Three Gorges Dam

by Thomas V. Harris

  That’s as far as he gets. A loud popping sound—he’s certain it’s a gunshot—stops his ascent. The noise startles him and he slips and falls when he reverses direction. The impact jams his damaged shoulder and he feels a sharp pain in his left palm. He probes the floor and finds a bloody glass fragment. He compares it to the wound. They match.

  Brannigan stays down while he tries to figure out who fired the shot. He assumes the locomotive engineers and the Reds’ watch-dogs have access to guns. That completes his list of people who could have pulled the trigger. He would be shocked if anyone else brought a weapon on board. The engineers know better than to pack a firearm. He warned them about the mandatory prison term before they left Beijing.

  He can’t think of a good reason for a locomotive engineer or government snoop to discharge his weapon. He’s still grappling with that issue when he hears a second shot. The noise is similar to the first. Both shots echoed like they came from outside the train. He dismisses his original conclusion. There wouldn’t have been any reason for the drivers or Communist spies to fire their guns. The shooter—he thinks the plural more likely—probably wasn’t on board when the train derailed.

  Brannigan considers the implications of his theory. This disaster wasn’t an accident. Worse, the saboteurs are still here. They plan to do more than destroy the train. There haven’t been any more gunshots. He doesn’t think that means much. The attackers may simply prefer knives and killing at close range. Or they could be searching for something specific. He hopes they find what they want and make a quick getaway. He decides there’s small chance of that. Why would they leave without picking off the Rolexes, diamond rings, and necklaces?

  He turns onto his abdomen—he can feel his heart beating into his throat—and perks his ears for what’s coming next. It’s a two-footed thump at the far end of the bar car. He can only come up with one explanation. Someone entered the carriage through a door or a gutted window. Brannigan thinks it’s the former. If an attacker had been moving overhead, he would have heard footsteps.

  The thump is followed closely by a second. It’s lighter than the first. Several seconds pass. He doesn’t hear any other sounds. There may be more men outside but it doesn’t matter. This pair might as well be an army. Brannigan is in no condition to confront them. He doesn’t delude himself or minimize the danger. They aren’t taking hostages. If they wanted a ransom, they wouldn’t have murdered the merchandise.

  The attackers aren’t talking. He assumes they’ve done this before and have a nonverbal way to communicate. One of them bumps into something. He expects them to continue making noise when they step on bodies and service items. Although that should allow him to track their movements, he doesn’t think it will produce a better outcome. They’ll know he’s alive if they kick him in the ribs or shine a light in his eyes. A passover is his only chance of surviving. That will be difficult to accomplish. He’ll have to appear very bloody and capital “D” dead.

  He extends his right arm and searches for a sharp piece of broken glass. When he finds a jagged shard, he picks it up and cuts into Claude’s left carotid artery. Blood leaks, flows freely, and bathes Brannigan’s face. His upper body dams most of the fluid and creates a reservoir of red. Some of the blood eventually breaks containment, spreads, and soaks his hips and legs.

  A loud noise is different than the rest. It sounds like one of the attackers tripped and fell. Their progress slows down. He fears that alone may defeat his strategy. He can’t hold out much longer. His left-sided chest pain is so overpowering he’ll have to shift positions. It won’t be possible to do that quietly. Hurry up, he thinks. Let’s get this over with, one way or another.

  He hears the attackers lifting and dropping bodies. He turns his face downward to make it less observable from above. That allows him to relax his lids but still notice changes in light. Minutes pass before something brightens the area. Brannigan assumes it’s a flashlight. He hears feet moving forward. Glass crackles on both sides of his low back. He’s still holding his breath when two hands grab his jacket. He is one twist away from being sunny side up.

  The man in front utters a few syllables. Brannigan doesn’t know what he said, but his coat goes slack. He hears the man who grabbed him move toward his partner. They’re talking for the first time. Their conversation isn’t in Chinese or English and doesn’t sound like any Asian or European language he’s ever heard.

  The man with the higher voice is more animated. The other sounds gruff and authoritative. The substance of what they’re saying is indecipherable and Brannigan can’t tell where their words begin or end. But the rhythm and tone of their language is beginning to sound familiar. It reminds him of the bartering at Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. The identity of the attackers suddenly seems obvious. They must be Uighur tribesmen. Only they have the means, motive, and opportunity to commit this atrocity. He can’t think of anyone else who would be blowing up trains out here.

  He hears the men lifting a victim for a closer look. After they drop the body, they resume talking. The deeper voice anglicizes two words. Brannigan hears them loud and clear. He tries to understand the context, but his anger is no match for his dizziness. His thoughts short-circuit and he loses consciousness.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE CARRIAGE IS upside down.

  The battered box is detached from the rest of the train. It’s lying perpendicular to the tracks at the bottom of a mild depression. The visibility at lower elevations is quite limited—especially for smaller objects—and Brannigan has trouble identifying potential hazards. Rather than walk, he decides to proceed more cautiously. He sits along the top rim of the bowl and slides down the slope on his backside. There isn’t much debris around the perimeter. His footing is good and he jogs around the coach looking for an entry point. He stops when he reaches a door—it’s jammed open—and climbs inside.

  The layout and smashed bookcases convince him he’s found the library. He spent a lot of time here and remembers the positioning of the wall fixtures. The spacing of the lights helps him distinguish front from back. The far end was connected to the bar car. The crash and roll-over reversed the orientation of the carriage. Before the attack, what’s now the far end of the library was its leading edge. The end where he’s standing was hitched to Kylie’s sleeper carriage.

  She’s the only person who could have been here when the bombs exploded. He has accounted for Harry Dyer. Everyone else—the engineers, wives, and staff—was in the bar car, dining room, or kitchen. He inspected Kylie’s compartment and the common areas around it. She wasn’t there. If she’s not in this coach, he’ll scour the desert until he finds her. He knows how that will turn out. Anyone ejected from the train is almost certainly dead.

  The lights are out and visibility is limited. The carriage’s minimal illumination is coming from the heavens and a low-lumen flashlight he found next to Kylie’s bed. The beam from the dainty tube doesn’t reach very far. Its light doesn’t extend beyond each approaching step. His progress is slow and steady. He avoids most of the debris and gets to the middle of the library without falling. But there’s no sign of Kylie. All he hears are his own footsteps and breathing.

  He’s nearing the front of the library—planning where to go next—when he sees a raised shape. It’s off to his right, a body length away. He moves closer and recognizes Kylie’s dress. His first emotion is relief. Anxiety isn’t far behind.

  “Kylie, it’s Michael.” He repeats their names but she doesn’t respond.

  She is faceup with her head tilted slightly to the left. Brannigan kneels beside her and straightens her hips. One of his knees is resting on a sharp edge. He sweeps the object away and crawls forward. His legs are touching her right side. He points the flashlight at her eyes. They’re closed.

  A torn cushion is a meter away. He scoots over to grab it and puts it under her head. He checks her diaphragm and chest. If they’re expanding and contracting, it’s not enough to notice. He puts his fingers on her wrist and n
eck. She seems to have a pulse, but it’s weak. Her lips are moving in a cadenced way. Though he isn’t sure, he thinks she’s breathing shallowly through her mouth.

  He can’t figure out what’s wrong with her. She has cuts and bruises on her face and a large purplish bump on her jaw. But those traumas don’t seem related to her being totally unresponsive. He turns her neck. It moves freely. He touches the back of her head. A gooey substance is matted to her hair. He checks his fingers and sees that it’s blood. He palpates the adjacent areas and contacts a lump. It’s as hard as a golf ball and bigger.

  Blood is trickling out her right ear. When he checks the right side of her head, he doesn’t notice any exterior cuts. The leakage originates somewhere else. He can only think of one potential source. The blood is coming from inside her skull. He knows Kylie isn’t asleep. She is either unconscious, brain damaged, or both.

  He tries to straighten her dress. But the cheongsam is so tight, and his left arm so weak, he can’t pull it down. He taps his fingers against her cheek. She doesn’t react. He lays his hand inside her palm and says, “If you hear me, honey, squeeze my fingers.” Did she? He isn’t sure. He can’t distinguish between wanting and feeling hand pressure. He asks her to do it again. Her fingers don’t move.

  Brannigan glances at the watch he took from a dead waiter. He’ll rendezvous with Harry Dyer in twenty minutes, unless they run into each other sooner. Harry was in Brannigan’s compartment—removing a micro SD transmitter—when the bombs detonated. He was knocked around but wasn’t hurt.

  Harry thought it was a terrorist attack from the outset. He was hiding in the closet when an attacker entered the room, did a cursory inspection, and left. He found Brannigan after the bombers drove away. They decided how to coordinate their efforts then separated. Dyer has been searching for Dr. Schmidt and providing first aid. Brannigan’s assignment was to locate Kylie.

  Her compartment was badly damaged. The window was broken out and the walls were deformed. He was glad she wasn’t there. As it turned out, Kylie was in a no-win situation. The force levels in the library appear to have been even worse. He doesn’t know her exact location when the bombs detonated. But she wound up a few feet from the bar car. He shakes his head and mutters, “If I’d only opened the door.”

  He’s not sure her head injury is responsible for her respiratory deficit. Thoracic trauma is another possible explanation. The only way he can evaluate her upper body is to split the top of her dress. He tears it until Kylie’s entire chest is exposed. She has a large hematoma on her sternum and bruising on both breasts. None of those lesions appear severe enough to cause her breathing problem.

  He decides he’s overthinking. It’s time to do something proactive. He extends his right leg, straddles her midsection, and administers a series of chest compressions and rescue breaths. He needs a short break before repeating the process. The CPR isn’t helping her and it’s painful for him. His fractured ribs and lung injury have him struggling to breathe. He’s back at it when Harry asks, “How’s Kylie?” He’s outside the carriage looking at them through a broken window.

  Brannigan finishes this round of rescue breaths before sitting up and answering. “Not good. What about Dr. Schmidt?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Poor woman. How about her husband?”

  “Badly injured, but he’ll survive.”

  “Any progress on the communications front?”

  “An Urumqi trauma team is on its way.”

  “What about Beijing?”

  “They just took off. How badly is Kylie hurt?”

  “She’s totally unresponsive. We may have lost her.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Keep after the doctors.”

  “I’ve been calling every fifteen minutes. Anything else?”

  “Do what you can for the others.”

  “Good luck, Michael. I’ll check back later.”

  Kylie hasn’t shown any sign of improvement. He considers whether a shot of epinephrine would revive her. He quickly realizes that won’t be the solution. The train probably doesn’t stock an EpiPen. Dr. Schmidt may have brought one to China. Even if she did, he won’t be able to locate it in time. The doctor’s medical bag could be virtually anywhere.

  He remembers the train’s defibrillators. The tour guide told the group about the cardiac units during her orientation. Each carriage has one near its front door. Brannigan gets up, steps over Kylie, and heads for the AED cabinet. Although its plastic facing is gouged, it’s still intact. When he opens the hinged door, the instruction sheet lands at his feet. He examines the device. The outer shell appears to be undamaged. He holds it in one hand, picks up the directions with the other, and rushes back to Kylie.

  He practiced with the paddles during his CPR refresher course. But his experience is limited to defibrillating dummies. He’s worried about using it incorrectly and carefully reviews the form. The instructions are printed in three languages. One of them is English.

  The procedure seems familiar and he turns on the unit. The instructions recommend direct contact with the patient’s body. He lowers the top of her dress and removes her bra. She is now fully exposed from her neck to her navel.

  Brannigan gets back on his knees. He puts the paddles on her chest and talks himself through the protocol. “Step One: The defibrillator will analyze her heart.” The readout identifies her rhythm. He sighs, “Thank goodness,” and moves on to Step Two—delivering the jolt. He hits the button and Kylie’s chest jumps. She coughs up fluid, followed by vomit. He pulls out the bottom of his shirt and wipes her face.

  It seems to have worked. He touches the center of her chest to make sure. Her heart is beating. There’s movement when he places his other hand on her diaphragm. Her respirations are light but regular. He checks the pulses in her neck and wrist. They’re normal. Kylie’s eyes had been flickering. Now they are wide open.

  Her lips are trembling but she’s able to talk.

  “Please don’t let it crash again.”

  He strokes her hair. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll protect you.”

  Kylie throws up more stomach contents. He tilts her head to prevent her from aspirating. Her breathing and swallowing appear to be okay, and her arms and legs are moving. She tries to sit up. He presses down on her shoulders and keeps her flat.

  “Not yet, Kylie. Rest for a while.”

  He squeezes her hand when she dozes off. She reopens her eyes, the left more fully than the right. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Doctors are on their way. They’ll stop the pain.”

  She rubs the hair above her right ear. “My head hurts.”

  “Everything will be fine, Kylie.” His actual assessment is far less rosy. Her unfocused gaze is alarming. He can’t tell whether she recognizes her own name, much less his. He urges her to “keep taking deep breaths.”

  She has trouble replying, “I can’t.”

  “Try, Kylie. I’ll walk you through it—”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He doesn’t think she understood what he said. Her eyes are cycling between open and closed—mostly the latter. He senses her condition is worsening and tries to rouse her.

  “Honey, look at me. It’s important to stay awake.”

  “I want my mum. Please take me home.”

  Her eyes close one last time and don’t reopen. His attempts to revive her are unsuccessful. He tries to rearrange the top of her dress, but the torn garment isn’t up to the task. Brannigan slips off his coat and drapes it over her chest. He lies next to her—holding her close— and waits for the emergency team.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE TECHNICIAN HAD just arrived.

  He spit his chewing tobacco on the floor as he entered the monastery. A Chinese soldier pointed him to a closed door on the left side of the foyer. The tech walked into the conference room without knocking and placed his instruments on the pitted table. He opened his EDR box, checked the polygraph’s e
lectrodes, and fastened them to the monk’s middle and index fingers.

  “State your full name.”

  “Losang Gyatso.”

  “Are you a Buddhist monk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you reside in Drepung Monastery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you using countermeasures?”

  “What are those?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Has anyone told you how to prepare for the test?”

  “No.”

  “Have you changed your breathing rate?”

  “No.”

  “Are you loosening or tightening your muscles?”

  “No.”

  “Have you lied in answering any of my questions?”

  “No.”

  “Are there any facts you’re willing to lie about?”

  “No.”

  The technician interrupted his questioning to convey a non-verbal message. Losang already knew what it was—he couldn’t out-smart the polygraph. The monk played along when the tech gazed at the pneumographs and then the thoracic tubes. He followed the tech’s eyes as they shifted to the instrument’s blood-pressure monitor. When Losang looked over at the cuff strapped to his arm, the tech resumed his examination.

  “Are you familiar with the term ‘Fighting Monks’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a Fighting Monk?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know Gendun Phintso?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know he planned to set himself on fire?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that a girl would set herself on fire?”

  “No.”

  “Were you involved in planning their actions?”

  “No.”

  The Chinese defrocked the abbot and expelled him from the monastery.

  They also took eight Drepung monks into custody. The army’s presence has thinned since last night. The entire contingent will be gone by the end of next week. Surveillance cameras will replace them.