As the sun was dipping toward the horizon, Skeldon pulled off into a small clearing and shut off the engine. He banged his fist on the cab’s wall then got out. Cahil followed. One by one the commandos jumped down and began unloading crates from the Yaz.
“This is it,” Skeldon said to Cahil. “Home sweet home.”
“For how long? When are you going to let me in on the big secret?”
“Now’s as good a time as any.”
Skeldon walked to where the commandos were working, spoke with the colonel for a few seconds, then gestured for Cahil to follow. After a quick compass check, Skeldon found a trail leading into the forest, and set off.
The grade increased until they were pulling themselves along from tree to tree. After a mile, the slope eased and the trees thinned, revealing an escarpment. “Watch your step,” Skeldon said. “It’s a hell of a drop.”
He led Cahil down a trail along the cliff face. Bear glanced over the edge, but could see nothing of what lay below, so thick were the trees. In the distance, he could hear the rush of water. After another hundred yards, the path came to a thumb of rock jutting from the cliff.
“Take a look,” Skeldon said.
Cahil walked to the edge and peered over. A few hundred yards below, a river wound its way through a jagged-walled canyon. “What am I looking for?”
“Look upriver. You’ll have to lean out a bit. Here, I gotchya.” Skeldon grabbed the back of Cahil’s belt. “Go ahead.”
Cahil hesitated.
“Relax, Stan, I didn’t drag your ass across Siberia just so I could drop you off a cliff.”
Cahil planted his feet and slowly leaned outward.
Straddling the mouth of the canyon like a great stone castle was a hydroelectric dam. A mile wide at the top and sloping to a wedge at the bottom, the dam seemed to sprout from the canyon walls. Along its walkway were eight generator towers, each joined to the next by a network of power lines.
“The Chono Dam,” Skeldon said. “Second largest in the world. Five hundred feet tall, just over a mile wide, and a hundred feet thick. Eight hydroelectric generators for a total of fifteen thousand megawatts. The reservoir is twelve miles wide, forty long, and averages about four hundred feet deep. It’s like a man-made ocean.”
“Pull me in.” Back on solid ground, Cahil said, “You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I sure as hell hope so.”
Afraid he already knew the answer, Cahil dreaded asking the next question. “Mike, what are we doing here?”
“It’s simple: We’re gonna blow it up.”
49
Beijing
Kam Hsiao’s apartment was located in Beijing’s Dabeiyao District in a neighborhood of faceless gray brick apartment buildings and bustling hutong markets.
Tanner left the Bamboo Garden late in the afternoon and walked to the Forbidden City, where he strolled the court-yards and museums until the sun began to set, then boarded a bus at the entrance to Tiananmen Square, took it into Dabeiyao, and got off at the Majuan Terminal.
He spent the next0 hour circling the streets near Hsiao’s building, looking for signs of surveillance but seeing nothing, which he took with a grain of salt.
This was the part of the job Briggs hated most: the constant, gnawing uncertainty. Living with it for any extended period meant you either developed a “if it happens, it happens” attitude, or you turned into a walking ball of neuroses. So far, he hadn’t fallen into the latter trap, but he could feel the fear lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting for a chance to take over.
Once the street was clear, he crossed over and walked into the apartment’s lobby. He trotted up two flights, then down the dimly lit hall to Hsiao’s door. He hesitated, suddenly remembering a joke a CIA veteran used to tell at ISAG: How do you know when you’re under surveillance by the KGB? Answer: When a dozen of them rush through the door and dogpile you.
Tanner knocked.
The door opened, revealing a slim, clean-cut man in his early twenties. He had large ears and, Tanner thought, sad but honest eyes.
“Yes, can I help you?” he said in English.
“Bian sent me. I believe you and I share a mutual friend.”
Hsiao cocked his head, confused, then his eyes widened. “Oh! Please, sorry, come in.”
Tanner stepped inside. Hsiao shut the door. The apartment had three rooms: a small kitchen, a living room, and a doorway leading to what Tanner assumed was a bedroom. The walls were a stark white, as were the floors, all of which were linoleum.
Hsiao gestured to one of two chairs. “Please sit. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be nice, thanks.”
Hsiao came back a few minutes later with a tray holding two ceramic mugs. “It’s young hyson,” Hsiao said. “Organic, no pesticides. Very good.”
“Hyson—green tea?”
“Yes.”
Tanner smiled and raised his mug in thanks. “My favorite. Your English is very good.”
“The army offers a course; it’s very popular. I’ve been studying for three years.”
“You’re in the PLA?”
“Yes, a corporal. I have to tell you, I’m very afraid, Mr. …”
“You can call me Ben.”
“Ben. I’m very afraid.”
“That’s okay. So am I.”
“You don’t look afraid,” Hsiao said.
“I have a good poker face. Plus, I make it a point to have a good cry once a day; it seems to help.”
Hsiao nodded sympathetically. “I see.” Then he saw Tanner’s smile. “You’re joking.”
“Yes.”
With that, the tension eased. Hsiao let out a chuckle. “That’s very funny. I suppose we should talk about … what we need to do.”
Tanner nodded. “First, I want to make sure you’re ready for this. It’s a big risk.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure? Do you know what will happen if you’re caught?”
“I know exactly what I can expect. I see it almost every day. I’ve made up my mind. General Soong is a good man and he doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him. Tell me how I can help.”
Tanner decided he would trust Hsiao, not only because he had no other choice, but because his gut was telling him he could. He extended his hand to Hsiao, who took it firmly.
“Okay,” Briggs said. “Welcome aboard.”
“A board? What board?”
“It’s just an expression. We’re a team now, you and I.”
“Ah! Good! How do we start?”
“I want you to tell me everything you know about the camp.”
For the next ninety minutes, Tanner questioned him about every aspect of the camp: physical layout, terrain and climate, security measures, daily routines, emergency procedures … Hsiao answered all the questions quickly and precisely. The only thing he didn’t know was what Tanner needed most of all: the camp’s location.
“There are two guard rotations that switch off every two weeks,” Hsiao explained. “We’re flown to the camp in a helicopter with blacked-out windows.”
“How long is the trip?”
“We’re not allowed to wear watches. If I had to guess, I would say the flight lasts between three and four hours.”
“What kind of helicopter?”
“Mi-Eight—I think you call it a Hip.”
“Hip” was the old-style NATO nickname for the MI-8, a Russian built helicopter with accommodations for thirty passengers and a cruising speed of about 150 mph. If Hsiao’s estimate was correct, that meant the camp was somewhere within a six hundred-mile radius of Beijing.
“What about your gear? What do you take with you?”
“Nothing. Everything is supplied once we reach the camp. In fact, we’re searched before we board the helicopters. You were thinking of a homing beacon of some kind?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible. The helicopters are th
oroughly inspected.”
“Where do you take off from?”
“A small air base to near the Miyun Reservoir.”
“After you take off, do you hear a lot of jet noise—other airplanes?”
Hsiao thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes. How did you know?”
“Just a guess,” Tanner replied. They were routing the Hip into Capital Airport’s airspace to lose them in the commercial traffic. “Anyone trying to track you by radar would lose you.”
“Ah, I see. Very smart.”
Tanner’s options were dwindling. He couldn’t track Hsiao … he couldn’t track the helo—at least not by traditional means. He’d have to give it some thought.
“How tight is security at the air base?” he asked.
“Average, I would say. You want to get in?”
“I might.”
“I sometimes stand guard duty there when I’m off rotation. I can show you just where to go.”
Tanner stayed for another hour, first discussing communications procedures in case they needed to talk again, then deciding on a way to establish communication when—if—Tanner reached the camp.
Once back at the Bamboo Garden, he opened his Motorola, dialed a number, and waited through two minutes of squelches as the call was bounced from satellite to satellite, then to NSA headquarters in Ford Meade, Maryland, and finally to Holystone.
“Holystone, Shiverick,” Oaken said.
“Oaks, it’s me.”
“Hey, traveler. Are you on the Motorola?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on.” Tanner heard a beep as Oaken switched to a secure line. “Everything okay?”
“Yep. I need a favor,” He explained his conundrum with Hsiao’s transport helo. “We can’t do it electronically, so why not chemically?”
“You’re thinking some kind of paint job?”
“If we can get Dick to give us a bird’s eye, it might work. I’d also need a recipe.”
“I’ll make some calls. Give me a few hours and I’ll get back to you.”
The Motorola’s vibration ringer woke Tanner just before dawn. “Yes.”
“Okay, we’re set,” Oaken said. “Dick’s going to do some shuffling and get your coverage.”
“And the recipe?”
“That, too. Got your shopping list ready?”
Tanner turned on the bedside light, grabbed a pad and pen to copy down all the items. “You’re sure about the ratios? I don’t want to end up a human torch.”
“They’re straight from the official cookbook. When do you plan on going in?”
“Tonight or early tomorrow morning. They’re scheduled to take off at dawn.”
“We’ll be watching,” Oaken replied.
Three miles away at the Guoanbu’s headquarters, Xiang was arriving for the day. As he’d expected, he found Eng in a conference room surrounded by stacks of manila file folders.
“Any luck?” Xiang asked.
“Two hundred fifty-seven Westerners arrived in the city during the period you indicated,” Eng answered. “Of those, there’s no way to know which of them are here on business or pleasure without checking each file.”
“What about camera permits?”
“Same thing. There are no separate records.”
“What about Bian? Any activity since his meeting with our mystery man?”
“Nothing. We’ve got a team watching him day and night, but so far he’s behaving.”
“What about his embassy contact—this Brown fellow?”
“He hasn’t left the embassy since.”
“Then it all comes down to Bian’s mystery man.”
“Which works in our favor,” Eng answered. “He’s an illegal and he’s on our ground. If we catch him—when we catch him—we can dangle him like a hooked fish.”
Who was he? Xiang wondered. Better question: Why was he here? True enough, Bian was a known supporter of Soong, but that didn’t make him unusual. Even after twelve years, the general’s supporters were still pressuring the government to commute his sentence. Were Bian’s activities connected to Soong, or was it something else?
It didn’t matter, he decided. He couldn’t take the risk. “I think it’s time we got proactive.”
“How so?”
“Arrest Bian. Let’s see how much he’ll endure before giving us his new waiguoren friend.”
50
Nakhodka-Vostochny
With the sunrise, Jurens and his team got their first clear view of the port.
Whether by design or by accident, the Harpoons had impacted critical areas of the complex.
At the port’s easternmost berth, the first Harpoon had struck a crude oil carrier, triggering a chain of explosions that had rippled from ship to ship down the wharf.
The second Harpoon had traveled inland several hundred yards, then plunged into the tank farm, igniting three tanks and puncturing six more, releasing a flood of flaming oil and diesel fuel that had spread through the port like a molten river, touching off flash fires wherever it touched.
Along the waterfront, dozens of ships still burned, adding their smoke to the pall that hung over the bay. Most of the heavy-lift cranes had toppled onto their sides like giant Tinkertoys, crushing beneath them warehouses, straddle carriers, and sheds
Through his Owls, Jurens could see figures shuffling along the waterfront. There seemed to be no organized fire fighting or rescue effort under way. Probably not enough left alive for that, he thought. Part of him wanted to take his team and go down to help, but he knew it was impossible.
“Is that snow?” Smitty muttered, looking up.
Jurens looked up. Bits of white fluff drifted before his face. He held out his hand, caught a flake, and tasted it. He spit. “Ash.”
Smitty leaned closer to Jurens. “What the hell’s going on, Skipper?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll tell ya what: Harpoons are smart birds; what they did last night … it’s a one in a million chance. They just don’t go haywire like that.”
“Agreed.”
“That leaves one option: Somebody else with an LTD took control and guided them in.” As smart as Harpoons are, they don’t discriminate between targeting signals. First come, first served.
“The best place for that would be closer to the mouth of the bay,” Smitty said. “If I had to guess, I’d say … there.” He pointed to the opposite cape.
They were in trouble, Sconi realized. They’d been set up. Someone not only knew they were here, but also why. They—whoever they were—had lain in wait for Columbia to launch her missiles, then taken control of them and guided them onto their own targets.
Answers would have to wait. Right now, they had to leave before the hills were crawling with Federation Army relief units.
“Zee, how’re we doing? Any word from our ride?”
“Still nothing, Skipper. SATCOM’s working fine; we’re getting a clean bounce off the satellite, but she just ain’t answering. Want me to keep trying?”
“No, leave it for now,” Jurens said, then turned back to Smitty, “We gotta start thinking worst-case. If Columbia is gone—”
“Gone how?”
“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. If she’s gone, we’re gonna have to find our own way out.”
“Long swim.”
“Too long. First things first: I want to have a talk with Dhar.”
“You think he knows something?”
“There’s one way to find out.”
Jurens picked up his MP-5, walked over to where Dhar was lying, and knelt beside him.
Dhar stared at him. “What?”
“I’m going to be straight with you: We’re in trouble. Somebody’s set us up—all of us, including you. In a couple hours, troops are going to be hunting for us.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“We’re being framed for this disaster.”
“By
who?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Who hired you?” Jurens said.
“The JRA.”
“You’re sure about that? Think hard.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Jurens said with a shrug. He flicked off the MP-5’s safety. “Sorry about this, but you’re extra baggage.” He pressed the muzzle to Dhar’s forehead.
“Wait, wait! I can help you! Maybe … I may know something.”
“Then share it.”
“The man who approached me claimed to be JRA, but I’ve done business with JRA before, and something wasn’t right about this one, so I did some digging. It took me a couple months, but I discovered the man was working for the Chinese—the Guoanbu.”
“But you still went through with the deal.”
“They paid me, why wouldn’t I? Besides, you don’t understand. If I’d backed out, they would have killed me just for good measure. As it is, I’m probably a dead man anyway.”
You play, you pay, Jurens thought. Dhar’s life had finally caught up with him. “Is that all?”
“That’s it, I swear. What’re you going to do with me?”
“Since you’ve been honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. We’re going to take you with us, and providing we get out of this alive, you’ll be turned over to the CIA, who’ll milk you for every bit of info you’ve got. After that … I guess that depends how -useful you are to them.”
Dhar considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I could do worse.”
Maybe you deserve worse, Jurens thought. “Zee, get Mace on the line. I think somebody’s going to want to hear this.”
Langley
At eight a.m. Beijing time the Chinese government drew its line in the sand.
Reading identical statements, both China’s foreign minister and its ambassador to the United States decried the Russian Federation’s lack of concern for the safety and welfare of Chinese citizens living within its borders, and set a deadline of forty-eight hours.
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