Wall of Night (15 page)

Holystone

Driving straight in from the airport. Tanner and Cahil reached the office in midmorning and were greeted by Dutcher, Oaken and, to their surprise, Charlie Latham. “Welcome home,” Dutcher said.

“New recruit?” Tanner said, smiling at Latham.

“Temporarily,” Dutcher replied. “I'll fill you in later.”

“Good to see you again, Charlie.”

“You, too.”

Dutcher led the group into the conference room. Tanner and Cahil, whose body clocks were still on New Zealand time, gladly accepted coffee.

“I assume you found Genoa?” asked Oaken.

“Your directions took us to his front door,” Cahil said. “I have a new respect for sheep.”

Dutcher said, “Tell us.”

Tanner recounted their trip, starting with their crossing of Lake Ada and ending with their tumble over the falls. “Alternating piggybacking duties, we hiked overland to the Homer Tunnel, then stashed Fong in the underbrush and flagged down a tour bus to Dunedin. We called the police, boarded a charter to Auckland, then here.”

“It's a gamble you're taking with Fong,” said Dutcher.

“He's got more to lose than we do. Plus, he knows it could have been worse.”

“Give the names to Walt; we'll start gathering some background on them. As it stands, you've got a date in Jakarta in two days. That brings us to the reason Charlie's here. Do you think you can get along without Ian?”

“I don't know … he does read to me at night.”

“He's a difficult child,” Bear said.

Dutcher smiled. “I'll take that as a yes.” He brought them up to speed on the Baker case, from the murders to Samantha's accident just days before. “We're going to lend a hand.”

“How's she doing, Charlie?” asked Tanner.

“We're moving her, Bonnie and Caroline to the safehouse tomorrow. Tom and Janet are there now. Once we get that done, I'll sleep a little better.”

“You've got some pretty good folks on your team.”

“Don't I know it. Here, too.”

Dutcher said, “We're approaching it from three directions. Walt's digging into Baker's cases.”

“Anything there?” Cahil asked.

“Nothing yet,” Oaken said. “He was with the BXA—the Bureau of Export Administration—so he had a pretty full plate: Everything from computer chips to precision lathing equipment for artillery barrels. It's gonna take a while.”

Dutcher continued: “Charlie and his people are going to try to shake the tree with Hong Cho and Mary Tsang.”

“What are you looking for, Charlie?”

“The
Guoanbu
is partial to using bridge agents—in-country sleepers assigned to help their controllers—I doubt they've written off Hong Cho entirely. If this Tsang woman is a bridge, it would explain her visits.”

“The home office staying in touch.”

“Exactly. Unless they've bolted, Baker's contacts are probably still in the area. If we push Tsang, maybe she'll lead us to them.”

Cahil said, “Leland, you said three approaches. I'm the third, I assume?”

“Yes. Baker paid Mike Skeldon a lot of money. We need to know what he was doing for them. Latham's got some leads on him. You'll be following those.”

Latham added, “From what little we were able to gather, he's got connections in Asheville.”

“Makes sense,” said Cahil. “There's a big underground mercenary community in North Carolina. They're pretty tight-knit.”

“Is that a problem?” asked Dutcher.

“No, but there're a lot of wannabes down there, too. I'll just have to find the right group.”

Dutcher nodded. “Anybody have any questions?”

Tanner said, “Just one: Charlie, if you're right about the Justice probe being bogus, where did the order really come from? Who jerked the rug out from under you, and why?”

“Both good questions, and I don't have any answers. One thing's for sure, though: Whoever it is, they've got the power to make the Justice Department dance. And that's pretty damned scary.”

Tanner's home was a multistory, raised cabin attached to a two hundred-year-old lighthouse he'd rescued from condemnation with the help of the Virginia Historical Commission. Overlooking the cove below, the lighthouse had never been much of a navigation aid, but it had delighted the original builder, an eccentric mill owner who, according to legend, loved lighthouses, but hated the ocean.

Briggs parked in the detached garage, walked along the wraparound deck to the back door, and stepped inside. Sitting on the kitchen table was a strawberry-kiwi pie and a note:

FOR WHEN YOU GET HOME … CALL WHEN YOU GET A CHANCE.

LOVE, MOM AND DAD.

P.S. THANKS FOR THE WATCHAMACALLIT. I USE IT EVERY DAY!

Tanner laughed. The “watchamacallit” in question was one of those machines designed to suck the air out of a storage bag then hermetically seal it, forever imprisoning whatever food item happened to be inside. In the case of his mother, that meant everything she could get her hands on. According to his father, she'd sealed everything from rump roast to creamed corn. He claimed he was afraid to sit in the same place for more than a few minutes at a time.

Briggs had no idea how long the pie had been here, but it looked oven fresh.

He took a potpie out of the freezer, stuck it into the oven, then took the stairs to a loft that held his bedroom and the bathroom. Once showered, he went into the bedroom and walked to the closet. It took a few minutes to find what he was looking for: an old shoe box of mementos.

The thumb-size chunk of jade was there; carved into its surface where three Chinese characters.

The day before Tanner was to take Soong and his family out of China, they'd had their last meeting. “There's something I want you to have,” Soong had said, and handed him the stone. “Like everything Chinese, it is a metaphor. Do you see it?”

Tanner shook his head. “My character recognition still needs work.”

“We'll have plenty of time for that once we're out. The characters represent the sun, the earth, and friendship. It means, Wherever you are under the sun, you are my friend, and I am yours.”

Tanner sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the carving.

Who was Han Soong? The man who'd tearfully given him this gift, or the willing participant in a disinformation campaign? As much as Briggs wished otherwise, he wasn't sure, but whatever it took he was going to find out.

USS
O'
Kane
,
DOG-77

What a change a day and three thousand miles can make,
Sconi Bob Jurens thought.

Twenty-four hours ago he and his team had been emerging from Lake Shriveljewels, cold, wet, and tired. Now they were warm and rested aboard a ship in the middle of the Pacific, soaking in the sun.

Beyond the railing, Jurens could hear the
swoosh-hiss
of the water skimming along the hull, and the faint whirring of
O'Kane's
gas-turbine engines. He shaded his eyes and looked over the water. Somewhere out there was their ride, submerged and waiting for
O'Kane's
signal.

Almost time to get down to business.
They were ready, but still there remained the nagging question of their destination. Much like the real estate business, the success or failure of an operation often depended upon three things: location, location, location. Until he knew that, they were in limbo.

“Any guesses, boss?” asked Smitty.

“Nan. Guessing will drive you crazy. I just realized: You know who this ship is named after?”

“Nope.”

“Dick O'Kane. He was a sub driver in World War Two. You've heard of the
Tang,
I'll bet.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Tang
was O'Kane's last command. Five patrols, thirty-one ships sank. That's over a quarter-million tons worth of steel sent to the bottom.”

“You said
last
command.”

“On her last patrol
Tang
sank thirteen ships before she got mixed up in a surface brawl. One of her own torpedoes malfunctioned, circled back, and blew off her stern. O'Kane and those lucky enough to get off were picked up by the Japanese and held prisoner until the end of the war.”

Smitty groaned. “So here we are, aboard a ship named after a sub driver, headed for another sub that's going to take us God-knows-where. If I were a superstitious man, I'd be nervous.”

Whether they will admit it or not, most operators did in fact tend to be superstitious to some degree. For anyone who'd seen the capriciousness of combat, it was hard not to believe in dumb luck.

A crewman poked his head out of the deck hatch. “Master Chief, we've just made contact with your ride. We're fifteen miles out.”

“Thanks. Smitty, go round up Zee and Dickie. Time to start earning our pay.”

Five miles from the sub, O'Kane's captain ordered the ship to Security Alert to keep gawkers out of the passageways and off the decks as Jurens and his team went about their business. Aside from themselves, the only people on the fantail were the ship's XO and her chief boatswain's mate, who would operate the hand winch that would lower the team's gear over the side.

“Breech, four o'clock!” the XO called, pointing.

A quarter mile off the starboard quarter, a submarine's fairwater broke the surface, followed by the foredeck and tail fin, all trailing white water and froth.

“Your chariot, gentlemen,” said the boatswain's mate.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in their IBS raft, unhooking the last piece of gear from the winch. Once done, Smitty planted a boot against the hull and pushed off. Standing on the starboard bridge wing,
O'Kane's
skipper gave them a half salute. Jurens returned it. Zee fired up the motor, revved the throttle, and aimed them toward the sub.

Five minutes later they were alongside. The forward escape trunk, just a few feet behind the fairwater, was already open. A sailor wearing a baseball cap poked his head out and said, “Howdy.”

“You our working party?” Jurens asked.

“Me and five guys below. We'll stow your gear; you can sort it out later.”

Once on deck, they deflated the IBS, set up an assembly line, and began handing gear down the hatch. When everything was aboard, they climbed into the trunk. Jurens entered last, closed the hatch behind him, spun the wheel tight, and descended the ladder.

A short man with red hair and startling blue eyes was waiting for them. “Archie Kinsock, skipper of
Columbia.
”

“Good to meet you, Captain,” said Jurens, then introduced his team.

Kinsock gave each man a handshake. “We'll get you and your men situated, Master Chief, then I think you and I have some orders to open.”

Jurens knocked on Kinsock's stateroom, got an “Enter” in reply, and walked in. The space was roughly ten feet square, carpeted, with two chairs bracketing a desk that doubled as a fold-down bunk.

“Have a seat,” Kinsock said. “Get settled?”

“Yep. Feel bad about taking over the Goat Locker, though.”

“Don't worry about it. A little hot bunking won't hurt them.”

Though the name's origin had been long ago forgotten, the Goat Locker was where the boat's chief petty officers lived while at sea. With their intrusion, the displaced chiefs would have to share racks, one sleeping while the other was on duty.

“This isn't your first time aboard an LA, I assume,” Kinsock asked.

“Nope. Good boats—quiet.”

“They are that. I understand you didn't want the clamshell. Mind telling me why?”

Clamshell is the nickname for the chamber affixed to a submarine's deck to transport a team's Swimmer Deliver Vehicle, or SDV. Using a clamshell allows a team to begin its penetration far from an enemy's shore, thereby reducing its chance of being detected.

“Personal preference,” Jurens answered. “Locking out is a pain in the ass. Plus, I'm kinda old school: I like to swim in. Is that a problem?”

“Nope. I'll get you so close you can wade in, if you want. Besides, I've never liked having those damned things stuck to my boat. They remind me of ticks.”

Jurens laughed. He liked Kinsock; they would get along fine.

Kinsock walked to his wall safe, dialed the combination, opened the door, and pulled out a red-bordered manila folder. He handed it to Jurens. Already aware of the “whats” of the mission, Jurens scanned to the section outlining the navigation plan. “You've got to be kidding me,” he murmured.

“What?” Kinsock asked.

Jurens handed the folder across. “Russia. We're going to Russia.”

Blanton Crossing,
Virginia

Though Cahil didn't expect to find Skeldon loitering around WalPol's headquarters, it seemed the logical place to start. Ninety minutes after leaving Washington, he pulled into the trailer's driveway.

He got out, hefted out a case of beer onto his shoulder, then walked to the door and knocked. Thirty seconds passed. He knocked again. Still no answer.

He looked around; the road was deserted. He set down the beer, opened the screen, and tapped the door. It was a hollow-core model. Using both hands he turned the knob counterclockwise, braced his shoulder against the door, and started pressing, letting his legs do the work. After ten seconds he heard a muffled
pop.
The door swung inward. He grabbed the beer and walked inside.

“Hey, Ernie! Hey, you sumbitch, where are ya?”.

Nothing moved.

“I got some suds! Get yer ass out here!”

Silence.

The trailer's bed-sheet curtains were drawn closed. The interior was empty except for a cot, four battleship gray filing cabinets against one wall, and a homemade sawhorse-and-plank desk.

He made a quick search of the remaining rooms. All were empty.

“Time to check Mike's housekeeping,” Cahil muttered, and set to work.

An hour later he was done. Skeldon had covered himself well. Aside from a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom and a pillowcase on the bedroom floor, the man had left nothing behind.

His job had just gotten harder. Though Skeldon had ties to North Carolina, it was a big state. Trolling around asking random questions would be not only time consuming, but could be dangerous if he came across the wrong people.

He was opening the door to leave when something caught his eye. He walked to the table and knelt. Tucked beneath one of the sawhorse's legs was a matchbook cover. Cahil pulled it out and read.

BUD'S GUN SHOP AND FIRING RANGE

ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

Cahil smiled. “Bingo.”

The drive took most of the night. The sun was rising above the shadowed foothills when he spotted a billboard for a Denny's and pulled into the parking lot. Inside, he found a booth and sat down. The waitress, a fiftyish bottle blond wearing bright pink lipstick, walked up. “Morning. What can I getchya?”

“Coffee, two scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and orange juice.”

“Comin' up.”

Cahil liked Asheville. He and Maggie had stayed in a nearby bed-and-breakfast years before. Nestled between the Great Smokey and Blue Ridge Mountain ranges, it was a quiet city of two hundred thousand, and like many Southern cities, it was steeped in the architecture of antebellum South, with wide, tree-lined boulevards and colonnaded plantation houses perfect for lazy summer evenings.

The waitress returned with the food, flashed a nicotine-yellow smile at him, and left.

As he ate, Cahil thought about Skeldon. The former Ranger had been discharged for medical reasons in 1993 after sixteen years of service. Latham's transcript hadn't listed the cause of Skeldon's medical condition, an omission Cahil found curious. After sixteen years—most of them spent in an elite unit—it was unlikely Skeldon had volunteered to opt out. That left forced retirement, which begged the same question: What had happened to drive Skeldon out of the army four years shy of retirement?

Cahil had two more cups of coffee, paid the bill, then walked outside to a phone. He found the listing for Bud's Gun Shop and Firing Range and dialed.

“Bud's,” the voice drawled.

“Howdy,” Cahil said. “Wondering about your hours.”

“Open from six p.m. to midnight, Monday through Saturday.”

“You got a combat course?”

“Yep. Forty targets, plus two buildings for CQB.”

CQB was short for Close Quarters Combat. “Thanks.” Cahil hung up.

Six
o'clock.
He had some time to kill.

He checked into a motel and napped for three hours, then made a list of local gun shops in the area and started driving. Because of zoning laws, most of the shops were located outside city limits.

The first four shops didn't have what he needed. The fifth, run from a shed beside the owner's ranch-style home, was tucked between an apple orchard and a horse pasture west of the city. As Cahil got out of the car, a pair of Labrador retrievers trotted over, sniffed his legs, then wandered away.

“Afternoon.” A potbellied man in denim overalls walked toward him. “Help ya?”

“You Hersh?”

“Jim Hersh. Who're you?”

“John Malvin. I'm looking for something a little unusual. Heard you might be able to help.”

Hersh pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands. “Come on in.”

The shed had a concrete floor and unpainted Sheetrock walls. Floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with guns and boxes of ammunition lined the walls. The shed's only window was crisscrossed with steel rebar. A pair of box fans hung from the corners, churning the dusty air.

Hersh opened a mini-fridge. “Grape soda?”

“Sure.”

Hersh tossed him one. “What kind of unusual?”

“Heckler & Koch USC forty-five.”

Hersh took a gulp of his soda. “Trojan.” The gun had gained the nickname from the University of Southern California's football team. “Government just put a moratorium on 'em. That's one step away from being banned.”

“That's why I'd like to get one before it's too late.”

“Still don't change nothing. I can't sell 'em.”

Cahil looked around at the gun displays. “Nice collection. How long've you been in business?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Ex-military?”

“Marines. You?”

“Army Rangers.”

“Airborne?”

Cahil shook his head. “Straight leg.”

“Me, too.”

“Why fly when you can march.”

“Damn right.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Outside the dogs barked a few times, then went silent. Hersh was mulling it over, Cahil guessed. As far as the police were concerned, selling a moratorium weapon was the same as selling a banned weapon. He could lose his license and go to jail.

“Why the Trojan?” asked Hersh.

“I'd rather have a tommy-gun, but so far I'm not having much luck. Till then, I'd settle for the USC. I got a buddy who can attach a box magazine on it.”

“No shit. How many rounds?”

“Hundred.”

“Whatchya gonna use it for?”

“Quail hunting.”

Hersh was in the middle of taking a sip; he choked, then started laughing. “A .45 round ain't gonna leave much bird to eat. No, really, what for?”

“I like to run combat courses.”

Hersh finished his soda, tossed it into a nearby garbage pail. “I've got a Trojan, but it ain't registered. That a problem?”

“Not for me. What about the serial number?”

“Somebody spilled some acid on it. Can't read it for shit. Three grand.”

They haggled for a few minutes and Cahil got him down to $2800 with ten boxes of ammunition and a Browning 9mm pistol thrown in. As they walked to Cahil's car, Hersh said, “There's a good course south of here.”

“Bud's?” Hersh nodded. “I'm headed there tonight.” Cahil stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

Hersh shook it. “Pleasure. Just so we understand each other, I don't sell many of those. If it comes back on me, I'm gonna be unhappy.”

“I hear ya,” Bear said.

Cahil waited until the sun went down, then followed Highway 240/74 out of the city to Minehole Gap, where he turned north, following the signs for Bud's. After another seven miles the road took him into a clearing where he found a ten-foot-high fence made of rusted corrugated steel. Above the razor wire, he could see the glare of stadium lights. He heard the staccato popping of semiautomatic gunfire.

Parked along the fence was an assortment of pickup trucks and muscle cars, most sporting a mix of Confederate flags, pro-NRA bumper stickers, and naked lady mud flaps.

Rebel heaven,
Cahil thought.

The men inside would likely be stereotypical “good 'ol Southern boys”: patriotic, bigoted, and full of “aw-shucks” charm masking mean streaks ten-miles wide. Cahil suddenly realized how far from civilization he was. If he got into trouble out here, he would be on his own.

He got out, locked the H&K in the trunk, and walked through the gate. He found himself standing beneath a lean-to porch attached to an open-ended WWI-style barracks; inside were several dozen men sitting at tables, drinking and laughing. To his right, spread out over a quarter mile, lay the grass shooting lanes. Three or four men, each armed with some version of a banned assault weapon, were shooting at man silhouette targets.

“Evening,” a man called from the counter.

“Evening,” Cahil said and walked over.

The man was in his early sixties, wearing a yellow “Prowl Herbicide” baseball cap. Tacked to the collar of his flannel shirt was an American flag pin with a gold “II” superimposed on it.

That told Cahil much. The pin was the symbol of the militia group known as America Secundus, or Second America. Believing the government was tainted by corruption, cultural decay, and racial impurity, America Secundus was dedicated to the foundation of a new United States built on the ashes—metaphorical or literal, no one knew—of the old.

Was Skeldon a member? Cahil wondered. And if so, did his affiliation have anything to do with his business with Baker and the
Guoanbu
?
“Are you Bud?” he asked.

“I am. You're John Malvin.”

Uh-oh.
“That's a helluva guess.”

“Hersh called, said you might be stopping by.”

“Nice of him. Listen, if I'm not welcome, I understand.”

“Nobody said that. We're kinda family out here, that's all. Hersh said you seemed okay, asked me to make you welcome.”

Cahil was guessing Bud's was not only the headquarters for Secundus's North Carolina chapter, but also the Southern version of a mafia social club. “Then I guess you know about our transaction.”

“Yep. Nice rig.”

“Mind if I give it a whirl?”

“Go ahead,” Bud replied, then grinned. “Just don't shoot no quail.”

Looking better.
“Deal.”

Cahil gathered the Trojan and chose a shooting lane. He shot a few dozen rounds, getting a feel for the gun, then set to work sighting it in, starting first at twenty-five yards, then moving back to the fifty and one hundred marks.

He heard voices behind him. He turned. Twenty or so of Bud's patrons were standing on the porch watching him. As he'd hoped, the Trojan had attracted some attention.

“Not bad for standing still,” one of the men called.

“You volunteering to stand-in?” Cahil replied.

There was general laughter.

“What I mean is, try it on the run.” The man was nearly six and a half feet, with a long beard and heavily tattooed forearms. Cahil mentally named him “Beard.”

“If I'm gonna tire myself out like that, I'd like it to be worth my time,” he said.

Beard sauntered over. The rest of the pack followed at a distance, forming a semicircle around the lane. All of them were wearing either belt or shoulder holsters.

“Hundred bucks says you can't put two in the head of each target at a full sprint,” said Beard.

Obviously, Hersh's courtesy call hadn't quite given him a full pass. Beard was either the de facto leader here, or the enforcer. To back down now could be disastrous.

“I've got a better idea,” Cahil replied. “Turn off the lights, and for two hundred I'll put three in each head.”

“Bullshit.”

Cahil shrugged. “If you don't have the cash …”

His eyes locked on Cahil's, Beard called, “Bud, turn 'em off.”

A few moments later Cahil heard a double
thunk,
and the range went dark except for what little light filtered out from the barracks windows.

“Wanna flashlight?” somebody called. There was laughter.

Cahil turned to face the lane. Working by feel, he changed the Trojan's magazine, then stood still, letting his eyes adjust. After a few seconds, the outline of the twenty-five-yard silhouette came into focus. He brought the Trojan to his shoulder in the ready-low position.

Nice and easy
…
get the sight picture,
then squeeze.

He started running.

Thirty seconds later he was done. As he returned to the head of the lane, Bud flipped the lights back on. There was a few seconds of silence, then a lone, “I'll be damned,” followed by murmuring.

Each of the target's foreheads was punctured by a near-perfect triad of shots.

“Not bad,” said Beard.

Time to back him down a little bit,
Cahil thought. He took a step forward, pushing the man's space. “Better than ‘not bad,' I'd say.”

Beard's eyes narrowed, then he grinned. “Come inside. I'll get your money, buy you a beer.”

They drank beer and talked for an hour before Beard asked, “What brings you down here?”

“Looking for an old army buddy. I heard he'd been spending some time here.”

“What's his name?”

“Mike Skeldon.”

As Cahil had expected, Beard quizzed him for several minutes about the army. Finally Cahil said, “You know Mike?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Hey, forget it. If he don't wanna be found, no problem. I know how it goes.”

Beard took a gulp of beer. “Why wouldn't he wanna be found?”

“Forget it.”

“No. Why wouldn't he wanna be found?”

Cahil shrugged. “Couple months before the army booted him, we were bullshitting—talking about work on the outside. Mike figured his experience oughta be worth something to somebody.”

“Damn right it should. Why'd they discharge him?”