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taking us back to base.”
    “I need to get authorization from South Air Defense Command to end the mission,” said Xhua.
    “The mission is over.”
    “Negative, sir. We can’t come off station without their permission,” said Xhua.
    The copilot interrupted the argument. “Both of you need to see this. Look toward the ground.”
    Xhua pushed past the dazed flight officer and leaned between the pilot and copilot seats, craning his head to see through one of the side windows.
    “I don’t see anything,” said Xhua.
    “That’s the problem. The lights are out—everywhere,” said the copilot. “Consistent with the equipment fluctuations, I’d say we’ve been hit by an EMP.”
    “I don’t see how,” said Xhua. “We would have been notified of an incoming ICBM.”
    “It doesn’t matter. I’m declaring an emergency and landing this aircraft,” said the pilot. “It’s only a matter of time before we have a catastrophic equipment failure.”
    “Yes, sir. That’s probably…the best course of action,” he said, backing into the cabin, not sure what to do next.
    The tactical situation over southern China had drastically changed, and not for the better.
     

Chapter 9
    Sky View Tower
    136 th Floor
    Pudong District, Shanghai China
     
    Huan Xiao swiped the air a few inches from the ample touchscreen of her Jianyu smartphone, activating the device. Responding instantaneously, the screen displayed a picture of her family posing in front of a tranquil, azure bay in the Maldives. Her boys, ages five and seven, grinned widely at the photographer. Her husband displayed a forced smile, his thoughts thousands of miles away at Jianyu Tower.
    She stole a glance out of the two-story, floor-to-ceiling window, the centerpiece of their 9,200-square-foot residence, at the zenith of Shanghai’s tallest building. Across the Huangpu River, the warm, distant lights of the Bund waterfront beckoned over the cramped array of Technicolor towers jammed into Pudong. Jianyu Towers rose among them, displaying a dizzying array of brilliant colors that slowly shifted from dusk until dawn. Huan was thankful that she could still see the Bund. She was thankful for many things, mostly her two children, who were sound asleep.
    Huan flicked her head a few centimeters left, clearing the screen with the nearly imperceptible movement, the device having already verified her identity through a subtle retinal scan. She had to admit, her husband’s company’s latest device was slick. Jianyu Industries didn’t invent gesture-guided screen technology, but they had nearly perfected it. With a little practice, the features performed flawlessly, freeing a hand to hold a cappuccino or shopping bag. Another technological marvel designed to enable an upwardly mobile lifestyle. At least that’s how they were selling it—or trying to sell it.
    What should have been a breakthrough for Jianyu Industries, and the Chinese economy, had been hampered by another round of international trade setbacks. The launch was already three months behind schedule. The European release date, scheduled for early September, was inexplicably pushed back to November, followed by another delay in late November.
    She suspected the problem stemmed from the brewing conflict with Taiwan. After the Americans withdrew their ships from the region, the Taiwanese government and military escalated their aggressive stance toward the Chinese. Rumors had spread through underground news agencies that Taiwanese Special Operations teams had been captured near Shantou, scouting the South Sea Fleet Naval Base. Whatever was happening, her husband knew more than he was willing to tell. He’d grown edgier by the week since the announcement of the November delay.
    The scene beyond the reinforced, quadruple-paned windows vanished, leaving an impenetrable blackness—everywhere. Her phone’s screen cast the only light she could detect inside or outside of the residence. She stopped breathing, listening