Wall of Night (30 page)

“What's the plant status, Chief?” asked Kinsock.

Columbia's
engineering officer flipped open his notebook. “Reactor's on line, all boards are green. Same with generators and all auxiliary equipment.”

“Hull breeches?”

“Six minors but the pressure hull seems mostly intact. There's nothing we can't handle unless we go any deeper. Then things are gonna start to pop. I've got watches set on each of the sites and rovers looking for trouble spots. The worst is the screw: At least two of the blades are gone. The aft trim tank is holed, and we're getting pinhole leaks near the thrust block.”

“So, bottom line, main propulsion is out.”

“We got the power, but no screw to put it to.”

“Outboards?” Kinsock asked, referring to
Columbia's
two retractable thrusters used for pier-side maneuvering.

“Both are okay as far as we can tell. Skipper, you're not thinking about—”

“Just brainstorming, Chief.”

“ 'Cuz those thrusters are louder than hell. If we start 'em up, we're just asking for company. Besides, the best speed they can give us is four knots.”

“I know that, Chief.”

“Yeah, I guess you do. Sorry, Skipper.”

“Forget it. Jim, how's command and control?”

“Not bad, all things considered. We're still running diagnostics, but so far the only major damage is to communications. Both our VLF and ELF are out. Weapons and sensors read okay, but neither of them are much use while we're on the bottom.”

Kinsock nodded. “Okay, first we need to let somebody know we're here. Next, fix our leaks so once we get moving we can get a little depth under us.” The engineer started to open his mouth, but Kinsock pushed on. “Chief, if we have to take on a little water to do it, fine. Right now, we're sitting ducks. If we can get some sea around us, we might be able to hide until the cavalry comes. Hell, even if all we can do is get off this shelf and float at zero-bubble, our chances are a lot better.”

Kinsock looked from man to man. “Questions?” There were none. “Jim, get a SLOT buoy ready for launch. Time to let the folks at home know we ain't dead.”

Nakhodka-Vostochny

Two hours after sunrise, an MI-6 “Hook” cargo helicopter from Vladivostok set down amid a mini-hurricane of embers and disgorged its two dozen passengers, a mix of emergency medical personnel, firefighters, and soldiers. They immediately spread out and went to work, some searching for survivors while the rest began setting up a base of operations from which the relief effort would be coordinated.

All but a few of the warehouses and storage bunkers were still burning, and every few seconds there came the groan of wrenching steel as another structure collapsed into rubble. Puddles of burning oil dotted the concrete, making the worker's every step treacherous as they picked their way through the wreckage, calling out for survivors and tagging corpses for later recovery.

At the port's easternmost end, Private Vasily Tarknoy of the Federation Army was walking along the waterfront, gaping at the skeletal remains of the ships that had not yet sunk. The oil tanker that had taken the brunt of the Harpoon impact rested on the bottom with only the tip of its mast jutting from the water. Every few seconds a geyser of bubbles would erupt from the hulk and spew a cloud of oily mist into the air. Through the ash on the water's surface, he could discern the outline of the ship. It reminded him of the pictures he'd seen of the
Arizona
Memorial at Pearl Harbor.

He was passing a jumble of wreckage that appeared to have been a storage shed when something caught his eye. There was a glint of glass amid the debris. He leapt across a small stream of burning oil and knelt. The metal was still hot. He pulled on his gloves and pushed aside the wreckage until he was able to reach the object.

The object looked vaguely like one of those large scopes used by bird-watchers. There seemed to be writing on the scope. He wiped away the soot until the letters were readable.

Tarknoy's grasp of English was poor, but good enough. He stood up and fumbled for his radio. “Major, this is Tarknoy. I think I've found something you should see.”

Beijing

Xiang marveled at Bian's fortitude.

Given the man's panic when they'd arrested him, Xiang felt sure he would have confessed quickly.

They were in their fifth hour of interrogation—the last two of which had been physical—and still Bian had revealed nothing about either Brown or the man he'd met at Guanghua Temple.

Xiang leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette and watching impassively as the interrogator reapplied the electrode to the sole of Bian's foot. In his writhing, Bian had proven surprisingly strong, having already dislodged the electrodes three times.

Then again, Xiang reminded himself, intense and extended pain tends to transform people, and he wondered idly if the pain might be steeling Bian's will. There was no mistaking the transformation Bian's feet had undergone: Both soles were blackened and split and dripping clear, lymphatic fluid.

They will probably have to be amputated,
Xiang thought idly

He caught a whiff of burnt flesh and took another puff on his cigarette to block it out.

The interrogator tightened the straps around Bian's calves, then turned to Xiang. “We're ready. I don't think there's much feeling left in his feet, though.”

“Up the voltage.”

After another twenty minutes, Bian's screams died away and he began mumbling incoherently.

Better,
Xiang thought. Speech was always the first hurdle. If you could get the subject talking—even nonsense—you were making progress. If this failed, Xiang knew that Bian had a daughter in Nanjing; if he were unconcerned about his own life, perhaps he would feel differently about hers.

“… won't catch him …” Bian murmured suddenly.

Xiang stepped forward. “What, Bian? Did you say something? Catch who?”

Bian's eyes fluttered open. “You won't catch him.”

“Who? Your friend from Guanghua Temple? The American?” It was a stab in the dark, but Bian rewarded him with a slight shift in his eyes. “We photographed you two together. We know what he looks like, we know when he came into the country, and we know he's an American. We're already closing in on him. Why put yourself through this?”

Bian shook his head.

“Hit him again,” Xiang ordered.

As the electrodes began sizzling, there was a knock at the door. Xiang opened it. Eng was standing there with a manila file. “What is it?” Xiang asked.

“His medical file. Check page three; you'll find it useful.”

Xiang closed the door and scanned the file, pausing on the third page. According to his doctor, Bian suffered from hypertension and arteriosclerosis, which in turn had caused him ongoing problems with thrombosis and angina, both potentially lethal heart problems. The fact that the interrogation hadn't prompted an attack said much about Bian's resilience.

But everyone has their limits,
Xiang thought. He picked up the wall phone, explained what he needed, then hung up.

The male nurse arrived fifteen minutes later and wheeled a cart to Bian's side. Xiang pulled up a stool and sat down. “Bian! Bian, wake up …” Xiang slapped his face. “Wake up!”

Bian's eyes popped open. “What? I told you … won't catch him …”

“Yes, I know. Are you listening to me, Bian, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

“I understand you have a heart condition. You're taking several medications for it.”

Bian's head lolled to one side. “So?”

“So, I have all your medications right here.”

“Don't need them.”

“You will.”

Xiang nodded to the nurse, who inserted a syringe into a vial, extracted some of the liquid, then jabbed the tip into Bian's arm. “Ah! What is that?”

“Epinephrine,” Xiang answered. “You probably know it as adrenaline.”

“No! Don't do that …”

Xiang nodded at the nurse, who pushed down on the plunger.

Bian began bucking against his restraints. “No, no, no!”

Xiang grabbed Bian's head. “Can you feel it? Your blood pressure is rising, your heartbeat is climbing, your blood vessels are constricting … Can you feel it yet?”

Beads of sweat appeared on Bian's forehead. His pupils contracted to pinpricks. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a gasp. “Ahh … !”

Xiang leaned closer. “Now you can feel the pressure—like a block of stone on your chest.”

“Oh, God …”

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“No!”

“Tell me what I want to know and I'll help you.”

“No!”

“Tell me what I want to know and I won't have to pay a visit to your daughter in Nanjing.”

Bian's head snapped around. “Leave … her … alone … ahhh!” He threw his head back, gasping for breath.

Xiang nodded to the nurse. “Give him some more.”

“Don't!” Bian cried.

As the nurse gave the injection, there was another knock at the door. Xiang opened it.

It was Eng: “I think we have him.” He handed Xiang a file. “He's traveling under the name Ben Colson; he listed his occupation as a photographer. I'm still trying to track it down, but he presented a letter of invitation at Customs.”

“Probably a fake,” Xiang replied.
China has more ministers than a dog has hairs.
He flipped open the file and looked at the passport photo. “That's him. Good work. Where is he staying?”

“The Tingsonglou.”

“Gather a team. We leave in ten minutes.”

Eng nodded and left, Xiang shut the door.

Bian was convulsing. His back was arched, his head rolling from side to side. Xiang walked over and grabbed Bian's head to still it. “We've got him, Bian,” he whispered. “You went through this for nothing. All this pain—for nothing. Remember that.”

Bian rasped, “My daughter … ”

“What's that?”

“Leave her alone.”

Despite his frailty, the man had held up well. “Very well,” he said. “She'll be unharmed.”

Xiang started toward the door.

“Sir?” the interrogator called. “What should we do with him?”

Xiang saw the electrodes still attached to Bian's feet. “Give him the full treatment.”

“But, with his heart … it will kill him.”

Xiang shrugged. “The price of fatherhood.”

Miyun Reservoir,
North of Beijing

As Xiang and his team were racing toward the Bamboo Garden, Tanner was climbing a hillside north of the Miyun Reservoir. Behind him, the moonlight reflected off the water's surface.

He was on the last leg of a journey that had begun six hours before at Ritan Park, where he'd flagged down a taxi and asked to be driven to Taishiyun, a village northeast of the reservoir. Once there, he strolled the town's
hutongs
until dusk, when he hired another taxi to the reservoir.

“You want wait?” the driver asked as he dropped Tanner off.

“No, thanks. I have friends picking me up in about an hour.”

“You wait in the dark?”

“I want to photograph the sunset. I'll be okay, thanks.”

The driver shrugged and pedaled away.

As darkness fell, Tanner hunkered down in the underbrush and waited until the last few visitors left the beach and drove away. At nine p.m., a local PSB car rolled by, shined its lights along the trees, then kept going.

Once it disappeared around the corner, Tanner started moving.

He reached the top of the slope and paused to catch his breath.

Fifty feet ahead lay the barbed-wire fence of the air base's perimeter. As Hsiao had described it, the air base was only large enough to accommodate helicopters, with three landing pads and a cluster of hangars and maintenance buildings. Hashing blue-green lights outlined each pad.

Following Hsiao's directions, he followed the fence until he came to a rusted steel sign hanging from one of the posts. In Mandarin, it read WARNING: GOVERNMENT FACILITY. STAY OUT.

The bottom three rings securing the fence to the post were missing. He pushed the mesh inward and ducked through.

Forty minutes later, having dodged three truck-mounted patrols, Tanner lay on his belly in the shadows along a storage shed. Across the road stood a hangar; the placard above the door read “Shiyi”—the number eleven in Mandarin.

Stacked against the outer wall were a line of wooden crates, several of them reaching to within a few feet of the roof's overhang. Astonished as he was at the lapse in security, Tanner was only too glad to take advantage of it.

So far Hsiao's information was proving out. Tanner was glad: It felt good to have an ally. Though he wasn't ready to put his life in the young soldier's hands, Hsiao's stock had just gone up.

He lay still for another fifteen minutes. Two patrol trucks came and went, but the road was devoid of foot traffic.

He got up and sprinted across the road. He mounted the first crate, chinned himself to the next one, then crawled onto the roof and shimmied forward until he reached the skylight. It was unlocked.

He lifted it open, peeked inside, then slipped through feet first.

The climb down through the girders took less than a minute.

In the center of the hangar stood Hsiao's MI-8 Hip helicopter. At nearly twenty feet tall and sixty feet in length, it rose over him like an olive green monster. Its rotors drooped a few feet over his head.

He crouched down, opened his rucksack, and withdrew a liter-size bottle filled with a brown liquid straight from the CIA's “Cookbook o' Skullduggery,” as Oaken called it.

The recipe had called for ingredients ranging from ground, match heads to acetone, to mineral spirits. Having no clue about the theory behind the process, Briggs could only rely on Oaken's directions as he spent most of the afternoon measuring and mixing the various parts until they became what he now had in the bottle.

According to Langley's Science and Tech gurus, the compound would remain stable until heat—such as from a helicopter's turboshaft exhaust stack—was applied to it, at which time it would begin deteriorating molecule by molecule. Just as sunlight through a prism is divided into its various wavelengths, so too would the compound systematically break down into a unique chemical signature.

As Tanner crouched on the hangar floor, two hundred miles above him a Keyhole “Prism Forte” satellite was aligning its ISA, or Infrared Spectrometer Array, to look for the chemical signature of his compound. When the Hip lifted off, the ISA would lock onto the trail, then pass it to the Keyhole's main camera, which would track it to the camp.

With the bottle and a paintbrush tucked under one arm, Tanner climbed onto the Hip's weapons rack. He popped the bottle's top, nearly gagged at the smell, then squirted some onto the exhaust stack and began spreading it on.

Fifteen minutes later he'd covered the stack with four coats of the compound, each of which went on the color of molasses but dried clear—and mercifully odorless—within minutes.

He climbed down, repacked his rucksack, and headed for the ladder.

At the Bamboo Garden, Xiang's team was tearing apart Tanner's hotel room. The mattress, bedcovers, and wall hangings lay strewn on the floor.

“Nothing, sir,” one of the searchers reported.

“Bag up all his personal belongings and take them back to headquarters,” Xiang ordered. “I want everything checked again.”

“What now?” Eng asked. “He could be anywhere.”

“Circulate his photo to all the PSB and PAP stations in the city. He'll turn up. In the meantime, tell the perimeter team to pull back. He may still come to us.”

Xiang flipped open Colson's file and studied the passport photo. Something about the man's face looked familiar.
I
know you,
don't I
?
Xiang thought.