Wall of Night (31 page)

Chono Dam,
Russia

Separated from Dutcher and the others by thousands of miles, and with no way of telling them about Skeldon's plans for the dam, Cahil was wracking his brain for options.

The scope of China's plan was mind-boggling. Knowing Moscow's reaction to an invasion of Siberia would be to immediately dispatch reinforcements to Yakutia, Sakha, and Irkutsk, China had decided to create a geographical roadblock of stunning proportions.

Trapped behind the Chono Dam lay a system of waterways and lakes roughly a fifth the size of the Great Lakes. Once released, the flood would roar down the narrow Chono River gorge and into the Central Siberian Plateau, gaining momentum and speed as its force was multiplied by not only the flatness of the land itself, but by the major rivers that crisscrossed it: the Nyuya, the Lena, the Vitim, the Ineyke—all would merge into a juggernaut of water rushing south toward a four hundred-mile stretch of the Trans-Siberia Railway—Moscow's primary means of getting reinforcements into Siberia.

The flood would slowly dissipate as Siberia's web of minor rivers and tributaries absorbed the deluge, but that would take weeks, during which the Federation would be faced with not only one of the greatest disasters in Russian history, but also an entrenched enemy force.

Whether Skeldon knew that the dam was just a cog in a larger plan, Cahil didn't know, but certainly he didn't understand their presence here was integral to the drama to come.

Cahil wasn't sure how it would happen, but as the effects of the disaster were fully realized, word would reach Moscow: Bodies were found near the dam—two Caucasian and six Chinese—all wearing U.S. Army uniforms and carrying U.S.-issue equipment. The heavy-handedness of the revelation would be lost in the ensuing outrage. The United States would be accused of not only being in cahoots with China, but also of unleashing the disaster that had crippled Moscow's ability to repel the invaders.

The morning after Skeldon showed him the dam, they awoke before dawn, had a quick breakfast of MRE chipped beef on toast and hiked into the forest, heading roughly northeast.

After an hour, Skeldon stopped before a wooded slope, glanced around, then started pacing off distances. Cahil realized he was following a mental map.

Skeldon stopped, walked to a section of the slope, then got down on his knees and parted a clump of bushes. He rummaged around for a moment, then wriggled backward, dragging a rock the size of a manhole cover. He pushed it aside and turned to Cahil. “Come on.”

“Come on where?”

“You'll see. Just follow me and stay close.”

Skeldon dropped to his belly and crawled into the bushes. Cahil followed.

A few feet into the undergrowth Cahil came to an opening in the rock. As Skeldon's feet disappeared inside, Cahil clicked on his flashlight and wriggled after him. The tunnel continued for ten feet, then widened into a cave tall enough for them to stand in.

“What is this place?” Cahil asked.

“A side tunnel. This used to be part of a silver mine. It's been abandoned for about sixty years.”

“How'd you find it?”

Skeldon grinned, his face appearing skeletal in the flashlight beam. “Like you said, I've spent a fair amount of time over here. Come on, we've got about a mile to go.”

Before Cahil could ask any questions, Skeldon started down the tunnel, his flashlight bouncing off the rock walls.

The floor was flat and well worn. Occasionally Cahil's beam would pick out the stub of a candle or a pick hammer nestled in a crag in the wall. After twenty minutes, the tunnel began a series of turns, snaking east and then west as the floor began to slope downward. The air grew cooler.

“You're not claustrophobic, are you?” Skeldon called over his shoulder.

“Nah,” Cahil replied.
But the day is young.
He could feel the press of thousands of tons of rock above him. He suppressed a shiver and kept walking.

Finally the tunnel opened into a cavern about the size of a basketball court. Stalactites glistening with water drooped from the ceiling, reaching in some places nearly to the floor. Skeldon led him to the far wall and shined his flashlight along its base. Bored into the rock at forty-five-degree angles were six evenly spaced holes, each about the diameter of a telephone pole.

“You made these?” Cahil asked.

Skeldon nodded. “Yep. It was a pain in the ass to get the depth right.”

“What—”

“Shhh! Listen.” Skeldon pressed his ear to the wall. He gestured for Cahil to do the same. At first Cahil heard nothing. Then, faintly, he could make out the distant rush of water.

“That's the river,” Cahil said.

“Yep. Only about twelve feet of rock between us and the dam's footings.”

“When did you drill the holes?”

“Last year.”

Last year,
Bear thought.
My God
…

The Chinese had planned their operation down to the finest detail. Cahil now had the answer to one of his lingering questions: How they were planning to destroy the dam. These six bore holes, each packed with a portion of the C4 the commandos had loaded aboard the Yaz, would work as shaped charges. Detonated simultaneously, the charges would fracture the dam's base, sending a shock wave of cracks upward and outward. From there, the weight of the reservoir's water would do the rest.

Moscow

The strain was beginning to show on Bulganin, Nochenko thought.

It was understandable, of course: Less than ten days in office and the new president was facing a spate of crises: an angry and aggressive China; a major far-eastern port razed to the ground; and a U.S. battle group steaming ominously toward the Siberian coast.

Bulganin's eyes were red-rimmed and his hair jutted from his head at wild angles. Behind Bulganin, the ever-present Pyotr stared fixedly at the far wall.

Like the mausoleum guards,
Nochenko thought.
Bloody thug.

Bulganin pointed at the wall clock. “Where are they? I summoned them over an hour ago!”

It had only been twenty minutes, Nochenko knew, but he thought better than to argue the point. “Don't worry, Vlad, they're—”

The intercom on Bulganin's desk buzzed; he punched it. “Yes!”

“Marshal Beskrovny and—”

“Send them in.”

The four men that made up Bulganin's National Security Council strode into the office and stopped in a semicircle before his desk: Premier Andrei Svetlyn, Foreign Minister Dmitry Kagorin, Defense Minister Marshal Victor Beskrovny, and Director of the SVR, Sergei Fedorin.

All but Beskrovny were recent appointees. Until ten days ago Kagorin and Svetlyn had both been serving as deputies for the men Bulganin summarily dismissed upon taking office. Whether they kept their new posts depended, Nochenko knew, on how well they served as conduits for Bulganin's decrees. In discussing their promotion with Nochenko, Bulganin had fallen short of admitting he was looking for “yes men,” calling them instead “loyal servants.”

A forty-year veteran of the Russian army, Marshal Beskrovny had served as either Defense Minister or Chief of the General Staff for both Mikhail Gorbachev and Boris Yeltsin, and was a popular figure among the people. Beskrovny was, in Bulganin's words, a “true herb of the Motherland.”

Sergei Fedorin was the wild card. In the final days before the election the SVR director had helped Bulganin's cause by publicly recognizing his lead in the polls. As was expected, Bulganin had reciprocated by letting Fedorin stay on. For now.

“Beware the spies,” Bulganin had told Nochenko, quoting yet another Stalinism. “Their eyes are sharp, their hearts black, their knives always ready.”

Bulganin glowered at his cabinet, letting them squirm for a few moments. “Let's hear it. Kagorin, what do we know about this Chinese absurdity?”

“Beijing is declining all our attempts to communicate,” the foreign minister answered. “As it stands, their deadline will expire in twenty hours.”

“Any sign of what they plan to do then?” asked Nochenko.

Marshal Beskrovny answered. “Aside from a slight increase in their command structure's alert status, nothing has changed. Across the board, there's no movement of military units.”

“Fedorin? You agree?”

“I do,” the SVR director replied. “If they're planning a military response, it won't come quickly. They don't have the units in place to do anything significant.”

“More Chinese inscrutability,” Bulganin said. “All bark, no bite. Very well, let the deadline pass. I won't be dictated to by those little bastards! If they think they can bully me into taking the blame for those mishaps, they are mistaken. What of the U.S. carrier group, Marshal?”

“If it maintains its current course it will be off our coast in three days. According to their Pentagon, the group is on routine maneuvers—”

“That's a lie.”

“If so, their purpose is plain: They're hoping the show of power will calm Beijing's fire a bit.”

“Very kind of them, but we don't need help handling the Chinese. I want to be kept informed, Marshal, do you understand? Every hour, I want to know what the group is up to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now: Nakhodka-Vostochny—what happened? What's the extent of the damage?”

“Severe,” Beskrovny replied. “First reports describe the port as ‘flattened.'”

“Flattened?
Flattened
!
What does that mean? What could do such a thing?”

“Mr. President,” Nochenko answered, “relief crews have just arrived on scene, so it will be a while before we start getting firsthand accounts from survivors. But, as I understand it, the port does handle a lot of petroleum products.”

Bulganin glanced at Marshal Beskrovny. “Is this true?”

“Yes, sir. A petroleum-related accident might explain the damage, but Ivan's right: We won't
know
anything until the crews have a chance to—”

Bulganin's intercom buzzed. “Yes?”

“Mr. President, I have an urgent call for Marshal Beskrovny.”

“Transfer it in.”

When the phone trilled, Beskrovny picked it up, listened for a full minute, then said, “How certain are you, General? Who confirmed it? I see … yes, of course. We need to be sure. If there's a mistake—” Beskrovny went silent again, then said, “Very well, I'll be back to you shortly.”

“What?” Bulganin asked.

“That was the Far East District Commander in Vladivostok. One the relief workers found a … device that looked out of place, so he reported it.”

“What kind of device?” Ivan Nochenko asked.

Beskrovny hesitated. “It's been identified as what's called an LTD—a laser target designator. They're used to guide missiles onto targets.”

“What
!”
Bulganin roared. “How—”

Nochenko cut him off: “What else, Marshal?”

“The device is standard U.S. military issue.”

“American?” Bulganin murmured, the muscles in his jaw bunching. “The Americans did this?”

“We don't know that, Mr. President,” Beskrovny replied.

“Then explain the presence of the device.”

“I can't. Not yet.”

“Do we posses any of these … LTDs?”

“No, sir.”

“Any reason why one should be in the port?” Bulganin pressed.

“No, sir.”

“Would a missile attack explain the devastation?”

“It might. It would depend on—”

“This LTD—it's operated by ground troops?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

Bulganin held up a hand, silencing Beskrovny. “That's enough! I've heard enough!” He began pacing. “Those bastards … those rotten, backstabbing bastards—”

“Mr. President,” Nochenko said.

“—attack us without provocation …
Cowards
!”

“Mr. President!”

Bulganin stopped. “What?”

“I agree, it looks bad, but we need to proceed cautiously—”

“Ivan, didn't you hear? There are enemy soldiers on Russian soil! American soldiers!”

“Let the relief crews do their job. Let Marshal Beskrovny and Director Fedorin investigate the matter. If the Americans are responsible, they will pay, but we must be sure.”

Bulganin stared at him. “Can't you see the obvious—any of you? They did this. They are responsible. They think I'm weak; they thought this was the perfect time to—” Bulganin stopped talking, closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them, suddenly calm again. “Fine. Very well. Conduct your investigation. You have twenty-four hours to report back to me.”

Both Fedorin and Beskrovny nodded. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“In the meantime, I want two things from you Marshal Beskrovny: One, hunt down those soldiers. They must not be allowed to escape. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Second: I don't want that battle group approaching our coast. Mark my words: None of this is a coincidence. You don't see it, but I do. I don't want them anywhere near our soil. If they try it, make them pay for every inch!”

Beijing

It was four a.m. when Tanner stepped off the bus two blocks from his hotel. He was exhausted and ready for a couple hours of sleep. When he awoke, hopefully Oaken would have the camp's location.

He walked southeast through a maze of dark
hutongs,
lined with boarded-up vendor's stalls and quiet courtyards. Aside from the occasional grunt of a pig or the squawk of a chicken, all was quiet.

Two hundred yards from the Bamboo Garden, he was turning onto Jiugulou when he caught a sudden whiff of cigarette smoke. A mental warning flag popped up. It was nothing concrete, but rather an intuitive punch in the stomach. Having learned the hard way, he'd come to trust the feeling.

He stopped, slowly stepped into a doorway alcove, and crouched in the shadows.

Two minutes passed. Abruptly, down the street in another alcove, the orange tip of a cigarette glowed to life.
Just a local having a smoke,
Briggs thought, but remained still nonetheless.

After another minute the cigarette glowed again. In those few seconds he caught the glint of olive-drab uniform pants with a red, vertical stripe:
People's Armed Police.
Tanner's heart filled his throat. What were the chances of a lone PAP officer stopping for a break in a darkened doorway just a hundred yards from his hotel?

They'd found him. A dozen questions swirled in his brain. Had Hsiao or Bian burned him? Had they been taken? Or was it something else, a mistake he'd made?

He continued to scan the street and slowly, one by one, he picked out another six men—two PAP officers and four PSB plainclothes—hidden along the street in front of the Bamboo Garden.

Six on this street,
probably twice that many inside
…

The ambush had to be a
Guoanbu
operation; only they could coordinate both the PSB and PAP like this. It would only be a matter of time before they began circulating his photo to the city's local PSB stations—if they hadn't already started. From there his alias and picture would trickle down to street level until every bus and cabdriver had it.

Get out,
Briggs.

Moving slowly, he slipped back around the corner. Heart pounding, eyes darting into the darkness around him, he started walking west, forcing himself to keep an easy pace. Suddenly, a voice came out of the darkness of a
hutong
entrance: “Stop, sir!”

He stopped in his tracks.
Don't run.
Wait.

“Sir, may I see your papers, please?”

He doesn't know it's me,
Briggs thought.
Still a chance.

Hands shaking, Tanner turned toward the voice. It was a uniformed PSB officer. Head tucked into his chest, Briggs patted his coat pockets. “Yes, Officer, I have them right here.” He took a step toward the man. “Yes, here they are …”

As the officer extended his hand for the papers, Tanner sent a straight punch into his solar plexus, then reversed his hand and slammed the butt of his palm into the man's chin. The officer let out a gasp, then crumpled. Briggs caught him in a hug, then dragged him into the alley, and laid him down.

The thought of killing him flashed briefly through Tanner's mind, but he dismissed it. It was unnecessary; alive or dead, the officer would be found within a few hours. The incident would be linked to him. Besides, Tanner thought, before this was over there was going to be plenty of mayhem to go around; there was no sense adding to it before he had no other choice.

He dragged the officer deeper into the
hutong,
stuffed him behind a cluster of garbage cans, then smoothed his clothes, stepped back onto the street, and kept walking until he reached Xitau, where he found another doorway and ducked inside.

He pulled out the Motorola, dialed Hsiao's number. “Hello?” Hsiao answered groggily.

“It's me,” Tanner said. “You recognize my voice?”

“Uh … yes. What—”

“How is everything?”

“What?”

“I said, ‘how is everything?'“

“Oh … everything is awful.”

He's okay,
Briggs thought. A standard “fine” response would have meant “trouble; go away.”

“And you?” Hsiao asked.

“The same. That makes two of us,” Tanner replied. This too was code:
Don't know about Bian
;
check,
but use caution.
“I'll be in touch. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” Hsiao replied.

As the first hints of dawn were appearing on the horizon, Tanner stepped onto Deshengmen Avenue, flagged down a pedi-taxi—which was the last tier of transportation providers he felt would get his photo—and asked to be taken to the Ditan Gymnasium.

Once there, he walked west to Qingnianhu Park and followed the footpath around the lake to the visitor's pavilion, a large, open-air amphitheater containing rest rooms, city map displays, and rental lockers. He found the correct locker, inserted his key, and opened the door.

Inside was a expedition-size, waterproof backpack.
Thank God
…

As promised, Brown and his people had deposited his cache.

Before leaving Washington, Tanner had given Mason a wish list of emergency items. Given not only the
Guoanbu's
ultra-secret attitude toward the camp, but also the fact that Beijing had slowly but surely closing urban
laogis
in favor of more remote locations, he felt certain that sooner or later he'd find himself in the wilds of the Chinese countryside.

He took the backpack into a bathroom stall and took a quick inventory of the pack's contents. Everything was there.

He stripped off his clothes and pulled on a pair of gray, cotton canvas pants, a matching anorak-type tunic, and a baseball cap, which he pulled low over his eyes, as was the current fashion in Beijing. He hefted the backpack over his shoulder and walked out.

Twenty minutes later he was aboard a rusty, single-speed bicycle he'd found leaning against a tree on Huangsi Boulevard, heading north toward the edge of the city. Head down, baseball cap over his eyes, he pedaled for an hour as the sun rose and throngs of fellow cyclers and taxis began filling the streets around him.

At nine he pulled into Shahe, a suburb twelve miles north of Beijing, leaned the bike against the first bench he saw, and walked on. He found the train station two blocks away and slipped into the bathroom, where he changed back into his regular clothes. A Westerner walking around dressed as a native was bound to arouse suspicion.

At the ticket window he bought tickets for three trains, each leaving within the next twenty minutes: One to Chaoyang, another to Shanghai, and a third to Tianshui. Hopefully, if he didn't draw attention to himself, there would be no witnesses to confirm which train he'd boarded.

Half mental coin-toss and half hunch that Soong's camp lay somewhere to the north, Tanner chose the train bound for Chaoyang. As the speaker gave the last boarding call, he got up from his bench and boarded the last car.

Most of the seats were empty. A dozen or so people in peasant dress sat staring out the window or chatting quietly with their seatmates. No one gave him a second look. He found an empty row near the back and sat down.

He took a deep breath and leaned his head back.
Almost out
…

The loudspeaker above his head blared to life, made a clipped announcement in Mandarin, and then the train started moving. With each clack of the wheels over the joints, he felt himself relax a bit more.

He pulled out his phone, paused a moment to mentally organize his message, then dialed the number and waited. When he got the tone squelch, he punched in the code and hung up.

He glanced out the window, watching the countryside slip past with increasing speed.

Come on,
keep moving
…

Every mile he could put between himself and the city, the better chance he had of staying alive.

Back in Beijing, the PSB officer he'd disabled was found by a street sweeper. Twenty minutes after the call arrived, Xiang was on the scene. The officer was sitting against the
hutong
wall being attended by an emergency medical technician.

“What happened?” Xiang asked Eng.

“We don't know yet; he's just coming around. This close to Colson's hotel, though—”

“Yes, it's him,” Xiang said tiredly. There hadn't been a mugging of a PSB officer in thirty years; this was not random. “Another hundred meters and he would have walked right into us!”

Xiang walked over to the officer and dismissed the EMT. Xiang questioned the dazed man for ten minutes, frequently having to repeat questions. “You're certain you didn't get a look at his face?”

“No, sir, I'm sorry. I asked for his papers and then … I don't—”

“Did he seem nervous? In a hurry?”

“No, sir. He was just … walking.”

Very cool,
this one,
Xiang thought.

“It happened so fast … I was reaching for his papers and then … I woke up here.”

“Very well. Go to the hospital, have yourself checked.”

Xiang walked a few feet away, Eng trailing behind. “Where do we stand with the photo?”

“We're distributing them now. The airport and all the train and bus stations are covered.”

“Widen it,” Xiang ordered. “I want every taxi driver to know his face. Someone has seen him. He's only a few hours ahead of us; if we move quickly, we'll have him before the day is out.”

CIA Operations Center

DDO George Coates happened to be in the center when Tanner's message arrived. The duty officer called from the communications desk: “Mr. Coates, traffic on Pelican.” Pelican was the computer-generated code word for Tanner and the Beijing operation.

Coates walked over and scanned the message. “Goddammit, call Dick Mason. If Dutcher's up there, have him come along.”

They walked in five minutes later. “Pelican,” Coates said, handing over the message. It read,

BURNED, CAUSE UNKNOWN. GONE TO GROUND. WILL CONTACT FOR STEERING.

BRAVO YANKEE.

“He's safe at least,” Dutcher said. The “Bravo Yankee” sign off was what's called a “no duress” signal. It was Tanner's way of letting them know he was in fact free, and not being coerced into transmitting. “That's the most important part.”

Dutcher meant it, but beyond that he felt events were quickly slipping away from them: China's deadline was less than a day away and as they'd predicted, Bulganin wasn't backing down; Jurens and his team, though safe for now, were stranded on Russian soil with no way to get out; and finally, he, Mason, and Cathermeier were still days away from being ready to confront Martin. If their plan was to succeed, one more coconspirator had to enlist.

The only good news—if it could be called that—had come from
Columbia
the day before: Kinsock and his crew were alive, but their position was perilous. Though wary of leaving the battle group with only one sub for cover, Cathermeier had ordered
Cheyenne,
another LA-class attack boat, dispatched toward the coordinates given by
Columbia's
SLOT buoy.

Cathermeier was not hopeful. Unless Kinsock could get
Columbia
moving under her own power and into deeper water where
Cheyenne
could protect her, little could to be done for the boat until a rescue mission could be coordinated—itself a dicey proposition given her proximity to the mainland.

And now Briggs,
Dutcher thought. On the run, alone and hunted by the
Guoanbu,
the PAP, and the PSB, he'd be lucky to get out alive, let along reach Soong.

“Yeah, he's safe,” Mason agreed, “but for how long? How long can he last?”