Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  Eyes fixed on the guard below, Briggs turned the AK so it hung across his chest, then dropped his feet through the hatch. He took one final breath of fresh air, then started downward.

  The tank’s interior was a perfect echo chamber, amplifying the rhythmic grinding of the pump. He closed the hatch and the tank fell into complete blackness. Tanner felt a flash of claustrophobia. He closed his eyes, pressed his ghillie mask tighter over his nose, and concentrated on his breathing until the panic waned. He clicked on his flashlight and felt instantly better.

  The tank was half full of fecal bilge, a brown-green quagmire that lapped at the sides of the tank with a sickening, gurgling sound. A miniwave of it washed over the bottom rung and left behind an oily deposit on his boot. At the rear of the tank the fluid whirl pooled around the vent valve.

  Slowly but steadily the effluent level began to drop. A sporadic sucking sound echoed through the tank. The pump chugged and groaned. Tanner felt like he was trapped inside the belly of some prehistoric beast.

  After another ten minutes, the tank was finally empty except for a half-inch of waste. Briggs stepped down, careful of his footing on the stainless-steel surface.

  With a great sucking whoosh, the last of the tank’s contents disappeared through the valve. The pump went silent. The cab’s door opened, then shut. The truck’s engine growled to life, and as Tanner reached out to steady himself on the ladder, it began moving.

  He spent most of the twenty-minute trip perched on the ladder, holding the hatch open a few inches and breathing fresh air. He couldn’t remember a more beautiful smell and vowed to never take it for granted again.

  With more grinding of gears, the truck began slowing, then came to a stop. Outside, a voice—the driver’s, he assumed—called out in Mandarin. Another voice answered, followed by the squeaking of steel hinges. The main gate, Briggs thought. The truck lurched forward again.

  Inside—

  The truck lurched to a stop. Silence. Then footsteps clanking on the access ladder outside. What the hell is this … ? Hsiao had mentioned nothing about anyone inspecting the inside of the tank. Briggs unclipped his pack from the ladder, unzipped the side pocket, pulled out the revolver.

  The hatch opened. A shaft of sunlight knifed through the darkness.

  Tanner raised the revolver and pointed at the opening.

  A hand appeared and gave the thumbs-up sign. A moment later, Kam Hsiao’s face appeared in the opening. He spotted Tanner, gave him a brief nod and a smile, then withdrew.

  The hatch clanged shut. Then Hsiao’s voice: “All clear! Drive on!”

  After a few more stops and turns the truck was backed into the garage and the barn doors shut behind it. Briggs remained inside the tank for another ten minutes until certain he was alone, then climbed the ladder, popped the hatch, and peeked out.

  Aside from some daylight showing around the edges of the doors and through a small, tarnished window in the rear, the garage was dark.

  He grabbed his pack, climbed down the ladder, and dropped to the floor.

  Hsiao’s directions took him into the garage’s small office, where he found a battleship gray desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and a mangy, threadbare rug covering the floor. Tanner lifted its corner and there, set into the floor just as Hsiao had promised, was a hatch. He grabbed the handle and lifted, exposing the dirt foundation. A gust of cold, musty air blew past his face.

  Built in the early fifties, all of the camp’s buildings had been equipped with crawl spaces for easy access to the electrical conduits and plumbing. Chosen twice a month by lottery, three guards were forced to inspect each building’s crawl spaces for rodent infestation and weather damage.

  “It’s the least favorite duty in the camp,” Hsiao had explained, “Believe me: no one will go there unless they have to. You’ll be safe.”

  Tanner dropped his pack and AK through the hatch, then stepped down. The opening came up to his waist. He reached back, grabbed the corner of the rug, then pulled it over the hatch as he closed it behind him.

  A few feet into the crawl space Briggs found a black plastic garbage bag—the items he’d asked Hsiao to gather. He took a quick inventory and found everything there—including a surprise: a small tinfoil package. Inside was a hunk of roast pork tenderloin, some grilled broccoli, and fried rice.

  Good ol’ Hsiao.

  Despite the grumbling in his belly, Briggs resealed the food and set it aside. First work, then eat.

  He had a lot to do if he was going to be ready for tonight.

  69

  NMCC

  Led by General Cathermeier, now-President David Lahey, Dick Mason, and Leland Dutcher walked into the center. “What’s happening, Commander?”

  The CAC duty officer, a female navy lieutenant commander, walked over. “I have a briefing ready, General. If you’ll follow me.”

  She led them into the tank and waited for everyone to find a seat, then walked to the wall screen, which showed a map of the Chinese-Russian border stretching from the western corner of the Mongolian salient to Birobijan, Russia’s Jewish Autonomous Oblast, in the east.

  “As of now,” the duty officer began, “we’re showing two squadrons of aircraft moving toward the border. Initial composition of the group appears to be a mix of A-501, Russian built A-50 birds, and defense fighters.”

  Lahey interrupted. “Pardon me, Commander, but I’m a little rusty. Could you translate all that into English for me?”

  “Yes, sir. A-501s are Israeli-made AWACS radar planes used to coordinate air-to-air fighters. They can spot and track targets from hundreds of miles away and then vector fighters to intercept them. The use of such planes is critical if an attacker hopes to gain air superiority.

  “A-50s are similar to AWACS, but they serve in more of an ELINT role—electronic intelligence gathering. Similar to that of the AWACS, their job is to detect enemy radio and radar transmissions, and in some cases jam them. A-50s are old, but still useful; they can be used to direct ground-attack aircraft toward ground-to-air missile sites, as well as fighters toward enemy AWACS.”

  “Unless I’m wrong, doesn’t that tell us something?” Lahey said.

  “Yes, sir,” Cathermeier replied. “Whatever the Chinese are planning, they’re making it their first job to gain air superiority over Siberia. If they can wipe the skies of Russian fighters, that makes everything else easier.”

  “But we still don’t know what that is.”

  “No, sir. Commander, anything new on ground forces in the salient?”

  “Very little movement. All of it’s consistent with the increased alert status, but not a coordinated push toward the border. Even if they moved now, the first mechanized division wouldn’t reach the border for three days.”

  Dick Mason said, “That’s damned odd.”

  “Go on, Commander,” said Cathermeier.

  “Fighter bases throughout the Beijing and Shenyang military regions are on full alert. We expect once the AWACS and ELINT planes get on station with their midair refuelers, we’ll see a surge of fighters and interceptors moving toward the border.”

  “They’re trying to get the Russians to commit their own fighters and AWACS early,” Dutcher said. “Get them up, make them wait, expend resources, then swoop in.”

  Cathermeier nodded. “I agree. And they’ll have no choice but to do it. These days they haven’t got enough ground, radar stations to cover the whole salient. Commander, any statements from either Moscow or Beijing?”

  “Not a peep, sir.”

  “Bad sign,” Mason said.

  “There’s more,” the duty officer said. “As of an hour ago, satellite surveillance showed a Chinese surface-action group from the PLAAN’s North Sea Fleet moving out of the East China Sea and into the Korean Straits.”

  “Moving toward Vladivostok,” Cathermeier muttered.

  “Explain,” Lahey said.

  “Our joint battle group is currently
steaming …” Cathermeier looked to the duty officer.

  “One hundred fifty miles, steaming east at twelve knots.”

  “A hundred fifty miles off the Russian coast; in response, the Russians sent out their own SAG—surface action group—to meet us, which is …”

  “One hundred seventy miles south of us, steaming north at fifteen,” the duty officer replied.

  “They’re closing the box,” Cathermeier said.

  “Explain,” Lahey said.

  “Geography is against us. Vladivostok is in the Sea of Japan, which is a tight fit for a battle group. To the north, the waters continue to narrow between Sakhalin Island and the Russian coast. Now, squeeze into that space our battle group, the Russian and Chinese SAGs … We’ll be scraping paint with each other. Worse still, we’ve got no way of withdrawing except by going south—through the Russian group. Commander, what’s the size and makeup of the Chinese SAG?”

  “Sixteen ships, consisting mainly of Haizhou-, Shenzhen-and Luda-class destroyers plus an odd mix of medium and light frigates.”

  “By itself, not much of a match for us,” Cathermeier told Lahey, “but throw the Russians into the mix … It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “Which is probably their intention,” Dutcher replied. “To the Russians, it will be more evidence that we’re in bed with China: A U.S. battle group and a Chinese SAG off their coast, and Chinese fighters threatening their southern border.”

  “Not to mention the attack on NV,” Mason added.

  “A joint invasion,” Lahey murmured. “If I were sitting in Moscow myself, I’d probably see the same thing. Christ almighty.”

  There was a knock on the conference room door; a marine lieutenant poked his head in. “Director Mason, message for you.”

  “Thanks.” Mason took the message, read it, then looked at Cathermeier. “General, can you excuse the commander for a moment?”

  “Sure. Thank you, Commander. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  Once she was gone, Mason held up the message. “From Tanner.”

  “Thank God,” Dutcher said, leaning forward. “What’s he say?”

  “He’s alive and at the camp. He’s making his move tonight, his time.”

  “How?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Lahey said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, what are we talking about?”

  Mason responded. “Tanner is the man we sent in after General Soong. A few days ago in Beijing he was burned; he went on the run. He’s managed to reach the prison camp where they’re holding Soong.”

  “And this Soong—he’s the one you think might hold the key to what China’s up to?”

  “Yes, sir. We hope.”

  “Well, then let’s say a little prayer for both of them,” Lahey replied. “In the meantime, we have to slow this thing down. What are our options?”

  “Diplomacy is out,” Dutcher said. “At this stage, China’s got too much. They’re not going to stop.”

  “I agree,” Mason said.

  “Then Moscow,” Lahey said. “We’ve got to make the Russians see the bigger picture.”

  “That’s a toss-up. Vladimir Bulganin is something of an enigma, and so far he isn’t showing the greatest restraint. He’s already got his forces at full alert, ready to pull the trigger.”

  David Lahey sighed. “Well, then my introduction to the game of international diplomacy is going to be an interesting one. Let’s get President Bulganin on the phone.”

  Moscow

  ​“What does this mean? How far from the border are they?” cried Vladimir Bulganin. “Is this an attack or not!”

  Marshal Beskrovny hesitated. “Not an attack, Mr. President, but it certainly appears like the precursor to one. These radar and signal-gathering aircraft that—”

  “Gathering what?”

  “Electronic intelligence from radio transmissions, SAM sites—”

  “Our defenses, you mean.”

  “Yes, sir. The radar aircraft they’ve got up are most often used to coordinate fighter aircraft.”

  Bulganin began pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. “… going to attack,” he muttered to himself. “The yellow bastards are going to attack us!”

  For the first time in days, Ivan Nochenko agreed with Bulganin. They were seeing the opening moves of an air campaign. But why? he wondered. To what end? So far, Beijing had rebuffed their every attempt to communicate. This wasn’t about the Chinese diaspora in Siberia; the reaction was too disproportionate. Then what?

  “That may be, Mr. President,” said SVR director Sergei Fedorin, “but I remind you, we’re seeing virtually no movement of ground forces on their side of the border. If they are planning to invade, it can’t be coming anytime soon—a week, at least.”

  “You’re splitting hairs, Fedorin! Air … ground … They’re both an invasion of the Motherland! Good lord, are you both blind? All of you? Are you suggesting we should simply open the doors for their aircraft? Perhaps thank them because they’re not sending tanks?”

  “That’s not what we’re saying,” Beskrovny countered. “Our point is, we have time to examine the situation—to plan the appropriate response.”

  “I’ll tell you what the appropriate response is,” Bulganin shouted. “It’s the same that Koba gave Hitler sixty years ago: We crush them!” Bulganin began pacing again, gesticulating wildly. “This time, though, it will be different. This time, we’re not going to give up an inch of ground! Not an inch! The moment their fighters cross into our airspace, we’ll swat them from the sky!”

  Both Fedorin and Beskrovny glanced at Nochenko, who stepped closer to Bulganin’s desk. “Mr. President.”

  “… let them try, if they have the stomach for it. We will—”

  “Mr. President!”

  “What!”

  “Please, I ask you again: Listen to Marshal Beskrovny. Our country—the Motherland—is in a dire position, but we have alternatives. We must choose carefully. If not, this conflict could turn fatal for everyone involved.”

  “You mean nuclear, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bulganin squared off with him, chest to chest. “Does that frighten you, Ivan?”

  “Yes, sir, it does.”

  “You’re weak.”

  “Sir—”

  “You haven’t the stomach for the hard choices. None of you do! Those little devils to the south understand only force, don’t you see? If we show the slightest weakness, they will exploit it. And the Americans! They’re as two-faced as always. For all we know, they’re working with China. It makes sense, after all: Wait until that weak nobody from Omsk comes into power, then attack. The shoemaker from nowhere will surely crumble. He’ll be so scared he’ll probably hand us the keys to the Kremlin!” Bulganin tapped his chest with a thumb. “They’re wrong! They’re in for a surprise!”

  Bulganin’s desk intercom buzzed. “Sir, the president of the United States is on line one. He urgently wishes to speak with you.”

  Bulganin’s eyes narrowed. “Well, gentlemen, speak of the devil … Send it through.”

  The phone buzzed and Bulganin snatched it up. “President Bulganin here.”

  There was a few seconds pause as the interpreters exchanged the words.

  “Mr. President, this is David Lahey.”

  “Who?”

  Nochenko whispered, “The vice president.”

  “Lahey?” Bulganin replied. “Why in the hell am I talking to you? Where is President Martin?”

  “President Martin is unavailable, sir. He’s asked me to stand-in for him.”

  “What is this nonsense? Unavailable—what does that mean?”

  “He has a medical condition that required care. Please believe me when I tell you I have full authority to speak for, and act on, the behalf of the government of the United States.”

  “Very well. What would you like to say?”


  “As I’m sure you are, we’re aware of the Chinese aircraft moving toward your border, and we share your concern over it. I’d like to discuss how we might work together to defuse the situation.”

  “You can defuse the situation by withdrawing your battle group from our waters,” Bulganin replied. “Once you have done that, you can further defuse the situation by explaining why you attacked and destroyed the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny.”

  There was a five-second pause. “President Bulganin, I—”

  “You didn’t think we knew about that, did you? Well, we do. Your words are meaningless, Lahey. They contradict every action your country has taken in the past two weeks.”

  “If you’ll give me a chance,” Lahey said, “I might be able to provide an explanation.”

  There was a knock on Bulganin’s office door. A messenger walked in and handed Marshal Beskrovny a message. Bulganin put his hand over the phone. “What is it? What have you got there?”

  “A reconnaissance flight out of Vladivostok has sighted a PLAAN surface group moving north through the Korean Straits.”

  “Moving north?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Toward us,” Bulganin muttered. “How far away? How many days?”

  “At present speed, thirty hours.”

  “Bastards!” Bulganin returned to the phone: “Lahey, I’ve just been informed a group of Chinese warships is steaming toward our coast. Is this another coincidence, or is this just yet another piece of the plan?”

  “There is no plan, Mr. President. You have to believe me.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Lahey. I can see what’s happening! We’re done talking, you and I. Good day!”

  Bulganin slammed down the phone and turned to Beskrovny. “How many hours did you say?”

  “Thirty. Mr. President, perhaps we should reestablish communication with—”

  “No. They’re trying to buy time, to keep us from reacting until it’s too late. If those Chinese ships are allowed to link up with the American group, we’ll be outgunned. That’s when they’ll make their move over the border!”