by Jack Du Brul
The two others tried to hide their jealousy.
In the right-hand seat next to the pilot sat Huai Luhong, the senior noncommissioned officer in the PLA’s newly formed Special Forces group called the Sword of South China. Huai thought the name sounded ridiculous, but loved the men he had trained since the group’s inception. The regiment-sized outfit had come into being as a response to the stunning successes shown by Western Special Forces during the Gulf War. At the time, Chinese military doctrine held that such small, highly trained teams went against the egalitarian ideals of the government. Yet the capabilities of Special Forces couldn’t be ignored, and the Sword was formed by copying the lessons, tactics and equipment of the SEALs, Army Rangers, and British SAS squadrons. Fearing that the highly trained regiment would feel superior to the rest of China’s conscripted army, the military kept Sword on a tight leash, and those who were recruited into it came from only the most loyal families.
If not for the trust placed in Liu Yousheng, the overall director of Chinese interests in Panama, the forty members of the Sword would never have been allowed outside China. As far as Huai knew, his team was the first Chinese troops to operate beyond their nation’s borders since the Korean War. But Liu was a senior executive in COSTIND, the Commission on Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense, who had proven himself time and time again in a remarkable short career.
Unlike any other army in the world, China’s military had a dual nature, part defense force, the PLA, and part industrial conglomerate, COSTIND. They maintained control of a three-million-man combine of army, navy, and air force, as well as the thousands of companies that supplied their weapons and logistical equipment, including shipyards, electronics firms, and aircraft manufacturers. Through COSTIND, they had oversight of the China National Nuclear Corporation, the organization that produced nuclear materials for civilian and military use. COSTIND’s reach stretched far beyond China’s borders. Many of its companies had a strong presence in nations all over the world-port facilities, shipping lines, consumer goods and heavy construction. In this way, the PLA could help defray the costs of its own expansion even as the leaders in Beijing touted the demilitarization of their economy.
At thirty-eight, Liu was twelve years younger than Sergeant Huai, and yet the tough veteran of Tiananmen and countless undeclared wars against Muslim insurgents in China’s desolate western provinces had never met a more capable man. Liu had masterminded China’s initial involvement in Panama by waging a one-man crusade to convince the politburo that a lucrative power vacuum would be created by America’s withdrawal following the canal transfer in 2000. He’d worked tirelessly to get Chinese companies and interests to fill the void, beginning first with small-scale immigration and ending with virtual control of the ports that sprawled at each end of the fifty-mile canal.
The need to pay for the operation was what had prompted Liu’s interest in the rumors of the Twice-Stolen Treasure, and thus Sergeant Huai’s presence on the chopper. The earlier trip into Darien Province, when they found the American’s camp littered with bodies, had been the first active part in this phase of Liu’s overall plan and had not gone as intended. Liu had been hoping to gather intelligence from Barber and had been unsettled by Huai’s encrypted radio call about the bodies. Barber would have died anyway, but Liu had wanted information, and the deaths created a need for Huai to make sure that there would be no long-term official interest in the region.
Leaving the River of Ruin that first time, Huai had taken one body with him for an autopsy in Panama City that revealed what had killed the treasure hunters. The depth charges they’d brought today would ensure the last of the CO2 in the lake bubbled out before they committed their own resources to the search. Today’s sweep also verified that the Panamanian police had no interest in the region, just as Huai’s agent in El Real had said. The three men they’d just dumped in the lake were most likely scavengers looking to loot whatever Gary Barber had left behind.
To make certain, Huai would recommend they scout the river and lake for a few more days before bringing in laborers and equipment. Yet if a treasure was buried somewhere along the river or at the lake, they would find it. Modest compared to other COSTIND actions, Liu’s budget for just this phase was a hundred times that of Gary Barber’s. They would soon have hundreds of workers digging along the river and lake.
With other parts of the operation already under way, Huai knew the importance of finding the ancient treasure. Beijing was currently subsidizing Liu’s efforts in Panama, but the funds were not without limits. After a deadline, now one month away, if Liu hadn’t found a way to finance his activities, COSTIND would withdraw their support. The genius of the plan, however, was that failure would not jeopardize what COSTIND had already built on the isthmus. The toe-hold Liu had already created would not be lost.
And the outcome if they succeeded? It was what had first interested the conservative politburo in such an audacious plot. Liu had promised them that China would enjoy a strategic presence in the Western Hemisphere much like what the USSR had attempted in Cuba in the 1960s.
Once secret bases were established in Panama, China could concentrate on the one goal that had united the government since the founding of the communist state-the reintegration of the breakaway province of Taiwan. America’s promised defense of Taiwan was what had spoiled the countless invasion plans drawn up over the decades. Liu had stated that he could nullify that threat, or more accurately match it, and foresaw the fall of Taipei just one year after the completion of this current operation.
Huai was ambivalent about Taiwan. China already had too many people, and he never saw the need to slaughter thousands of troops to bring in millions more. But it was the stated policy of his government and he would do his duty.
Rolling below the chopper was a jungle that reminded him of the Guangzhou Military Region where his regiment had been created. Though trained in every type of terrain and environment China could offer, Huai felt most comfortable in the jungle, perhaps an affinity learned from Vietcong instructors who’d trained him as a raw recruit thirty-plus years ago.
This would likely be his last action. He was fifty years old, the scales slowly tipping from the wisdom of experience to the impediment of age. When the invasion of Taiwan came, he was sure he’d be at a desk somewhere. Therefore he was glad that his final campaign was in the jungle. It seemed fitting.
Mercer bent back to his task, speaking as he worked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the ever-increasing roar of the bubbling gas. “The eruption that killed Gary was probably a natural phenomenon, an underwater rock slide caused by his work that discharged a fraction of the CO2. Those depth charges are going to bring the rest out of solution. Because the mountaintop is shaped like a bowl with only a narrow outlet that’s currently blocked by the prevailing wind, the gas is going to stagnate here until the breeze dies down. Only then will the CO2 pour down the waterfall and allow breathable air back near the lake’s surface.”
“How long will that take?”
“The summit will probably be poisoned until morning.” With a twist, Mercer released the flexible frame of a three-person tent. Gary had replaced the nylon shell over the spidery scaffold with mosquito netting.
“What do we do?” Although Lauren didn’t understand Mercer’s actions, the fact that he worked steadily returned a measure of her control.
“We need to make a bubble of air to support us.” Mercer began to wrap the clear plastic sheeting around the tent frame, securing it with duct tape from the supplies taken from the boat. He didn’t stop until the tent resembled a translucent cocoon.
“That tent can’t hold enough air for the three of us until morning.”
Mercer pointed at the large duffel bag he’d dragged to the cave. “There’s a coil of hose in the bottom of that bag and a hand pump Gary used to drain water from some of his excavations. Once the CO2 fills the caldera, it will spill over the tops of the surrounding hills like an overflow
ing bathtub. I estimate the lowest hills are about twenty feet above us, which puts us under a layer of CO2 twenty feet thick. If we can secure the top of the hose to a tree above where the gas levels out, we can pump air down into the tent. We’ll be like a glass inverted into a bowl of water with a hose to replenish the air.”
Lauren immediately saw the parallel to Mercer’s idea. “Like a diving bell?”
“More like a bathysphere with an umbilical. Only we’re trapped under poison gas rather than water.” Because CO2 was one and a half times as heavy as air and they were only going to be twenty feet down, Mercer wasn’t concerned about keeping the tent pressurized. The frame would support the plastic sheets.
“How much time do we have?”
“I can’t tell without knowing how much gas is gushing from the lake. But we’re only a couple feet above where Ruben had his fire. We don’t have long. Can you climb a tree with the hose?”
“Damned right I can.” She went off, leaving Miguel to help Mercer level an area to set the lightweight tent.
The physics behind Mercer’s plan was simple enough but he wouldn’t know how well they’d carried out the execution until they were sealed inside the tent. A thousand things could go wrong, the worst being a miscalculation about the height of the hills and the top of the tree Lauren was climbing like an electrical lineman. If the mouth of the hose wasn’t high enough, CO2 would drain down into the tent, replacing the air, and smothering the three of them. He had enough tape to keep the tent airtight but there was nothing they could do if the hose was too low.
Mercer found a dozen candles in Gary’s duffel and set a few of them in a row running down to the shore of the lake, lighting them with one of the lighters Gary had also cached. The candle he placed closest to the lake wouldn’t even light. The next one placed at a slightly higher elevation burned for just a few seconds before it starved for air. The gas was creeping ever closer. Captain Vanik was still at the top of the tree, tying off the thick length of rubber hose.
“Come on, Lauren.” Another candle was snuffed. The CO2 was just a few feet below the tent.
“Almost got it.” A third candle went dark.
The top of the volcano was filling faster than he thought possible. He could see Miguel start to pant as his lungs sought oxygen. “Now, Lauren.”
As agile as a cat, she scrambled down the nearly branch-less tree. Miguel’s eyes were droopy as Mercer slid him into the tent, his young body succumbing to the narcotic effect of the gas much quicker than those of the adults. Before following Lauren into their cocoon, Mercer threw in a few items from Gary’s duffel and sealed them all inside by taping the plastic-covered flaps of the tent fly. The long day of exploration and the quick exposure to CO2 had already put Miguel into a deep sleep.
Mercer grabbed the end of the hose dangling through the tight slit he’d cut at the top of the tent. He crimped the rubber around the hand pump’s suction inlet. The pump itself resembled a cheap accordion with a one-way valve at its outlet. Mercer gave it a few squeezes, allowing the air it sucked from the top of the tree to blow across his face. So far, so good. While the tent was designed to hold three people, he still had to crawl over Lauren and Miguel to apply more layers of tape to where the hose entered the roof. He also needed to patch a few small holes. The remaining candles outside blinked out one by one, coils of smoke from their wicks barely discernible through the multiple layers of plastic. With surprising speed, the tent began to sag around its frame as the heavier CO2 pressed against the lower internal air pressure.
Knowing he’d need to maintain a rhythm for untold hours, Mercer began to work the pump. Once he’d matched pressures, he cut a tiny hole in the tent’s floor to prevent the air becoming fouled by their own breath. As the caldera filled to its maximum level, he’d need to adjust the hole in the floor to maintain equilibrium. After fifteen tense minutes he was satisfied that everything appeared set. By fighting the natural instinct to run, he’d just saved their lives. Not that they were safe by any stretch, but for a few moments he would savor the victory. He looked at Lauren and couldn’t help but grin.
She smiled back. “I saw all this stuff sitting in the boat when we came to the island and I still never would have thought of this in a million years.” She regarded him for a second. “When those explosives went off you’d already figured out a solution. I mean instantly. How?”
Asking Mercer that was the same as asking him to explain his entire thought process, something he himself couldn’t properly define. “I suppose it’s a memory trick.”
Lauren’s eyes widened. “You’ve done this before?”
Mercer laughed. “No, but I’ve read or seen something that triggered this idea. Maybe it was a story about a bathysphere, a biography of William Beebe or something. I honestly don’t know.” But he actually did know. Mercer could even recall the cover of the old National Geographic magazine he’d read as a boy that detailed the inventor of the bathysphere. He’d always considered his near-photographic memory to be his greatest single asset. “When the depth charges blew,” he continued, “I knew how the CO2 would build up and knew we needed an airtight bubble and a way to supply oxygen. The rest was just putting it all together.”
“Whatever trick you used, I’m grateful. I would have tried to row away.” She chuckled. “Fight my way out rather than think. And I thought I was smarter than that.”
The pump forced enough air into the tent so that Mercer and Lauren didn’t need to keep quiet to conserve oxygen as time trickled by. They also kept a candle lit as an early warning in case an unseen rip allowed CO2 into the tent. The single steady glow helped to dispel the horror of their predicament and the darkness that enveloped the mountaintop as the sun completed its arc.
At first their conversation was strained by the thought that a few millimeters of plastic were all that protected them from a swift death. As the first hours went by, they became more comfortable with their situation, and each other. Yet their conversation rarely strayed far from what had happened to Gary Barber and Ruben. The theories they batted around gave them more insight into each other than who was behind the helicopter attack. Mercer especially was impressed with what he learned. Lauren Vanik was filled with a sense of duty he thought people no longer had.
Two hours before midnight, the sound of bubbling gas finally stopped. For hours CO2 had vented explosively from the lake and the noise had become such a constant backdrop that it took several seconds for them to realize it had ceased. In the quiet that followed, Mercer suggested that Lauren finally get some sleep. She agreed only after he promised he would wake her in a few hours so she could spell him at the pump.
Before curling up, her voice took on an uncomfortable edge. “Ah, Mercer, we have a slight problem.”
“H’m?”
“We can go without food or water until morning, but I’ve got to, you know, pee, and I don’t think I’ll be able to hold it.”
“Me too,” Miguel called. He must have been awake for a while, waiting for the adults to bring up a problem he’d been struggling with for some time.
From the supplies Mercer had tossed into the tent, he dug around until he found a large steel saucepan and a lid. Lauren eyed him warily. “Don’t tell me a fine Southern woman such as yourself has never used a chamber pot?”
“I admit Thomasville, Georgia, isn’t the biggest place in the world, but we’ve had indoor plumbing for years and years.” She was still reluctant to take the pan from him.
Mercer turned his back and called to Miguel to sit on his lap. To save Lauren further embarrassment, he whispered in the boy’s ear and they began belting out “Row Row Row Your Boat” at the top of their lungs. The off-key singing covered the metallic purr of Lauren using the pot.
“Thanks, boys,” she shouted over the cacophony after she’d rebuttoned the fly of her fatigues.
Once they’d all used the pan and its lid was held tight with tape, Lauren and Miguel drifted to sleep, leaving Mercer to continue with the p
ump. With his stomach rumbling from hunger, it was easy to stay awake through the long night. When his arms became too leaden to work, he pressed the bellows with his foot, tapping out a steady rhythm that kept the dark tent safe. His promised wake-up call to Lauren came and went and still he worked. It was only as a faint stroke from the still-distant dawn brushed their intimate cocoon that he roused her.
“It’s past five,” she complained, checking the man’s Rolex she wore on the inside of her wrist. “You were supposed to get me three hours ago.”
“I know. Sorry. I needed the time to think more than I needed to sleep. I can tell from the top of the trees that the wind’s shifted direction. Whatever gas that’s still pooled on the lake’s surface should get blown down the waterfall in a few minutes.”
“Thank God.”
That last quarter hour until Mercer felt it was safe was by far the worst. Fatigue and hunger made Miguel cranky and his petulant whine grated on the headache that had formed behind Mercer’s eyes. Lauren’s attempts to quiet him were futile. Worse for Mercer, his stomach continued to roil and he began to think it had nothing to do with a lack of food.
The first careful lungful of air tasted sweet when Mercer stuck his nose out of a small cut in the tent, bringing home full force how rancid the interior of their chrysalis had become. With a slash, he enlarged the hole and stepped out. His muscles had cramped from so much sitting. When he stretched his back a sharp stab of pain lanced his side.