The camp was far to the north, deep in the forests and mountains of the Heilongjiang Province.
He had another three hundred miles to go.
With a great sigh of steam, the locomotive slowed beside the red-and-green-bannered platform and jolted to a stop. The car’s occupants got up and started filing toward the door. Tanner followed.
Chaoyang lay at the heart of Liaodong Province, a farming region mostly bordered by the forests of the Changbei Massif to the east and the rolling foothills of the Chingan range to the west.
Briggs kept his face in his map as he passed the conductor’s assistant and stepped down onto the platform. He blinked against the bright sun and pulled up his collar. The temperature hovered around fifty degrees. A brisk spring day.
He found the ticket office and repeated his Shahe ruse, buying tickets for Shenyang to the east, Datong to the west, and Fuxin to the northeast, which would be his next destination.
If he could make it that far, his choices of routes and connections into Heilongjiang Province increased, thereby making it harder for Xiang to track him.
Thirty minutes passed before the loudspeaker announced boarding for Changchun. He waited for the third call, then boarded and walked to the rearmost of the train’s eight cars. Only six other people occupied seats. Several of them clutched chickens or potbellied pigs in their laps.
As he passed, an old woman gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Zoo shang hao.” Good morning.
Briggs nodded and smiled back, surprised to feel a flood of gratitude wash over him. However small, the human contact felt good. To her, it didn’t matter that he was waiguoren.
“Ai, ail” the woman called to him. She reached into her pocket, pulled out an egg, and handed it to him. “Hao chi, hao chi!” Good eats.
Tanner took the egg and patted her hand. During hard times this one egg might have been an entire meal for her. He said, “Xiexie buxie, ma pengyou.” Providing he’d gotten the inflection right, he’d said, “Thank you, old mother.” If he’d botched it, he’d just called her a horse.
The woman smiled back. “Bu kegi, huang tou!” You’re welcome, blond hair.
They shared a laugh, then Tanner wandered to the back of the car and found an empty seat and waited, coiled like a spring, until the train began moving.
An hour later and fifty miles out of Chaoyang, they were entering a wooded valley north of Jiudaoling when the train suddenly lurched, followed by the shriek of metal on metal. The train began slowing. The other passengers started murmuring and looking around.
Briggs opened his window and stuck his head out.
Ahead lay a road junction; sitting across the tracks was a black Peugeot. One man sat behind the wheel, while two more, each wearing charcoal gray suits, stood at it’s side.
PSB. Someone at either Shahe or Chaoyang had identified him.
The screeching continued until the train ground to a halt fifty yards from the Peugeot.
Two of the PSB officers walked to the locomotive, had a brief shouted conversation with the engineer, then boarded the first car. Moments later, Tanner heard some shouting from the cars ahead and caught a few snippets: “Stay seated … have papers ready …”
The locomotive’s whistle blew and the train started chugging forward again. Whether it was due to a mistake on the part of the officers, or to an engineer dedicated to his schedule, Tanner had just gotten a break. He knew he couldn’t elude them on the train, but if he could get off without them noticing …
He looked up the aisle. The old woman was leaning out, looking back at him.
She frowned, worry lines around her eyes. “Ni?” You?
He nodded and said, “Shi.” then added a phrase he hoped translated into “egg thief.”
The old woman laughed uproariously, then glanced through the adjoining car’s vestibule. She pushed her palm at him several times and said, “Zou, zou.” Go, go. With the chicken clutched to her chest, she stood up and began waddling up the aisle.
She’s going to run interference for me, Briggs thought. “Bui shi!” he called. No, don’t.
She turned and shooed him. “Zou!”
She disappeared through the doors.
The only way he could help her now was to not be found. Hopefully, none of the other passengers would report her complicity. They were looking at him, eyes wide, but he saw no anger, merely worry.
He opened the rear door and stepped onto the platform.
On either side, the ground raced past, a blur of green underbrush. Cold wind whipped around him. About a hundred yards from the tracks was a line of thick fir trees.
With one hand on the railing, Tanner descended the steps then leaned out. The ground was mercifully flat, but that was no guarantee. Movie portrayals aside, jumping from a moving train—a moving anything, for that matter—was no easy stunt. At this speed, he would hit the ground at nearly quadruple his weight.
From the train came more shouts and the sound of a chicken squawking. He peeked through the door. The PSB officers were in the next car forward.
Time to go.
He leaned out, took a deep breath, and jumped.
The ground rushed toward him. He tucked himself into a ball, rounding his shoulders and covering his head with his hands. He began tumbling. He let himself go limp. On the second revolution, his tailbone slammed into the ground. With a grunt, all the air rushed from his lungs.
After a few seconds he stopped rolling and lay perfectly still, willing himself to meld into the ground. Don’t move, don’t move …
“Aiyahhh!” came a shout. Tanner lifted his head. Framed in one of the train’s windows was one of the PSB men. “Aiyahhh!” he shouted again.
Dumbfounded, Tanner watched as the man pulled open the window and began crawling through, legs first. On his belly, he extended one leg, then the other until he was dangling from the pane. The man dropped. He hit the ground and began tumbling, limbs flailing like those of a rag doll.
Tanner didn’t wait to see his landing. He snatched up his backpack and started running.
55
Behind him, a shout in English: “Stop! Stop there!”
Seconds later Tanner heard the double crack of gunfire and felt something tug at his sleeve.
Son-of-a-bitch. He put his head down and kept running.
In seconds he reached the tree line. Darkness enveloped him. The air cooled. He spotted a game trail and followed it. Behind him came the crunch of footfalls and more calls of “Stop!”
He glanced over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of the PSB man twisting and ducking through the trees as he straggled to catch up. The trail led deeper into the forest. Soon the ground began to slope downward.
He started down the embankment, lost his footing on the pine needles, and started skidding. His hip slammed into a tree trunk. He gasped, rolled away, scrambled to his knees and kept going.
The path widened suddenly. The trail forked, north and south, both following the edge of a swamp. Half-dead sycamore trees lined the bank, their exposed roots jutting from the mud.
At a sprint, Tanner reached the edge of the bank, dropped hard onto his butt, and slid feet-first into the water. He resurfaced, snatched a breath, then ducked under and scrabbled back to the bank. As he’d hoped, the water had undercut the mud, leaving behind nooks among the tree roots. He wriggled himself into the darkened interior and went still.
He heard the pound of footsteps on the trail above. They paused at the fork for several seconds, then resumed, heading north.
Atta boy, keep running—
The footsteps stopped.
Following my prints, Tanner thought. He closed his eyes, straining to listen.
There was ten seconds of silence, then the footsteps came again, moving slowly toward the bank. Above his head, a twig snapped.
Ever so slowly, Tanner shrugged off his backpack and wedged it between the roots. He took a breath, ducked under, then peeked ou
t.
And found himself staring at the toe of a shoe.
With one hand shading his eyes, the PSB man scanned the water. In his left hand was a revolver.
The PSB man looked down. They locked eyes.
“Aiyahhh!”
The man raised his gun hand, bringing it level with Tanner’s head. Briggs launched himself from the water, locked his hands around the man’s ankles and pulled. The man dropped to his butt. Tanner flipped him onto his belly, then dropped his weight, levering him into the water. The gun slipped from the man’s hand and plunged into the murk.
Sputtering, the man thrashed to the surface. Tanner ducked under, hands groping. His fingers touched metal. He grabbed the gun, missed, tried again. His palm closed over the gun’s checkered grip. He pushed off the bottom and broke the surface, gun leveled in what he hoped was the right direction.
The man was standing five feet away, shaking his head clear of water. He glared at Tanner. Briggs gestured toward the bank. The man didn’t move. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a slender object. With a click, the switchblade popped open.
“Don’t,” Tanner warned. “Bu shi.” No.
Knife held before him, the man started toward him.
“Bu shi!” Tanner said again. “Stop.”
The man muttered something in Chinese, then in English: “Surrender!” and kept coming.
“Goddammit, don’t!” Briggs shouted.
The man lunged forward. Tanner pulled the trigger—and got a dull click.
Empty cylinder.
The man was falling toward him, knife arcing downward.
Tanner ducked left but lost his balance and slipped under the surface. The man plodded through the water, stabbing and slashing at Tanner’s legs. Briggs felt a sting in his left calf, rolled away, then stuck his arm out of the water and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Again.
The gun boomed.
A quarter-size hole appeared in the man’s chest. He stumbled backward, blinked his eyes a few times, then fell backward into the water, dead.
He searched the body, but found only a few yuan notes and a PSB ID card; he pocketed both. Then he steered the corpse under the shelf and wedged it into the root system.
Dragging his pack behind him, he crawled up onto the bank, stripped off his clothes, and sat down to examine the cut on his calf. It was deep, about three inches long, and in need of stitches. He unzipped the pack, pulled out the med-kit and set to work closing the wound with tape sutures.
The ground around him was a muddy mess of overlapping footprints and scuff marks that no amount of camouflage would cover. When Xiang’s team got here, they’d read the signs clearly.
Maybe there was a way to use that.
He needed to put as much distance between himself and this spot as quickly as possible. The question was, how far and how long could he ran? When Xiang and his searchers got here, they would ask the same question; their answer would decide how far out they cast their initial net.
Briggs ripped the dressing off his wound, retrieved a small squeeze bottle of saline solution from the med-kit, and emptied it. Teeth gritted against the pain, he squeezed the cut until the blood began flowing again, then held the mouth of the bottle beneath it. When he had about three ounces, he screwed the top on, then redressed the cut.
He stood up and put his weight on the leg: a little pain, but not bad.
From the pack he pulled out a set of camouflage BDUs—pants, shirt, field jacket—and got dressed. He slipped on a dry pair of wool socks, followed by a one-piece Gore-Tex thermal underwear suit, then pulled on his boots, then covered his face and hands with black grease paint.
Next, using strips of black duct tape, he secured the bottle upside down to his right calf. He stomped his foot. Blood onto the ground. Good enough.
He checked his map, took a few compass readings, then cinched the pack onto his shoulders and starting jogging.
Darkness was falling when Xiang’s helicopter landed in the field beside the tree line.
He and Eng were met by a soldier in camouflage dress with a lieutenant’s insignia on one collar and a black dragon pin on the other. As Xiang approached, the lieutenant snapped to attention and saluted.
“Sir! Lieutenant Shen, Company B, Flying Dragons. General Shiun sends his regards.”
“How many man do you have?”
“Sixty. Half are here, the other half are on their way.”
“Show me what you have.”
Shen led them into the trees and down the trail to the swamp. “We found the body stuffed under a shelf in the bank,” Shen explained. “He was shot once. His gun and ID card are missing. According to the PSB commander in Chaoyang, the man’s name was Peng. He’d been on the job only a year.”
“How is that relevant?” Xiang asked.
“I just … I thought you’d like to know, sir. He was one of ours.”
“Let his family mourn him.” Xiang shined his flashlight around. “There was a struggle here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was he killed here or in the water?”
“In the water, I believe. There’s blood on the ground, but not enough.”
“Then it’s Tanner’s blood. He’s hurt.”
Shen nodded. “Yes, sir. Come this way;”
They walked down the trail. Shen pointed to the ground. “He came this way. Take a look at the right print … See it? Compare the heel depth to the left one.”
Xiang squatted down. “It’s deeper.”
“He’s favoring his right leg—limping badly. See the blood splotches beside the heel?”
“Yes.”
“He’s seeping blood from a wound on his right leg. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I sent a tracker to scout his trail; the blood keeps going.”
Good, Xiang thought. At least the late Officer Peng marked him for us. “How far could a man in that condition get?”
“What kind of man?”
“Your caliber, perhaps better.”
Shen cocked his head. “He’s been running for four hours, tired and in pain, losing blood … Plus, he’d probably stay in trees, which would slow him down … I’d say twelve miles at most. If you can get me some dogs and handlers, I’ll have him for you by dawn.”
“Get started,” Xiang ordered. “You’ll have dogs within the hour.”
56
Chono Dam
A few hours after he and Skeldon returned from the silver mine, Cahil was set to work.
With a few murmured orders from their colonel, the commandos began laying crates at his feet: C4, detonators, detcord, and six pieces of heavy, steel pipe, each closed at one end, about a foot long, and a few inches smaller in diameter than the bore holes in the mine.
They want me to build shaped charges, Cahil thought.
A shaped charge is designed to focus explosive force in a specific direction. On a small scale, antiterrorist units use them to knock down doors; on a larger scale, military demolition teams and miners use them to punch holes through obstacles and solid rock.
The idea here would be to slide the charges into the bore holes until they were resting against the bedrock. Upon detonation, the force of each charge would have nowhere to go but through the rock and into the dam’s footings, setting off a shock wave that would ripple and crack the rest of the dam. With each charge packing ten pounds of C4, it would have enough force to create a car-size crater.
Cahil stared at the crates for several moments, his mind whirling. He was in an impossible position. He couldn’t build these charges—or at least he couldn’t build them to work—but if he chose either of those options, he had little doubt they’d kill him on the spot They’d come here to not only destroy the Chono, but to die here as well. For all he knew, they were perfectly capable of building the charges themselves, and his participation was simply more window dressing.
So where did that leave him? Coun
ting Skeldon as an enemy, the odds against him were seven to one. But should he count Skeldon as an enemy? He was assuming so, but was he certain?
The colonel walked over, gave him a grim stare, and gestured to the crates: Get started.
Skeldon walked over and sat down. “How goes it?”
“Getting there,” Cahil replied.
“What is that you’re using—steel wool?”
Cahil nodded. “For the best effect, the inside of the pipe needs to be completely smooth.”
“Why?”
“You never handled shaped charges in the Lurps?”
Skeldon smiled. “Hey, man, we were all booby traps and small IM stuff,” he replied, referring to improvised munitions. “We left the bunker busting to the engineers.”
“The theory’s pretty simple: The bowl—in this case, this pipe—acts as a lens to focus the explosion. If the pipe isn’t smooth, some of the force might get redirected.”
“Gotcha. Want some help?”
“Sure. Start with the next pipe.”
After working in silence for a few minutes, Cahil decided to dive in. It was time to find out where Skeldon stood. “Mike, what do you know about these guys?”
“Not much. They’re special forces types, that’s obvious.”
“They’re called Flying Dragons; they’re paratroopers—the cream of Chinese special forces.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Mike, you know they’re going to kill us once we’re done, don’t you?”
Skeldon’s head snapped. “Keep your goddamned voice down,” he whispered. “That’s crap—you’re full of crap.”
“You think so? How do you imagine it happening? We blow up the dam, have a little lunch with our new friends, then drive south and share a tearful good-bye at the border?”
Skeldon frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Nothing like that. Once we set these charges, we’re dead men.”
“Who the hell are you? Where’s all this shit coming from?”
Wall of Night Page 36