the edge of the mats in the training hall. Hwong Zhi noted his presence but remained focused on his workout, striking with renewed intensity the multilimbed mook jong, the wooden dummy shared by multiple kung fu styles. Stripped to the waist, the cords of his muscles in stark relief in the spotty track lighting of the training room, Hwong Zhi was an imposing figure, tall even among Westerners.
Song was of medium build and possessed singularly unremarkable features. Yet there was a palpable aura of menace about Song, an intensity that radiated from his dark eyes. Comrade Song, as the general now insisted he be called, was one of the few men whom Hwong Zhi truly feared. Hwong, as Comrade Song’s field commander, was a blooded warrior of years’ experience, but something about the much smaller man made Hwong nervous.
The general’s presence in the training room signaled an abrupt end to the inner peace and physical release Hwong normally felt during a workout. The interruption could mean only bad news.
“We have a problem,” Song said without preamble.
Hwong walked to the edge of the mat area, pulling the tape wraps from his hands as he did so. “Yes, Comrade General?”
“Kapalaua and his people have failed. I have just received a report from the field. He is in custody as we speak.”
“It was always a possibility,” Hwong admitted.
“It was wrong to use Kapalaua and his Hawaiians.” Song’s face creased with a frown. “You should have sent a tactical team, and you should have interrogated the prisoner more thoroughly.”
“Had I continued to torture the prisoner,” Hwong countered, “he would have died, taking his secrets with him. When we finally caught him taking photos within the Cheinjong facility, the only thing in his possession apart from the camera was that hotel key. Cheinjong was already compromised. Why not use it to bait the trap?”
“As you say,” Song admitted. “But in assigning an amateur to pursue the lead, we have lost it.”
“I know Kapalaua’s people,” Hwong assured him. “They will not let their would-be king languish in custody. If necessary, I will help them along, but I doubt I will need to do so. I have contacted them already through the usual channels. Our spy is well-placed within HPD and is relaying the information to the NHL even now.”
“The sensor you gave him could tip off the Americans.”
“Unlikely,” Hwong said. “It is a sterile device. Even if they suspect, they will have no proof.”
“I do not like it.”
“Kapalaua’s involvement will continue to confuse the Americans concerning our involvement and our ultimate goals,” Hwong insisted, “even as Kapalaua himself sows discord and creates chaos.”
“You are still maintaining your timetable?” Song’s expression remained stern, but his tone was less harsh.
“Insofar as it is possible.” Hwong nodded. “I must be flexible, of course, and if Kapalaua cannot be freed in time it may be necessary to fill the void in leadership with personnel of our own. That can be done, however. They trust me and have become accustomed to dealing with several of my best operatives.”
“I remain skeptical concerning this aspect of the plan,” Song repeated.
“It will work,” Hwong insisted. “I’ve been funding Kapalaua and his New Hawaiian League for months, assuring them the People’s Liberation Army will back them covertly in throwing off the shackles of American oppression. I have provided the New Hawaiian League with the necessary weapons and explosives. At the critical moment, the American people will believe their government is dealing with domestic separatist terrorism. That will allow us to continue with the operation, making our demands behind the scenes.”
“It had better work,” Song said. “We can afford no mistakes.”
“I am aware of that, Comrade General,” Hwong said.
“Are you, Hwong Zhi?” Song stared through the larger man. “We are the SST—the Sword of Sun Tzu, the most ambitious covert military operation undertaken in the industrial age. If we are to teach the Americans a lesson about their arrogance, they cannot know what we are doing until it is too late. Isolated terror events are not enough. The disruption of Honolulu must be so total and the threat so real that the Americans dare not retaliate. Only when we have America’s neck in the garrote can we dictate terms to its government in secret.”
“I understand, Comrade General.” Hwong bowed slightly. “I will not fail.”
“See that you do not,” Song intoned. “Honolulu and therefore Hawaii must be ours. When we have the Americans by the throat, we will release them—but only after Taiwan’s rebel government has been overthrown and the island is once more under the direct control of the mainland. We will teach the Americans to remain uninvolved, or pay the steepest of prices in kind.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
Song turned on his heel and was gone. Only when he was certain that the man was out of earshot did Hwong release the breath he had been holding and head to the shower. He was accustomed to Song’s speeches, but he also knew not to ignore them.
It was widely rumored within the higher levels of the organization that Song had previously overseen a covert operation on American soil, an operation further rumored to have failed. The result was that Song fretted over the operation like an old woman, at times. He was ruthless and cunning, to be sure, but he now feared risk. Hwong had no such compunctions. He was a soldier, a fighter, a veteran of some years’ trials within Chinese special operations. He knew that without risk, there was no reward, and without nerve, there was no success.
Hwong well remembered the Hainan incident, which in many ways had only recently repeated itself. When one of the People’s Republic’s fighters had collided with the U.S. spy plane seventy miles off the coast of Hainan Island, forcing the craft to land on Chinese soil, some in the People’s Liberation Army had agitated for immediate military response. Cooler heads had prevailed, and Hwong knew the correct decisions had been made. They simply would not have been ready had the SST been activated in Hawaii at that time.
During the Hainan incident, however, the Americans sat helplessly as China held the spy plane’s air crew, using the time spent in largely pointless negotiations with the blustering Americans to dissect and analyze the technology of the plane itself. Chinese intelligence teams sifted through what could be recovered of the sensitive material and other data the Americans thought they had destroyed before landing. The wealth in information was equaled only by the gain in stature as the People’s Republic stood up to the hated United States, international bully and would-be policeman of the world.
It was Hainan that showed Hwong the Americans could be beaten—and it was Hainan that validated the SST’s plan for teaching the United States that its place in the world was changing. Spread too thin in its interminable “war on terror,” the American forces simply could not afford to wage war with an increasingly mighty China.
Hwong finished toweling himself off. He pulled a sleeveless black T-shirt over his head. He replaced the paddle holster, bearing his .45 ACP Heckler & Koch USP Compact pistol in his waistband at his right side. The chunky polymer-framed weapon could not be used to link China or its operatives to the SST’s operations. Hwong’s people were similarly armed, despite the fact that some of them preferred the 9 mm round. He insisted on homogeneity in personal kit and had mandated the use of the .45.
