The Rising Sea (NUMA Files 15)

ONE MONTH LATER

AT FIRST GLANCE, the scene was a bucolic one, two old men sitting in a park, hunched over a game of pure strategy. But the park, with its trees and bushes and black-water pond, was actually the private yard of the second-most-powerful man in the Chinese government. The sculpted garden hid surveillance cameras, the flowering vines in the distance covered a twelve-foot wall. And the wall was lined with sensors, topped with razor wire and watched by armed guards in case anyone was foolish enough to approach too closely.

Beijing sprawled outside that wall, frantic, crowded and chaotic. Inside lay a sanctuary.

Walter Han had been a guest here many times before. Never had he remained for so long or with such little talk between himself and his mentor. With no words between them, he was forced to concentrate on the game board between them, a nineteen-by-nineteen grid partially filled with black and white stones.

They were playing the ancient game of Asia. Older than chess and infinitely more complex. Called Weiqui in China, the game was known as Igo in Japan and Baduk in Korea. Westerners simply called it Go.

Sensing an opening, Han pulled a small white stone from a cup at his side and placed it into position. Satisfied with his move, he sat back and admired the gardens. “Whenever I come here, I’m amazed to know we’re still in the city limits.”

Han was in his late forties. Taller than most Chinese men, he was also lean and wiry. Some would describe him as spindly. Born in Hong Kong to a Chinese father and a Japanese mother, he’d been given a Western name because that made it easier to do business with the European and American companies that so loved the island outpost.

At the time of Han’s birth, his father was already running a small electronics company. Unlike many in Hong Kong, Han’s father chose to align himself with the mainland government rather than fight a losing battle for independence. That decision paid handsome rewards. Han’s family were millionaires by the time the British stood down. And in the decades since, Han and his father had built the largest conglomerate across China: ITI, or Industrial Technology, Inc.

With his father gone, Han had spent the last decade running the company on his own. Not only did he maintain close links to the government in Beijing, he expanded them. Some considered him a fifth pillar of the government. The money, power and prestige made him a force to be reckoned with. And yet, he still deferred to the man across from him.

“A place of solitude is essential. Otherwise, one cannot think beyond the noise.” The words came like poetry from Wen Li, a small man with a few locks of white hair remaining on the sides of his head. He had mottled skin and a slight droop to the right side of his face.

As a strategist, Wen had seen the Party leaders through six decades of turmoil. He’d been a soldier, a statesman and a strategist. He was rumored to have personally ordered the crushing of the Tiananmen Square protests and, in their aftermath, to have guided China onto the path of capitalism without giving up the rule of the single party.

He held several offices within the Party, but his unofficial title was more impressive. They called him Lao-shi, the word literally meant old person of high skills, but applied to Wen it was the equivalent of learned Master.

Wen made a move on the board, placing a small black stone beside one of Han’s white stones. Essentially, cutting it off from the rest of Han’s pieces. “You come to me with a heavy heart,” he said. “Is the news that bad?”

Han had been waiting for the right moment to speak. He could wait no longer. “Unfortunately, yes. The survey of the mining site is complete. Our worst fears have been confirmed. The avalanche destroyed most of the exterior modules, filling in parts of the canyon and scattering debris across the Serpent’s Jaw. The reactor was untouched, but the project cannot be rebuilt without a massive effort and expenditure.”

“How large?”

Han knew the numbers by heart. “To excavate the debris would cost a hundred billion yuan. To reestablish the operation and rebuild the station . . . at least five hundred billion more. The time frame would be long. Especially if the need to operate in secrecy remains.”

“It does,” Wen said.

“In which case, it would be three years before the mine begins producing again.”

“Three years,” Wen said.

The old man sat back, drifting off into his own thoughts.

“At least three years,” Han repeated.

Wen came back from his reverie. “How much ore was the mine producing at the time of the accident?”

“Less than half a ton per month. And falling.”

“Was there any hope of increasing the yield?”

“Very little.”

Wen grunted his displeasure. “In that case, why would we spend so many billions and waste so much time digging additional holes in the seafloor? Why would we even consider it?”

Han took a breath. He’d expected to have Wen on his side. After all, the old man had been the chief proponent of the secret mining operations from the beginning. He’d understood the strategic value of the alloy right from the start.

“Because the ore cannot be priced in yuan or time wasted,” he explained. “As you well know, the Golden Adamant is unlike anything the world has ever seen. A living metamaterial. Five times stronger than titanium, capable of accomplishing things no other material derived from the Earth or created in a lab can match. With it, we can build a generation of aircraft, ships and missiles that are virtually indestructible. Not to mention a thousand other uses our engineers are dreaming up. This mine—our mine—is the only place in the world this material has ever been found. You know this, of course. The cost is irrelevant. We must rebuild.”

The old man looked up menacingly and Han wondered if he’d gone too far.

“Do not lecture me on what must be done,” Wen said.