The Chinese Conspiracy

Contents

Glossary of Common Terms

PROLOGUE

PART I —

THE RETURN TO BRIGGS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

PART II —

THE CHINESE PLAN TAKES SHAPE

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Epilogue

About the Author

Postscript:

A HISTORY OF WORM VIRUSES 2000-2010

Glossary of Common Terms

Virus: A program that replicates itself across a network, or the Internet as a whole.

The virus payload may be destructive, like destroying files, or it could simply try to overwhelm a network by copying itself.

Worm: A virus that replicates itself without human intervention. If the victim has to open an e-mail attachment to get infected it’s a virus. But if it scans for new victims and attacks by itself, it’s a worm.

Trojan horse: A program that doesn’t necessarily replicate itself, but like the legendary wooden horse, is much more than it appears. A Trojan horse program might look like a game, but instead it steals your personal information and sends it to a criminal.

Backdoor: A code fragment that provides an opening to allow outside access into the operating system of a computer by someone other than the authorized user/administrator, usually accessed by an active connection to a network—either wired or wireless.

Blended threat: A program that combines the characteristics of viruses, worms and Trojan horses, and sometimes uses Backdoors for access.

Spyware/malware: A general term for a program that surreptitiously monitors your actions and/or communications, and gathers data for unsuspected uses, or for illicit purposes.

Virus signature: The fingerprints of a virus in the form of program code fragments, which anti-virus programs use to identify and isolate viruses.

Firewall: Software (or sometimes hardware) that monitors incoming and outgoing network traffic and checks for suspicious patterns, and takes predetermined action to protect computers from hackers, viruses and worms.

Exploit: A program that takes advantage of a security hole in a computer program, often aided by the widespread use of one company’s systems, such as Microsoft’s widely used PC operating systems, or a widely used Web Browser or Email system.

Phishing: Using deceit and/or subterfuge to cause computer users to voluntarily give up important security information such as user IDs, passwords, personal data, etc.

PROLOGUE

New York, New York 10:58 AM EDT

The businessman rushed out the revolving door of Park Avenue tower, saw his name on the window placard, and jumped into the rear seat of the Lincoln Continental.

His first words were, Go! I need to be at LaGuardia as fast as you can get me there.

The driver pulled abruptly away from the curb, and noting the green light ahead of him, roared off, heading for the Mid-Town tunnel. The black car was still accelerating to make the green light at the next intersection when it was rammed broadside by a Yellow Cab shooting through the intersection from the cross street.

The collision drove the limo sideways into a moving car next to it, which in turn rammed a cab and drove it onto the sidewalk. The cab slammed into the Sabrett’s hot dog stand and vendor who was handing a young woman a hot dog. It kept going and knocked the woman into the path of another careening car.

A block further south on Park Avenue, the same kind of chaos was evident as cross town traffic collided with Park Avenue traffic scattering cars and pedestrians everywhere. Horns honking, the crunch of metal on metal and the screams of the injured created a cacophony of chaos.

All over Manhattan similar scenes were evident, because somehow, all the traffic lights in the bulk of Manhattan had switched to green at one time. Only a few minutes passed before all of the collisions and near collisions stopped as gridlocked traffic came to a halt.

The businessman was recovering from a nasty bump on the side of his head, which would have been worse except for the side curtain airbag. The car service driver was untangling himself from the front side airbag, swearing groggily, What the hell, damn crazy cabbies… Then he looked around and saw the carnage. He fumbled for his cell phone to call in the accident. The time on the phone said 11:02AM.

* * *

New York, New York 11:01 AM EDT

Wall Street: On the floor of the New York Stock Exchange a near panic was building. Traders looked at each other frantically as they tried to enter trades and communicate with their brokerages. Nothing worked. The buyers and sellers waved their slips of paper but realized that the ticker was dark. So were the monitors that contained the trading information.

A tall, graying VP of Merrill-Lynch walked off the floor with a dead cell phone held to his ear. His young assistant followed him, as he said, Nothing works. What are we going to do now?

Um, I don’t know sir. This has never happened before. Let’s go up to the office and see if anything works there.

The blaring of horns and the sound of crashes filtered through the insulated windows. Both looked down and saw the jumble of cars, cabs, delivery vans and scattered buses up and down the street. Had New York gone crazy or what?

* * *

New York, New York, 11:15 AM EDT

Lower Manhattan: At the Technical Support Operations Center of Verizon Communications, a panic was fully underway. Management sat huddled over conference tables, trying to decide what to do next, but all talking at once.

A technician told his buddies, The damn stuff won’t respond to anything. The power is on. The connections are fine. But the computers, the microwave, the fiber optic, and the old-fashioned copper circuits are just not working. It is like someone has taken control of all the computers, jammed the microwave and network cables and put us all on a giant ‘HOLD’. We might as well go have coffee—I wonder if the coffee machines are working?

They did, and found that the coffee machines were indeed working fine. So was the bill changer, but not the ATM, because it communicated with the outside world. Finally the group of six Verizon technicians got their coffee and went to a large table.

The supervisor started the conversation. OK, what could have happened?

Simple. Someone has taken control of all the computers, and has the technology to jam everything else. All we could do was shut down the main control computers for the routers and switches. That stops everything, but we’ll try booting them up again in a few minutes.

Has anyone tried to call Cisco or HP?

"How? Hell, we can’t call anybody, and it’s too far to walk from New York to California.

How in the hell could they do that, and all at once?

I don’t know sir, but they just did.

Who is ‘they?

Your guess is as good as mine. Welcome to the wonderful world of cyber-terrorism. Hell, we don’t even know how widespread it is, but nothing works!

* * *

Las Vegas, NV around the same time:

What do you mean shut down the Casino? We don’t shut down a damned Casino for anything short of a nuclear attack.

Well, sir, said the head cashier to the casino manager, We can keep it open, but none of the funds transfer lines work. Neither do the phones, email or the web. We’re cut off from the outside world, and that might be the first step of a plan to rob the place.

Damn, that’s right. Is security OK?

Actually, we don’t know. The people we’ve talked to are still OK, but since the phones won’t work, we have a runner going to all stations to check-in and to alert them.

What about the show lounges?

Sir, the drinkers in those lounges would go through a nuclear attack and never miss a drink. The Keno games are down; so are the Sports Book and the cable TV. Even the local radio and TV stations are off the air.

Everything has just gone silent—nothing works! How can that happen? And who caused it?

The words were just out of his mouth when a car came plunging through the front entrance, raining broken glass, and electric fixtures on the scattered gamblers heading in or out. It came to rest against a bank of slot machines, one of which emptied its contents of quarters with a loud clanging noise.

Holy shit, yelled the bellman. Outside the door there were cars everywhere as traffic on the Strip had also been disrupted by numerous collisions. A glance at the nearby intersection where the trouble started showed that all the traffic lights were green—in both directions.

* * *

Washington, DC—FBI Headquarters

11:05 AM EDT, on a Monday in mid-September

I tell you nothing works—not email or phones or cell phones—it’s all dead. John Wallace told his assistant. Where’s Becky Twain? She was coming over from CIA to meet me here at 10:45.

A minute later, a harried Becky Twain rushed through the door to the FBI Cyber-protection Unit in suburban Washington, DC.

My driver was late and I tried to call you but my cell phone wouldn’t work. It’s one of the secure ones on a special frequency. I tried texting too. Nothing works! The Internet is down. Email is down. I can’t call anyone to find out what else is down. I don’t even hear any planes coming or going at Reagan National. All I hear is car horns honking—those damn things still work. What on earth is going on?

There’s nothing wrong with the power, so that’s not it. Denial of service attacks usually shut down parts of the Internet, but not all of it. It just gets slow. This time it’s there—but it’s stopped working.

I just came from NSA. It’s the same there. At 11 AM sharp, everything went silent. Nothing works—no microwave or wired communications, the Internet computers; and none of the broadcast networks. Oh, they work with internal stuff like spreadsheets, word processing, and so forth, just nothing connected with outside contact or communications.

Let me get this right, confirmed John Wallace. We can’t communicate with anybody who isn’t here with us—it doesn’t matter if they’re next door, across town or across the country—right?"

That seems to be the case, answered Becky.

How in the hell are we even going to get our arms around this problem? This is a disaster, said the burly FBI agent.

You got that right, agreed the petite CIA specialist.

PART I —

THE RETURN TO BRIGGS

Chapter 1

Labor Day Weekend

Briggs, WV

I planned my return to Briggs a few months earlier, during a conversation with my second cousin Pat Gallagher—now Father Pat, associate pastor of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic Church in Briggs.

Jim, is there any way you can get back here soon? he asked me.

I’m pretty booked up. What’s the problem? I stay in touch with Pat, since we’re the same age and grew up together.

The town’s falling apart. Ever since Winton Manufacturing closed, things are going downhill fast. There are no jobs. The city is in trouble. People are scared.

What can I do? The company will probably have to file bankruptcy.

I don’t know, but something’s wrong about this whole mess. One person is dead, and I’m afraid others will be soon.

Pat and I took different paths when we left Briggs. I went to Lehigh and then to Wharton for an MBA. A corporate job and a short, unsuccessful marriage came first. Then I got lucky and climbed to a senior partner job in a highly regarded global consulting firm.

Pat went to a small liberal arts college and from there to the seminary. When he was ordained in St. Bart’s big old church, Briggs was still thriving, but that was ten years ago.

What do you mean ‘something’s wrong’? I asked.

I can’t tell you all of it. There is some strange stuff going on. You’ll see—just come check things out—please? You’re the only one I can turn to. I’ve gotta go now. Time to hear confessions. Call me when you’re coming.

A few weeks later, Pat called me again. Things had gotten worse. Jim! Where are you? Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you come? You won’t believe how fast WMC failed. The company is facing bankruptcy. It’s a disaster!

Look, I’ll come back to Briggs to check things out… I told him again. Then just a few weeks later, before I could get back there, I read about a Chapter 7 liquidation filing for Winton Manufacturing Company.

Early Labor Day weekend I got a downright frightening call from Pat. I felt guilty for neglecting my hometown, and for letting him down.

I don’t know what to do, Jim. Everybody’s panicking, I guess me included. I’m getting ten calls a day. People are just pulling up stakes leaving town; families are coming apart. Many are just giving up. They have no money, no jobs, and no hope. They can’t understand how WMC failed so fast. Now they suspect somebody—either from out of town or in management was behind the decline.

I’m sorry I didn’t get back there when you asked me to. Is there anything I can do now?

I have to leave tomorrow for a 3-month Retreat at the Vatican. I’m excited about going, but I’m afraid of what I’ll find when I get back. There strange things going on—late at night—I can’t tell you much except these…what, events…are really strange…and spooky. Maybe having you back in town will give people hope. After all, you’re one of the town’s big success stories. You and Irv Holman both left here and made it in the big time.

I don’t know about me, but isn’t Irv in Congress?

He sure is.

Is there anything he can do to help?

I’ve called him to see if he can come back, but he’s out of the country. Maybe you two could work together to help Briggs. If you don’t, it’ll soon be a ghost town.

Look Pat, I’ll get back there this coming week. I’ve got a break in my schedule.

Great. I know people here will appreciate it. A lot of them remember you and they’ll trust you. Just do what you can, but be careful—I don’t want anything happening to you. God bless you, old friend.

After I hung up from Pat, I sat there feeling a mixture of guilt and curiosity. What in the hell was happening back in Briggs? I had the rest of the weekend open, so I’d better get to Briggs right away. Fortunately there was a late night commuter flight direct to Charleston Monday night. I reserved the flight, a rental car, and guaranteed a room for late arrival at the Motel 8 in Briggs.

Once I set my mind to doing something, I do it. It’s a trait that earned me the nickname Mule for my stubborn persistence in high school wrestling. It sounds like something’s terribly wrong with what happened in Briggs. If I can figure out what went wrong, maybe I can save my hometown. I’d never heard Pat use words like spooky.

What did he mean by Be careful, I don’t want anything happening to you.?

Chapter 2

Guangzhou, China

The late summer heat in Guangzhou was already oppressive and it was still morning. The narrow wooden water taxis with curved metal roofs and tire lined hulls, ferried people back and forth across the Pearl River that splits Guangzhou—or Canton, the city of Five Rams—into two very different sides.

On one side, 75 miles from Hong Kong the Chinese toil for pennies an hour making products for export to the west. On the other side, high-rise buildings with modern architecture line the broad new highways into the Center City.

The newly installed air conditioning in one particular high-rise building was working hard today. That made Wei Ying happy. He sat at his new desk, in his new office. The New Guard was finally formed and he was its leader. Of course few people realized it, and it must be kept secret or he would be its dead former leader. The government in the People’s Republic of China deals with revolutionaries simply—it executes them.

Wei pushed the idea of execution out of his mind and thought about the mission he was planning for the New Guard. He and a small group of wealthy, influential Chinese industrialists formed the New Guard to take control of China from the aged, insular and power hungry People’s Republic leaders. Wei called them the stupid old men in Beijing.

The public name for the New Guard was Golden Message, a Chinese company. Its business was communications technology in advanced fields—microwave, satellite, broadband, wireless, fiber optic and copper wire/cable transmission—which provided it access to leading edge scientific technology from all over the world.

Wei Ying was pleased with his plan to involve corporate partners in Golden Message, along with leading academic and government researchers. Intel, Motorola, Nokia, Ericsson, Cisco, NEC, Samsung, Toshiba, Sony and many others were sucked into his venture by the lure of China’s growing telecommunications market.

As Minister of Information Industry for the People’s Republic, Wei was perfectly positioned. He could simply mention a foothold in Chinese markets and partners would share their most advanced technology.

If his plan worked, the goal was to dominate not only China, but much more of the world, starting with the USA, through the use of the world’s best technology—until it was too late for others to realize what they had helped him achieve.

Wei was not physically imposing. Identifying him in a crowd of Chinese would be difficult. Slightly built, his stature and his huge intellect were at opposite ends of the spectrum.

When his assistant Li Zhan came for an interview, she mistook him for one of the staff, and almost made an embarrassing mistake. Wei’s black hair was streaked with gray and his high cheekbones framed cold eyes that communicated his cunning and intelligence. Those who knew him respected his intellect and feared his anger or retribution.

Since he gained the powerful position of Minister, he was the logical person to lead this new company. Like many Chinese companies, it was part owned privately and part by the government. How else could he be sure it acquired—or stole—all the technology it needed? Having the technology and being where he could use it were critical in his plans for Golden Message to achieve world dominance.

Chapter 3

Very Early Sunday Morning

Briggs, WV

Joe Ragurski lurched out of the bar, in his normal condition at 2 AM—so drunk he was feeling no pain, but not passed out yet. Joe was still ready to party. He grabbed the cell phone off the seat of his Blazer and punched in the number for Margo, that hot little bitch he met last night. Maybe he could get laid tonight after all. He sure didn’t want to go back to that shitty little apartment yet, and especially not alone.

Joe put the phone up to his ear, and instead of a ringing he heard a soft hiss. He hit ‘End’ and then ‘Redial’. Nothing. He looked at the battery indicator, which said the phone was almost fully charged. The signal strength indicator showed a strong signal—but it didn’t work.

Stupid phones, he cursed, flinging the small phone back to the passenger’s seat. I guess I’ll just have to find somebody else. Joe slammed the Blazer’s door and walked unsteadily down the strip toward the next bar, four doors away.

Billy Ray Gray had just gone home from Miller’s Pub. He’d let Charley close tonight. After all, he’d been there since 11 this morning. What time was it? The clock on the microwave glowed 2:00. Shit. 2AM—another 15 hour-day. Then it hit him. He had forgotten to spin the tumbler on the safe after he closed it. It was supposed to lock when the handle was turned, but you never knew.

Billy Ray grabbed the cordless phone on the kitchen counter and dialed the pub. He held the phone to his ear and all he heard was a hiss. A quick glance told him there was power to the unit. What the hell?

He grabbed his cell phone out of its holster and hit speed-dial 2, and ‘Send’. Same thing happened; no ringing, just a hiss. Wait a goddamn minute, he thought. Are all the phones out? He didn’t want to wake his wife, so he padded into his office and fired up his computer.

The screen saver disappeared and his normal screen appeared. He clicked on the email system, and typed a quick email to Charley. Forgot to spin the dial on the safe. Give it a spin. See u in the AM. When he hit send, he got an almost instantaneous message: Server not responding.

He grabbed the remote and flicked on the small TV on his credenza. Snow! He changed the channels. Nothing. Strange. He switched on the transistor radio next to his TV. Maybe there’s some news about what’s wrong. It hissed at him. None of the stations worked—AM or FM.

What is this crap? Billy Ray said aloud, to no one in particular. This is the second time this week that nothing works in the wee hours of the morning. I oughta bitch to somebody—but who?

* * *

Not far away, two Pakistanis sat in a small stone walled room, hunched over a computer keyboard talking excitedly.

It worked. I told you it would. Said the round-faced one.

You’re right. Everything is dead. We’ve silenced it all, at least within a couple of miles. It works. Answered the thin one as he un-hunched his narrow shoulders.

We’d better shut it down. We don’t want to attract attention until we are ready. At least we’ve proved that it works over a larger area than our small test back home.

Chapter 4

Guangzhou, China

In the outer office Wei’s assistant, Li Zhan sat and wondered how she was so fortunate to work in this wonderful building. When work was over, she would go back to the one room, thirty-three square-meter apartment she shared with her mother, two sisters, and two nieces? Perhaps this new job would mean better pay. Half of her pay went to rent the apartment, but at least it was close to her office.

If her sister were discovered with two female children, she would be punished, and prohibited from working. The younger of the little girls would be taken and sold to a wealthy foreigner. China’s regulations —1-1/2 child law—permits one girl and one boy, but only if the girl is born first. If a boy is born first, then no more children are permitted. If a second girl is born, she must be given up and that couple can have no more children.

Li Zhan decided she would not conceive children until she could be sure what would happen to them—if that day ever came. Now, here she was working so close to a powerful official. Wei was calling for her on their new electronic intercom.

She knocked softly and cracked open the door. Wei was scooping papers into a dark tan folder. She recognized it as the one he kept locked in his private drawer except when he was using it. Li Zhan wondered what important information such a folder contained.

Everything in the office was new and sterile as an operating room. The gray enameled metal desk had only a red telephone, in/out baskets and a dagger-like jade letter opener resting on its fake wood top. On the matching credenza, there was a state-of-the-art computer system with a large flat screen monitor, and the charger for Wei’s cell phone, a tiny, flip-open model that was one of the super-secure types.

There was something special about the red telephone. Wei had instructed her that only he could ever use it. The called it the red machine, and told her that only a small number of very important Chinese in government and industry had such a red machine. The phone number was only 4-digits, and it was encrypted against all forms of eavesdropping.

There were matching lateral file cabinets and darker gray upholstered chairs. The walls were blank except for metal-framed photos of communications installations from Golden Message brochures. The stark decor mirrored Wei Ying’s persona with frightening accuracy—purely functional without a touch of warmth.

She bowed slightly and asked, What might I do for you Minister Wei? fearing the answer, but knowing the question must be asked.

Wei smiled in his crooked way and stared at her slim waist and rounded hips.

Come here Li Zhan, he said, You look quite nice today.

Chapter 5

Briggs, WV

I went direct from the plane to the rental car desk and on into Briggs. The Interstates made the drive much faster than the old days, and even with Labor Day weekend traffic I was in Briggs in less than two hours, but it was still late and I was tired. I drove past the old WMC plant to see what it looked like, but it as so dark, I couldn’t see much. I went on to the motel, checked in and fell into bed. I must have been asleep in minutes.

I woke early Tuesday morning, showered and grabbed a quick breakfast at the Waffle House. I was headed over to the old WMC plant by 8:30. There were a few pickups parked on the street, way down at one end of the property past the old HQ building, but otherwise it looked deserted and lonely. I pulled my rental car as close to the plant as I could.

There was a plant entry door on this side that looked like it might get me in—if it wasn’t locked. When I got closer, I could see that the door wasn’t locked, because a rusty padlock hung open on the hasp. That was it. My investigation officially begins. I was going in!

It took a lot of courage just to open the factory door. I hadn’t been there for years and the empty old place was spooky. The door was weathered and moldy smelling, and the hinges were coated with rust. I had to give the latch a couple of hard yanks. It almost seemed embarrassed to open. But I had come this far. I would have been disappointed if it had been locked. Finally, it broke free.

There was a feeling of stepping back through time when I stepped through that old door into the Winton Manufacturing plant. The electricity was turned off long ago, but the old skylights and broken windows let in plenty of light. A fine mist of dust filled the air.

I don’t know if opening the door stirred it up or if old places just have it. The light through the skylights was of different textures too. In some places it was blue and hazy where it passed through the old glass. In others it was bright and streaky, because the glass was broken and the late-summer sun met no resistance.

This was once the main plant, but as Winton grew, work was moved from the cramped second floor of this building to new metal prefab buildings. These additions attached themselves to the main building like tentacles of a spreading vine. The simple, functional architecture of Winton’s HQ and the Main Factory building had given way to a jumble of buildings dumped on the big piece of property at the foot of Devil’s Knuckle Mountain. Smaller appendages were tacked on over the years. The longest one was the maintenance shop out near the warehouse—but the warehouse wasn’t there.

The rocky, tree-covered mountain named Devil’s Knuckle rose steeply behind the plant to over 2000 feet. The mountaintop stood about 1000 feet above Briggs and the plant.

Before I get too involved with telling about how the place felt and looked, I’d better continue the story of why I felt obliged to come back here on this late summer day.

About twenty years ago, when I was a raw college graduate who grew up in this town, this factory was a wonder to behold—a thriving, bustling place that made chairs and tables and all sorts of other metal furniture. Nearly 2000 people worked here.

Now it’s closed and silent, the metal siding rusting, as if embarrassed that it didn’t blend with the color of the brick. I’m not sure where all the people went when it failed so fast, but they’re gone. The people that stayed in Briggs either found new jobs, or just retired early. The younger ones mostly left town, looking for jobs elsewhere.

There’s one thing I know for sure. The closing of this particular factory was just about the end of this town and the happy, productive lives for a lot of people here, too. I just didn’t understand how it failed so fast.

Suddenly, there were a couple of almost simultaneous loud whumps. The whole building shook. What the hell was that? An earthquake would last longer, and it couldn’t have been a sonic boom; it was too big a shock.

The fine mist of dust in the air turned into a choking haze. A creaking and groaning was followed by a loud crack. That was all the warning I got. A large wooden roof beam was falling straight at me. I dived to the right. It crashed to the floor less than two feet away, sending another cloud of dust into my face.

I scrambled to my feet, choking for air. All I could think about was getting out of there. I struggled to see and to regain my bearings. The door was about fifty feet away, and I ran toward it wondering if more of the old building would come tumbling down.

The door wouldn’t open at first. That sent another wave of panic through me. I fumbled with the rusty old latch. Thanks to a surge of adrenaline I tugged hard enough to break it loose.

I emerged only to be engulfed in another dust storm. The bright sunlight barely cut through the dense haze, but it was enough to help me find cleaner air. My heart was pumping as I limped across cracked concrete and rubble, toward the railroad tracks.

Once I was clear of the blinding dust, I saw what had happened. Right next to the plant, the old six-story brick HQ building was nothing but a pile of bricks. The explosions I heard in the factory had been demolition experts blowing up the building.

There had been no signs; no notices and no one around when I came through the gate and walked to the old factory. I guess no was one expected to be wandering around a deserted old factory?

A man was running toward me.

Are you OK? he was yelling.

I think so, I said through shaking lips.

Where’d you come from? You don’t have any business around here.

I was now becoming irritated as the fear and shock wore off. I was looking through the factory, is there any law against that?

He looked me over for a minute, and then asked, Aren’t you Ed Martini’s kid Jim?

I recognized Marty Rients, whose construction company built the factory. Cooling off a bit, I answered, That’s right. And you’re Marty Rients, right?

You coulda got killed in there, he stammered, still as shaken as I was.

I know, I said, a beam fell and just missed me.

Well, at least you’re OK. That’s a relief. Let’s get you outa here. He ushered me away from the factory complex as fast as I could move.

As I limped away with him, rubbing the elbow I landed on in my dive, I couldn’t help but think about how he had seen the complete cycle of birth to death for these buildings.

Hey boys, he called out. Look who I found wandering around inside the factory. It’s Ed Martini’s boy, Jim. The damn fool coulda gotten hisself killed wandering around the damn factory while we were blowing up the HQ building. Lucky he got out alive. Guess we built it pretty good after all.

While I recognized a few faces, I was in no mood to hang around and talk about what a damn fool I was. Before I got in my car, I tried brushing off some of the filth, but it was hopeless. My knee hurt. My elbow hurt. I looked like someone had dumped me in a dirt pile.

Chapter 6

Briggs, WV

I was a mess—and so was Briggs. When I drove in yesterday, even in the dark, I couldn’t help but compare the deteriorated main street of today to the one I recalled from two decades ago. The trees were bigger, older now. Some of them had died and been replaced with small ones that looked out of place among the majestic old ones.

Today, in daylight, the concrete streets looked like a patchwork quilt of tar strips, put there to keep the freezing winter weather from breaking the concrete apart like the town is breaking apart. There were a few new storefronts, with signs of renovation done to save the downtown merchants from the arrival of the new Walmart Super Center at the edge of town. Built last year, Walmart had sucked traffic and business out of downtown, and now everybody was going there or to the nearby strip malls.

Many small merchants just gave up. A coffee shop, a drug store, and a nice local restaurant stayed downtown surrounding the old tree covered Courthouse Square. A few new boutique stores opened, and a big antique store was getting some traffic. The city fathers spent money on planters full of geraniums and petunias that dotted the sidewalks on Courthouse square. At least it was still pretty.

As I cut through town, heading back to my motel, I noticed how the old trees formed a canopy over the streets. It was like driving down a dark cool tunnel of green with silver shafts of sunlight painting the aging streets with milky stripes and spots. I could feel the change in temperature as I drove in and out of the shade with my car windows down. The smell of the flowering shrubs, now grown huge with age, was like a musky perfume in the air.

It was nice to see some of the old houses being renovated, with new siding, windows, and doors. The old architecture was