Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  “All,” she ordered. “Drink all.”

  Tun-San sat beside the cot as his wife fed Tanner bowl after bowl of what he’d mentally dubbed “sweat sock soup.” Halfway through the second bowl, his taste buds went mercifully numb.

  After the first hour, he signaled that he needed to relieve himself. With Tun-San’s help he hobbled onto the porch and urinated into a steel pail until it was full

  Tun-San nodded approvingly and patted him on the back. “Bad out,” he said.

  The process went on for another six hours until Briggs had consumed nearly two gallons of the broth and made a dozen trips to the pail. To his amazement, with each urination he felt progressively better. His headache and fever began to fade and he felt the strength returning to his limbs.

  Occasionally, after he’d finished outside, Wu would retrieve the pail, pour some of the urine into a clear jar and examine it in the light, clicking her tongue and squinting.

  By mid afternoon, she ordered him out of bed and to the kitchen table. Tanner stood up, testing his legs. Aside from a slight ache in his calf and some residual body weakness, he felt remarkably good.

  Wu placed a plate of boiled vegetables and fried rice before him. He suddenly realized how hungry he was and began eating, not stopping until he’d consumed two platefuls and downed three glasses of goat’s milk. Through it all, Wu stood, arms akimbo, and nodded. When he was done, she cleared away the dishes and set a clay mug before him.

  “Cha lu,” Tun-San explained.

  “Green tea?” Tanner said.

  “Yes, green tea with … ah …” He made a buzzing sound.

  “Honey?”

  “Yes! Honey!”

  It was delicious. He finished three mugs before he could drink no more.

  Wu pointed to the door and said, “Use pail, then bring.”

  When he returned, she repeated her inspection process, squinting at the specimen for several seconds before turning to him. “Better,” she proclaimed, then asked. “Feel better?”

  “Much better,” Tanner said. “Thank you, Wu.”

  Mere thanks wasn’t enough, he knew. Not only had these people probably saved his life, but they’d given him a mental boost he hadn’t even realized he needed. It felt good to be surrounded by friendly faces for a change. White skin, blond hair and all, they’d seen someone in need and had helped. “Thank you both,” he repeated.

  For the first time since Tanner had arrived, Wu smiled. “Happy to do.”

  Later, he and Tun-San sat on the porch together. “Where your friend?” he asked.

  “I’ll show you,” Tanner said. “Where’s my pack?” Tun-San went inside and returned with it. Tanner pulled out the map, took a moment to orient himself, then pointed. “He’s right here.”

  Tun-San peered at the map. “How far?”

  “About a hundred seventy kilometers.”

  “Eh?”

  “A hundred seventy gong li.”

  Tun-San traced his finger along the map, muttering to himself and measuring distances with his thumb. “Five hours,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Be there zhong tou—five—hours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tun-San stood up and grinned. “Come.”

  Tanner followed him to the barn. Tun-San unlatched the doors and swung them open.

  Sitting inside was a rust-streaked, powder blue 1952 Chevrolet pickup truck. Aside from the cab, which was pitted with rust holes, the rest of the truck seemed to be constructed solely of bamboo and what looked like several miles of bailing wire. In the place of rear tires were a pair of wagon wheels. The doors had been removed; in their places, a pair of horizontal bamboo rods.

  To Tanner, the truck looked like something out of a Gilligan’s Island episode.

  Beaming with pride, Tun-San opened the hood.

  Instead of a traditional engine, a motorcycle engine was suspended from the mounting brackets by yet more bailing wire. A rubber belt like those found on industrial timber saws connected the engine to the drive axle. Jutting from the top of the contraption was a rope cord connected to a T-handle—the starter, Tanner realized.

  Tun-San pointed at the engine. “Triumph, nineteen sixty-five.”

  “Triumph motorcycle engine?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s amazing, Tun-San. You built this?”

  He nodded. “Four years.”

  “It runs? It goes?”

  “Oh, yes. I show. I can take you to your friend.”

  Tanner shook his head. “No. Thank you, but no. If you’re seen with me, you’ll get into trouble.”

  Tun-San waved his hand like an old Jewish mother. “No trouble. I drive, you hide.”

  Tanner was torn. If by accepting the offer he brought harm to Tun-San and his family, Briggs would never be able to live with himself; on the other hand, he doubted he had the strength to reach the camp on foot—not quickly, at least. Tanner extended his hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Tun-San took it. “You welcome, my friend.”

  After saying good-bye to the children, Tanner accepted a small jug of sweat sock soup and a set of stern dosage instructions from Wu. On impulse, he gave her a hug, evoking a giggle from her.

  “I’m happy to have met you,” Tanner said. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Yi-lu ping-an,” she replied. Have a good trip.

  With three crates of eggs and two five-gallon gas cans resting on a bed of straw in the back and Tun-San at the wheel, Tanner pushed the surprisingly buoyant truck out of the barn. He got into the passenger seat and, at Tun-San’s urging, pressed his foot on the brake pedal.

  Tun-San got out, lifted the hood, then reached inside and heaved on the pull cord. With a throaty roar and a puff of smoke, the engine fired to life. Tanner felt the rear wheels churning on the ground. Apparently, Tun-San’s chariot had only two gears: forward and stop.

  Tun-San slammed the hood and leapt into the driver’s seat. He gripped the wheel with both hands then nodded to Tanner, who took his foot off the brake. The truck lurched forward.

  “See?” Tun-San said. “Runs good.”

  64

  NMCC

  “How many ships in the SAG?” Mason asked.

  An hour before, the commander of the Stennis group, Commodore Scott, reported a Surface Action Group of Russian warships steaming north toward the group’s picket ships, while Cheyenne, patrolling ahead of the group, was engaged in a game of cat and mouse with a Russian Akula.

  “We’re still trying to identify the individual elements,” Cathermeier replied, “but according to the most recent flyover, it looks like a good chunk of the Russian Pacific Fleet—might be as many as eighteen warships, from Krivak-class frigates to Kirov cruisers.”

  “How much distance between them and us?”

  “Less than ninety miles.”

  “Too close. If somebody pushes the panic button, they could be mixing it up in minutes.”

  “The Sea of Japan just ain’t big enough for all that firepower,” Cathermeier agreed.

  “What about the rest of the Federation?” Dutcher asked. “How widespread is this alert?”

  “Across the board. We’ve got reports of increased radio traffic in every district from Moscow to Vladivostok—all branches, from ground forces to rocket forces.”

  “Tactical or nuclear?”

  “Both. Leaves and furloughs are being cancelled; interceptors are sitting hot on runways at Chita, Ulan-Ude, Irkutsk, and Vladivostok; they’re also putting up BARCAPs along the border,” Cathermeier said, referring to Barrier Combat Air Patrol; once a navy-specific term, it had become a generic description of any airborne line of defense.

  “What about the Chinese?” Mason asked

  “Mirror image,” said Cathermeier. “We haven’t seen much ground movement, but every air base in the Beijing and Shenyang military regions is on full alert—same with the F
irst, Fifth, and Twenty-Third Army Groups nearest the Mongolian salient.”

  “Where exactly?”

  Cathermeier turned to the watch officer. “Put up a topographical map of Heilongjiang.” The major tapped his keyboard and a map appeared on the screen. Using a laser pointer, Cathermeier traced the Chinese-Mongolian border as it swept upward, forming a bulge into Siberia. “The First, Fifth, and Twenty-third all have their bases in this area south of the Hinggan Mountains.”

  “That makes sense,” Mason muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The shale oil deposits Skeldon mapped start north of Hinggans, just inside the border.”

  “Well, if that’s going to be their penetration point, then they’ve got a tough job ahead of them,” Cathermeier replied. “Just getting there by ground would take four days, which would give the Russians time to shift. If that’s their plan, it’s flawed.”

  Mason considered this. “How would you do it?”

  Cathermeier chuckled. “I wouldn’t.”

  “If you had to.”

  “I’d have to give it some thought, but I’ll tell you this: I’d make damned sure I had surprise on my side. The Russian’s know how to defend their soil.”

  “The Chinese have to know that,” Dutcher said.

  “You’d think so.”

  They talked for a few minutes more, then Mason led them into the Tank and shut the door.

  “Any word from Tanner or Cahil?”

  “Nothing from Ian and nothing from Briggs since his last message,” Dutcher replied. “If he hasn’t been captured, he’s probably still en route to the camp.”

  “I hate to say it, but I don’t think we should count on either of them. We have to move now. Martin’s not going to back down; he’s watching a war unfold before his eyes and he’s still more worried about covering his ass.”

  “When do you want to do it?”

  “Tonight. I’ll call Lahey.”

  Moscow

  ​It was past midnight when the knock came at Ivan Nochenko’s door. He got up, threw on his robe, and peered through the peephole. Standing in the hall were Sergei Fedorin and Marshal Beskrovny. Both wore street clothes. Nochenko unlocked the door and opened it.

  “May we come in?” Beskrovny said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  They stepped inside and Nochenko gestured toward the kitchen table. Fedorin and Beskrovny sat down. Something’s wrong, Nochenko thought. “What is it? Has something happened?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Fedorin said. “We’re hoping to stop something before it starts.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nochenko said. That wasn’t entirely true; part of his brain knew why they’d come. “What are you talking about?”

  Beskrovny said, “Ivan, you know President Bulganin better than anyone, yes?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “How does he seem to you?”

  “He’s under a lot of stress, if that’s what you mean.”

  “We’re all under stress,” Fedorin replied. “We’re more concerned with him.”

  “He’s going through an adjustment period. This early in office, it’s to be expected—especially given the circumstances—the Chinese, the American battle group …”

  “You’re not concerned?”

  “Of course I’m concerned. Stop mincing words! Say what you came to say.”

  Fedorin and Beskrovny exchanged glances. Beskrovny cleared his throat. “We feel the president is leading the country down a very dangerous path. We feel he’s … unbalanced.”

  There it is, Nochenko thought. He felt a flash of anger, but before he could open his mouth to speak, the emotion was gone, replaced by a strange clarity. All the doubts and fears about Bulganin he’d been suppressing came back in a flood.

  Unbalanced? Nochenko thought. Vladimir Bulganin was far beyond unbalanced. He’d known that for a long time. Not only known it, he thought, but ignored it. Maybe even helped it along.

  And for what? Nochenko thought. For the challenge of it. Like some half-baked god, he’d been trying to create a king from a lump of clay, but instead he’d created a golem, a monster born of desire and vanity and delusion.

  “Are you all right?” Beskrovny asked. “You don’t look well.”

  Nochenko took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to step carefully here. If Fedorin and Beskrovny were heading in the direction he suspected, his role as Bulganin’s chief advisor would be not only pivotal, but perilous.

  “I’m fine,” Nochenko replied. “Let’s suppose you’re right. What do you propose?”

  “That depends on what happens in the coming days,” said Fedorin. “If he continues on the same course, our options become limited. Neither Victor nor myself can refuse his orders—not without being dismissed.”

  “Which he would do without hesitation.”

  Beskrovny nodded. “And then appoint more … pliable men in our places. That’s the rub, you see. Whatever is behind this business with China and all the rest of it, we haven’t seen the worst of it. Events are not going to slow down and wait for Bulganin to get his house in order.”

  “In other words, while he’s sacking you, the missiles are flying.”

  “That’s a very real possibility.”

  And if the missiles do start flying, Nochenko thought, the country is going to need men like Fedorin and Beskrovny. He wondered if that was part of their message to him: Your golem is out of control. We know what we‘re willing to do to save Russia. What about you?

  “Tomorrow I’ll speak with him,” Nochenko said. “Perhaps he’ll rethink his stance.”

  “Perhaps,” Marshal Beskrovny replied.

  “And if he doesn’t?” Fedorin asked.

  Your golem, Ivan.

  “Then we’ll meet again and … discuss alternatives.”

  65

  Anjia, Heilongjiang Province, China

  Not long after they had left, Tanner discovered that Tun-San was familiar with their route.

  As it turned out, three times a year he would travel to Harbin armed with a shopping list from other nearby farmers. At over three million people, Harbin was a strange and wondrous place, and Tun-San had become something of a hero for his tri-yearly quests to what many of them still called Pinkiang, the city’s name when Heilongjiang Province was still known as Manchuria.

  Tun-San followed the meandering dirt roads with confidence, never once consulting Tanner’s map. Before long, Briggs learned his secret.

  “Rock shape like bird,” Tun-San would call out, pointing. Or, “Two trees leaning.”

  As the pickup chugged along, eating up the distance at a slow but steady twenty-five mph, Tun-San called out landmark after landmark, explaining to Tanner why it was special and how he used it to navigate. Some of them he used only during summer months, others only during the rainy season when his normal route was flooded.

  Aside from a handful of peasants, Tanner saw very few people on the roads, oftentimes going for an hour without seeing a soul. At those times, Tun-San would invariably spot the pedestrian first and call out, “Duck,” and Tanner would crouch on the floor until he got the all clear.

  Outside Yushu, twenty-five miles from the southern border of Heilongjiang Province, they started an impromptu game of “Name That object” as Tun-San pointed at a low-flying hawk. “Niaor!” he called.

  “Niaor,” Tanner repeated, then said, “bird.”

  The game continued until they reversed roles and Tun-San pointed and called out, “Cow!”

  “No,” Tanner replied. “Cucumber.”

  Eyes narrowed, Tun-San glanced sideways at him. “Cucumber?”

  Tanner smiled. “No, cow.”

  “Yes. Cow,” Tun-San replied, then started laughing.

  True to Tun-San’s estimate, five hours after they left, they arrived on the southern outskirts of Anjia, a tiny village of less than two hundred
people. Tun-San pulled over and shut off the engine. Outside, dusk was falling and Tanner could see black-bellied clouds piling up on the horizon. A gust of wind cut through the cab, sending a tingle up his neck. “Rain’s coming.”

  “Very much rain,” Tun-San agreed. “Map, please?”

  Tanner unfolded it and set it on the seat between them. He clicked on his flashlight.

  Tun-San traced his finger along the map. “Anjia … here. We … here. Your friend?”

  Tanner pointed to a spot in a valley to the northeast. “Here. I can walk the rest—”

  “No.”

  “It might be better if—”

  “Quiet, cucumber man,” Tun-San ordered, then barked out a laugh.

  Four miles north of Anjia, Tun-San turned east off the main road onto a narrow track barely wider than the truck. Night had fallen, and with it the wind had risen. Briggs could smell ozone in the air, a sure sign rain wasn’t far off.

  Suddenly a pair of headlights glowed to life in front of them. “Duck!” Tun-San called.

  Tanner hit the floorboards. Hands held before him against the glare, Tun-San jammed on the brakes. The truck shuddered to a stop with the back wheels still churning.

  “Can you tell who it is?” Tanner whispered.

  “Army truck.”

  Army truck. This close to the camp, it had to be a roadblock. If they had dogs, it was all over.

  An amplified voice called, “Ting!” Stop! followed by another order Tanner didn’t catch.

  “They say come ahead,” Tun-San muttered.

  “Do it,” Briggs said. “After a few feet, steer toward the edge of the road until your front wheel is in the grass, then shut off the engine and tell them you’ve stalled. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Tun-San glanced down at him and covertly extended his hand; Briggs took it. “Luck to you, Huang tou tai gao le,” Tun-San said.

  “And you, my friend. Thanks for everything.”

  As Tun-San started moving forward, foot pressed on the brake to keep his speed down, Tanner turned around so he was facing the door opening. Tun-San began easing to the right. Tanner watched the strip of dirt disappear and change to grass. Tun-San cut the wheel and shut of the engine.