Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot replied. Ten seconds later. “Sir, there’s no answer.”

  No, no, no …

  Panting, Shen appeared in the Hind’s doorway. “There’s nothing down there!”

  “I know,” Xiang growled. “That bastard! Damn him! Get your men—”

  “What the hell is that?” the pilot cried, pointing out the window.

  To the northeast, an orange glow hung over the treetops.

  “Get your men aboard!” Xiang shouted. “He’s set the damned camp on fire!”

  Tanner gauged the distance between himself and the man. Too far. He’d be dead before he made it halfway. Briggs noticed the corporal’s patch on the man’s sleeve. Wujan …

  “Wujan, help me!” Tanner cried. Pointing a finger at the fire chiefs body, he pressed his back against the wall and began sliding toward Wujan. “That’s … that’s the American!”

  “What? He’s—”

  From the corner of his eye, Briggs saw Wujan’s gun hand droop ever so slightly. He snapped his hand forward, grabbed Wujan’s wrist in an overhand grip, and wrenched. As Wujan stumbled forward, Tanner hit him, driving his fist into the point where his jaw met his ear. Wujan slumped forward, unconscious.

  Tanner took the gun, stuffed it into his pocket, and stepped into the radio room. He pulled out his next-to-last flash bomb and threw it against the wall above the radio set. Liquid fire splashed, over the set and ignited the wooden table. Briggs ran back into the hall.

  There were two remaining doors, both on the right side.

  Briggs pushed open the first one: mops, buckets brooms … He moved to the next door and turned the knob. It was locked. He backed against the wall and slammed his heel against the knob plate. The wood splintered, but held. He kicked again, then a third time. The jamb tore loose. The door swung open.

  Heart in his throat, Tanner rushed inside.

  Lian Soong sat in a wooden, hardback chair in the center of the room with her hands clasped in her lap. Though it had been twelve years since Tanner had last seen her, she seemed to have changed very little: petite, smooth, white skin, silken black hair … My God, Lian …

  She stared up at him with an expression Tanner could only describe as apathetic. She no longer cared, he thought. Broken and obedient, she was resigned to the course her life had taken. What had they done to her? To both of them?

  Briggs took off his mask. “Lian, it’s me. It’s Briggs.”

  Her eyes went wide for a moment, then she cocked her head. “Briggs.”

  Not a question, but a statement.

  “Yes, Lian. I have your father outside. We’re getting out of here. All of us.”

  “Briggs,” Lian repeated, as though reconnecting memories in her mind. “It’s you.”

  Tanner stepped forward and knelt before her. He took her hands in his own. “It’s me.”

  Lian looked into his eyes, then smiled tentatively. “He told me you were coming back for us.”

  As with her father, Tanner draped Lian over his shoulder, then ran into the hall. Gray smoke poured from the radio-room door. One wall and part of the ceiling was aflame. He ran out the door, down the steps, and into the compound. He sprinted through the smoke, dodging bodies, until he reached the landing pad. The Hoplite was there, rotors turning at idle. Busy checking gauges, the pilot never saw him climb into the cabin. He laid Lian on the cabin floor next to her father.

  “Both of you lay perfectly still,” he shouted to them.

  Briggs leaned out the cabin door, looking around. “Hsiao!”

  Hsiao materialized out of the smoke with Tanner’s pack in his hand. Briggs took it, pulled him aboard, and slid the door shut.

  “What’re you doing?” the pilot called. “We don’t have orders to—”

  Tanner drew the Makarov and pointed it at him. Careful to stay below the windshield, Briggs crouch-walked into the cockpit. He jammed the gun into the pilot’s side. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Listen carefully: I can fly this helicopter—not as well as you, but I could—so I don’t need you. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Make one wrong move, and I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Liftoff.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Six minutes after the hoplite disappeared over the treetops, Xiang’s Hind landed in the middle of the compound amid a tornado of black smoke and embers. Shen slid open the side door and he and Xiang jumped to the ground. Xiang coughed and squinted his eyes against the smoke.

  Xiang stared in silence at the chaos around him. All but two of the camp’s buildings were in flames. Now just a charred skeleton, the garage had collapsed in on itself. Portions of the septic truck were visible through the timbers; the silver tank glowed red through the patches of soot. Members of the fire team and partially dressed guards hurried to and fro.

  Xiang felt a flash of rage, but it passed almost immediately. In its place came a detached calm. It was remarkable, really. He had underestimated Tanner every step of the way. The man had wasted their time, divided their forces, disappeared and reappeared like a ghost …

  None of that matters now, Xiang thought. True enough, he had lost this battle, but not yet the war. It wasn’t over. Tanner wasn’t as smart as imagined.

  Eng appeared out of the smoke. “The Hoplite’s gone, sir. We tried to stop it, but …”

  “I know,” Xiang murmured. “Lieutenant Shen!”

  “Sir!”

  “Send some men to Soong’s cell.”

  “Yes, sir.” Two minutes later Xiang got the answer he expected: “He’s gone,” Shen reported.

  Xiang nodded.

  Shen stared at him. “Sir?”

  “What?”

  “Your orders?”

  Xiang pulled himself erect. “Yes. I assume the Hind has the RFDF unit?” he asked, referring to Radio Frequency Direction Finder.

  “Uh … yes, sir—for locating search-and-rescue beacons.”

  “That’ll do,” Xiang said. “Gather your platoon. We’re going on a hunting trip.”

  72

  Chinese-Russian Border

  As Tanner and his party were lifting off from the camp, nine hundred miles to their northwest the first wave of Chinese fighters—three regiments of nine squadrons apiece for a total of 120 aircraft—approached the border in stacked formation, layered from twenty-five thousand to thirty-five thousand feet in the darkened night sky to confuse Russian ground-radar stations.

  Once over the border, the wave split, the uppermost layer of the more advanced J-10 and J-12 interceptors breaking off into individual flights of four planes and climbing to their maximum ceiling, where they again split, half the flights to the east, the other to the west, all still pushing northward, all under the guidance of the Chinese AWACs loitering in the relative safety of Chinese airspace.

  Below them, the lowermost layer of aging J-5 and J-6 fighters—essentially Chinese versions of Russian MiG-17s and 19s—went to full throttle and closed with the Russian’s ready-alert defending force, an enhanced regiment of SU-27 Flankers and MiG-21 Fishbeds.

  Mindful of the Chinese interceptors orbiting high above, the Russian ground and air radar stations immediately realized the dilemma. While more than a match for the Chinese J-5s and 6s, the defenders were still outnumbered two to one and had no choice but to devote their attention to the leading edge of attackers, all the while knowing a full regiment of AWACS-guided J-10s and 12s hovered twenty thousand feet above, waiting to swoop into the fray.

  Within minutes of the first missile exchange, the Russian defenders had cut the Chinese’s first wave by more than half. But the cost was high, as the Russian regiment had lost ten of its thirty-six planes, six Fishbeds and four Flankers.

  At a prearranged signal, the few remaining aged Chinese fighters turned south and headed
for home, drawing a portion of the defenders into a game of pursuit. Seeing this, the Chinese AWACS ordered the J-10s and J-12s into the fray.

  Sweeping in from above in a pincer movement, the interceptors slashed into the now-spent defenders. Plane to plane, the Russian Flankers and Fishbeds are well matched against their attackers, but the odds had not only reversed, but worsened. For every Russian fighter there were three Chinese.

  One by one the defenders were blotted from the sky. Streams of tracer shells crisscrossed the darkness accompanied by blooms of orange. Crippled and flaming planes tumbled toward earth.

  Out of fuel, and ammunition, and luck, the remaining Russian fighters broke off and turned north. Of the thirty-six that had lifted off forty minutes before, only eight survived.

  NMCC

  “Is this a real-time image?” David Lahey asked, nodding to the large view screen.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Cathermeier. “Keyhole satellite.”

  Along with the rest of the CAC’s personnel, Lahey, Dutcher, and Mason stared, dumbfounded, at the screen. Though the image was rendered in mostly black, here and there they could see the twinkling of city lights far below—Chita, Kungara, Hailor. Above them blooms of orange and yellow dotted the sky.

  “My God,” Dutcher murmured.

  Lahey said, “General, each one of those is an explosion—a plane?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll have a better idea within the hour, but at least initially it looks like a full division of Chinese fighters crossed the border north of the Hingann Mountains right about … here—a fifty-mile stretch between Igrashino and Dsahlinda.

  “Again, once we’re able to firm up the BDA—battle damage assessment—we’ll have better figures, but we’ve got to give this round to the Chinese. The Federation could only concentrate a regiment in that area, so the odds were against them from the start. Round two is still a toss-up.”

  “Round two?” Lahey asked. “Are you telling me this isn’t over?”

  “Not even close. The Chinese will keep coming, and if they use the same strategy—”

  “Which is?”

  “They swarmed the Russians with older fighters; they’re no real match for their interceptors, but the Russians can’t ignore them either.”

  “So while they’re busy with the PLA’s second-string planes, the starting team waits and watches for its chance to swoop in.”

  “Exactly. It’s gonna cost the Chinese a lot of planes and pilots, but at last count the Beijing and Shenyang military regions had about fifteen hundred older MiGs and Sukhoi fighters at their disposal.”

  Dick Mason said, “Cannon fodder.”

  “Yep. A lot of them are nearly obsolete, but in quantity—in a close-in dogfight—they’re still dangerous. You get enough ants together, they can take down an elephant.”

  “How long can the Chinese keep it up?” Lahey asked.

  “It depends on how much they’re willing to sacrifice. By the numbers, the Chinese can pour more planes more quickly into the area than can the Russians. The problem is, if the Russians decide to wait until they’ve gathered the planes they need to make it a real battle, the Chinese will have tactical air superiority—in other words, to gain time the Russians might have to surrender some sky for a while.”

  “Which will make it twice as hard to retake once they’re ready,” Dutcher added.

  “Right. On the other hand, if the Russians choose to meet every wave the Chinese send across the border, their numbers will slowly but surely get whittled down.”

  David Lahey stared at the screen. Finally he said, “What can we do to help?”

  “Right now, nothing. The only possible asset we have in the area is the battle group.”

  “How many planes?”

  “Stennis could put eighty or ninety in the air. But, sir, there are several problems with that idea. One, unless the Russian surface group breaks off, we’re going to find ourselves in a major sea battle in a matter of hours; if we strip the group of its planes …”

  “I understand. What are the other problems?”

  “Distance. Even if the Russians agreed, it’s still a thousand miles from the coast to the battle area. Our planes would need refueling points, alternate airfields, ground control passovers—”

  “And if we had all that?” Lahey pressed.

  “That’s a mighty big ‘if,’ sir.”

  “Humor me. Could we make a difference?”

  Cathermeier thought for a moment then nodded. “Yes, it would make a difference. The Tomcats and Hornets aboard Stennis are more than a match for anything the Chinese can put in the air.”

  Lahey considered this for a few moments. He looked to Dutcher and Mason. “Thoughts?”

  “Tough sell,” Dutcher replied. “Especially given Bulganin’s reaction to your first call. Still, it’s worth a try. The alternative is much worse.”

  “Dick?”

  Mason nodded. “I agree. Bulganin’s about as unpredictable as a shark, but he’s got some good people around him. If he listens to them … maybe.”

  Lahey nodded and turned to Cathermeier. “General, let’s try this again. Get President Bulganin on the phone.”

  They settled around the head of the tank’s conference table and waited in nervous silence for two minutes before the intercom buzzed: “General, we’re linked with Moscow—line three.”

  Lahey punched the button for speakerphone. “President Bulganin, this is Vice President Lahey, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes, I hear you,” Bulganin growled. “What do you want? As I’m sure you’re aware, my country is under attack. Speak quickly, Lahey.”

  “Mr. President, I have reason to believe both our countries are being drawn into a conflict neither of us wants. I will be glad to outline my reasons for believing that, but right now it’s important we get control of this situation before it’s beyond control.”

  “What situation do you mean, Lahey? Your battle group looming off our coast, the attack on Nakhodka, or your ally’s incursion into our airspace? Which is it?”

  “Mr. President, despite appearances, I promise you we are not working in conjunction with the People’s Republic of China. Circumstances have been manipulated to implicate my country—”

  “Oh, I see,” Bulganin replied. “You are claiming your country is the victim here? You have stones, I’ll say that much, Lahey. While our brave pilots are fighting and dying at the border, you’re crying about the wrong done to you! How dare you!”

  “No, sir, you’ve misunderstood. Your country has been attacked without provocation; I fully recognize that. All I’m asking is that we explore a joint solution to—”

  “Withdraw your battle group immediately and I may consider your words.”

  “As I said, the proximity of your surface group makes withdrawal difficult. If you will—”

  “Order our ships to retreat?” Bulganin finished. “And give you a chance to attack? I think not! You have my conditions, Lahey. Order your aircraft carrier to withdraw immediately, or it will be attacked! If you fail to give the order it will only prove what I already know: You and those yellow devils are together in this!”

  “Mr. President—”

  “Will you give the order or not?”

  “Yes, I will give the order, but you must first divert your surface group so my carrier will have room to maneuver—”

  “To launch an attack!” Bulganin countered.

  “No!” Lahey cried. “Mr. President, you have to listen to me—”

  “No, we are done talking, Lahey. I won’t let you distract me again!”

  The phone went dead.

  Lahey stared at the buzzing phone, then leaned back and sighed. “Why won’t he listen?”

  “He doesn’t sound stable,” Dutcher said. “His thought process was convoluted … disjointed.”

  Mason nodded. “I agree. I fear he’s bought into the ruse.”

  “General, how long befo
re our ships and the Russian surface group is engaged?”

  “Two hours at most,” said Cathermeier. “I can order them north, but the less water they have to maneuver in, the less able they’ll be to defend themselves. It’s either that, or we hold our ground and mix it up with them, or try to fight our way through their line.”

  “Not much of a choice,” Lahey said. “Either way, we get bloody.”

  Moscow

  ​“It’s a another trick!” Bulganin shouted. “Why can’t you see that?”

  Marshal Beskrovny shook his head. “Sir, I disagree. I think we should listen to his proposal. It costs us nothing. If he’s telling the truth, it certainly sheds a different light on the situation.”

  “You’re blind! Fedorin, certainly you see my point! Tell him!”

  The SVR director spread his hands. “With respect, Mr. President, I have to agree with the marshal. There may be some credence to what Lahey said. Consider their carrier group: They’re more than a match for our surface group, yet they haven’t attacked. They continue to withdraw north—”

  “They’re buying time so the Chinese can continue with their air attacks—”

  “I don’t think so. As the carriers withdraw north, their effectiveness dwindles. The closer they let our ships get, the better our chances. They know this, yet they haven’t attacked. That, I think, is significant.”

  Nochenko spoke up. “I agree, Mr. President—Vladimir. Please think! Are the Americans truly our enemy in this? If there’s even a chance—”

  Bulganin smashed his fist into the desktop. “There is no chance! No chance! My God, I’m surrounded by blind men! The Motherland is under attack from all sides and no one sees it but me!” Bulganin spun toward Beskrovny. “General, how many planes did we lose in the air engagement?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Twenty-eight planes and twenty-eight pilots—gone! And what are the Chinese up to now?”

  “There are indications another sortie will be launching in a few hours.”

  “Exactly!” Bulganin said. “There you have it: Another attack, more brave pilots dead. I won’t have it! We’re going to put a stop to this, right now.” Bulganin walked to the conference table and leaned over the map. “Show me where their planes are coming from, General.”