The general nodded agreement. “Yessir, you’re right.”
The president turned to Admiral Brose. “What can you give us, Stevens, that’ll make the Chinese and their submarine back off before all hell breaks loose?”
“Not very much, sir,” the admiral admitted, his tone
uncharacteristically gloomy.
Air Force General Kelly said, “For God’s sake, Brose, you’ve got the whole damned Fifth Fleet out there. One carrier-based Viking, or even a Hornet, should scare the crap out of them.”
Secretary Stanton chimed in, “Doesn’t the Crowe have antisub choppers, Admiral?”
“Yes, to both comments,” Brose said. “Or was it three? In any event, what you gentlemen seem to forget is that this isn’t a military question, it’s a political nightmare. We have far more weapons than we’d need if we could attack. Hell, barring advanced capabilities we’re not aware of on that sub, the Crowe can juggle the situation on its own on at least an equal basis. But attacking first is precisely what we can’t do. Isn’t that so, Mr. President?”
“In a nutshell,” the president agreed.
“So what I have to offer is a cruiser. I’ve got the Shilo steaming full tilt. If it can get there in time, that might scare them off.”
The president nodded calmly. This was to be expected and did not especially disturb him. His manner exuded quiet confidence, except for his right hand. The fingers drummed reflexively on the table in front of him. “Thank you, Stevens. All right, where do we stand? Our attempt to secure proof of the Empress’s potentially lethal cargo by using the SEALs failed. We can’t attack first, or we’ll lose what credibility we have left that we’re a nation that wants only peace and respects the rule of international law. I am, of course, still pursuing diplomatic avenues. But that pretty much exhausts our options, with one exception.” He paused to choose his words carefully, while his fingers continued their reflexive drumming. “Earlier, I mentioned an ongoing intelligence operation designed to secure proof of the cargo. I can report that I have high hopes of a successful conclusion to that effort, within hours.”
The buzz in the room was excited. Emily Powell-Hill asked, “How many hours, sir?”
“Can’t say for certain. You should know that the effort is inside China, and of course it’s risky. Plus, there are enormous difficulties in running a mission on the other side of the world as well as having to contend with the vast distances of China.”
“May I ask who’s making this effort, Mr. President?” the vice president asked. “I’m sure all of us would like to pray for their safety and success.”
“Sorry, Brandon, I’m not going to reveal that. I can tell you our man’s close to success, but how close I can’t be certain. Which leaves us faced with a simple, if potentially devastating decision. If I fail to hear from inside China in time, the Crowe will stop and board the Empress before it can reach Iraqi waters, which, in practicality, means before it enters the Persian Gulf. Exactly how many hours is that, Admiral Brose?”
The chairman of the joint chiefs glanced at his watch. “Seven, Mr.
President. Give or take an hour.”
Tuesday, September 19.
Dazu.
After a harrowing run through the forest, constantly looking over their shoulders, Jon, Asgar, the two Uigher fighters, and the two former prisoners reached the Uigher unit. A few minutes later, the entire group slipped out across the fields toward their hidden vehicles. They climbed aboard. With Asgar driving, Jon, Chiavelli, and Thayer took the limo, so Thayer would be more comfortable. Three other Uighers piled in back, their assault rifles bristling like porcupine quills. The rest of the Uighers divided themselves between, the Humvee and Land Rover.
With the limo in the lead, the team drove off at a sedate rate in an effort to attract as little attention as possible. At the same time, they watched all around for pursuit, aware of every light, every boulder, every possible threat.
Jon studied the luminous green dial of his watch. “Where’s Alani and her group? Aren’t they still supposed to escort Chiavelli and Dr. Thayer to the border?” “They’re at the hideout,” Asgar told him, his voice clipped, as if waiting for more trouble.
“Meaning, you want to give Chiavelli and Dr. Thayer a vehicle and some of your men to get them out of China?”
“That’s the plan.”
“No way. We don’t know how many men Feng or Li Kuonyi will bring. We need everyone. Besides, your people won’t get back in time. We’ll have to keep Chiavelli and Dr. Thayer with us until we actually walk into the mountains. Then we’ll stash them somewhere safe and pick them up again when we leave.” Asgar thought a moment. “Okay, makes sense. Besides, we’ll be able to use Chiavelli and perhaps Dr. Thayer. Can you shoot, sir?”
“A long time ago,” Thayer admitted from the backseat. “Exactly what’s this new mission?”
“We can’t risk you, sir,” Jon stated flatly.
“Absolutely not,” Dennis Chiavelli agreed.
“All right.” Thayer sighed. “But at least tell me what it is.”
Jon related the highlights of the meeting at the Sleeping Buddha, the goal, the stakes, and the danger.
“This is for the human-rights agreement?” Thayer asked, his wrinkles rearranged in a frown. “Then it’s vital. It’s one of the most important pieces of legislation of my son’s administration.” “Agreed,” Jon said. “These are global stakes.”
David Thayer took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture Jon had seen the president make. Then he slumped back as if exhausted. He stared out the window, a half smile on his old face.
Jon turned around in the front seat so that he was facing forward again.
He glanced over at Asgar, and Asgar shot him a look of relief. Then both men resumed their careful watch for trouble. They drove past farmyards covered with rice grains spread out to be dried in tomorrow’s sun, just as the red peppers had been. Unhulled rice was everywhere, even piled against walls and fences, like brown snowdrifts. Handmade wood tools leaned against the walls, too. There were penned chickens and pigs and vegetable gardens. Heavy wood vegetable buckets often sat neatly at the end of a row. And, of course, there were water buffalo, heads dangling, muzzles almost touching the ground as they drowsed.
Time ticked slowly. Too slowly, increasing the tension. They drove into a village, and Thayer roused himself. The houses were more prosperous looking, roofed with blue-black curved tiles and boasting two or more chimneys. At the same time, the road became a pavement of large stone slabs that appeared to be hundreds of years old. Thayer told them he had been brought occasionally out to do work around here, because of his clerking skills.
“See the chairs at the edge of the pavement? This road is like an extended living room,” he said. “Villagers sit out here at tables to play cards, drink tea, and gossip. They lay their rice right on the pavement to dry, too, and bicyclists roll over it as if it’s not there. No one cares. To the Chinese, rice is ancient. It’s like the moon and stars. Nothing can destroy it.”
Jon turned back to check on the president’s father. His worn face still appeared tired, but even in the shadowy backseat, his expression clearly was happy. And he obviously felt like talking. A good sign.
“How are you feeling?” Jon asked.
“Odd. Strange. My emotions are jumpy. They’re like gremlins, impossible to control. One moment, I feel like laughing, the other like crying.
I’ve reached the age where I cry rather easily, I’m afraid.”
Jon nodded. “That’s normal. How are you physically?”
“Oh, that. I was a little tired for a while, but now I feel fine.”
“Were you ever tortured?”
Thayer frowned. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Again, the same gesture Jon had seen the president make. But as Thayer did it, Jon again noted the two broken fingers. He suspected there were other broken bones, too, out of sight under the old prisoner’s clot
hing. Ribs. An arm. Maybe a leg. No way to tell without a thorough workup. If they survived, the first order of business would be to make certain he had a physical.
Jon resumed his watch on the dark countryside.
Thayer gazed out the window, too. He was clearly enjoying himself, despite the danger and the stress inside the car. “The Chinese are a fascinating people. They’re constantly repeating myths and creating new ones. Once, when one of the Communists’ aqueducts was leaking badly in the mountains around here, they told the peasants living downhill that it was a new, scenic waterfall. That way they convinced them to keep working their farms, even when it wasn’t safe.”
“The Chinese culture entwines nature and myth,” Asgar agreed. “Did they survive?”
“Yes. The aqueduct was fixed in time.” Thayer continued, “Almost all of their natural phenomena have one or more legends. It’s a perfect tool to keep people ignorant. Science as we know it simply doesn’t exist out here. But it’s a beautiful way to live, too. They speak in a kind of poetry. A great tree is a transformed god. A rainbow is a cause for rejoicing. Heaven is alive on earth. But when that ignorance was transferred to Beijing, it caused a lot of problems.”
“Wasn’t Mao a peasant with barely an elementary school education?” Jon asked.
“Yes, and under him, other peasants ran the country. Some were actually illiterate. Couldn’t read the reports they had to put their chops to.
They knew little about mass production, factories, science, or even agriculture outside their own farming areas. Five years after Mao took over, the nation nearly starved to death because of ridiculous Politburo policies. In prison, we ate anything. Birds, insects, grass. After a while, there wasn’t a weed left or bark on the trees. A lot of us died.”
Thayer shrugged. “But that’s enough about that. Now that the impossible has become possible, I’ve got a reason to live long enough to meet what’s left of my family. I suppose I’m growing greedy, but I don’t care. Afterward, I can die in peace.”
While they had been talking, Asgar had been on his walkie-talkie, checking with the drivers of the two other vehicles. None had seen any tails or surveillance. There was urgency in their voices over the crackling machines as they kept watch and stayed in touch.
“We’ve had word from inside the prison,” Asgar reported over his shoulder. “They haven’t missed those two guards yet, and they don’t know you chaps are gone. Luck is with us so far.” His gaze returned to the road. The caravan was climbing into the hills.
The tension in the limo relaxed a shade with the news. Thayer described the area of Baoding Shan, where they were headed, and the Sleeping Buddha, where the exchange was to take place for the Empress’s manifest.
“Sometimes Baoding Shan is translated to mean Precious Summit Mountain, other times it’s Treasure Peak Mountain. Near the foot of it is where the Sleeping Buddha and other figures are carved into the rock, like at Mt. Rushmore. They’re painted, too.”
“I heard they’re a thousand years old,” Chiavelli said.
“Nearly,” Thayer informed them. “The ones around the Sleeping Buddha date back to the thirteenth century. Whoever planned the grotto had a real understanding of beauty. It follows the natural line of the cliffs.
They’re crescent shaped and solid rock, but around them is thick vegetation—trees, bushes, vines, flowers. Very green and lush. The cliff itself is part of a gorge.”
“Tell me what you think of the Sleeping Buddha as a site for an exchange,” Jon asked. Fred Klein had faxed him maps and descriptions.
Still, there was nothing like hearing it from someone who had been there.
“For Li Kuonyi and Feng Dun, it will be full of possibilities. For you, probably the possibilities will make it difficult, since you want to take the manifest from whoever ends up with it. The Sleeping Buddha is massive, but it’s in an overhang, and around it are a lot of different carvings, some of epic Buddhist stones. Many are at eye level, which means they’re good places to duck inside and hide. There are other statues in dark caves and carved temples around there, too.”
Asgar spun the wheel to miss a wild dog that had darted across the road.
“You’re absolutely right in every detail, Dr. Thayer. Couldn’t have given a better report myself. But how do you know all this?” he asked suspiciously.
“Our prisoners are sent to clean and repair the Buddha art. I was interested, so sometimes I was allowed to go, too. In Chinese culture, the old are respected simply because they’ve managed to live a long time, even if they are prisoners.”
At last, the trio of vehicles parked off in the trees. The Uighers jumped out and piled brush on the cars to camouflage them. Thayer walked around, stretching his legs, while Chiavelli accompanied him, keeping close watch.
“Time to go,” Jon told the two at last. He gave Chiavelli the limo’s keys. “Asgar’s written out directions to the hideout. If we’re not back by dawn, you’ll have to take him there yourself.”
“No problem. Then what?”
“Asgar’s sister, Alani, will smuggle you both to the best border.”
“Got it. Good luck.” Chiavelli looked at him a moment, understanding passing between them, and he ushered Thayer toward the limo.
As they climbed into the front seat, Thayer’s voice became shy. “Did you ever meet my son, Dennis? What can you tell me about him?” The captain’s answer was lost with the closing of the doors.
The Uighers finished camouflaging the limo. With weapons, flashlights, and maps, Asgar led them off onto a path filled with shadows and dark trees and plants that brushed against them. The fecund scent of growing things was all around them. One of the Uighers had been to the grotto, and he gave his opinions, which Asgar translated for Jon. Avoiding the usual routes, they climbed uphill single file, trying not to stumble on loose stones or fall against rocks into the brush.
As the trail flattened, Jon said, “Asgar, when we get near the Sleeping Buddha, we’ll stop just above and to the side. We’ll use the vegetation for cover.”
“You give the orders this time, my friend.”
“We’ll take positions where we can see anyone who comes down from the entrance steps as well as whoever stops in front of the Buddha. My intelligence agrees with what Dr. Thayer said—there are a lot of places to hide among the statues and carvings. That’s going to make our job even harder. Spread your men out so we can watch as much of the grotto as possible.”
“Sounds like a bit of a challenge,” Asgar said dryly. “How long do we have?”
“No way to know. The “ may end up being at dawn after all.”
“Daylight won’t be kind to us. If you’re planning to get the manifest out of China, we’d jolly well better be halfway to the border by sunrise.”
“I expect everything to blow up long before then. Daylight won’t be kind to them either.”
They lapsed into silence. The group kept their voices low and their footsteps careful as their path headed downhill. As Thayer promised, a riot of vegetation surrounded them. Above, the moon illuminated the tops of trees and bushes and created black, impenetrable shadows beneath.
Ahead waited the Sleeping Buddha, where Jon would face Feng Dun and Li Kuonyi once more, and where, one way or the other, the mission would end.
Chapter Forty-One.
The Arabian Sea.
The communications technician turned from his radio controls. “It’s the Shilo, sir. They want our exact position now and our estimated position in ten hours.”
It. Commander Frank Bienas leaned over the radioman. “Send our present fix. I’ll work out the estimated. But tell them ten hours won’t cut it.”
Bienas sat down and went to work on the chart. The radioman sent the exec’s message to the approaching cruiser and leaned back to wait for the response. He stretched in his seat, nearing the end of his watch and aching from the long hours they had been putting in. Bienas continued to plot the Crowe’s projected course and finally sat back, t
oo, shaking his head.
The radioman was listening on his earphones. He called over his shoulder, “Shilo says ten hours is the best they can do to get here.
They’re pouring on all they’ve got already.”
“You tell ‘ by then we’ll be in the Gulf, and that’s way too chancy.
They need to be here in under six, or they might as well go home and bake cookies.” Worried, he announced, “Anyone wants me, I’m on the bridge.” He made his way up and out to the dark deck and on up to the bridge, where Commander Chervenko had taken charge an hour ago.
When Bienas entered, Chervenko’s night binoculars were directed toward the distant running lights of The Dowager Empress. “She’s picked up a knot in the last hour. Like a dog smelling home.” “The Shilo says ten hours,” Bienas reported.
Chervenko did not turn or lower his binoculars. “Brose did the best he could. Trouble was, the Fifth Fleet’s too far south, and we’re moving away from them. They’ll never reach us in time.”
“Not much they could do we can’t anyway,” Bienas decided, sounding tough and optimistic.
“Except be twice as formidable.” The skipper was realistic. “What’s the sub doing?” “Holding steady. Hastings says he’s picking up what sounds like prepping for attack. There’s activity in the forward torpedo room.”
“They know we’re close to showdown time, Frank. We can’t let the Empress get into the Persian Gulf. We’d be vulnerable to land-based air attack, torpedo boats, you name it, and no telling who’d get enthusiastic and want to join the act. Tehran might decide their interests were involved, too, and then we’d have one hell of a swell party.”
Bienas nodded grimly. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the commander, staring out through the night at the running lights ahead as both ships sailed steadily closer to confrontation.
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