Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  Martin looked to Cathermeier. “General?”

  “I agree. If we don’t take steps to cool the situation, it’s going to escalate.”

  Martin sighed heavily, then nodded. “That’s all gentlemen. Stay close to your phones.”

  Moscow

  ​The tirade had so far lasted twenty minutes and showed no signs of slowing.

  From his chair, Ivan Nochenko watched Bulganin pace the room, one hand clasped behind his back, the other gesticulating wildly as he snouted.

  Nochenko had seen him in such moods before, but this one had a different feel to it. Bulganin’s speech, his demeanor, the very inflection of his words had a disconnected quality to them, as though he were summoning them by rote from some corner of his brain.

  Earlier this morning Bulganin had ordered Pyotr to double his personal guards and to search the staff’s belongings upon entry and exit of the building. Only at Nochenko’s intercession had Bulganin excluded he and the rest of the members of the National Security Council.

  Pyotr now stood behind Bulganin’s desk, watching the room with a hawk’s eyes.

  “Let us review,” Bulganin said. “Not only are the Americans threatening our coast with their ships, but they’ve put soldiers on our soil, destroyed a port, and now, just hours ago, they downed one of our aircraft in international air-space.”

  Defense Minister Beskrovny spoke up. “We’re looking into that, Mr. President, but initially it appears to have been an accident.”

  “Believe that if you like, Marshal,” Bulganin shot back. “What about the Chinese? It’s not enough they accuse us of murdering their citizens, but now they invade our airspace on a so-called rescue mission. What kind of aircraft were they, Marshal?”

  “Antonov transports. Unarmed and empty, it appears.”

  “So it appears,” Bulganin repeated. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they destroyed their own aircraft just to give themselves a reason.”

  “A reason for what?” asked SVR director Sergei Fedorin.

  “That’s what I want you to tell me! Do you have any answers?”

  “Not yet, Mr. President.”

  And understandably so, Nochenko thought. These incidents had occurred one on top of the next. There had scarcely been time to digest the information, let alone draw conclusions.

  Even so, Nochenko was worried. Farfetched though it seemed, Bulganin’s statement about the Chinese planes couldn’t be discounted. All these events were related somehow; there was a pattern to them, but Nochenko had yet to piece it together. Coincidence is the mother of deception.

  Moreover, the events seemed to be keeping pace with one another—disastrous stepping-stones leading toward some unknown goal. Whatever that was, a theme was emerging: provocation and escalation. But who is the provocateur? China or the U.S.? Or both?

  Nochenko broke in: “Mr. President, I have a suggestion.”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a trend of escalation going on. Whether intentional or unintentional, we can’t be certain, but we must choose our next steps carefully. The best course is to not feed the fire. Let Minister Kagorin contact the Chinese ambassador and—”

  “And what?” Bulganin snapped. “Grovel? Show them we’re frightened? I don’t think so. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. We’ve been attacked] Am I the only one who sees that?”

  Bulganin looked from man to man. “Am I alone in this, gentlemen? Do any of you care about the security of your country? If not, say so now, and I’ll find someone to replace you. Anyone?”

  No one spoke.

  “Good,” Bulganin said, then clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. “Here are my orders: Minister Kagorin, you will contact the Chinese ambassador; we will give them one more chance to moderate their position. Director Fedorin, these events are connected. I want to know how and why. Marshal Beskrovny, until further notice, I want interceptors patrolling our border with China day and night. I want the American battle group stopped before it comes within one hundred miles of our shore. Finally, I want every Military District from here to Vladivostok brought to full alert—including the Rocket Forces.”

  Beskrovny stepped forward, his face drawn. “Mr. President—”

  “That’s an order,” Bulganin said.

  “If we bring our nuclear forces to alert, the Chinese will reciprocate.”

  “Let them. Perhaps it will scare some sense into them.”

  Nochenko interrupted: “Vlad—”

  Bulganin glared at him.

  “Mr. President … Please reconsider.”

  “I’ve made my decision. Marshal Beskrovny, are your orders clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “You will carry them out?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Bulganin rapped his desk with a fist. “Good. You’re all dismissed.”

  60

  Chono Dam

  With Skeldon now on his side, Cahil’s chances of stopping the dam’s destruction had improved, but he still faced tough odds. They were not only outnumbered, but without weapons.

  With no way to fight, Cahil had turned his mind to sabotage, but as the first day passed and moved into the second, the Chinese colonel began inspecting his work on the charges. The man knew his business, Cahil immediately realized. There was no way to make the charges both defective enough to fail, and convincing enough to pass muster.

  “We’re going to have to take them on,” Cahil whispered as he and Skeldon worked.

  “With what, sticks?”

  “Either that or your charming personality.”

  Skeldon grinned at him. “Smart-ass.”

  “Do we know what they’re waiting for? A signal, or are they on a timetable?”

  “I’m betting a signal,” Skeldon said. “I’ve been watching their radioman; he’s been making contact every four hours since yesterday.”

  “Then we might be coming down to the wire,” Cahil said. “How’s your head?”

  “Hurts, but no more than usual.” Skeldon paused, frowning. “Here’s a thought: What if we take some of my pills and slip them into their—”

  “I considered that,” Cahil said, “They’re too sharp. I haven’t seen them let down their guards once. Besides, they eat in shifts. We’d only get a couple of them before they caught on.”

  “Then what’re we going to do?”

  Cahil thought for a few moments. “Is there any way we can get back into the mine? Can you tell them I need to see the boreholes again?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Cahil explained briefly, and Skeldon said, “There’s one way to find out.”

  The Colonel gave them permission, but ordered one of the commandos to escort them.

  Once through the entry hole and into the main tunnel, they began walking, Cahil in the lead, followed by Skeldon, then the commando, who carried his M-16 at ready-low with the safety off. Cahil studied the walls and ceiling, hoping he’d recognize what he was looking for when he saw it. About halfway to the cavern, he spotted it: A bowl-shaped shelf jutting downward from the ceiling.

  “Hold up,” Bear called as he drew even with the shelf. Skeldon stopped, as did the commando, who backed up a few feet, M-16 pointed in their general direction. “I’ve got a rock in my boot.”

  He went through the motions of fixing his boot, then stood up. As he did so, he reached up and grabbed the shelf. “Boy, that’s handy, ain’t it?”

  Skeldon nodded. “Sure is.”

  They spent ten minutes in the cavern as Cahil pretended to study the boreholes, then retraced their steps to the outside. Once back in camp, he and Skeldon returned to work on the charges.

  “Think you’ll be able to spot it?” Cahil asked him.

  “Yep. Why that spot?”

  “You saw how it was angled down?” Skeldon nodded. “It will work just like a shaped charge. If we time it right, whoever’s behind us will take the brunt
of the explosion.”

  “I like it. So what do we need?”

  “A few ounces of C4.”

  “What about a detonator?”

  Cahil smiled. “I thought you might be able to use your winning personality to steal one.”

  Nakhodka-Vostochny

  Though Cathermeier’s words had been oblique, the message for Jurens and his team had been clear: Columbia is gone, either missing or dead; don’t count on extraction anytime soon. It wasn’t exactly what Sconi had wanted to hear, but he was unsurprised. However bad their own situation, it was obviously worse elsewhere.

  Time to get wet and go home, he thought. The idea of continuing this game of hide-and-seek with the Russian troops didn’t appeal to him. Confident as he was in his team, he also knew a good commander didn’t pit himself against a force many times his size unless he had no choice.

  Shortly after midnight, Smitty and Zee slipped back into their camouflaged bolt-hole above the road junction. Parked fifty yards below their perch was a Federation Army truck and a squad of eight soldiers. Laying on his belly, Jurens surveyed the road block through his Night Owls.

  “They’re new,” Smitty whispered. “How long’ve they been here?”

  “About an hour. So far they don’t look inclined to send out patrols, but the night is young.”

  “And if they do?”

  “We let them slip past us.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  Jurens gave him a glance. They both knew the answer to the question: Kill the squad as quietly as possible and move on. Jurens hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “What’d you find?” he asked.

  “Not our ride home, but maybe the next best thing.”

  “Where and what?”

  “About three miles south of here there’s a small cove with a pier. We counted eight boats moored alongside.”

  “What kind?”

  “Mostly small trawlers and a few skiffs. Good enough to get us into international waters.”

  “See any Indians?”

  “They’re thick, Skipper. All the road junctions are covered. We had to bypass three foot patrols on the way back. When we make our move, we better not be in a hurry.”

  Jurens nodded. “Nice work. Get some sleep. You’ve got the four to six watch.”

  Smitty crawled away.

  How many out there looking for us? Jurens wondered. At least a company, and more coming into the port every hour, it seemed. No matter how good his team was, it was only a matter of time before some patrol stumbled onto them.

  USS Columbia

  Columbia had been resting on the bottom for two days, and like Jurens, Archie Kinsock was itching to move. Two days of sitting, listening to the hull settle deeper into the silt, feeling the deck tremble with every strong current … And waiting—waiting for the eerie whistle of an active sonar scouring the seabed for them.

  So far the crew had handled the stress well, but sooner or later the boredom and uncertainty would take its toll. Aside from the SLOT buoys—which provided only one-way communication—their link to the outside world was gone. If they hadn’t already, some of the crew would start to worry they’d been abandoned. They knew better, of course, but unlike knowledge, which is born of logic, despair and fear work on those dark places in your brain where logic doesn’t live.

  In their case, there was only one cure against despair: action.

  Get off the bottom, get moving, and take our chances, Kinsock thought.

  MacGregor walked over to the status board where Kinsock stood. “He’s back,” the XO said.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Cold but fine.”

  “Thank God.”

  Two hours earlier Kinsock had sent the boat’s diver, Gunners Mate John Howley, out the escape trunk to determine whether the hatches to the maneuvering thrusters were clear. Sitting as they were in the silt, one or both of them might be buried.

  “Remind me to put him up for an accommodation,” Kin-sock said. “How’d it look?”

  “The port-side hatch is clear; starboard is partially blocked, but by only a couple inches of silt Howley said it’s fine, almost powdery.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while. Get down to engineering and tell the chief we’re in business. Next high tide, we fire up the thrusters and drive outa here.”

  61

  Yingkou

  Ten minutes after three, Xiang’s cell phone trilled. It was Kwei: “He just called.”

  “Where is he?” Xiang asked.

  “In the city somewhere, but he refused to say. He’ll be at the Liaobin ferry terminal at five.”

  “We’ll find it,” Xiang said. “Is he expecting you?”

  “No, I told him one of my people would be coming, a man named Lin. That way, you can—”

  “Good thinking. If you hear from him again, call me immediately.”

  “Of course.”

  Xiang hung up and turned to Eng. “Liaobin, two hours.”

  The ferry was halfway across Yinkou harbor when Xiang’s phone rang again. “Yes?”

  It was Shen. “We have a problem. One of the trackers was walking his dog north of the station and he got a hit on Tanner’s scent.”

  “What! How sure are they?”

  “Very. The dogs went crazy. I think I know how he did it,” Shen said, then explained Tanner’s ruse. “We followed the trail for about a mile. He’s still headed northeast.”

  Xiang paused, thinking. He’s been toying with us since he jumped off the damned train! He’s wasted our time, split our forces. … “Lieutenant, split your men into two trucks. I want one team to follow the rail line north, the other to stay on Tanner’s scent. Somewhere, the two are going to meet.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He’s got over two hundred miles to go. He’s not going to run all of it. Get moving!”

  Shijiapu, China

  Two hundred miles northeast of Xiang, Tanner was nervous. Whether from cynicism or a sixth sense, he couldn’t quash the feeling that things were going too smoothly. His luck had held out too long.

  Upon jumping into the freight car, he’d found it loaded not with feather pillows, but stacks of rotted railroad ties. Though the ride had been far from comfortable, he’d fallen quickly asleep inside the makeshift cave he’d created in the car’s bottom corner, and dozed intermittently, watching the sky and listening to the train’s wheels thump over the joints.

  Once past the incline by the lake, the train had steadily picked up speed as it began a winding course north and east through the towns of Zhangwu, Baojiatun, Jinjiazhen. Shortly after his call to Kwei, he passed out of Liaoning Province and into Jilin.

  According to his map, the camp was 250 miles away.

  Xiang’s hind landed in a small clearing south of the lake. A truck drove him the half mile to the rail line where Shen was waiting. Despite the late afternoon sunshine, Xiang could feel a chill in the air. He pulled his coat tighter around him.

  “The trail ends here,” Shen reported. “He must have laid in the grass here—probably guessing the train would have to slow on the incline—and jumped aboard as it passed.”

  “Could he have walked the rails? Can the dogs track scent on steel?”

  The dog handler nodded. “Yes, sir. Not as well, but they can. There’s been no rain, no wind to speak of. … If he’d done that, the dogs would have caught it.”

  “Then he’s aboard another train,” Xiang said. He turned to Eng. “Call the Fuxin station. I want a complete map and schedule of every route north of Xinqiu.” Then to Shen: “Lieutenant, you, twelve of your best men, and the dog teams come with me. Eng will arrange transport for the rest.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “We’re flying straight up this line and stopping every train we come across.”

  Sixteen miles north of Changchun, Tanner’s luck ran out.

  Sunset was less than thi
rty minutes away when he heard the distant beating of helicopter rotors. He closed his eyes and strained to listen, hoping against hope the sound would fade into the distance. It didn’t. Coming closer, he thought. From the south. He climbed to the top of the car and peeked out.

  Three hundred yards behind, sunlight glinting off its cockpit, a Hind helicopter raced toward the caboose. Briggs ducked as it swept overhead. The Hind drew alongside the locomotive, then banked hard, circling and descending over me tracks. The whistle blared. The train lurched forward, slowing.

  Tanner didn’t have time to think. He ran forward, leaping from tie to tie until he reached the front of the car, then slipped over the side and down the access ladder into the caboose buffer.

  He leaned out, looked ahead. Wind whipped his face. A half mile ahead of the locomotive, the Hind had come to rest across the tracks, its rotors still spinning. The train was slowing rapidly and great billows of steam drifted back along the cars.

  Tanner jumped. He landed hard on his shoulder and hip, then found his feet and tried to stand. White-hot pain shot through his feet, into his legs, and up his back. He collapsed. Instinctively, he knew what was wrong. Stupid! Lying still for hours inside the top-loader, his muscles had stiffened.

  He dropped to his belly and looked around. Bordering the tracks was a field of waist-high millet. This early in the season, it was still green and tender, and would betray his passage as clearly as a neon arrow. But there was nowhere else to go.

  Down the tracks, the Hind’s side door opened and soldier’s began leaping out, followed by a pair of dog handlers. The dogs tugged on their leashes and barked. The cockpit door opened and out stepped Xiang; he talked with one of the soldiers, who turned and began barking orders.

  Time to go, Briggs.

  Jaw clenched against the pain, he crawled up the embankment and onto the tracks so the caboose would temporarily shield him from the soldiers. He forced himself upright and started running.