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“We were just there two hours ago,” Paul said. “That’s the Oriental Pearl Tower in the background. Let’s get off this bus and double back.”
They left the tour group at the next stop and took a cab directly to the tower. Arriving in the parking lot felt like hitting the jackpot. There were seven different networks with trucks parked outside the soaring building, all using the famous backdrop for their shots.
Paul and Gamay walked nonchalantly past the first two mobile trucks, eyeing the satellite dishes on the roofs with a type of excitement usually reserved for the arrival of a gourmet meal.
“These trucks are local networks,” Gamay said, noting the logos painted on the sides of the various vans. “We need an American network. CNN or Fox or . . .” Her voice trailed off. They’d come to a reporter, setting up for another shot. “INN,” she said. “Indie Network News. This is perfect. The whole network lives for conspiracy theories.”
Paul smiled. “Since when do you watch that stuff?”
“It’s my late-night guilty pleasure,” she admitted. “That and rocky road ice cream.”
“Explains all the empty cartons I find in the trash,” he said. “Let’s grab that reporter as soon as she finishes.”
They walked toward the reporter and her cameraman, careful to remain out of the shot. Gawking like tourists, they waited for the portable spotlight to shut off and the reporter to disconnect herself from the earpiece.
“Intercut the voice-over with the shot of those military helicopters that flew by earlier,” she told him. “That’ll make it more interesting.”
“Sure thing,” the cameraman said.
As he got busy packing up equipment, the reporter moved toward the back of the mobile truck. Gamay intercepted her before she could climb inside. “Ms. Anderson,” she called out. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m a huge fan. The documentary you did about what’s really buried under the Hoover Dam was fascinating.”
Melanie Anderson flashed a smile that almost hid the annoyance she felt. “Thanks,” she said. “Though, I hate to tell you, I’ve never been to Nevada. We used B-roll for the entire thing. But I’m glad you enjoyed it. It means we did our job.” There was a happy cynicism to her voice. “Can I sign something, or pose for a selfie?”
“A signature would be great,” Gamay said, holding out a small pad of paper and a pen. The reporter took both items, raised the pen to the ready position and then paused as if she was thinking about what to write.
Gamay had drafted a note on the pad, explaining who they were and that they needed help.
The reporter looked up. “Is this a joke? Did the guys at the network put you up to this?”
“I promise you,” Gamay said, “it’s anything but a joke. Can we please talk inside your truck?”
The reporter held her ground for a moment and then opened the door while calling out to the cameraman. “Charley, give me a minute, okay?”
The cameraman nodded. And Paul and Gamay followed the reporter inside.
The back of the mobile broadcast van was designed much like the interior of an ambulance except, instead of medical equipment, the bay was filled with computers and production gear.
It was cramped, but there were two small seats. The reporter took one and Gamay the other. Paul leaned against a cabinet, crouching to give himself just enough headroom.
“Let me get this straight,” the reporter said. “You two are employees of a secret U.S. government agency and you’re being hunted by the Chinese. And this whole internet and phone blackout is to prevent you from contacting your bureau chief in Washington. Is that it?”
“Actually,” Gamay said, “NUMA isn’t a secret agency. It’s very public.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” she said.
“We don’t exactly advertise,” Paul said.
“Okay, fine,” the reporter said. “But the Chinese government wants you stopped at all costs, bringing Shanghai to a screeching halt if necessary.”
“I know it sounds crazy,” Gamay said.
“Explains why you came to me,” Ms. Anderson replied. “Crazy is my business. Fortunately, my producers come up with enough batty ideas to run three networks at least. We don’t need any help from the public.”
“This isn’t a stunt or a game,” Gamay reiterated. “We’re not secret agents; we’re not spies. I’m a marine biologist and Paul is a geologist. We recorded video and sonar readings in Chinese waters that indicate a man-made—most likely, Chinese-made—ecological disaster is under way. The Chinese government became aware of our actions after we arrived in Shanghai. They’re looking for us and doing everything they can to keep us from getting this information back to Washington.”
“That’s all well and good,” the reporter said, “but, as I recall, the Chinese do whatever they want in their territorial waters, just like we do in ours. Why would they care if you found out about some industrial accident? What difference does it make? They could point to Exxon Valdez and the Deepwater Horizon and tell us to worry about our own yard before complaining about what’s going on in theirs.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you,” Gamay said. “But whatever they were trying to accomplish down there, they’ve caused a problem that’s not just affecting the East China Sea, or the Chinese coastline, or even the western Pacific. It’s affecting the oceans all around the planet, raising sea levels in a very rapid manner. Forget global warming and its inch or two per decade predictions, we’re talking ten feet per year—and the rate is accelerating. Low-lying islands are dealing with inundation from seawater already. Certain coastal areas will begin experiencing permanent flooding within six months.”
