Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  “Hello,” Tanner said.

  Bian’s hands trembled on the railing. “Hello.”

  Briggs reached over and placed his hand on Bian’s forearm. “You’ve got to relax.”

  “Funny, that’s what Roger said the last time we met.”

  “It’s good advice. We’re almost done. I just need a little bit of information.”

  “Roger also said that.”

  “I promise you, once you and are I finished, your part is over. You have my word.”

  With this, Bian seemed to relax. He took a deep breath and released his grip on the railing. “What kind of information do you need?”

  “You told Roger you don’t know where Soong is. Explain that.”

  “Someone has been passing messages between myself and General Soong.”

  “Who?”

  “A guard at the camp where he is being held. He is a distant relative of the general’s.”

  Good news, bad news, Tanner thought. Good news because he now had a contact on the inside, someone with access to Soong; bad news because that contact was linked to Soong. Either the Guoanbu had made a mistake in the screening process for the camp’s guards, or they had not, and the guard was working for them—either wittingly or unwittingly.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Kara Hsiao.”

  “Does he know someone is coming for Soong?”

  “I assume so,” said Bian.

  More bad news. “And he’s willing to help?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can I reach him?”

  “He’s in the city. The guards are on two-week rotations; he goes back in a few days.”

  Tanner nodded. “Give me his address, but don’t tell him I’m coming.”

  Tanner’s worries about the skill and advantage of the Guoanbu’s Ninth Bureau watchers were well founded. Three hours after he and Bian parted company at Guanghua Temple, the team’s report was lying in front of MSS director Xiang. “It appears our young officer Niu has good instincts,” he said, staring at a photo of Bian and Tanner at the Bell Tower.

  “What do you want to do?” Eng asked. “By itself, Bian’s contact with Brown is enough to arrest him. He’s obviously conspiring to—”

  “Obviously. What we don’t know is what they’re up to. That’s what we must find out.”

  “I agree.”

  “What’s their interest in Bian? He’s a nobody, a functionary. His job gives him access to nothing of interest; he’s got nothing to offer. What do we know about the man he met? It looks like he was carrying a camera. That means tourist, or journalist. Where is he staying, what’s his name?”

  “We don’t know,” Eng replied.

  “Why not?”

  “The team lost him after they parted at the temple.”

  “Lost him, or he got away from them?”

  “He took no obvious actions to lose them, but—”

  “But he’s gone,” Xiang finished, then was silent for a few moments. “We know he’s a Westerner, we know he has a camera, and we can safely assume he arrived within the last week. Contact Customs and Immigration and have them pull all the entry visas that match that criteria. We’ll check passport photos until we find one matching Bian’s new friend.”

  46

  Bay of Vrangel, Russia

  Jurens couldn’t shake the sense of déjà vu that had been tickling his subconscious since they had come ashore. He’d visited the Bay of Vrangel before—at least hypothetically, that is.

  Of the hundreds of exercises Jurens had participated in over the years, one was strikingly similar to their current mission: The Soviet Union has crumbled and into the power vacuum has fallen a rogue’s gallery of leaders and factions vying for control of the country. One of these factions seizes the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny and shuts it down. In response, and at the request of Russian moderates, the United States sends a navy battle group to force open the port. At its head is a SEAL team tasked with mapping and destroying the bay’s obstacles in preparation for an amphibious assault.

  The exercise itself, which lasted three long, cold weeks, had been conducted in the Aleutian Islands; the bay had been much smaller and the port imaginary, but the terrain and climate were similar enough to give Jurens a few flashback memories.

  This was no exercise, he reminded himself. They were on Russian soil, watching a harbor and waiting for a ship called Nahrut so they could sink it. This was as real as it got.

  The commercial port of Nakhodka-Vostochny was the largest in the Russian Far East. Nestled within the Bay of Vrangel, it boasted thirty-six berths, over 130 acres of terminals, bunkers, warehouses, a terminus connection to the Trans-Siberian Railway, and a mechanized army of loading equipment, including heavy-lift extension cranes, straddle carriers, and top loaders.

  The spot Jurens had chosen was a thick cluster of scrub pine surrounded by boulders at the tip of Cape Kaminski on the bay’s north side.

  Icy wind whipped at Jurens’s face, bringing tears to his eyes and worming its way beneath his camo hood. He suppressed a shiver, then parted the branches of the blind and raised his Night Owl binoculars. The bay’s surface was choppy, the swells running three to four feet, and despite the sun, a patchy fog clung to the surface. In the distance, he could hear the wail of ship’s whistles and the clanging of buoys.

  He scanned toward the mouth of the bay. Somewhere out there, Columbia was waiting for the launch time. When that time came, the Harpoons would cut between the two capes, skimming low on the surface at over four hundred knots, their gray-and-white camouflage rendering them nearly invisible in the fog.

  “Target, Skipper,” Dickie called.

  “Where?”

  “Twelve degrees off the cape. I only got a glimpse of her bow, but it looks like ours.”

  He swiveled his binoculars around until he spotted a rust-streaked cargo carrier materializing out of the fog. She was two miles away and turning wide to clear the shoals along the headland.

  “See a name?” Smitty whispered.

  “No, not yet …” Jurens scanned back along the bow. “There, I’ve got it: N-A-H-R-U-T. That’s her. She’s early—almost twelve hours.”

  Forty minutes later, having picked up her harbor pilot at the mouth of the bay, Nahrut dropped anchor just south of center channel a quarter mile from the port. Another hour passed as Nahrut’s crew went through the motions of securing the ship and then, as twilight began to settle over the bay, a cargo net was rolled down her side and her launch was swung out on its davits.

  “Going on liberty,” Smitty said. “I wonder what happens on a Saturday night in Nakhodka.”

  “Don’t know,” Dickie replied, “but you can bet it involves alcohol—lots of alcohol.”

  Jurens scanned the ship’s railing, watching the crewmen climb over the side one by one. A face caught Sconi’s eye. He backtracked. “This is interesting … ”

  “What’s up?” said Smitty.

  “You see the guy standing at the cargo net, second from the right—the dark-skinned one.”

  “Yeah, I see him.”

  “You don’t recognize him?” asked Jurens.

  “Nope.”

  “Unless my memory is off, that’s Sunil Dhar, our sarin buyer.”

  “His unlucky day,” said Smitty.

  “Maybe not,” Jurens replied.

  In truth, Jurens wasn’t supposed to know Sunil Dhar’s name or what he looked like. Whether conscious of it or not, Cathermeier’s inclusion of Dhar in his brief was a consolation of sorts; when it came to putting men in harm’s way, he was a firm believer in full disclosure.

  Sconi had a decision to make. Though their orders said nothing about Dhar, he was a target of opportunity. The Kashmeran had been a player in the world’s underground arms market for twenty years; his wealth of knowledge would be invaluable to U.S. intelligence.

  “What’re you thinking, Skipper?” asked Zee. “We paddle ov
er there and snatch him?”

  “It would be a shame to waste the chance,” Smitty added.

  Jurens was inclined to agree, but grabbing Dhar would complicate their job, not to mention their infiltration. As if reading his mind, Dickie said, “We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”

  Call it fate, Jurens decided. Nahrut’s early arrival and the lack of an open berth had just offered them a chance to destroy her without any collateral damage to the port. Sitting at anchor with her crew ashore, Nahrut would slip beneath the waves and their job would be done.

  He unfolded his map and spread it on the ground. “Smitty, is your Russian still pretty good?”

  “Sehr gut.”

  “That’s German, Smitty.”

  “Just a joke. It’s passable.”

  “Okay, we’ll assume Dhar is going ashore. How long for you and Zee to slip down there?”

  “Gotta figure forty minutes transit time, plus another ten to scout security.”

  Jurens checked his watch. “Two hours there and back?”

  “No problem.”

  “Get your gear together. I’m calling Columbia and moving up the launch. I want you back here no later than midnight.”

  Two miles east of the bay and 160 feet below the surface, Columbia was hovering silently in the water, as she had been for the past six hours. In the Control Room, Kinsock was going over the daily reports when the intercom buzzed. “Conn, Sonar.”

  Kinsock reached up and levered the switch. “Conn, aye. Captain here.”

  “Skipper, Chief Boland. Got a minute?”

  “On my way.”

  Kinsock walked out of the Control Room and pushed through the curtain into Sonar. Columbia’s Sonar Chief was standing at one of the consoles. “What’ve you got, Chief?”

  “Something a little odd,” Boland replied, pointing to the “waterfall” scope; slicing through the cascade of green snow was a thin vertical line: a frequency spike. “It’s real faint. Frequency reads like a Kilo-class submarine. The bay’s acting like a sound funnel, so its hard to guess the range.”

  “Plenty of Kilos out there on patrol, Chief; we bypassed two of ’em on the way up the coast.”

  “What’s weird is that every ten seconds or so, the spike sort of … jiggles out of its frequency.”

  Kinsock thought for a moment. “The Russians have sold a lot of their Kilos to the Chinese and North Koreans. I wouldn’t be surprised if they made some modifications to the power plant. Would that account for it?”

  “Maybe …”

  “But maybe not,” Kinsock finished. “You worried about this, Chief?”

  “Not yet, but …” Boland shrugged.

  Kinsock clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep an eye on it, see if you can pin it down.”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  The intercom squelched again: “Captain, XO here. Radio’s got traffic for you.”

  “Right. Meet me there.”

  MacGregor was waiting when Kinsock walked into the Radio Room. “It’s Sickle,” the XO explained. “Secure SAT-COM. They’ve authenticated; it’s Jurens.”

  Kinsock keyed the handset. “Sickle, this is Blade, over.”

  “Blade, this is Sickle: Oscar-Golf-Sierra is delta, I say again, delta. Adjustment to follow: zero-one-zero-zero, break, two-one-zero-zero.”

  Kinsock mentally translated Jurens’s message: On-ground situation has changed. Request you adjust your schedule: new launch time one a.m. local, new pickup time, nine p.m. local the next night.

  He keyed the handset “Roger, Sickle, standby.”

  MacGregor said, “Wonder what’s changed?”

  “The target’s probably early. It’s his call; he’s on the ground. How far to our launch point?”

  “Two thousand yards. No problem.”

  “Get the firing team together,” Kinsock said, then keyed the handset: “Sickle, Blade, over.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Affirmative on your request, will adjust accordingly.”

  “Roger. Sickle out.”

  As Smitty and Zee picked up the cape toward the port complex, Jurens and Dickie kept them apprised of Dhar’s movements. To their advantage, the Kashmiri stayed aboard Nahrut until well after dark, taking the last launch ashore. “Alpha this is Bravo, over,” Jurens said. “Say location.”

  “Ridge above the north side terminal. One of the warehouses looks like it’s been converted into a rec center; that’s where most of the crew seems to be headed.”

  “Freddy’s coming ashore; he’s about five minutes away from the pier.”

  “Roger. We’re gonna look around. If security’s light, we might do it now. Otherwise, we’ll wait until he leaves.”

  “Roger, keep me posted.”

  “Alpha out.”

  Smitty and Zee made their way through the trees until they were behind and above the recreation center. Below them, an embankment sloped down to a concrete tarmac; fifty yards beyond that was the rear of the building. They could hear voices laughing and shouting in Russian.

  “I don’t see a fence,” Smitty whispered.

  “Me neither. The front looks pretty well lit-up, though,” Zee replied, then pointed to the roof. Mounted at ten-foot intervals along the front edge were spotlights.

  Smitty’s earpiece came to life: “Alpha, Freddy has landed; headed your way.”

  “Roger,” replied Smitty. He swung his Night Owls toward the pier road. After a few seconds, Dhar appeared in the yellow glow of a streetlight walking toward the rec center. “There he is.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Zee.

  “Improvisation. Sit tight, Zee. If I need help I’ll scratch my head.”

  Smitty crawled down the embankment to where the trees gave way to loose rock, then started crab-walking down. His feet started sliding. He dropped onto his butt and rode to the bottom.

  “Hey, you,” a voice called in Russian. What’re you doing?”

  Shit!

  A man wearing a white chef’s hat and holding a bag of garbage was standing in the rec center’s open back door. “What were you doing up there?”

  Smitty rose to his feet, stumbled, then pretended to zip up his pants. “What’s it to you!” he slurred. “Can’t a man take a crap anymore?”

  “We’ve got toilets, idiot!”

  “No kidding. You wanna come over here and wipe my ass, too?” Smitty started unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down. “Come on, then, come over here!”

  The chef shook his head, then tossed the garbage bag toward the Dumpster. “Asshole!”

  He shut the door.

  Smitty let out a breath, and keyed his mouthpiece. “Zee, where’s Freddie?”

  “Two minutes away.”

  Continuing his wobbly gait, Smitty made his way to the back of building, then flattened himself against the wall and slid forward until he reached the corner. The shouts and laughter were louder now, interrupted every few seconds by rock music as the front doors opened to admit or expel a patron.

  Smitty peeked around the corner. Sunil Dhar was walking across the parking lot. Smitty pulled his hood around his face, took a breath, then stepped into view, careful to stay at the edge of the light.

  When Dhar was ten feet away, Smitty whistled softly. “Dhar … here.”

  Dhar stopped. “Who is that?”

  “A friend. Get out of the light, for God’s sake.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got a message from Valerei.”

  “I don’t know any Valerei.”

  “You’re not here on business with a certain colonel?”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend, I told you. Do you want the message, or not? Get out of the light, man! You want everyone to know our business?”

  Curious now, Dhar walked forward but stopped just out of arm’s reach. “What message?”

  “The MVD knows about the transaction; they’re
going to be waiting at the warehouse.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know. That’s a question for the colonel. I can take you to him.”

  Dhar looked around, nervous again.

  He’s not going for it, Smitty thought. He was going to have to do it the hard way. Smitty looked around. Aside from a pair of stevedores nearing the front doors, the lot was empty. He kept one eye on them and another on Dhar, who was starting to shuffle his feet nervously.

  “Look,” Smitty said. “I’ve got his phone number.”

  The two stevedores reached the door, pulled it open.

  “Here, talk to him yourself.”

  Smitty reached into his pocket, then extended his hand. Instinctively, Dhar looked at it. Smitty curled it into a fist and lashed out, striking Dhar on the point of the chin. The Kashmiri slumped forward. Smitty caught him, hefted him over his shoulder, then turned around and started trotting.

  “Bravo, this is Alpha,” he radioed.

  “Go ahead,” Jurens replied.

  “Got Freddie, en route.”

  With only twenty minutes left before Columbia’s launch, they slipped back into camp. Smitty dumped Dhar’s still unconscious body onto the ground, then plopped down and accepted a canteen from Jurens. “Problems?” Sconi asked.

  “Nah, he just took a little convincing. The crew still ashore?”

  “Yep. Come on, help me with the LTD. Dickie, Zee, pick a spot and keep your eyes peeled.”

  Jurens and Smitty removed the Laser Target Designator from its waterproof case and started assembling it.

  Powered by a nickel-cadmium battery and mounted on tripod legs, an LTD is nothing more than a night-vision scope joined with a frequency-adjustable laser, a concept similar to that of a laser sighted rifle: Wherever the laser dot goes, the bullet follows. In the case of an LTD, the laser can be seen only by a missile seeker programmed to search for it.

  The team’s job was simple: Keep the Nahrut “painted” with the electromagnetic bull’s-eye so Columbia’s Harpoons would be able to distinguish her from the other ships at anchor.