NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

The America Diaspora is a sequel to The Chinese Century.

My mother once said that when you accept your own death then you don’t have long to live.

I don’t know about that. What I do know is that an awesome feeling of peace came over me in that house. I’m not a religious man, but I know a religious experience when I have one. This was one.

The next day rose cold and gray over my little prison. April is the end of the rainy season in southern Africa, and the beginning of fall. By cold I mean the air felt hard, and the rain seemed to flow right into my bones. There were no blankets.

Around noon I was surprised by the sound of a helicopter. I walked to the window and watched it pass.

Then, a few hours later I heard gunshots. I didn’t know what to make of them. Was this good news or bad? Having accepted my own death as a reality I didn’t much care. I looked out but saw nothing.

After looking out the window a few moments I returned to the floor, into a posture of calm waiting. Suddenly the door flew open and a white man came in, wearing a uniform with a beret and camo make-up. I looked up, holding my breath. But he smiled, and the muzzle of his gun came up. It went back over his shoulder and he reached a hand down to me.

I took it.

When I walked out behind him cheers came up from around me. I blinked in the light. The clouds were thinning.

I was free.

The car which had brought me here was still by the house, partly-covered in branches as a crude camouflage. I turned from it and saw bodies around me, black men and one woman – the one who had brought me food. I had nothing in my stomach but fought to keep my bile down nonetheless. The smell of death had not yet come up, but there was a smoky odor to the air. I saw that it came from the guns around me, freshly fired and, judging from the bodies, from the guns of those on the ground. Most had come out of a ranch house I’d never seen before.

My rescue party seemed to consist of a dozen men, burly men of military bearing, both white and black. We said nothing. I just moved as quickly as I could, down the path my car had traveled, past a stand of scrub forest which had partly-hidden my prison, then across the field to the helicopter I’d seen a few hours before.

There was a Humvee parked next to the helicopter. Most of my rescuers climbed aboard it. I reached out to shake some hands before they left. There were smiles all around. No one had to say anything. One stayed to help me into the helicopter.

When I entered the chopper I got my second shock of the day, because there waiting for me was Chief Williams. He shook my hand warmly, motioned me to sit beside him. The soldier took a seat next to the pilot, and we were up.

I was in an emotional daze, and said nothing until after the chopper had come down and we had transferred to another limo, this one clearly marked with the Virgin Maverick logo.

I leaned back in the back seat of the limo and tried to slow my breathing. Williams sat next to me, patient, waiting. Finally I sqeaked out one word – “how?”

He smiled. “I expected that back in the chopper. Most victims are filled with questions, about their families, loved ones, rescue. You seem quite calm. Write a will there?”

I shook my head. “No, but you’re close. I thought I was dead. The feeling came some hours before your helicopter spotted me.”

Williams nodded. “That happens,” he said, “and in this case it was very helpful. You were compliant but calm. You performed brilliantly. We were in and out in just 170 seconds." He showed me a stop watch.

“Actually the chopper didn’t really spot you,” added the Chief. “What it spotted was your tag.”

“My tag?”

“The RFID chip we implanted in my office, when you joined Virgin Maverick a few months ago. You’ve probably forgotten all about it. But our copter had an 802.11 radio in it, with a high-strength directional signal. It scanned as it went, and when it picked up your tag triangulated the location. We’d found you hours before you saw us. The copter was just reconnoitering, letting us know the lay of the land, preventing any surprises. It moved fast so as not to warn your captors we knew where they were.”

“Where was I?”

“Your house was just a few miles north of the Beit Bridge, in Zimbabwe,” said Williams. “Fortunately your captors were a gang with few government connections. They were after money and were probably working to get us a ransom demand when we found you.

“We had to come in hard and fast, as we had no authority from Zimbabwe to be there. The Humvee was a problem, but our people had papers claiming to be a hunting party with a licensed group. They carried cameras across, and plenty of cash so the guns weren’t sought. They will come back the same way, but the guards on the South African side are aware of what we were about, and are ready in case of a problem. A few thousand Rand should prevent that problem from coming up.”

I nodded. I was suddenly exhausted. Williams, taking the hint, removed a metal can from the limo’s refrigerator, shook it and popped the top, then handed it to me. “It’s called Ensure. Nasty-tasting stuff. But you’ve probably been short of nutrients the last few days.”

“How many?” Days, I meant.

“Just three. Here.” I reached for the can, took a sip, then found myself sucking it down like nectar. It’s true what they say. Hunger is the very best appetizer.

As I finished my drink I noticed Chief Williams bring out a tape recorder. He muttered into it, then set it between us. For the next two hours he debriefed me, getting me to recall details of my capture, my ride to what I now knew was Zimbabwe, and my incarceration. As we talked I drank Gatorade. When we finished I was handed a bag with a sandwich and some fruit salad.

The car came right into the Carlton Center, and once we parked I was whisked in an elevator straight to the top of the stack, to the main Virgin Maverick offices. A private apartment, used by Richard Branson himself when he visits, was put at my disposal. There was a change of clothes waiting, and once I showered I actually felt like a human being.

Chief Williams returned as soon as I pulled my shirt on. This time he came with a woman. She introduced herself as Peggy Kilbride, a PR operative for Virgin, just transferred from the Airline to Virgin Maverick.

“You look fantastic,” she said.

“For a man of my age? For a newly released kidnap victim?” I was feeling more like myself, ready to give and take.

“No, really,” she said. “You really do look good.”

“It must be the shirt,” I replied.

“Are you up for a presser?” she asked.

I guess I gave her a strange look. “A press conference,” she said.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. What’s the story?” I smiled again.

“You don’t know!” she said. She turned to Chief Williams. “He doesn’t know how he’s dominated the international news these last three days?” Williams shook his head, no.

“I have?” She nodded. “Not exactly how I wanted to become famous. I was hoping it would be for a book, or at least covering a hot story. I really don’t like being a story myself. Especially this kind of story.”

“Well, you are. So be a good one. You can be a huge asset to Virgin Maverick.”

I nodded. “I will do my best.”

And then she played a really dirty trick.

Peggy Kilbridge first led me onto a little stage, in front of cameras and microphones, had the assembled media ask me a few silly questions, then opened the door to my right.

My suspicions were roused by sudden applause, and in shock I saw what caused it. Here came my daughter Robin, jumping into my arms and hugging me fiercely. And right behind her came my wife and son.

That was the money shot, the one you saw on the cover of your daily paper, my arms reaching for my beloved, my daughter hanging on my shoulders, and the tears flowing freely, as never before.