The Last Sword Maker

by Brian Nelson

  They picked her up.

  “I WANT THEM BACK!” She kept screaming it. “I WANT THEM BACK!”

  Curtiss shook his head in disbelief. She was relentless. It reminded him of his sons, when they were three and four years old, demanding something over and over again. Throwing tantrums. Indefatigably stubborn. It was pathetic. Yet, being a father, he knew it was sincere emotion. It really was that important to her.

  Curtiss looked up at the night sky. “God damn it! Belay that order.”

  His men relaxed their grip and she shook them off. He walked up to her, hooked his hand around her head, grabbing a thick shock of her blond hair and pulling her in until their foreheads met. “I’m risking my clearance bringing you with me, you understand? If anything that you see or hear in the next twenty-four hours leaves your lips, I’ll make sure your life comes to an abrupt end. Are we clear?”

  Jane nodded, giving him her fiercest look, but Curtiss could tell she was grinning inside.

  “Get on the fucking plane.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Meng

  Tangshan Military Laboratory, China

  “You can relax, General, we have them,” Captain Xi said. “There’s no way they can escape.”

  Meng grimaced. It was tempting to believe that everything was under control. They had captured one of the twins, and they could take their time tracking down the others. Even if they somehow reached the surface, they would still be confined to the base. But he didn’t like it.

  “No,” he said. “These were two of my smartest scientists. They would have thought it through. Perhaps they hope to disguise themselves …”

  The captain shook his head. “But they have the girl; they will be easy to spot.”

  Just then the soothing deedum-deedum of the fire alarm was replaced by a more urgent beeoooooo-beeoooooo-beeoooooo sound, and the strobe lights that had been flashing white were now flashing red. An automated voice came over the intercom: “Warning, warning. A general evacuation order has been given. All civilian and military personnel must leave the complex immediately. Repeat, all civilian and military personnel must leave the complex immediately. Please proceed to the nearest exit.”

  General Meng turned white with rage. “Who gave that order without my authorization?” Then he realized what it meant. There was yet another traitor, and perhaps more than one. He was beginning to see what the twins had planned. A general evacuation order would allow all the employees to leave the base unfettered. He had to stop it. He opened his cell phone and tried to contact the command center. No signal. A fresh chill went through him. First an evacuation order, now the cell phone boosters. He pulled out his iSheet and tried the tracking program. It, too, was down. That meant the SCC had been compromised. It was worse than he had thought, much worse. He glanced at his watch. The vice president would be here in an hour to celebrate the victory of achieving replication. The thought made him ill.

  “We have to get word to the main gate,” he said. “No one can leave the base. I’m taking these men up there. You, gather as many men as you can, and start sweeping every floor, every room, every closet, for Hui and the Americans. Find them!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Turn away.”

  Tangshan Military Laboratory, China

  In the bathroom on sublevel fifty-four, the vibrating iSheet made all of them start. Ying fumbled frantically for it. Suddenly, the light of the screen bathed her face in blue light. Then she dropped it and threw her head back, covering her mouth. Eric heard a gasp, like the beginning of tears. He exchanged a glance with Ryan. He didn’t do it.

  But it wasn’t that.

  “He’s still alive,” she breathed with palpable relief. “Thank God, he’s still alive.” She picked up the iSheet and typed a reply: Now get out as fast as you can.

  She hit send.

  Unable to send message. Please try again later.

  She snarled at the screen and tried again.

  Unable to send message. Please try again later.

  She slammed the iSheet down on the floor.

  “Did he do it?” Eric asked.

  She nodded faintly, as if her mind were somewhere far away. But quickly the old Ying returned. “Get up,” she ordered. “We’re going.”

  * * *

  They found an auxiliary staircase, dusty from disuse, and began climbing. Up and up they went, all the way to sublevel forty-four. Here, everything was under construction: hard concrete floor, open wiring, galvanized ventilation ducts. They jogged down the unfinished corridors, passing stacks of drywall, a table saw, tools, and hard hats. They stayed close together, Hui pulling Mei’s hand while Ryan and Eric followed behind.

  Suddenly, Hui took a turn and stopped. It was a dead end.

  The normally reserved woman swore. “Where is it?” she said. “We must be on the wrong floor. Come on, we have to hurry.”

  They began to retrace their steps. Jogging faster now, but just as they rounded the last corner before the stairs, they skidded to a halt, five feet from a soldier with a Kalashnikov at his shoulder. He had been waiting for them.

  Without a word he opened fire, the muzzle blazing like a blowtorch.

  With nowhere to run, the four of them cowered where they stood. Mei screamed, Ryan yelped, and Eric made a childish cry. Just the noise of the rifle was terrifying, the deafening blasts interspersed with a high-pitched whizzing as the bullets came in.

  Then it stopped. For a moment, they all stared at one another, caught in a moment of collective disbelief.

  Then Eric remembered himself and rushed the soldier.

  The man considered reloading, gave up on the idea, and pulled his sidearm.

  Eric flinched at the first shot, but now his confidence was growing. He could finally do what he hadn’t managed with Brock O’Lane. The pistol sounded again, but this time there was no muzzle flash. The pistol itself was now inside Eric’s sphere of protection.

  The soldier kept pulling the trigger. He could not let go of the idea that the pistol wasn’t working. And that made it easier for Eric to take it away. He grabbed the soldier’s wrist with one hand and the gun with the other, twisting the barrel up and out. The gun came free, and the man stumbled to one knee.

  Eric put the barrel against the man’s temple.

  He knew he couldn’t let him go. He would bring others. So he squeezed his face up and tried to pull the trigger, but his finger wouldn’t comply.

  Then Hui Ying was beside him, pulling a spare clip from the soldier’s belt and reloading the Kalashnikov. She shouted something to Mei, and the little girl turned her head away and covered her ears.

  At the same time, the soldier said something to Hui, a desperate supplication.

  The Kalashnikov went off, somehow louder than all the other shots Eric had heard that day.

  They left the body, blood still running out of the head and fanning out on the concrete floor.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Bardo

  Tangshan Military Laboratory, China

  General Meng and eight of his men moved steadily up the stairs. They had jogged the first twenty flights, but now they were walking, thighs burning. Sixteen stories to go.

  There was blood on the stairs, heavy in some spots. There were other things, too: handbags, crushed cell phones, shoes, a handful of documents, all left by the frantic stampede of people that had fled up these steps just twenty minutes ago.

  This was what the vice president and his entourage would see when they insisted, against Meng’s protestations, that they be allowed to see the damage for themselves.

  His anger rose at the thought. He could hear the vice president already. “Saboteurs? How could you let this happen?”

  It was not an easy question to answer.

  He had been outwitted by two female scientists. And what of the others? Ther
e must be more. To take down the SCC would require more than one or two men. He could be up against a whole platoon. But who? Who had betrayed him?

  They heard the rapid footfalls of someone coming down the steps. A lone soldier appeared at the top of the next landing. Everyone froze in a moment of mutual surprise.

  General Meng remembered the man—not his name, but his face. Badly burned on one side, cut and scarred along the other. Meng remembered their first meeting: on the parade grounds, just a few months ago, on a frigid morning just before dawn. It had been the corporal’s first day. And Meng remembered how his eyes had locked with the new recruit’s, and how he, a general, had suddenly looked away, unable to hold the soldier’s gaze. But it wasn’t the scars and the burns that had done it. It was the eyes. They had unsettled him, for he could have sworn he recognized them from somewhere. Something about the man struck a chord of memory.

  * * *

  Sonam had to act fast. He had already made a crucial mistake, rushing down the stairs too quickly, not imagining that Meng could have made it so far, so fast. Yet here he was. Sonam had to think. He realized he still had the element of surprise. Sonam knew that the general was his enemy, but the general didn’t know that Sonam was his. He could still do this.

  They were separated by one flight of stairs. Could he shoot him from here? No. His rifle was strapped to his shoulder and would take too long to slip off and fire. He would have to get closer; use the pistol. Yes, and in that idea came another realization. He was going to die here, one way or another. It was now a suicide mission.

  “Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot,” Meng said. “Report!”

  “Sir, yes sir,” Sonam said. “General, thank goodness I found you! There are traitors, sir. They are our own soldiers.” He brought his thumb and fingertip to his nose in an expression of horror and disbelief. “At least four of them, sir. I saw them in the mezzanine; they destroyed the command center.” At that moment, as if suddenly remembering protocol, he saluted and descended the stairs to them. Now he was just a few feet away. “Sir, one of the traitors was Lieutenant Wei.”

  “Wei?” Meng said. The other men began to murmur. Sonam prayed his ruse would work. Meng probably suspected a small band of soldiers, manipulated by a charismatic officer. Wei was certainly charismatic enough, but he was also one of the general’s most decorated officers.

  Sonam could feel Meng studying him. Sonam’s beret was missing, and he was disheveled and dirty. He had four grenades attached to his vest, his pistol strap hung open, and the hammer of his Type 54 was back as if it had been fired.

  “Go on!” Meng snapped, casually placing his hand on the hilt of his pistol.

  Sonam took another step forward and saluted again. He was now only four feet away. “General, I formed up with my unit after the fire alarm sounded. When we reached the mezzanine, we found the SCC already destroyed.” Sonam realized his mistake immediately. (How did he know that Wei was the traitor if the assault on the SCC was over when they got there?) But Meng gave no sign of catching it, so he went on. “It was terrible, sir.” He made his voice crack for effect. “They slaughtered five men. The blood was …” He bowed his head in shock.

  That was when he went for his pistol, intending to tuck it under the general’s chin, the better to give the bullet a bone-free path to his brain.

  Quick as cat, Meng swatted Sonam’s hand away. Sonam didn’t lose the pistol, but the bullet fired wild, making a queer twang as it ricocheted around the stairwell.

  Instead of fighting the momentum of the blow to his arm, Sonam spun with it, creating space to fire while keeping himself out of hand-to-hand combat range. He came full around and fired. He fired four or five shots while he retreated up the stairwell. Two other soldiers doubled up in pain, but he somehow missed Meng.

  Meng was first to return fire. He drew and shot from the hip, but his shots went wide. They were only eight feet apart, but they kept missing. Sonam tried to concentrate and fired again. Meng spun, gripping his shoulder and letting out a furious howl.

  But Sonam knew it was not a killing blow. He wanted to press his advantage, to take more careful aim, but there was too much motion now, guns coming out, and Meng was quickly swallowed up by the other men. Sonam fired three more shots. He struck the man in front of Meng full in the chest, but it did not appear that the round pierced through. Then four pistols were firing at him in the enclosed space. He ran up the staircase, still firing from under his left armpit, his advantage of surprise wasted.

  * * *

  As the traitor scrambled away, Meng emerged from the cluster of men and took careful aim. By stepping around the railing, he was able to get a clear shot as his target turned up the next flight of stairs. He aimed for center mass.

  BANG!

  The footsteps continued, then slowed. Meng had hit him.

  He held up his hand to quiet his men. One was dead; two were moaning in pain. “Bì zuǐ!” he commanded. Between a few threats and the covering of their mouths, it grew quiet. He heard the unsteady rhythm of the traitor’s footsteps. Then they stopped.

  One of his men whispered, “Shall I finish him off, General?”

  Time was of the essence. Meng had to get topside and stop the evacuation of the base. Yet, if he had hit a kidney or the vena cava, the man could be unconscious in just a few minutes.

  Meng called out, “If you surrender, I will let you live. But we will have to act quickly to stop the bleeding.”

  He heard the frustrated growl of a man faced with a terrible decision. “Do you swear?”

  “Wǒ fāshì tiāntáng,” Meng said. I swear to heaven.

  He heard a heavy sigh.

  “I accept. Please hurry.”

  He sent two of his remaining men up the stairs, pistols drawn. Two rifle cracks resonated through the stairwell, and the bodies of his men came tumbling down the stairs.

  Meng gave a cry of fury. “I’ll tie you up and cut you for a week!”

  The reply shocked him—not so much the words, but the language they were spoken in. “Not if I kill you first, you pig of a Han.” It was the language of the barbarians who had killed his first wife and daughter. Now he understood. The thing about the soldier that had seemed oddly familiar. Through some fantastic series of improbabilities, a Tibetan had infiltrated the PLA. They had invited a weasel into the henhouse.

  It was all too much. He looked at the two dead bodies on the landing. He thought of the treasonous twins and the Americans making their escape, and of all the dead bodies that littered the Great Lab. And on the very day that was supposed to be a celebration! Suddenly, the fury was so great, he could barely think. His chest heaved and he snorted through his nostrils like an enraged bull. All he wanted was to race up those stairs and kill the traitor with his bare hands, to take out his frustrations on a living human being.

  But then he realized that his emotions were getting the better of him. Consuming him. He tried to remember his training, to think with a tactical mind. Breathe. Control yourself. He waited a moment, then another, until his breathing slowed.

  He assessed the situation. The traitor controlled the stairwell. He had a QBZ-95 rifle, a pistol, and at least two grenades, whereas he and his men had only pistols. The traitor had the superior position and superior weaponry.

  But there were two stairwells to the surface. He could easily go up another way, then send half a company down to pinch this man off. It was the smartest thing to do, yet he resisted it. He still yearned to kill the traitor himself.

  No, he told himself. He was still wrestling with the decision when the first grenade made it for him. It bounced over the two corpses and hopped down the steps toward them. The men who were quickest leaped down the next flight of stairs, General Meng among them. The two wounded men didn’t have a chance. One lived long enough to scream.

  * * *

  Sonam listened as Men
g gave another bellow of rage. Then he heard more footfalls, receding down the stairwell. A door opening. They would try to cut him off now. Leaving a few men below, while the others came from above. He nodded his head in sad acceptance. He had lost his chance to kill Meng.

  But just in case he was still there, Sonam took another grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, counted to two, and dropped it down the center of the stairwell.

  He heard cries of alarm. But it fell too far.

  He pulled the pin on his last grenade. This time, he counted to three. He considered just keeping it, but he finally let go.

  After the explosion, he was rewarded with screams of pain, but they were young voices, not the deep growl of the general.

  He tried to stand, then tried to crawl farther up the steps, but he couldn’t. He had lost too much blood. At the rate the blood was spreading across the floor, he would be lucky to last another five minutes.

  He had never imagined that he would die in a place like this, in a cold, sterile stairwell so far from the plateau. But he had done well, even if he hadn’t killed Meng. He had given the twins all they asked of him and more. Most importantly, he was going to die a warrior’s death. Chodren would be proud of him. It was she, his tiger-eyed love, who had convinced him to join the resistance. She had awakened the warrior inside him. And with this death, he would avoid the lifetime of humiliations that his people suffered. He would never again be sent to a prison, starved, enslaved. His children would never be forced to attend Chinese schools or be beaten for practicing their own religion. For this much, he was content.

  Oṃ maṇi padme hūṃ.

  It was time to depart. He felt a tingle and ache in his arms and legs, as if he had slept on them wrong and constricted the blood. But he knew that the blood flow wasn’t constricted; it simply wasn’t there.

  Oṃ maṇi padme hūṃ.

  He had stayed awake last night, wondering what sort of body he would inhabit in the next life. There would be no nirvana for him. The cycle of saṃsāra, the wheel of suffering, would continue. Yet he hoped there might be a balance for him, that some of the things he had done might be forgiven and that some of his suffering in this life might earn him good karma in the next.