SEVEN KILL TIGER

by Charles W. Shao

Zhang Zedong stared at his screen in disbelief. The monthly production numbers had fallen again, down from the previous quarter's low that had already led to one alarmingly polite video call from the Vice-Chairman of the Central Military Commission. General Xu was not technically in his formal chain of command, but as the largest individual shareholder in the China African Industries Group, the general's opinion was of considerably more concern to Zhang than that of his immediate superior, the Executive Vice-President for East Africa.

The damned hei ren were going to get him replaced, he thought bitterly. If he was fortunate. In the event General Xu decided that the growing gap between the region's quarterly objectives and the actual results achieved was the consequence of excessive greed rather than Zhang's inability to make the natives work, his family would be receiving a bill for the price of the bullet used to execute him before long.

But he hadn't diverted any significant resources into his own pockets, not any more than was expected of an executive in his position. He didn't have more than eleven or twelve million dollars safely stashed away in his American bank accounts, and if his son was studying at the University of California, Berkeley, so were fifty other children of high-ranking Party members. Still, it would be enough to see him shot if the general was looking for an excuse.

What he needed was more reliable workers. What he needed was more Han. In Zambia alone, there were now 750,000 Chinese living in what amounted to a small colonial city, but they lived in walled enclaves almost under siege from the thieves, robbers, and rapists who preyed upon them daily despite the best efforts of CAIG's security forces to protect them. The police were useless, worse than useless, actually, as they were often among the worst thieves and sexual predators of all.

He sighed. Africa would be a glorious place were it not for the Africans. He'd been warned before coming to Lusaka that ninety percent of the hak gwai were thieves, but he discounted that warning as the customary Han superiority complex. After seven years of futility in attempting to turn CAIG's $35 billion investment in the country into something resembling a reasonable return, he was beginning to wonder if that estimate had been on the low side.

Lusaka had always been known for its crime, but of late the criminal gangs were getting bolder. Just last week, ten young hak gwai armed with AK-47s shot dead the two African security guards outside a gated Chinese complex, raped four young Chinese girls, and kidnapped two mining company executives. The company had paid the ransoms, which were trivial, and gotten its executives back, but the fear and outrage in the business community was palpable. Then, to make matters even worse, one of the girls committed suicide in shame at having been violated by houzi, and now the hunger for revenge in the expat community was threatening to get out of control.

To absolutely no one's surprise, the local police proved unable to identify the perpetrators, let alone arrest them. As far as Zhang could tell, they genuinely had no idea which of the eight gangs actively operating in the city might have been responsible.

If only the National People's Congress had followed through on its original plan to send 100 million colonists to Africa! But that plan had met with intense international criticism, and it wouldn't necessarily be enough anyhow; the problem wasn't limited to the dearth of Han labor. Bringing in more proper workers would solve the production problem, but it wouldn't solve the crime problem or the growing fraternization problem either. Far too many Chinese girls had fallen for the blandishments of persistent African suitors, failing to understand why the locals had so much time to pursue them or realize that the liaisons were unlikely to go anywhere in the long term. Even on the rare occasions a marriage did come to pass, what resulted was seldom what the average Chinese girl understood to be marriage.

African men thought of themselves as lions, and they lived like kings of beasts, entirely content to lounge about living off the labor of one or more of his lionesses. And the girls who succumbed to their exotic appeal could not return to China, not those who bore half-African bastards anyway. It was a growing problem, and even if it wasn't Zhang's responsibility, as CAIG's Senior Vice-President and Director for Zambia, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, and Tanzania, there were many looking to him to find a solution. But what was he supposed to do, ban interracial relations? Temporarily sterilize every Chinese woman between the ages of 10 and 40? Forbid Chinese firms to hire locals for even the most menial jobs? Any action that might make a substantive difference would generate a hailstorm of international protest that would focus very unwanted attention on him from General Xu, and perhaps even the Central Commission.

What he needed, he decided, was new ideas. Everything he had tried to date had failed. Positive incentives, negative incentives, threats, bribes, and shouting, everything had failed. The Americans had a curious phrase he'd heard once on a visit to California, the "Come to Jesus" meeting. He didn't quite grasp what it meant, exactly, but he decided it would serve as his inspiration for the staff meeting he intended to call tomorrow morning. Because if they didn't come up with something that at least had the potential to lead the way out of this utter debacle, he fully intended to rain fire and brimstone down upon them all.

He might not be able to avoid going down himself, but he could damn well ensure that he didn't go down alone.

***

Philip Thompson was reading a report of a small measles outbreak in Ecuador when a knock on the open door to his office disturbed him. He looked up and saw it was Scott Berens, one of his junior analysts, standing in the doorway.

"You heard about Ecuador, Dr. Thompson?" the younger man asked.

"Reading about it now. Looks as if the government has it under control."

"They caught it early enough. It's the Tungurahua province again. That's been a problem area for the Ministry of Health since 1996. The vaccination program misses too many of the indigenous children."

"Understandable." Thompson put the report down on his desk. "What's on your mind, Scott?"

"Do you remember that unknown outbreak in northern Zambia we started tracking six months ago?"

"I thought that was a false alarm."

"It was, insofar as we were able to determine that it wasn't Ebola, which was the initial concern. And there were only 142 cases and 26 deaths before it burned itself out, so we didn't even bother sending anyone over to investigate."

Thompson clicked his tongue against his lower lip, wondering where Berens was going with this. The young man was a bright young doctor and had graduated in the top ten percent of his class from Johns Hopkins, so he assumed Berens must have a good reason for bringing such an obscure incident to his attention.

"Are you saying we should have?"

"No, it's just that I was reading over the statistics, as part of a paper I was thinking about writing on east Africa, when I noticed an anomaly."

"What's that?"

"The population of the nearest town. It's mostly Chinese. I think they have a big mining camp up there."

Thompson shrugged and spread his hands. "It's hardly a secret that China has been moving into Africa in a big way for the last two decades. They have hundreds of such towns."

"True, but that only explains why the Chinese were there. It doesn't explain why most of the cases, and all of the deaths, were African. Only five Chinese were affected and all five recovered. Beyond the basic statistical odds involved, you would think the native population would be more resistant to whatever virus makes its way out of the jungle, not more susceptible to it."

Thompson frowned. Berens was right. It was an anomaly. And if there was one thing he had learned after 22 years at the Center for Disease Control, it was to pay particular attention to anomalies.

"Good catch, Scott. Dig into it and see if it's really just a mining town or if the PLA happens to have any laboratories or science facilities in the area. Not necessarily where the outbreak took place, but anywhere in the surrounding area. They went dark on the bio-war front a few years ago, and it may be that some of their test facilities were moved from Xi'an to Africa. This just might give us some insight as to where they went."

"Do you think someone got careless and a bio-weapon escaped the lab, Dr. Thompson?" There was an eager glint in the younger man's eyes that made Thompson smile despite himself. Such a discovery, even if it was never published in any of the public journals, could be the making of Berens's career, and both of them knew it.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Scott. Go and see what you can find about this mining town, what is it called?"

"Mpolokoso."

"Right." He didn't even bother trying to pronounce it. "Look into what the Chinese are doing there and we'll see if it could have any connection to this mysterious outbreak. Write it up and email it to me; I'll call you when I've had a chance to read it and think it over."

"Will do, Dr. Thompson!" Berens made a mock salute with the paper and disappeared from the doorway.

Thompson leaned back in his chair, reflecting on the unwelcome news. Unlike his young subordinate, he already knew they weren't likely to find any evidence of laboratories, research facilities, an escaped bio-weapon, or even anything that was conventionally considered to be a bio-weapon. Conventional bio-weapons didn't discriminate between Asian and Sub-Saharan haplogroups. Genetic weapons, on the other hand, were designed to do just that. And he very much doubted that whatever it was had been released accidentally.

After consulting his contact list, he tapped in the number for Fort Detrick. A young enlisted woman answered the phone.

"US-AMRIID. How may I direct your call?"

"This is Dr. Phil Thompson of the CDC. Get me Colonel Hill, please."

"Right away, sir." She paused. "The CDC... is this urgent, sir?"

He smiled grimly. "That's exactly what I'm trying to determine."

***

It was the massacre that convinced Zhang to take action. After a Chinese entrepreneur's young daughter in Kapiri Mposhi was raped and killed by a pair of copper miners, the man took his vengeance by tracking the perpetrators down and shooting them dead at the New Kapira Mphoshi railway station. The shootings were caught on closed-circuit television, and before Zhang or anyone in Lusaka even knew about the incident, the images had spread all over Zambia and Tanzania, inflaming the African community, and in particular, the Nyanja-Chewa tribe to which the two miners belonged.

Within a week, all 87 Chinese residents of Kapiri Mposhi were dead. Some had been shot, some had been necklaced, but most had fallen to the knives of the Nyau, a masked secret society known for black magic and channeling the spirits of the dead. The pictures had been horrific. Zhang stared at them for a long time.

Black magic. I will show them black magic. I will show them their worst nightmares!

The Kapiri Mposhi massacre had been six months ago. Now the time to unleash the spirits of righteous vengeance had very nearly come, Zhang thought, as a tall young scientist entered his office. Gao Xing was humble and diffident. Despite his height, he could have walked down the street in Weinan or Xi'an without anyone taking notice of him. Only his eyes gave any sign that he might be unusual. They were coldly arrogant, and conveyed little in the way of warmth or humanity. He was in his middle twenties, and his pale skin indicated that he spent very little time outside under the Zambian sun.

The perfect scientist, Zhang thought wryly. The poor kid had probably never had a girlfriend. But the young girl in Kapiri Mposhi, the very first one to die, had been his cousin. He might not know how to love, but assuredly, he knew how to hate.

"They tell me your most recent test of Huang Hu was successful."

"Yes, Director. The terminal rate is now in excess of 80 percent. Based on the most conservative spread models, the pseudo-epidemic will cross the Angolan border within two weeks. Within nine months, the continent is expected to be clear of all undesirable populations. The task of disposal will obviously be enormous, and will create considerable additional health hazards, but I would expect that it would be safe to begin the settlement programs within 18 months of zero day."

"Zero day?"

"The date upon which any opposing forces will be unable to stop the virus from going terminal in the target population. The estimates vary, but the average indicates zero day is D-day plus 28."

"Is there any way to reduce the time to zero day?"

"Increase the number of transmission vectors, preferably in a manner scattered widely across the continent."

Zhang nodded. "I will think on that."

"If I may offer a suggestion, Director?"

"Please do."

"There is an American foundation that has malaria vaccination campaigns running in every country in Africa. If a way could be found to substitute the substances injected, zero day could be reduced to a matter of two weeks or less."

"Wouldn't that increase the risk of detection?"

"Certainly." The young scientist's dark eyes were unperturbed. "But in light of how the vaccination campaigns are already regarded with a significant amount of local suspicion, detection would likely sow sufficient confusion to inhibit any effective response. Especially because the NGOs tasked with the response would be widely regarded as the guilty parties."

"And combined with cutting the potential response time in half, it's almost surely worth the risk as long as the substitutions can be made undetected."

"I cannot speak to that, Director. It is outside my competence."

Zhang thought a moment. "It's too risky to interfere with the Americans. We don't know their protocols. But Sinovac has a polio vaccine that's already been prequalified by the World Health Organization and the Global Polio Eradication Initiative has endorsed it as a substitute for their primary oral vaccine. It would be much easier to substitute that. We can even arrange to have the vaccines shipped in through Dar es Salaam."

"As you say, Director."

Zhang couldn't help but smile. The young scientist could not have made his indifference to anything but the technical aspects related to his specialty any more clear. "The potential consequences do not trouble you, Dr. Gao?"

"Not in the slightest, Director Zhang. To the contrary, you have my deepest admiration. What you propose to accomplish will make the Great Leap Forward appear little more than a precursor to the true advancement. What began as a Cultural Revolution has become a Scientific Revolution. Soon China will stand astride the globe as the master of two continents, and the nations of the world will bow before her!"

Zhang found himself mildly appalled by the young man's fanaticism. Did Mao ever feel similarly alarmed by the enthusiasm of his own Red Guards? But the sentiments Gao expressed were sound enough. Africa was wasted on the Africans. China had spent 50 million Chinese lives to become a 20th-century power, how could she hesitate to spend twenty times that many more African lives to assume her rightful place as the one true 21st-century superpower?

"Thank you, Dr. Gao."

"Director." The young man bowed and left his office.

Zhang reflected on Gao's words. A Scientific Revolution. A Greater Leap Forward! The young scientist's confidence in the project quelled any remaining doubts that it was time to move forward and let the Central Military Commission know about his plans for the Dark Continent. But one question still remained: to release Huang Hu before or after General Xu's scheduled visit?

It would be a shame, after all, if he were to be executed before releasing the spirits to seek their revenge.

***

The World Health Organization (WHO) has announced the prequalification of a Chinese-made vaccine for polio. The new WHO pre-qualified vaccine is produced by Sinovac Biotech Ltd, and is an inactive-virus vaccine that is considered to be safer than the live-virus vaccines now widely used across Asia and Africa.

"WHO prequalification of the Sinovac vaccine is another feather in the cap of China's growing vaccine manufacturing industry," said Dr. Bernhard Schwartlander, WHO Representative in China.

"This is also very good news for the millions of children in low- and middle-income countries which cannot afford to manufacture or purchase their inactive-virus vaccines. WHO prequalification of Sinovac's vaccine will add to the worldwide arsenal of anti-polio vaccines, assisting the global campaign to eradicate the disease. In doing so, it will help to save lives," Dr Schwartlander said.

Sinovac's polio vaccine is the second vaccine made in China to achieve WHO prequalification, following prequalification of a Japanese-made encephalitis vaccine in 2013 and Hualan Biological's influenza vaccine in 2015.

Philip Thompson shook his head as he returned the printout to Scott Berens. "You don't seriously imagine that the Chinese would use a weaponized vaccine as a vehicle for genetic warfare, do you? They could maybe get one hot lot into the distribution system, two at most, and I can't imagine that could possibly be worth permanently trashing their ability to access the export markets!"

"No, of course not." His subordinate shrugged. "You told me to dig up anything that might be related to possible launch vectors. This is the only one I found that could conceivably be connected to Chinese corporate activity in the last two years."

"I'd use bird flu myself," Thompson mused.

"What's that?"

"If you're going to weaponize something, an aerosol vector is the most effective. And the world is accustomed to bird flu coming out of China every few years. That's what that vaccine from Hualan was, it was an H1N1 vaccine. You could even combine the two, put the bomb in the flu virus itself, then trigger it with the vaccine."

"Now who is imagining things, Doctor?"

Thompson smiled. "Well, perhaps it's nothing after all. There haven't been any further outbreaks in the last six months, so I suppose it was simply another unknown jungle disease. Here is hoping we've seen the last of it."

***

General Xu stood staring motionless at the image of the continent of Africa on the screen, his hands clasped behind his back, his square face impassive and unreadable. Zhang watched the man closely, looking for some sign of approval, of anger, of anything that would give him some indication of his fate. Finally, the general turned to face him, and something in the soldier's eyes seemed to indicate that he was feeling powerful emotion.

To Zhang's utter astonishment, the general bowed to him, so deeply that his torso was nearly parallel to the floor. Zhang didn't know what to do; he just stood there respectfully and hoped that the general's action was a good sign.

"You are a man of rare vision and a great tribute to our race," General Xu said hoarsely. "Not since weida de duoshou himself has China been blessed with a man of such insight! You have broken the power of the gun that has kept us chained since the Yingguo arrived! You have abolished war with science!"

"The General is not displeased?"

The general indicated the screen. "Far from it. Your proposal is promising, extremely promising, Director. I will go to Beijing immediately and consult with the Chairman. How soon can you begin?"

"Three weeks. The next shipment from Sinovac will arrive in ten days. I am told it will take four days to replace the vaccines and reseal the vials. Then we will need to distribute them to the aid offices. We will start the flu-based vector in Mozambique two weeks prior to the first inoculations. Even if the Americans or the Europeans somehow manage to react quickly to one attack, the very effort required to do so will inhibit their ability to respond to the other."

"Remarkable!" The general shook his head admiringly. "Director, surely you were inspired by your ancestors! What led you to conceive such a vision?"

"Once all struggle is grasped, miracles are possible."

"Well said. What is the name of this miracle?"

"Huang Hu."

General Xu was an educated man. He smiled. "How very appropriate, Director. I shall inform you of the Chairman's decision before the end of the week. You will launch the initial phase on his command."

Zhang bowed, feeling both triumph and relief. It seemed he would survive the day. And the restless ghosts of Kapiri Mposhi would be avenged, a thousandfold and more. "Thank you, General."

***

As his Prius moved silently through the Georgia night, Philip Thompson thought about what he'd learned from his conversation earlier that day with Colonel Hill. He didn't know how to feel about the information he was trying to process. Far from being unthinkable, it was apparent to anyone capable of reading between the lines that the U.S. Army had already developed genetic weapons very similar to those he'd adduced the Chinese were developing. Moreover, the Russian Army and the IDF were well along the process of doing the same.

It was madness. Sheer madness. The world's militaries were quite literally preparing--prepared--to undo everything that Man's most dedicated warriors against the dread Rider on the White Horse had ever accomplished. The painstaking labor of decades could be undone in a matter of hours, and with a genocidal precision that had hitherto been literally unimaginable. Even though he'd known the United States could not permit itself to fall behind in such an important technological aspect of war, it was shattering to know, to actually have it confirmed beyond any shadow of a doubt, that his own government was preparing to exterminate entire populations. It was possible. There was no defense, as such. There was only deterrence. Or, perhaps, revenge.

How are we any better than them? The thought of warring genocides sickened him, all the more so knowing that he and all of his colleagues would be the first to be drafted and put on the front lines--the front labs--if any such genetic war should erupt. He was a doctor, he was a scientist, he was a healer. He had gone into medicine, and after that, science, in order to help people, not to kill them on an industrial scale!

And the worst thing was that he could not unburden his soul to anyone; the colonel had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that if he so much breathed a word of what he had learned to anyone else at the CDC, let alone the press, he would be prosecuted for violating national security.

The garage door recognized his license plate and opened automatically as he approached. He parked the car, took his briefcase from the passenger seat, and walked through the parking garage to the elevator. His apartment was on the fifth floor, and there was an audible snick as the door's face-scanner recognized him and unlocked the door. But he stopped in the doorway after opening the door: there was a soft glow from the living room indicating that one of the lights was on.

That was strange. He worked late so often that he was always careful to make sure the lights were all out before he left in the morning, so as not to waste electricity. Then he shrugged and closed the door behind him. He'd had a lot on his mind recently and must have forgotten to turn one of them off.

But when he walked down the hallway and turned the corner, he froze. An Asian man dressed all in black was sitting in his recliner, legs crossed, casually perusing the previous month's issue of Nature.

"Good evening. Have a seat, Dr. Thompson." The intruder indicated the couch to his right. He spoke perfect, unaccented English.

Dumbfounded and frightened, Philip obeyed. What are you doing here, he wanted to demand, but he was afraid that he already knew the answer. Did the man have a gun? He probably did. Was it worth trying to make a break for one of the knives in the kitchen? No, almost certainly not.

"You needn't be alarmed, Dr. Thompson. I realize this is unsettling, but please understand that I'm not here to harm you."

Philip swallowed hard, then couldn't help exhaling heavily with sudden relief. He hadn't even realized he was holding his breath.

"Why... why are you here?"

The intruder smiled, flashing straight white teeth. Probably not Japanese. Chinese-American? "I am here to encourage you to take that vacation in Hawaii. According to your calendar, it begins tomorrow. Fourteen days on Maui, at the Grand Wailea. It's about time you used up some of that vacation time you've been hoarding, after all."

"Hawaii? I don't have a vacation-"

"Ah, but you do!" The Asian man produced a folder and withdrew airplane tickets and an itinerary before sliding them across the coffee table to Philip. "If you check your emails, you'll see that you requested a vacation three months ago and it was approved by Deputy Director Sansom back in May."

"You hacked the CDC computers?"

"Dr. Thompson, with all due respect, we've been privy to all of your communications with Colonel Hill and everyone else at AMRIID for months. Making a few modifications to your email server is about as difficult as changing an undergraduate's grades at Georgia Tech."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"Take the vacation. And then, when they fly you to Frederick, do your job. Analyze the virus and tell them the truth about it."

"The truth. What is that?"

"The fact that the virus is no threat at all to 98 percent of the American population. Aside from some recent immigrants, most of whom are not American citizens anyway, your people will be entirely unaffected."

Philip sat back, his mind racing, rapidly putting together the various facts at his disposal. It was obvious that the man was a Chinese intelligence agent. Then he gasped. "Dear God! Is your government intending to murder the entire sub-Saharan population? That's over one billion people!"

"I have no idea, Dr. Thompson. We can speculate if you like, but I imagine you probably know more about it than I do. My part in this ends tonight, whereas you still have a very important role to play. In fact, one might go so far as to say the fate of the entire human race is in your hands. That's why I am here speaking to you now. It is possible that you will be all that stands in the way of a third world war."

Still reeling from the horrific conclusion he'd reached, Philip could only shake his head. Mass murder? The human race in his hands? World War III?

"When the news of the virus breaks, there will be widespread fear throughout your government hierarchy. Even panic. It is very important that someone with sufficient stature and the ability to understand exactly what is happening will be in a position to tell your President, and his generals, that there is no serious threat to America. My superiors do not wish to see a necessary evil transformed into an unnecessary apocalypse. Neither a genetic war nor a nuclear war between China and the United States will serve anyone's interests, as I'm sure you will admit."

"Retaliation," Philip murmured. "You want me to tell them not to retaliate."

"I expect you to tell them that retaliation would be tantamount to mutual suicide," the agent corrected. "As is, in fact, the case. As I said, we simply want you to enjoy your vacation, then do your job and tell them the truth. Nothing more than the truth. It is well within your competence."

"I assume that if I don't keep my mouth shut about what you are intending, you will kill me."

The agent smiled regretfully and gave a slight nod. "We are, of course, monitoring you very closely. If you attempt to communicate with anyone--anyone--then I fear it is very likely that a disgruntled former employee will return to the CDC with a pair of inexpensive handguns and kill a number of people there, yourself included, before committing suicide."

He withdrew another piece of paper from his folder and slid it across to Philip. It was a color printout with ten photographs, driver's licenses by the looks of them, and each one was familiar to Philip. Two former girlfriends, two more casual liaisons, and six of the nine other members of his fantasy football league. All of them were friends, all of them were people he cared about.

Philip snorted bitterly and shook his head. The ruthless bastards certainly did their homework. He'd all but forgotten about the weekend fling with Caitlin five years ago. She was married to a banker now, with a baby at home and another on the way.

"You cannot prevent what is about to happen, Dr. Thompson. But you can stop an even greater horror from taking place. You cannot save the Africans, but you can save the rest of the human race."

The Chinese agent extended the folder in his gloved hand. Philip took it, then returned the sheet with the pictures on it, but retained the tickets.

"Very wise, Dr. Thompson."

"Can I ask you one question?"

For the first time, the agent looked surprised, but he nodded.

"How on Earth do you people sleep at night?"

The agent laughed, genuinely amused.

"Soundly, in the knowledge that we are serving our nation, Doctor. We sleep very soundly indeed."

***

The message from the Chairman of the Central Military Commission was a short one that consisted of only four ideographs. It seemed the Chairman, too, was an educated man. Zhang nodded solemnly to Dr. Gao, who peered at the screen in confusion.

"This means we are to proceed? 'Heaven births ten thousand things'? I don't understand. What does it mean, Director?"

"It means we are ordered to release Huang Hu," Zhang said calmly. "Release the Yellow Tiger, Dr. Gao."

Heaven brings forth innumerable things to nurture man.

Man has nothing good with which to recompense Heaven.

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.