Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  “Probably, but how far along they are, I don’t know.”

  “Then we have to move quickly. How many men will Xiang have?”

  “A Hind can carry a platoon. Thirty men, perhaps—para-troopers, probably.”

  “Too many for you to fight alone.”

  “I don’t plan on fighting them. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Once in the engine room, Tanner followed the glow of Hsiao’s lantern to the upper catwalk. Hsiao was hunched over the generator. Briggs laid Soong down on the grating. Lian sat against the railing and glared at Tanner. Part of him wanted to return her gaze, to study her eyes for even a hint of the woman he thought he knew, but he quashed the impulse. That Lian was gone, perhaps never having existed at all.

  He turned to Hsiao. “Any luck, Hsiao?”

  “Whoever’s boat this was spared no expense: The generator is mostly made of aluminum. There’s some rust, but I found an oilcan down below, so I think I can get the crank moving. As for the radio, I think I can rig a crude transformer and get power to it, but it could be tricky. If I guess wrong, the power might destroy the phone’s circuits.”

  “Do your best. How about the cables?”

  “They’re in surprisingly good condition—high-gauge copper. A little splicing here and there, and it should be no problem. We’re going to need an antenna, though—”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  Hsiao gestured for Tanner to follow him down the cat-walk, then stopped and whispered, “Are we sure Xiang is coming? How do we know the Hind even survived the collision?”

  “Because they’re built like flying tanks,” Tanner replied. “If we survived, they did.”

  “How long have we got?”

  “I don’t know. It’s safer to assume not long. If you get the radio going, I want you to stay here and keep transmitting as long as you can.”

  “What are you going to be doing?”

  “Hopefully making things difficult for Xiang and his men. If I’m lucky I might be able to run them around for as long as I can.”

  “And when you can’t anymore?”

  “I’ll come back here. We’ll use this as our retreat,” Tanner said, then cast his flashlight around. “We’re going to need an emergency exit … Come on.”

  They followed the catwalks down the bilges where the grating had become a quagmire of mud and decaying plants. Moss and lichen coated the bulkheads.

  At the very stern of the boat, where the shaft exited the hull, Tanner found a maintenance hatch. Tanner crouched down and kicked the hatch until it splintered and broke outward. He pried free the remaining slats, then with the flashlight in his teeth, wriggled through.

  He emerged inside the waterwheel. Above his head lay one of the massive, horizontal fins. Through the tangle of foliage he could see patches of sky. He pushed his way through the undergrowth until he emerged outside.

  Blowing snow swirled in front of his face. He squinted his eyes against the sunlight, looked around, then wriggled backward, pulling the brush closed behind him. Hsiao asked, “How’s it look?”

  “It leads down to the ice. When we make our break, that’ll be our exit. If I’m not here, you’ll have to handle Han yourself. Can you do it?”

  Hsiao nodded. “I can do it. And once we’re outside?”

  “Run for the river bend, then get ashore and keep going. I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”

  Carrying a bundle of loose cable and three ballast stones he’d collected from the bilges, Tanner left Hsaio working in the engine room and climbed to the bridge roof, where he first untangled the mass of rods and mesh, then began untangling the cable, counting arm lengths until he knew how many feet with which he had to work.

  Knowing the frequency the CIA had assigned his phone, he turned his attention to determining what size of antenna he would need. The calculation was fairly straightforward, but exhausted as he was he couldn’t wrap his mind around the numbers, so he knelt down and traced the formula in the dirt until he had the answer.

  He measured off the correct lengths on the cable, cut three sections of it, then shimmied up the smokestack and crimped each cable end to the stack’s fluted chimney, tight enough that they wouldn’t come undone, but loose enough that he could adjust them. He climbed down and jiggled each cable until all three were spaced evenly around the chimney.

  Next he sorted through the pile of rods until he found the three sturdiest ones, then paced twelve feet out from the stack’s base and pounded each rod into the dirt with a ballast stone. Once satisfied they were all of equal height, he crimped the remaining cable ends to the tips of the rods.

  Finally, he gently placed a ballast stone at the base of each rod until the cables were taut.

  What he’d just built, he hoped, was an inverted dipole—or a “big top”—antenna. While he knew the satellite was somewhere up there in a stationary orbit, he wasn’t sure where exactly. Though not the most efficient of antennas, the big top was their best bet, as it radiated into the atmosphere in all directions. Now all they had to do was get the frequency right and cross their fingers.

  He was turning back to the pilothouse door when something caught his eye.

  A half-mile astern, a lone man in camouflage gear appeared from around the river’s bend. As Tanner watched, five more joined him, then ten. One of them pointed in his direction, then turned around and shouted something.

  Out of time, Tanner thought.

  81

  Chono Dam

  Surrounded in front and back by a pair of commandos Skeldon and Cahil carried the remaining three charges down the trail to the mine’s entrance. The colonel brought up the rear. Cahil could feel the man’s eyes on his back. Marching us to our deaths, he thought. Not if I can help it …

  As planned, Skeldon, with a charge balanced on each shoulder, walked ahead of Cahil. Bear could feel the C4 disk rubbing against his belly. He mentally rehearsed his movements.

  Have to be very quick, Bear. Once he made his move he would have but seconds before the commandos’ confusion turned to action. There was, he realized, a very real possibility he’d be shot before he got two steps. If so, he could only pray Skeldon would somehow see it through to the end.

  Forty minutes after leaving the camp, they stopped in front of the mine’s hidden entrance. The point man knelt down, rolled the stone aside, then wriggled into the tunnel, followed by the next man.

  “Push your charges through,” the colonel ordered Skeldon.

  Skeldon dropped to his knees and slid his charges into the hole. A pair of hands appeared and dragged each inside. Cahil followed the same procedure and then the colonel ordered them into the tunnel. Once everyone was through and standing inside the cave, Skeldon and Cahil hefted their charges and the group started out again.

  The point man’s flashlight danced over the rocky walls. The scrape of their boots echoed down the tunnel, each man’s step raising a tiny cloud of dust. A breeze blew past Cahil’s face, cooling the sweat on his forehead and chilling his neck. He shivered.

  How far? he wondered. He eyed the passing walls, searching for his landmark.

  After another two minutes, he saw it: a dumbbell-shaped bulge in the wall. A few steps ahead, Skeldon passed it. His right index finger tapped twice on the charge. He’d seen it.

  Cahil started counting steps. Sixty-two paces to the ambush point.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The tail man and the colonel walked with their M-16s at the ready, fingers resting on the triggers. Gotta be quick … In the confines of the tunnel, an M-16 blast would send bullets ricocheting off the walls, each a tumbling piece of deadly shrapnel looking for flesh.

  The tunnel began sloping downward. The air grew cooler. Cahil could smell musty water.

  Getting closer. Forty-three … forty-four …

  When they reached the ambush point, Skeldon wouldn’t wait to see if he was moving; he would simply attack the two lead comm
andos and trust Cahil was doing his part.

  Fifty-four … fifty-five.. .fifty-six … Just yards now.

  Cahil reached up and undid the button on his shirt, rubbed a finger over the C4 disk.

  The tunnel turned sharply right, then straightened out.

  Sixty … Where is it, where is it?

  He reached into his belt, palmed the detonator cap, then pressed it into the C4. He gently folded the disk in half and closed his fist around it.

  Sixty-one … There!

  Ahead, hanging low from the ceiling, was the rock shelf. The point man’s beam flashed over it, then moved on, rounding the corner. Skeldon passed beneath the shelf.

  Now!

  Cahil let the charge slip off his shoulder. It hit the dirt floor with a thud. He danced backward a few steps as though trying to save his toes. The commando behind him backed up.

  “Sorry,” Cahil said.

  “Pick it up!” the colonel barked.

  With the C4 balled in his right first, Cahil knelt down beside the charge. Ready, ready … He glanced back, taking aim, then closed his eyes briefly and said a quick prayer.

  From ahead, a surprised shout: “Aiyahhh!”

  Cahil lashed out with a mule kick that slammed into the commando’s belly. The man stumbled backward into the colonel, who struggled to raise his M-16. Cahil cocked his right arm and threw the C4. Even as it slammed into the shelf, he dove forward.

  A flare of light filled the tunnel, followed by a muffled explosion. Smoke billowed around him. As it cleared, he looked ahead and saw a pair of flashlights lying in the dirt; in their shadowed beams Skeldon and one of the commandos were locked together in struggle. The other commando lay on the ground, his head partially crushed beneath Skeldon’s pipe charge.

  Out of the corner of his eye Cahil saw movement behind him. He spun. The commando he’d kicked shuffled through the smoke, his M-16 dangling from one hand. His right arm was missing at the elbow; blood gushed from the stump. His jacket front, neck and face were a mass of bloody pock-marks. He took two more steps, then groaned and collapsed.

  Cahil scrambled over to him, snatched up the M-16, and charged around the corner.

  Skeldon was lying on the ground. A commando stood over him, M-16 raised.

  Cahil took aim, fired. The man fell backward.

  “You okay?” Bear asked, snatching up a flashlight.

  “Yeah.”

  “Grab his weapon and flashlight. We’ve gotta move; the others had to have heard the shots.”

  With Cahil in the lead, they raced down the tunnel, their flashlight beams bouncing off the walls.

  “How much farther?” Skeldon called.

  “Should be coming up. When we get into the cavern, we’ll split. You go right, I’ll go left!”

  “Right!”

  They were approaching the last bend in the tunnel when Cahil saw pale, crimson light ahead. He stopped, dropping to one knee. Skeldon did the same. Cahil crawled forward to the bend.

  Spaced at even intervals, four sputtering red flares dotted the cavern floor, casting the stalactites and stalagmites in eerie relief. Near the far wall, behind a row of small boulders, a pair of lanterns glowed yellow against the rock. A shadow of a figure hunched beside one of the bore holes. A few feet away a head popped up from behind a boulder, then ducked down again.

  Cahil crawled back. “One’s on lookout, the other’s rigging the last charge.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “No plan. Hail Mary. We rush them and hope one of us reaches the charge.”

  “Not exactly what I’d call a brilliant plan.”

  “Sorry, I’m all out of brilliant. Concentrate your fire on the lookout”

  “Right. Ready when you are.”

  Together, they rose into a crouch. Cahil mouthed a silent three-count, then they stood and charged into the cavern. Skeldon veered right, toward the nearest boulder, Cahil straight ahead.

  The lookout popped up from behind his boulder. Fire winked from his muzzle.

  Cahil dove behind a stalagmite. Bullets pounded into the rock.

  To the right, Skeldon opened fire. Cahil rolled left, fired off a dozen rounds, then rolled back.

  “I’m going!” Skeldon called. “Gimme cover!”

  “No, wait!”

  It was too late. Skeldon was already on his feet and sprinting forward in a weaving run.

  Seeing Skeldon, the lookout opened fire. From the corner of his eye Cahil saw Skeldon stumble and go down. No, no, no … Bear took aim, fired. The lookout toppled over.

  “Mike!”

  With a groan, Skeldon pulled himself to his knees, then to his feet, and began shuffling forward. He dragged his right leg behind him. He glanced back at Cahil; his face was twisted in pain.

  Ahead there came a flare of white light. Detonator cord, Bear realized. The charges were lit.

  The last commando rose beside the wall. He saw Skeldon and turned that way, M-16 coming up. Cahil jerked his own weapon to his shoulder, took aim, fired. The man crumpled. Cahil started running. Skeldon covered the last few feet to the wall, tried to hurdle the line of boulders, but fell forward.

  Cahil was there in seconds. Both commandos were dead. Skeldon lay on his side, groaning, but still trying to crawl forward. The bullet had shattered his tibia; a jagged piece of white bone jutted from his pant leg. “The charges!” he rasped.

  Cahil spun. The hissing end of each length of detcord had already disappeared into its respective bore hole; white light sparkled from the mouths; dangling from each lay the straps the commandos had used to lower the charges into place.

  “You get those,” Skeldon said. “I’ve got this one.”

  Cahil dropped his M-16 and rushed to the first hole. He knelt down, grabbed the strap, and began reeling it up. The glowing end of the detcord came into view; it was two feet from the charge. He grabbed it, jerked hard. Snap! It came free.

  A few feet away, Skeldon straddled the bore bole, his good leg braced against the wall, the other flailing in the dirt as he heaved at his strap. Tears streamed down his face. Each time he leaned forward to pull, his shattered leg bowed in mid-calf and Cahil could see a jagged tip of tibia jutting from the rent in his pant leg.

  Bear forced himself to look away. He dove for the second strap. Faster … faster … From out of the dark hole came the flaming end. Cahil grabbed it, wincing as the heat seared his palm. He jerked hard. Snap!

  “Help me,” Skeldon called. “Ahhh!”

  The end of the last detcord was jutting from the hole; it was six inches from the charge. With one hand wrapped around the strap, Skeldon leaned forward, his fingers stretched toward the charge.

  “Hang on!” Cahil yelled.

  From across the cavern came the crack crack crack of gunfire. Bullets thunked into the wall above Cahil’s head. He felt a sting in his bicep. He dropped to the ground and turned.

  The colonel, his face and neck slick with blood, staggered across the floor toward them.

  “I’ve got this!” Skeldon yelled. “Get him!”

  Cahil dove for his M-16. As his hand touched the stock, the colonel hurdled the boulders and landed in a crouch. He swung his barrel toward Skeldon.

  Cahil fired. His three-round burst stitched up the colonel’s back, the last bullet slamming into the back of his head. He dropped forward.

  “Cahil … !” Skeldon had managed to pull the charge into his lap. The detcord sizzled. He stared at it for a split second, then looked up at Cahil. “Too late.”

  The end of the detcord disappeared into the charge.

  In that last second, Skeldon stared at him with an expression that Bear could only describe as sad resignation. “Sorry,” he said, then tucked the charge against his chest and rolled away, pointing the charge toward the cavern’s far wall.

  “Mike … !”

  Bear pushed himself upright and dove over the boulder. He would never remember hearing the ex
plosion, only the shock wave as it picked him up and hurtled him into the darkness.

  82

  Nakhodka-Vostochny

  Jurens and his team bypassed the first roadblock without incident and made good time for the next hour until Smitty, who was walking point, called a halt with a raised fist. As one, they dropped to their bellies. Dhar, fourth in the line, froze. Jurens grabbed his pant leg and pulled him down.

  Sunrise was less than an hour away now, and Jurens could see faint gray light filtering through the canopy above. Dew and frost clung in patches to the ground; he could feel the cold seeping through his BDUs.

  Smitty turned and signaled: Road; enemy foot patrol approaching; squad-size, heavily armed.

  Dammit, Jurens thought. They were in a bad spot. If not for their hurried pace, they would have seen the patrol long before now and had time to set up in a defensive ambush position; as it was, they were bunched up with lousy fields of fire and only one route of retreat.

  Sconi signaled back: Proceed when clear.

  Smitty nodded and turned back. Jurens wormed his way left a few inches until he could see the edge of the road. Now he could hear what had caught Smitty’s attention: the murmur of Russian voices and the crunch of boots on gravel.

  Thirty seconds later, a pair of booted feet passed before the trail not two feet from Smitty’s face. The soldiers were moving slowly and in a modified squad wedge. This wasn’t another bored patrol, Jurens realized, but a hunting party. Aside from an occasional whispered exchange, they made no sound. Sconi counted feet as they passed: eight men.

  After what seemed like ten minutes, the last soldier passed the trail head. Smitty waited another two minutes, then crawled onto the road to reconnoiter. Without turning, he signaled back: All clear.

  Smitty rose to his feet, hunch-walked across the road, MP-5 tracking side to side, then disappeared into the underbrush on the other side. Dickie crawled forward, then crept across to join him, followed by Zee, then Dhar.