He’s almost ready to lift off when he reflects on yesterday’s trip. Kylie had turned the Bell toward the south bank. The visibility was improving but the higher altitudes were still misty. He remembers the excitement in her voice.
“Check that out, Michael.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“It’s near that large outcropping.”
“What are you pointing at?”
“A flashing light.”
“What altitude?”
“Just below the haze.”
“I still don’t see it.”
“It’s back on . . . Now it’s off . . . There it goes again.”
“I bet I know what’s causing it. The Chinese installed erosion reflectors out here. It’s probably sunlight shining off one of those.”
“Why would it suddenly stop?”
“The hardware refracts unevenly.”
“Then why were the intervals so even?”
That’s what he wanted to ask Rocky. He decides not to call until he finishes at the gorge. If the light returns, he can probably solve the riddle on his own.
The Raven is flying over the helipad when he recalls another one of Kylie’s questions. “Do you see how those rocks stick out?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “I don’t like the angle.”
“We can’t see it today, but it’s worse higher up. The pitch on some of these peaks is steeper than ninety degrees. Look at the scarring on that one. It’s been sloughing for thousands of years.”
“How dangerous are the oversteeps?”
“They’re all highly unstable.”
“Even the rounder slopes?”
“The geology is more important than the shape. These mountains are primarily interbonded shale and limestone. That’s a bad combination. The shale is porous and has minimal holding power, especially when it’s wet. Once the shale slides, the limestone also gives way. The process feeds on itself and causes an avalanche.”
“What about the north side?”
“Same story over there. But this bank is significantly worse. The rock is so loose that reservoir water percolates upward through cracks in the walls. Old-timers have been taking measurements for thirty years. The creases are continuing to widen.”
“Why haven’t there been more slides?”
“There have been. Lianziyan never took a direct hit. Xintan did. The 1985 avalanches devastated the entire city.”
“My sources wouldn’t say much about it.”
“They were probably still traumatized. The people were evacuated in the nick of time. Otherwise everyone would’ve died. The gravitational energy generated waves seventy meters high and fifteen kilometers deep. Good thing they hadn’t built the dam yet. It wouldn’t have survived.”
“How much friable rock is still up there?”
“Lots,” she said. “One outcropping on the north side measures four million cubic meters and weighs seven million tons.”
“Are there many like that?”
“None are quite that bad. Plenty are close.” They were crossing the reservoir when she pointed to the worst overhang. “There’s the biggest one. The least stable part is above the cloud layer. Someday all of it will fall into the water.”
“The one with no foliage?”
“Yeah. Straight ahead.”
“What are its dimensions?”
“Seven hundred meters long, fifteen across, and eighty meters thick. The entire thing will come down if the top breaks off.”
“It’s been there millions of years. Why would it fall now?”
“Water pressurizes crustal rock. Mountains are no different than buildings. They’re only as stable as what supports them.”
He laid a map across her lap and traced the trisecting faults. “What happens if one of these erupts?”
“That’s a given. Over time they all will.”
“What Richter level would it take to cause a landslide?”
“An R-6 with the right ingredients. The south bank would slide first. That would generate seven billion tons of energy. Loads that high would collapse the northern peaks and release similar force levels.”
“That would be a bitch and a half.”
“Should I describe the doomsday event?”
“I thought that was it.”
“I was talking about a bad day. Not a catastrophe.”
“Is this science fiction?”
“Geophysics 101.”
“I might as well hear it.”
“The G-forces could set off the mother of all earthquakes. Your earthquake shook for twenty seconds. A collapse-triggered eruption could last four minutes. Half that would be enough to destroy the dam.”
He adjourned Kylie’s seismology lesson. She didn’t have to paint a picture of what would happen next. They spent the rest of the trip talking about how to break the news to the Chinese. He still hasn’t decided on the best approach. His word selection won’t change the reality. Three Gorges Dam is sitting on a geologic time bomb.
CHAPTER 47
BRANNIGAN IS FLYING over the convergence zone.
This will be a quick trip. Two hours max. He came to document what he saw during yesterday’s flight. He promised Kylie his report would warn about the danger lurking in earthquake alley.
The weather is clear and calm. But dark clouds are blowing his way. He glances at the altimeter and Kollsman window. The barometric pressure has dropped again. He expects the rain and wind to arrive sooner than predicted.
The helicopter is heading toward the north bank. Brannigan flies so close to the mountains he has the illusion of touching them. He doesn’t see significant scarring or other evidence of recent rockslides. The most precarious area is the outcropping fifty meters to the east. It’s one of the areas Kylie highlighted.
Brannigan steers the Raven toward the outsized rock formation. He dictates a short note about its shape and dimensions. He’s careful not to get closer. Engine vibration and air displacement have the potential to disturb the slope. He knows where he’ll wind up if falling debris damages the rotors.
Farther east the contours change and he realizes the helicopter is within the fall line. He maneuvers the Raven backward just before rocks come tumbling down. The closest are only a few meters outside the rotor arc. He hits the controls more forcefully than he intended and the Raven lurches backward. Debris continues to fall. It isn’t a landslide. But he wouldn’t call it a dusting either.
The sloughing subsides. Where it originated doesn’t seem important, and he turns counterclockwise for the short hop across the reservoir. The location of the 1985 slide is visible even from a distance. He studies the area where Kylie saw the flashing light. He doesn’t notice anything like that now. There’s nothing inconsistent with his conclusion that redirected sunbeams caused the brightness. Soon he’ll be able to see the other anomalies she described: the cracks carved into the gorge walls and the antigravitational waterspouts. Although he decides both are worth checking out, he doesn’t think either is seismically significant.
The helicopter has climbed to nine hundred meters. It’s leveling off when he sees something moving up the mountainside. He analyzes the possibilities—an animal, large bird, or foliage bending in the wind. All seem unlikely. The longer he stares at the object, the more it looks human. He factors in his lack of sleep and wonders if his eyes are playing tricks on him. He puts the helicopter in a hover, flicks his Bluetooth button, and speed-dials Rocky.
“What’s up, Michael?”
“Do people climb in Xiling Gorge?”
“Negative. It’s against the law.”
“Do they do it anyway?”
“Those summits are treacherous.”
“Not for mountaineers.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Someone is moving up the slope.”
“Where?”
“On the south bank.”
“How high up?”
“Near the top.”
“What makes y
ou think it’s a person?”
“Nothing else moves like that.”
“What’s he wearing?”
“Can’t tell. But it blends with the slope.”
“Is he roped off?”
“He must be. You can’t free-climb that fast.”
“Give me your coordinates. I’ll call the army.”
“The Xintan submersion site.”
“Don’t get any closer.”
“He’s gone. I can’t see him anymore.”
“Forget about him and get your ass back here.”
“After I finish what I’m doing.”
“I’m reading your flight plan.”
“You know where I am.”
“You left the ‘Purpose’ section blank.”
“I always do. Why are we arguing about paperwork?”
“What the hell are you doing out there?”
“Collecting data for Kylie.”
“You have ten minutes.”
“I need twenty.”
“Ten, and the clock’s running.”
“Yes, mother.”
Brannigan turns the helicopter farther south. Seventy meters from where he saw the climber, he hovers the Raven and surveys the mountain. Nothing is moving.
His phone rings. Rocky’s tone is preemptive.
“Finished or not, get back here.”
“I haven’t used up my ten minutes.”
“Now. Or you’ll have a PLA escort.”
“Who’s ordering, you or them?”
“Both of us . . . And ‘now’ means ‘right now.’”
“Got it.”
In Brannigan’s lexicon, “right now” is a relative term. Climbing above the peaks will only take a few minutes. Looking around—a few more. He’s confident he can make up the time running the helicopter at full speed on the way back. Rocky won’t be any the wiser if his arrival time matches his ETA.
He’s checking the instrument panel when he hears a loud pop. Seconds later he hears another one. Both sounded the same—like a rock or bird striking the plexiglass. But there’s no evidence of either one. The Raven isn’t close to the mountains, and he doesn’t see stone-related damage. There are two distinct holes in the bubble, a meter apart. He doesn’t see embedded feathers or other avian remains. The front of the helicopter is otherwise clear and undamaged.
Mild shoulder discomfort has escalated into burning pain. Blood is streaming down his left arm and staining his shirt and pants. He palpates his head but doesn’t feel anything unusual. He holds the cyclic with his dominant hand, painfully raises his left, and explores his upper body. His abdomen and chest seem to be all right. Reminding himself not to panic, he calls the dam.
Rocky is still on his case. “If you’re not on your way—”
“I was shot.”
“Say that again.”
“Someone tried to kill me.”
“With a gun?”
“A high-powered rifle.”
“Where were you hit?”
“My shoulder.”
“Does it affect your hand?”
“It’s weak but seems to work.”
“Can you make it home?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“How about blood loss?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
Brannigan opens his blue rucksack and unloads the contents—a medical supply box, energy bars, and water bottles.
“Do you know who did it?”
“A professional.”
“Was it the climber?”
“No idea.”
“Where’s the shooter?”
Brannigan needs a moment to analyze the entry angle. “At or near the summit.”
“How many rounds did he fire?”
“I’m not sure. Two went through the bubble—”
“Hang tough. I’ll be right out.”
“Stay at the dam.”
“What if you need help?”
“I’ll be back before you get here.”
“Get out of rifle range.”
“I can’t talk right now.”
“Don’t go after the guy.”
“Good advice. See you shortly.”
Brannigan angles the nose upward and jacks the altitude to fifteen hundred meters. The Raven is hovering near the middle of the reservoir when he tries to remove his shirt. Two attempts are unsuccessful. He gets his polo open enough to tape a 4X4 bandage to his shoulder. But it doesn’t stanch all the bleeding. He can feel moisture dripping down his back. He doesn’t know if his wound is leaking across the top or centrally through an exit wound. He shifts his attention to the helicopter. The Raven is functioning normally. There’s no indication the bullets damaged anything vital. The holes in the plexi-glass won’t impact his return trip to the dam.
Brannigan doesn’t expect a follow-up attack. The helicopter is out of rifle range, and the sniper probably doesn’t have a surface-toair missile. If he did, he would’ve used it already. The helicopter is two kilometers west of where he was wounded and is moving in the general direction of the helipad. His flight path brings him over the location where he saw the climber.
When he reaches the mountains, he slows down and creeps along the ridgeline. The terrain rises steeply as he banks to the south. So does his blood pressure.
“Good God!” he shouts. “Where the hell did they come from?”
There are too many men down there to count. He estimates their strength at a hundred and fifty, probably more. Dressed like commandos, they’re wearing camouflage fatigues and skullcaps. Most are heavily armed. The entire contingent is standing along the backside of the mountain. They’re organized into lines behind fixed ropes. It appears that all of them—with one exception—are getting ready to disembark.
The outlier is ten meters east of the others. He doesn’t appear to be carrying a weapon. The man is tall, strongly built, and has a red arm-band around his bicep. None of the others is wearing one. Brannigan presumes he’s the leader. The man is looking upward and following the helicopter’s movements. He’s pumping his chest and pointing at the sky. He seems to be celebrating, taunting, or both.
The other commandos don’t seem to be interested in the Raven. One after another they’re rappelling down the mountain. Many have already left the summit. Brannigan flies directly over the leader. That seems to further energize the man. Now he’s chanting and thrusting his other fist at the sky. Brannigan can’t make sense of what he’s trying to communicate. His message, if there is one, is lost in translation.
Brannigan knows he should disengage. Despite, or because of, his mental deterioration, he continues to descend. He is less than fifty meters above the ridgeline when he flies over the commandos’ staging area. He turns the Raven around—drops even lower—and buzzes the leader again.
He doesn’t know where, but Brannigan is certain he’s seen this guy before. His defiant gaze makes him look even more familiar. During his next pass, Brannigan makes the connection. This is the jihadi in the video the Chinese showed him. They identified him as the Uighur who led the Silk Road attack.
“You murdering bastard!” Brannigan’s voice fills the cockpit. He’s still venting when the commando throws away his armband and starts running toward the ropes. His strides are brisk and athletic, and he’s able to negotiate the berms and dips without slowing down. Stopping at the rear precipice, he delivers a middle finger salute as he rappels down the mountain.
The helicopter is cruising between two peaks. Just above the ridgeline, it passes over an area that’s invisible from most angles. The commandos’ encampment—a flat area tucked beneath a false summit—is littered with empty shipping crates, boring equipment, and safety harnesses. Now he knows what they were doing up here.
Cursing his poor judgment, Brannigan braces for a crash landing.
CHAPTER 48
THE EXPLOSION PROPELS the helicopter skyward.
A second causes it to spin out of control. The cockpit is shaking so hard Bra
nnigan worries the Raven will break up and disintegrate.
Powerless to prevent a midair disaster, he shifts his attention to the next worst outcome—smashing nose down in the water. The helicopter is plummeting toward the reservoir. Its descent is a disorienting jumble. He can’t identify a fixed horizon. When he tries to read the gauges, he becomes dizzy and nauseous. He knows at his current speed the water might as well be concrete.
The helicopter free-falls for what seems like forever. He rates his chances of surviving a reservoir landing as close to zero. The rotors and fuselage are intact and the avionics and powertrain also appear to be functional. He knows that only means he has a fighting chance to avoid the water.
The blasts blew his hands off the collective and the stick. He reestablishes contact but his first inputs on the hand controls and yaw pedals don’t restore the helicopter’s equilibrium. Trying different combinations, he slows the helicopter’s rate of descent. He increases lift and drag and flattens his angle of attack. The Raven levels off two hundred meters above the waterline.
Brannigan turns away from the mountains and regains lost altitude. He steers counterclockwise until he’s facing due south. Holding the Raven in a hovering pattern, he watches the rest of the attack unfold. What began at the ridgeline is moving downward and to the west. Scores of additional explosions are going off. They’re almost simultaneous, and the entire bank is belching fire and smoke. The rapid pacing reminds him of the grand finale at a fireworks show.
Large sections of the mountains are roaring down the slopes. The pulverized grime creates a dense haze. It’s expanding toward the other bank. Brannigan has an eerie thought as he hears the avalanches hitting the water. Getting shot saved his life. Otherwise he would have been under the outcroppings when they blew up.
There’s a brief silence—almost twenty seconds—before he hears another round of explosions. These detonations aren’t as loud. He turns to the north and he sees why. The noise is coming from the other side of the reservoir. The bombs are going off in the same sequence, but the damage pattern is different. This time the mountains aren’t sliding. They’re collapsing like the bottom has fallen out.
Both banks are fluid and the debris fields are rushing down the slopes. The collisions between the organic material and the reservoir are filling the air with millions of liters of water. The cannonballed soot commingles with the filth coming from the south side. The cumulative impact has generated a localized tempest. Its spiraling clouds block the sun.
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