“Where are you pulling the power from?” asked Dr. Zeng.
“The hospital,” he answered with a smile. “As you know, the government has stopped delivery of electricity to all nonessential buildings in Urumqi in the past. During the Uyghur uprisings, this was a regular occurrence. Also, during the threatened solar storm of 2026. However, they did not disconnect the power to the hospitals. Those systems are not only independent of the business and residential power grid, but the wiring is hardened and supplemented by the solar array generators.”
“I am aware of that,” added Dr. Zeng. “I could see the generators from my office window. The solar panels are on the roof, correct?”
“Yes. When the hospital was built, the access of this karez was sealed off, and the construction superintendents thought this large opening was buried by rubble. The Uyghur opened up the tunnels into it using the plank boards stolen from the construction as a walkway.” He took his aunt by the arm and led them around the cavern. He stopped by the refrigerator and provided them both a bottle of water.
While they drank, he continued. “Years ago, university students found a way to access the hospital’s electrical system by slowly boring a hole through the fragments of rock that filled the previous aboveground access. Over time, more lines were run to power all of these workstations and other karezes like this one scattered throughout the city. Also, we tapped into the hospital’s communication and internet system, which has enabled us to create thousands of social media accounts without being detected by the government.”
“Ingenious,” commented Dr. Zeng.
“Yes, Uncle. You see, China’s brightest young minds no longer wish to serve the oppressive Communist Party. We want freedoms like the West, and to effectuate this change, we have to fight with our keyboards because a gun battle is a losing battle.”
Dr. Zeng studied the group of dissidents and nodded his approval. In a way, he considered himself one of them, and now he understood why they’d given him the applause. However, he was still puzzled by something. “How does my investigation into this mysterious virus help the cause of freedom?”
Fangyu led them to a cubicle made up of stacked boxes of toilet paper and canned goods. He offered his aunt a chair while he and his uncle took a seat on overturned milk crates. The furnishings were spartan but appropriate for a group that likened itself to the French Resistance.
“As I said before, we will save our countrymen from a certain death if this disease is similar to the Wuhan outbreak of a decade ago. Uncle, do you recall how our physicians and nurses were ordered not to wear protective gear in order to avoid the appearance of panic?”
“Yes, I do. Many good doctors died because of this poor decision. The government tried to cover up the coronavirus disease, but it was too pervasive in Wuhan.”
“This leads me to the second reason for telling the world about this new novel virus, as you called it,” said Fangyu. “The Communist Party successfully evaded the worst sanctions proposed by the Americans by putting their boots on the throats of the World Health Organization and the Europeans. They gave in to the government’s demands, and the Americans were isolated. They had no choice but to accept a muted condemnation. When our CDC, in concert with the propaganda machine in Beijing, attempt another cover-up, they will look like fools because of people like you and the hundreds like me.”
“You are shining the light on their dark dealings,” added his aunt in a solemn voice. Her words were profound.
“It is the only way to expose their tyranny,” said Fangyu with a sigh. “It is not easy, and it requires economic funding from others, but we are all committed. Even to the point of risking our lives if necessary.”
A wave of sadness came over his aunt’s face. After the loss of her own son, Fangyu had become like her own. “I do not like to hear words like risking our lives.”
Fangyu give her a reassuring smile, and then his face became serious. “What kind of journalists would we be if we did not dare rush to the frontline of a crisis?”
“I worry for you,” she replied, her face awash with sadness.
“I know and this is why I love you. But never have so many of our countrymen used technology to relay their experiences and issue warnings to the world. It is why we live like this.” He looked around the karez and managed a smile.
Dr. Zeng reached out for his nephew’s hand and squeezed it. These young people were committed to being pioneers in a dogged movement to defy the ruling Communist Party’s tightly policed monopoly on information. Armed with smartphones and social media accounts, they were telling their stories and the stories of people like Dr. Zeng. In the decade since the COVID-19 pandemic, the activists presented a daunting challenge to the Communist Party, which had been controlling the narrative of China since taking power in 1949.
“You are the hero, Fangyu. All of you, in fact. Now that we are here, what can we do to help you?”
Chapter Seven
Gold Palace Hotel
Fremont Street Experience
Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
Harper was propped in a corner of the conference room, sitting with her long legs stretched out in front of her, and her Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses on. She looked like a movie star who was trying to catch a few winks after pulling an all-nighter. She was jolted out of her slumber by the sound of the double doors being violently flung open until they slammed into the adjoining wall.
She pressed her hands against the wall and propelled herself onto her feet just as Becker was forcibly shoved into the room.
“I’m gonna sue every last one of you!” She was irate, screaming and waving her arms at the men who’d ushered her inside. “Do you hear me? I’ll have your jobs. I’ll own your car. I’ll be living in your houses. You’ll all be broke-ass bitches when my lawyers are done with you!”
“Becker!” shouted Harper as she ran to her assistant’s side. “Calm down!”
Becker was undeterred. Her face was red and her arms continue to flail as she pointed her finger from one man to another. “You shouldn’t have manhandled me! I’ve got bruises. I’ve been harmed!”
Harper wrapped her arms around the young epidemiologist and whispered in her ear, “Calm down, please. We’ve got to stay under control.”
“But—” she argued before Harper cut her off.
“I’ll handle this.”
Harper turned Becker around, and two of their coworkers led her toward the banquet tables. The food and drinks were now picked over. Becker had preferred a Diet Coke earlier, but she readily accepted a bottle of water for starters.
“I want to see Captain Brant. Now!” Harper raised her voice. She wanted her captors to know she’d had enough.
“Ma’am, he’s attending to other matters,” said one of the guardsmen.
“I don’t care.” She pointed to the man’s radio. “Does that thing work? Call him. He’s got five minutes to release us or I’m calling my husband, the congressman.”
It was the first time she’d ever invoked Joe’s position to gain advantage. She didn’t like doing it, but she sensed Becker’s outrage was going to cause the anger to escalate with the other CDC personnel. Besides, she was over it, too.