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“What about the Bridge of the Americas, right outside the Miraflores Locks? The abutments at the two ends of the bridge can serve as the pillars for stringing the filaments.”

“No. The distance between the abutments is too great. We don’t have enough Flying Blade material.”

“Then it’s decided: The site of operation should be the narrowest point of the Gaillard Cut, a hundred and fifty meters across. Add in some slack for the pillars … let’s call it a hundred seventy meters.”

Wang said, “If that’s the plan, then the smallest distance between the filaments will be fifty centimeters. I don’t have enough material for a tighter net.”

“In other words, we have to make sure the ship crosses during the day,” Da Shi said, blowing out another mouthful of smoke.

“Why?”

“At night the crew will be sleeping, which means they’ll all be lying down. Fifty centimeters between filaments leaves too much of a gap. But during the day, even if they’re sitting or crouching, the distance is sufficient.”

A few scattered laughs. The attendees, all under heavy stress, felt a bit of release tinged with the smell of blood.

“You’re truly a demon,” a female UN official said to Da Shi.

“Will innocent bystanders be hurt?” Wang asked, his voice trembling.

A naval officer replied, “When the ship goes through the locks, more than a dozen cable workers will come onboard, but they’ll all get off after the ship passes. The Panama Canal pilot will have to accompany the ship the entire eighty-two kilometers, so the pilot will have to be sacrificed.”

A CIA officer said, “And some of the crew aboard Judgment Day probably don’t know the real purpose of the ship.”

“Professor,” General Chang said, “do not concern yourself with these thoughts. The information we need to obtain has to do with the very survival of human civilization. Someone else will make the call.”

As the meeting ended, Colonel Stanton pushed the beautiful cigar box in front of Shi Qiang. “Captain, the best Havana has to offer. They’re yours.”

Four days later, Gaillard Cut, Panama Canal

Wang could not even tell that he was in a foreign country. He knew that to the west, not too far away, was beautiful Gatun Lake. To the east was the magnificent Bridge of the Americas and Panama City. But he had had no chance to see either of them.

Two days earlier, he had arrived by direct flight from China to Tocumen International Airport near Panama City and then rode a helicopter here. The sight before him was very common: The construction work under way to widen the canal caused the tropical forest on both slopes to be quite sparse, revealing large patches of yellow earth. The color felt familiar to Wang. The canal didn’t seem very special, probably because it was so narrow here, but a hundred thousand people had dug out this part of the canal in the previous century, one hoe at a time.

Wang and Colonel Stanton sat on lounge chairs under an awning halfway up the slope. Both wore loose, colorful shirts, with their Panama hats tossed to the side, looking like two tourists.

Below, on each shore of the canal, a twenty-four-meter steel pillar lay flat against the ground, parallel to the shore. Fifty ultrastrong nanofilaments, each 160 meters long, were strung between the pillars. At the end on the eastern shore, every filament was connected to a length of regular steel wire. This was to give the filaments enough slack so that they could sink to the bottom of the canal, aided by attached weights. The setup permitted other ships safe passage. Luckily, traffic along the canal wasn’t quite as busy as Wang had imagined. On average, only about forty large ships passed through each day.

The operation’s code name was “Guzheng,” based on the similarity between the structure and the ancient Chinese zither by that name. The slicing net of nanofilaments was thus called the “zither.”

An hour earlier, Judgment Day had entered the Gaillard Cut from Gatun Lake.

Stanton asked Wang whether he had ever been to Panama before. Wang said no.

“I came here in 1989,” the colonel said.

“Because of that war?”

“Yes, that was one of those wars that left me with no impression. I only remember being in front of the Vatican embassy as ‘Nowhere to Run’ by Martha and the Vandellas played for the holed-up Noriega. That was my idea, by the way.”

In the canal below them, a pure white French cruise ship slowly sailed past. Several passengers in colorful clothing strolled leisurely on the green-carpeted deck.

“Second Observation Post reporting: There are no more ships in front of the target.” Stanton’s walkie-talkie squawked.

Stanton gave the order. “Raise the zither.”