Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  “I can tell who I’m not: I’m not Stan Kycek—”

  “What the hell—”

  “My name is Ian Cahil, and I work for our government.”

  Skeldon tensed, preparing to stand. Cahil clamped a hand onto his thigh. “Sit down.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Mike, I have no intention of dying here. I’ve got a wife and two kids back home, and I want to see them again. Now sit down, or I’ll kill you before you reach your feet.”

  Skeldon stayed seated, but stared Cahil in the eyes. Measuring me, he thought.

  “I mean it,” Bear pressed. “Better I kill you now; it evens my odds.”

  After a few moments, Skeldon picked up his pipe and began working. “Okay, start talking. Where’s the real Kycek?”

  “In a CIA safe house, thanking his lucky stars we got to him before he left.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I wanna hear it.”

  “You know about Baker?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead—he and his family.”

  “What?”

  Cahil spent the next twenty minutes taking Skeldon through the Baker case, from Latham’s entry into it, through his trip to Asheville and his discovery of Lamar Sampson and Stan Kycek.

  He ended by explaining the scope of the Chinese plan: the SEALs at Nakhodka-Vostochny; the battle group; China’s ultimatum to Russia; and finally, the reason they were sitting in the middle of Siberia making improvised shaped charges. The one item he left out—Martin’s complicity in the affair—was something Skeldon could not know about.

  “I don’t believe it,” Skeldon said.

  “Why would I lie?”

  Skeldon sighed and shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know. Are you lying?”

  “No. It’s time for you to decide, Mike: Whose side are you on? If we don’t stop this here, there’s gonna be a war. I need your help. I can’t do it alone.”

  Skeldon stared at him. “We’re in some deep shit, aren’t we?”

  “Yep.”

  Skeldon chuckled humorlessly. “I guess there’s some loyalty left in me after all. Okay, Ian Cahil, what do you want to do?”

  Washington, D.C.

  The Towncar carrying Mason, Dutcher, and Cathermeier pulled up to the side entrance of the Naval Observatory at the corner of Massachusetts and 34th and stopped. Also known as the Admiral House, the white-brick Victorian was the official residence of the vice president of the United States.

  Flanked by two Secret Service agents, the chief of the detail stepped forward and opened the door. “Evening, Gentlemen. If you’ll follow me, please.”

  Always discreet, Dutcher thought. If the agents were at all curious why their boss was receiving a late night visit from the director of central intelligence, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and a long-retired CIA veteran, they gave no indication of it. If the matter didn’t involve the safety of their charge, it didn’t involve them.

  They were led through the French doors into the foyer, then down a long hallway. The agent stopped before a door, knocked once, then opened it. He gestured for them to enter, then closed the door behind them.

  With its green-baize wall coverings and heavy, brocade drapes, Vice President David Lahey’s study reminded Dutcher of a reading room in an old gentlemen’s club. Oil paintings depicting various naval battles decorated the walls. A fire burned in a flagstone hearth.

  At forty-two, Lahey was one of the youngest vice presidents in contemporary history, and since joining the Martin ticket, had struggled to shrug off the shadow of the “Quayle Syndrome.” Lahey was bright, down-to-earth, and like Martin’s former boss, President John Haverland, dedicated to the value of service—all of which had thus far been obscured by the debate over Lahey’s age.

  The rumor among Washington insiders was that Martin and Lahey’s relationship was strained, and Dutcher suspected it was because Lahey was realizing what many people already knew: Consummate politician though he was, Phillip Martin was about as genuine as a nine-dollar bill.

  Lahey came from around his desk and greeted them, shaking hands first with Cathermeier, then Mason, then finally Dutcher. “Leland, I don’t think we’ve met. Welcome.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”

  They arranged themselves in a semicircle of wingback chairs beside the fireplace. Lahey poured each of them a cup of coffee, then said, “Leland, did Chuck ever tell you how we met?”

  “He told me you were friends, but nothing else.”

  “We were both serving at the National War College over at Fort McNair. Chuck was a colonel, I a lowly second lieutenant. One day we were war-gaming a problem involving the Balkans—”

  “Macedonia,” Cathermeier corrected him.

  “That’s right—Macedonia. Idiot that I am, I decided I understood the scenario better than Chuck, and before I knew it we were in a shouting match. Here’s this roomful of army and navy officers watching some fresh-mouthed lieutenant flushing his career down the drain.”

  “What happened?” asked Dutcher.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” Cathermeier answered. “David turned out to be right. We played out both our solutions—his worked, mine didn’t.”

  “Dumb luck,” Lahey said. “Afterward, Chuck walks up to me—with the whole room still watching, mind you—apologizes, then hands me his fountain pen, and says, ‘My sword, sir.’”

  Dutcher and Mason burst out laughing.

  “I still have that pen,” Lahey said. “I carry it everywhere.”

  Cathermeier said, “I’m still hoping to win it back some day.”

  “Not likely,” Lahey shot back

  After a few moments of laughter, Lahey poured himself another cup of coffee. “I have to admit, gentlemen, you’ve piqued my interest. When Chuck asked for this meeting, I wasn’t quite sure what to think. Who’s going to put me out of my suspense?”

  As planned, Cathermeier took the lead. Given his relationship with the vice president, he had the best chance of getting Lahey to listen. “David, we’ve got a problem with Martin.”

  “Then you’ve joined a sizable club. Many people do.”

  “It goes beyond personality, I’m afraid.”

  “Go on.”

  It took thirty minutes for Cathermeier to lay out their evidence. Occasionally, Dutcher or Mason would interrupt to clarify a point, but Lahey himself never spoke, simply listening, his face unreadable, until Cathermeier was done

  Lahey stood up, walked to the fireplace, and stared into the flames.

  Dutcher held his breath. This was the watershed. All Lahey had to do was pick up the phone and they were finished. Dutcher studied Lahey’s face, looking for a sign.

  “Leland, Dick, you were wise to let Chuck do the talking. If anyone else had brought this to me … I’m not going to ask if you’re sure about this. I can see by your faces that you are. When does China’s deadline expire?”

  Mason said, “Four hours.”

  “Do we have any idea what will come after that—or how soon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I want to talk to Bousikaris myself.”

  Cathermeier nodded. “We thought you might. He’s in the car.”

  Lahey remained seated as Bousikaris entered. “Come on in, Howard.” Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier stood behind Lahey’s chair, hands clasped. “Have a seat.”

  Bousikaris’s eyes were bloodshot and droopy. As he sat down, his shoulders slumped forward.

  “Is it true, Howard?”

  Bousikaris nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is.”

  “Look at me, Howard.” Bousikaris stared at his lap. “Howard: Look at me.” Bousikaris did so. “If you’re under duress, being pressured somehow into—”

  “No.”

  “If you are, say so now. This is serious business we’re talking about. Is everything t
hey’ve told me the truth? Martin, the election, China—everything?”

  “Yes.”

  Lahey sighed. “Jesus, Howard, how in God’s name did you let this happen? You’re smarter than that. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you have any idea?”

  Bousikaris nodded; his cheek twitched. “I’m sorry.”

  “Unfortunately, sorry isn’t enough. You and that … narcissistic son-of-a-bitch have brought us—and maybe the whole world—to the brink of war. Get out of here, Howard.”

  Once Bousikaris was gone, Lahey said, “Gentlemen, I wish there were time for me to absorb this, but I suspect time is the one thing we don’t have. What are we going to do, and what’s my part?”

  Mason answered. “It’s pretty straightforward, Mr. Vice President. You’re going to have to take over the country and stop a war.”

  57

  China

  Though Tanner had no way of knowing it, his ruse at the swamp had done its job.

  As he was approaching the eastern outskirts of Fuxin, Xiang and his searchers were following his trail twenty-five miles to the south, certain their injured quarry could not be far ahead.

  But the price for Briggs had been high.

  Aside from hourly five-minute breaks to drink from his canteen, eat a handful of trail mix and a few bites of jerky, he’d been running for six hours through the forests and valleys that bordered the rail line between Jiudaoling and Fuxin.

  Always keeping the tracks in sight, he stayed just outside the tree line, using the moonlight to pick his way along. After an hour, his face and hands were scratched bloody and his shins bruised from multiple falls. His BDUs became splotched and stained with tree sap, pine needles, and leaves.

  Three hours into his run, the pack’s straps began chafing his shoulders and before long he could feel blisters forming. With nothing to be done about it, he kept running. He focused his mind on his breathing, using its rhythm to blot out everything but the trail ahead and the forest’s night sounds.

  Halfway through every hour he would stop, backtrack a few hundred yards and sit still in the undergrowth, listening and watching for signs of pursuit. Twice he saw the twinkling of aircraft strobes to the south and caught the faint thumping of helicopter rotors. He heard the distant howling of dogs, but couldn’t be sure whether they were tracking hounds, or local pets. To be safe, he assumed the former.

  Dogs could be both a blessing and a curse, he knew. While dogs were nearly impossible to elude without a substantial head start, search parties that used them tended to rely too heavily on their cues. Without a good mix of both ground-scent and air-scent dogs, searchers could easily get mired in following dead ends and tangents.

  Through the night and into the early morning hours, Tanner kept running, counting his strides to keep pace, listening to his breathing, watching for obstacles and avoiding open ground—all the while covering a mile every ten minutes—all the while pulling farther and farther ahead of his pursuers.

  With dawn still a couple hours away, he emerged from the forest on a ridge overlooking the small town of Xinqiu north of Fuxin.

  He got out his binoculars, found the train tracks leading in from the south, and followed them until he spotted an old clapboard terminal building on the northern edge of the town. A single light shone through one of the station’s windows: the conductor’s office, he assumed. Sitting on the tracks closest to the platform was a caboose; ahead of it, a string of ten cars—four passenger, five freight, and a tender—and a locomotive with smoke wafting from its stack. The number on its side read 17.

  Gearing up for departure? Tanner wondered. The kernel of a plan formed in his mind, and he played with it for a few minutes before deciding it was worth a try.

  On the secondary track behind the station was a line of fifty or sixty empty freight cars. Tanner studied each one, estimating its length, then made a quick calculation. Fifty cars, each roughly thirty feet long … The string was over a quarter mile long. Even better.

  Thirty minutes later he was lying on his belly in the bushes across from the station.

  Nothing was moving and aside from tinny strains of beiqu, or Chinese opera, music filtering through the office window, all was quiet. In the distance, a train whistle wailed and then faded.

  After a few more minutes of watching, he got up, ran across the tracks, and knelt beside the platform where he could see through the lighted window. Inside, an elderly man sat dozing in a chair, his feet propped on the desk.

  Tanner spotted the schedule board: Train 17 was at the top of the list: Yingkou.

  Yingkou was a port city on the Bo Hai Gulf about one hundred miles to the south. He checked his watch: ninety minutes until departure. He would be cutting it close, but the risk was worth it.

  He collected half a dozen small stones, then crept to the rear of the caboose, mounted the steps to the platform, and slipped inside. Hunched over, he walked down the aisle to the vestibule, opened the door, and stepped through. He clicked on his penlight and shined it over his head. He popped open the maintenance hatch, pushed his pack through, then chinned himself up and out onto the roof.

  Crouching at the edge of the car, he tossed his pack across the gap onto the platform roof as gently as he could. He dropped onto his belly and went still. One minute passed … two … The beiqu from the office continued uninterrupted.

  Briggs took a deep breath, then leapt across, using his hands to distribute the impact.

  He crept across the roof until he was centered over the office, then lay on his belly and shimmied to the edge. From his pocket he withdrew the PSB man’s ID card, took aim, and flicked it onto the platform.

  He crossed to the opposite side of the roof where the empty freight cars began, then repeated the earlier process, first tossing his backpack onto the car’s roof, then leaping across to join it.

  Almost there.

  He pulled the stones from his pocket, chose the biggest one, took aim, and threw. It struck the platform with a thud, bounced twice, then smacked into the station wall. From the office there was a shout of surprise and the clatter of chair wheels on the wooden floor. The beiqu music stopped.

  The office door opened, casting a yellow patch of light on the platform. The conductor stepped out and looked around. He walked to the edge of the platform, stopped with his foot almost touching the ID card, and scanned the tracks.

  Come on, Tanner urged. Look down …

  The man looked around for a few seconds, then turned back. Then stopped. He looked down and bent over, picked up the card, then walked back inside.

  Good man, Tanner thought.

  He stood up, donned his pack, and started jogging down the car’s roofs. When he reached the last one, he climbed down the side ladder to the track bed, and started running north.

  Twenty-six miles to the south, Xiang was following a service road along the rail line. Lieutenant Shen drove while Eng sat in the backseat. Behind were a pair of army trucks loaded with the rest of the paratroopers.

  To the east, Xiang could hear the braying of the tracking dogs.

  Enough of this, he thought. “Stop.”

  “Sir?” said Shen.

  “Stop driving!” Shen slammed on the brakes. “What is it, sir?”

  “How far have we come from the swamp?”

  Shen unfolded his map. “Almost sixteen miles.”

  “A long way for an injured man, wouldn’t you say?”

  Shen shrugged.

  “Who’s your second-in-command? Who’ve you got with the dog handlers?”

  “Sergeant Hjiu.”

  Xiang picked up the portable radio. “Xiang to Hjiu, do you read me?”

  “Yes, sir, go ahead.”

  “Stop everyone where they are. We’re coming to join you.”

  Shen pulled the vehicle as close to the tree line as possible, then they got out and walked the rest of the way. Hjiu was in a clearing of trees. “Where’s the track?” Xiang
asked.

  “This way.”

  Hjiu led them down a trail to where the lead handler was giving his dog some water. “He’s heading in roughly the same direction,” Hjiu reported. “Roughly northeast. The scent is still strong.”

  Xiang turned to the handler. “Is there still blood?”

  “Here and there, but not as much anymore.”

  “What about the tracks themselves?”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Any sign that he’s favoring either leg?”

  “No, sir. The strides are long and even. The dogs have a strong scent, though—”

  “Dammit!” Xiang roared. “It was a ruse! He was never injured.”

  Lieutenant Shen said, “But the blood—”

  “Who knows … it doesn’t matter. We’re wasting our time! He’s had almost eight hours. He could be anywhere. Shen, order your men back aboard the trucks!”

  They were on the outskirts of Fuxin when the lead truck flashed its headlights. Shen pulled over; the truck’s driver jogged up. “A call on the base radio, Director Xiang. Peng’s ID card was found.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Xinqiu train station, just north of Fuxin—less than an hour ago. The conductor found it and called the PSB branch in Fuxin.”

  “That’s impossible!” Shen said. “There’s no way he could cover that distance on foot.”

  “Why not?” Xiang replied. “Could you? Could one of your men?”

  “Yes, sir, but we’re—”

  “And so is he—if not better.”

  “It’s almost fifty miles!”

  “And he’s had almost twelve hours.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. You’re thinking with your pride, Shen. Tanner made us think what he wanted us to think—he tricked us into wasting our time.”

  “Perhaps, now he’s spent. Running that far probably cost him every ounce of energy he had.”

  “On that, we agree,” Xiang replied. And tired men make mistakes. “How far to Xinqiu?”

  “Ten miles.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later they were standing on the Xinqiu platform with the conductor. The sun was fully up. A thin fog hovered over the ground. Down on the tracks, Shen and the handlers were working the area around the station. The dogs yipped excitedly and ran in circles.