready and were merciless.”

  “And what happened to you? Did they catch you?”

  Yong hung his head in shame. “I was too afraid to fight or run. I just lay on the ground playing dead. I know you think I’m a coward. But you have to understand how terrified I was.”

  “It’s okay,” Xiao-ping said, “I’m not judging you.”

  The story gave Xiao-ping much to think about. Such a mutiny would be much harder here than in a timber camp, where the inmates had access to “weapons” like chainsaws and were constantly moved around. Here, the entire mining site—seven square kilometers—had ten-foot fences topped with razor wire surrounding it. Inside was the prison compound, which also had eight-foot fences, razor wire, and guard posts. Any attempt of mutiny here felt like suicide.

  “And what news from home?”

  “Just rumors. They say the Central Committee is pushing to end the laogai, but of course the business conglomerates are opposed—they need the free labor. Many prisoners think now is the best chance we’ll get. Better to risk death once in escaping, than risk death every day as a slave.”

  Xiao-ping nodded slowly. Would he try to escape if there were a mutiny? He thought back to his life as a human rights lawyer. Once upon a time he had been a leader who could rally people and inspire them to action. But that was twelve years ago, another lifetime, and he no longer thought of fighting or justice anymore, only survival. And what about Lili? The guards were always warning them that
if they escaped, their families in China would suffer the consequences. But now, with the upheaval in China, the mutineers were betting that there would be no retribution. But what if reform didn’t last? What then? Xiao-ping realized it was a risk he couldn’t take. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was little he could do. He had to hope reform would come to China . . . and quickly.

  Over the next three days something strange began to happen: Xiao-ping began to feel better. His cough came less frequently, and he felt stronger. It didn’t make sense, but his body was beating the TB. He thought that perhaps it was a reward for helping Yong. Good karma. Whatever the reason, he was getting stronger and with that strength came something he hadn’t felt in years.

  Hope.

  It was fifteen days after Yong arrived that he heard the voice.

  “Xiao-ping!” the voice said. “Xiao-ping! Wake up!” He opened his eyes and sat up. Everyone around him was fast asleep. He looked into the gloom for the man who had spoken to him . . . in English. He heard three men snoring. Nearby a man coughed. He lay down again. “I’m dreaming,” he muttered and lay his head down.

  “No, you’re not dreaming,” the voice said. “This is going to sound strange, but I’ve placed a microphone in your ear. I can see you and hear you, too.”

  He sat up again and looked around. He put his finger to one ear, then both ears. “I’m starting to lose my mind,” he whispered.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “But how?”

  “Never mind, it’s complicated. But I’m going to get you out of there.”

  “That’s impossible. There’s no way to get out.”

  He heard a kind-hearted laugh. “You’ll see.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend of Lili’s. She’s safe in America. Mei is with her.”

  This has to be a dream, he thought. But it wasn’t a bad dream. Perhaps he’d play along. “Prove it,” he said.

  He heard the friendly laugh again. “Let’s see. Your wife never shuts up, and Mei can eat her weight in butter-pecan ice cream.”

  Xiao-ping felt a rush of emotion and tears began to stream down his face. It was not so much the man’s words, but his relaxed tone that told him that he was telling the truth. It was an undeniable proof of intimacy and it triggered a wellspring of emotions. Suddenly those twelve lost years—more than a quarter of his life—rushed up inside him. Lili had not forgotten him. The love was still there. And Mei, who had only been a bubble on his sister-in-law’s belly, was now a girl, a girl with a personality, with likes and hates, charms and faults and a favorite ice cream. And perhaps the most powerful feeling of all was relief. They were safe, safe in a place the party couldn’t reach them. For several minutes he sobbed for the lost years.

  The voice waited then eventually spoke. “It’s going to be all right. Trust me. We have been trying to find you for months. The hard part is over. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

  “I have TB. It’s the third time.”

  “I know,” the voice said, “but that’s under control now.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I started you on an antibiotic seven days ago. I’m also treating you for your intestinal parasites and I’ve been putting extra calories in your stomach to build up your strength.”

  “I’m sorry, but none of this makes sense.”

  “I know it’s confusing, but I work with some very advanced technology. I have the ability to get inside your body if I wish. I can do this . . . and many other things. I hope you take the fact that you are feeling better as proof.”

  Xiao-ping nodded. He couldn’t deny how much stronger he felt.

  “Do you believe me?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, you are going to have to start trusting me. The guards typically wake you at 6:00 a.m. That’s fifteen minutes from now. But in ten minutes things are going to start happening. And when they do, I need you to do exactly as I say. In fact, I’m going to ask you to do some things that might seem very dangerous. But don’t be afraid; I’ll make sure the guards don’t hurt you.”

  “This is all happening so fast. Can I think about it?”

  “I know I’m asking a lot. Perhaps this will help.” He heard a click in his ear, as if a phone had been connected.

  “Panda bear?”

  The tears came again to Xiao-ping’s eyes. “Lili? How? Where are you?”

  “I’m safe. Don’t worry. We are waiting for you. I just need you to be brave a little longer. We are going to get you out. Just do as my friend says.”

  He nodded to himself, still overwhelmed by his emotions. “I’ll try.”

  “Just think, twenty-four hours from now, we’ll be together again.”

  “Is it really possible?” Xiao-ping said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “The thought of that will give me all the strength I need.”

  Chapter Two

  The Juice

  November 4, 2026

  Namibia

  Seven miles from the Chinese mining camp and forty feet off the ground, Eric Hill sat in back of a Bell V-280 Valor, a tilt-rotor aircraft that was half helicopter, half plane. The body of the Valor looked like a Black Hawk helicopter, broad and squat, but instead of a single rotor on top, it had a fixed wing. At the end of each wing was a Rolls-Royce turboshaft engine and propeller that could tilt up or forward. The hybridization meant that the aircraft was much faster and had a longer range than a conventional helicopter.

  Eric was sitting in a specially designed control chamber at the back of the cabin called “the egg.” It was from here that Eric could do his very specialized work.

  He pulled up the camera in cellblock eight where two hundred prisoners were still sleeping. That was about to change. He checked the time. Yes, in exactly five minutes.

  Days before, he had programmed the nanosites to set up tiny cameras throughout the prison compound. The lenses were smaller than a nickel and ethereal—there was distance between the nanosite bundles so they were invisible to the eye. You could pass your hand through one and it would dissolve like a swarm of gnats, only to reorganize a second later.

  He opened the commlink to the USS Gerald Ford. “This is Zulu Five One, we are ready and in position.”

  He immediately heard the Captain’s response. “This is Viper One Nine to all elements. We are go here for Operation Devil’s Island, repeat, go for Devil’s Island.”

  Each team leader reported in, acknowledging the order.

  “Roger,” Eric said, “I’m going to juice them up.”

  In the cockpit Major Dave Winfred kept the Valor in a low holding pattern over dense jungle, watching as his rotor wash stirred the treetops below him. It was still dark, but his night vision let him see the trees as a lime-green ocean stretching out in every direction. There was a sliver of a moon, a waning crescent, approaching the horizon. Across the night sky he could see a slow armada of stratocumulus clouds drifting in from the ocean. It was the perfect time for night ops, as the low moonlight enhanced their tactical advantage of being able to see in the dark.

  Winfred had to admit he’d been skeptical three months ago when he’d gotten the call from Special Operations Command that he was needed at the Asymmetrical Warfare Center at Fort A.P. Hill in Virginia. Winfred was a Night Stalker with the 160th out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky, home to many of the best helicopter and Valor pilots in the country. Even in that distinguished company, Winfred was considered a cut above the rest. Between Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria, he had been flying in combat zones for almost fifteen years. Not surprisingly, he had come to expect to be given the most interesting missions and the very best toys. Truth be told, it felt a bit beneath his experience and pay grade to waste his time helping some egghead scientist try to refit a perfectly good Valor, then fly it around the hills of Virgi
nia.

  His first hint that this might not be a total ass suck was when he’d landed at Fort A.P. Hill and saw Master Chief Sawyer out on the tarmac. The old SEAL had given a sly grin and said, “Ah, my favorite taxi driver.”

  “Well, if it isn’t Methuselah himself,” Winfred said. “I must be getting close to my retirement date if you’re here.”

  “That date has come and gone for me. They’re just trying to kill me off now.”

  Winfred laughed, and the two embraced. “So what’s this all about?”

  “Well, I’m not at liberty to discuss that. But I certainly hope I’m there when they tell you, because I imagine the look on your face will be a lot like if you discovered you were shitting gold bricks.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Sawyer only smiled.

  It was at that moment that Winfred saw a young civilian approaching them. He was tall and looked like he had been an athlete once. He had thick black hair and a handsome but boyish face. Winfred thought he detected a slight limp in his walk. But it was when Winfred got a look at his eyes that he got the strongest impression. There was an intensity there that he’d seen only rarely, one he associated with the ability to notice, absorb, and process things at a faster rate than most. He’d seen it every now and then in young pilots, the ones that turned out to be good. Probably CIA, Winfred thought, maybe DARPA.

  “Just one minute, Dave,” Sawyer said and went to meet the man.

  Winfred watched them and his curiosity grew. He knew how much Sawyer disdained the Agency, civilian contractors, or anyone who meddled in the military but had never worn a uniform. Sawyer was old school to the core, and he didn’t hold his tongue about it either. He’d tell you how McNamara and the Whiz Kids had lost Vietnam and that the problem with the military today was how quickly good soldiers left to get better pay as defense contractors or PMCs. To Sawyer they were little better than traitors.