Wall of Night (37 page)

Tun-San got out, lifted the hood, then reached inside and heaved on the pull cord. With a throaty roar and a puff of smoke, the engine fired to life. Tanner felt the rear wheels churning on the ground. Apparently, Tun-San's chariot had only two gears: forward and stop.

Tun-San slammed the hood and leapt into the driver's seat. He gripped the wheel with both hands then nodded to Tanner, who took his foot off the brake. The truck lurched forward.

“See?” Tun-San said. “Runs good.”

NMCC

“How many ships in the SAG?” Mason asked.

An hour before, the commander of the
Stennis
group, Commodore Scott, reported a Surface Action Group of Russian warships steaming north toward the group's picket ships, while
Cheyenne,
patrolling ahead of the group, was engaged in a game of cat and mouse with a Russian Akula.

“We're still trying to identify the individual elements,” Cathermeier replied, “but according to the most recent flyover, it looks like a good chunk of the Russian Pacific Fleet—might be as many as eighteen warships, from Krivak-class frigates to Kirov cruisers.”

“How much distance between them and us?”

“Less than ninety miles.”

“Too close. If somebody pushes the panic button, they could be mixing it up in minutes.”

“The Sea of Japan just ain't big enough for all that firepower,” Cathermeier agreed.

“What about the rest of the Federation?” Dutcher asked. “How widespread is this alert?”

“Across the board. We've got reports of increased radio traffic in every district from Moscow to Vladivostok—all branches, from ground forces to rocket forces.”

“Tactical or nuclear?”

“Both. Leaves and furloughs are being cancelled; interceptors are sitting hot on runways at Chita, Ulan-Ude, Irkutsk, and Vladivostok; they're also putting up BARCAPs along the border,” Cathermeier said, referring to Barrier Combat Air Patrol; once a navy-specific term, it had become a generic description of any airborne line of defense.

“What about the Chinese?” Mason asked

“Mirror image,” said Cathermeier. “We haven't seen much ground movement, but every air base in the Beijing and Shenyang military regions is on full alert—same with the First, Fifth, and Twenty-Third Army Groups nearest the Mongolian salient.”

“Where exactly?”

Cathermeier turned to the watch officer. “Put up a topographical map of Heilongjiang.” The major tapped his keyboard and a map appeared on the screen. Using a laser pointer, Cathermeier traced the Chinese-Mongolian border as it swept upward, forming a bulge into Siberia. “The First, Fifth, and Twenty-third all have their bases in this area south of the Hinggan Mountains.”

“That makes sense,” Mason muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“The shale oil deposits Skeldon mapped start north of Hinggans, just inside the border.”

“Well, if that's going to be their penetration point, then they've got a tough job ahead of them,” Cathermeier replied. “Just getting there by ground would take four days, which would give the Russians time to shift. If that's their plan, it's flawed.”

Mason considered this. “How would you do it?”

Cathermeier chuckled. “I wouldn't.”

“If you had to.”

“I'd have to give it some thought, but I'll tell you this: I'd make damned sure I had surprise on my side. The Russian's know how to defend their soil.”

“The Chinese have to know that,” Dutcher said.

“You'd think so.”

They talked for a few minutes more, then Mason led them into the Tank and shut the door.

“Any word from Tanner or Cahil?”

“Nothing from Ian and nothing from Briggs since his last message,” Dutcher replied. “If he hasn't been captured, he's probably still en route to the camp.”

“I hate to say it, but I don't think we should count on either of them. We have to move now. Martin's not going to back down; he's watching a war unfold before his eyes and he's still more worried about covering his ass.”

“When do you want to do it?”

“Tonight. I'll call Lahey.”

Moscow

​It was past midnight when the knock came at Ivan Nochenko's door. He got up, threw on his robe, and peered through the peephole. Standing in the hall were Sergei Fedorin and Marshal Beskrovny. Both wore street clothes. Nochenko unlocked the door and opened it.

“May we come in?” Beskrovny said.

“Yes, of course.”

They stepped inside and Nochenko gestured toward the kitchen table. Fedorin and Beskrovny sat down.
Something's wrong,
Nochenko thought. “What is it? Has something happened?”

“That's why we're here,” Fedorin said. “We're hoping to stop something before it starts.”

“I don't understand,” Nochenko said. That wasn't entirely true; part of his brain knew why they'd come. “What are you talking about?”

Beskrovny said, “Ivan, you know President Bulganin better than anyone, yes?”

“I suppose so.”

“How does he seem to you?”

“He's under a lot of stress, if that's what you mean.”

“We're all under stress,” Fedorin replied. “We're more concerned with him.”

“He's going through an adjustment period. This early in office, it's to be expected—especially given the circumstances—the Chinese, the American battle group …”

“You're not concerned?”

“Of course I'm concerned. Stop mincing words! Say what you came to say.”

Fedorin and Beskrovny exchanged glances. Beskrovny cleared his throat. “We feel the president is leading the country down a very dangerous path. We feel he's … unbalanced.”

There it is,
Nochenko thought. He felt a flash of anger, but before he could open his mouth to speak, the emotion was gone, replaced by a strange clarity. All the doubts and fears about Bulganin he'd been suppressing came back in a flood.

Unbalanced
?
Nochenko thought. Vladimir Bulganin was far beyond unbalanced. He'd known that for a long time.
Not only known it,
he thought,
but ignored it.
Maybe even helped it along.

And for what
?
Nochenko thought. For the challenge of it. Like some half-baked god, he'd been trying to create a king from a lump of clay, but instead he'd created a golem, a monster born of desire and vanity and delusion.

“Are you all right?” Beskrovny asked. “You don't look well.”

Nochenko took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to step carefully here. If Fedorin and Beskrovny were heading in the direction he suspected, his role as Bulganin's chief advisor would be not only pivotal, but perilous.

“I'm fine,” Nochenko replied. “Let's suppose you're right. What do you propose?”

“That depends on what happens in the coming days,” said Fedorin. “If he continues on the same course, our options become limited. Neither Victor nor myself can refuse his orders—not without being dismissed.”

“Which he would do without hesitation.”

Beskrovny nodded. “And then appoint more … pliable men in our places. That's the rub, you see. Whatever is behind this business with China and all the rest of it, we haven't seen the worst of it. Events are not going to slow down and wait for Bulganin to get his house in order.”

“In other words, while he's sacking you, the missiles are flying.”

“That's a very real possibility.”

And if the missiles do start flying,
Nochenko thought,
the country is going to need men like Fedorin and Beskrovny.
He wondered if that was part of their message to him:
Your golem is out of control.
We know what we‘re willing to do to save Russia.
What about you
?

“Tomorrow I'll speak with him,” Nochenko said. “Perhaps he'll rethink his stance.”

“Perhaps,” Marshal Beskrovny replied.

“And if he doesn't?” Fedorin asked.

Your golem,
Ivan.

“Then we'll meet again and … discuss alternatives.”

Anjia,
Heilongjiang Province,
China

Not long after they had left, Tanner discovered that Tun-San was familiar with their route.

As it turned out, three times a year he would travel to Harbin armed with a shopping list from other nearby farmers. At over three million people, Harbin was a strange and wondrous place, and Tun-San had become something of a hero for his tri-yearly quests to what many of them still called Pinkiang, the city's name when Heilongjiang Province was still known as Manchuria.

Tun-San followed the meandering dirt roads with confidence, never once consulting Tanner's map. Before long, Briggs learned his secret.

“Rock shape like bird,” Tun-San would call out, pointing. Or, “Two trees leaning.”

As the pickup chugged along, eating up the distance at a slow but steady twenty-five mph, Tun-San called out landmark after landmark, explaining to Tanner why it was special and how he used it to navigate. Some of them he used only during summer months, others only during the rainy season when his normal route was flooded.

Aside from a handful of peasants, Tanner saw very few people on the roads, oftentimes going for an hour without seeing a soul. At those times, Tun-San would invariably spot the pedestrian first and call out, “Duck,” and Tanner would crouch on the floor until he got the all clear.

Outside Yushu, twenty-five miles from the southern border of Heilongjiang Province, they started an impromptu game of “Name That object” as Tun-San pointed at a low-flying hawk.
“Niaor
!”
he called.

“
Niaor,
”
Tanner repeated, then said, “bird.”

The game continued until they reversed roles and Tun-San pointed and called out, “Cow!”

“No,” Tanner replied. “Cucumber.”

Eyes narrowed, Tun-San glanced sideways at him. “Cucumber?”

Tanner smiled. “No, cow.”

“Yes. Cow,” Tun-San replied, then started laughing.

True to Tun-San's estimate, five hours after they left, they arrived on the southern outskirts of Anjia, a tiny village of less than two hundred people. Tun-San pulled over and shut off the engine. Outside, dusk was falling and Tanner could see black-bellied clouds piling up on the horizon. A gust of wind cut through the cab, sending a tingle up his neck. “Rain's coming.”

“Very much rain,” Tun-San agreed. “Map, please?”

Tanner unfolded it and set it on the seat between them. He clicked on his flashlight.

Tun-San traced his finger along the map. “Anjia … here. We … here. Your friend?”

Tanner pointed to a spot in a valley to the northeast. “Here. I can walk the rest—”

“No.”

“It might be better if—”

“Quiet, cucumber man,” Tun-San ordered, then barked out a laugh.

Four miles north of Anjia, Tun-San turned east off the main road onto a narrow track barely wider than the truck. Night had fallen, and with it the wind had risen. Briggs could smell ozone in the air, a sure sign rain wasn't far off.

Suddenly a pair of headlights glowed to life in front of them. “Duck!” Tun-San called.

Tanner hit the floorboards. Hands held before him against the glare, Tun-San jammed on the brakes. The truck shuddered to a stop with the back wheels still churning.

“Can you tell who it is?” Tanner whispered.

“Army truck.”

Army truck.
This close to the camp, it had to be a roadblock. If they had dogs, it was all over.

An amplified voice called,
“Ting
!”
Stop
!
followed by another order Tanner didn't catch.

“They say come ahead,” Tun-San muttered.

“Do it,” Briggs said. “After a few feet, steer toward the edge of the road until your front wheel is in the grass, then shut off the engine and tell them you've stalled. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Tun-San glanced down at him and covertly extended his hand; Briggs took it. “Luck to you,
Huang tou tai gao le,
”
Tun-San said.

“And you, my friend. Thanks for everything.”

As Tun-San started moving forward, foot pressed on the brake to keep his speed down, Tanner turned around so he was facing the door opening. Tun-San began easing to the right. Tanner watched the strip of dirt disappear and change to grass. Tun-San cut the wheel and shut of the engine.

Tanner slithered out the door, doing his best to stay behind the tire. He felt the glare of the truck's headlights on his face. He let himself slide down the embankment and into the taller grass at the bottom.

“My truck has stalled,” Tun-San called in Mandarin. “Sorry.”

“Stay there. Make no sudden movements,” the amplified voice ordered.

In the glare of the headlights Tanner saw a pair of shadows moving toward Tun-San's truck. Working by feel, he opened his pack and pulled out the revolver. He opened the cylinder: four rounds. It wouldn't be enough against soldiers armed with AK-47s, he knew, but he'd already made up his mind: At the first sign they were going to take Tun-San, he would intervene.

Shoot the first two,
grab one of their AKs,
then pray you get the drop on the others
…

The soldiers walked up, one on each side of the truck, and began questioning Tun-San. He played the lost farmer well, showing the perfect mix of fear and respect. After searching the truck, they accepted a crate of eggs, then helped him get the truck turned around and started again.

With a wave out the door, Tun-San chugged back down the road and disappeared.

Tanner lay perfectly still for ninety minutes, listening to the soldiers talking and laughing.

There were four of them. Though he was only able to catch snippets of their conversation, the primary topic of discussion seemed to involve him—“the American agent”—and what they would do to him if they caught him. Though Briggs knew it was nothing more than soldierly bravado, it set his heart pounding nonetheless. He was well and truly alone.

Every half hour he heard the squelch of a radio and a brief exchange: “Post four, all clear …”

Tanner listened closely, committing the words to memory.

A light rain began to fall, pattering the grass around him. In the distance he heard the rumble of thunder. Up the road, the soldiers hurried for the truck's bed; three got in the back while one remained outside. He sat on the front bumper and smoked, rain poncho hiked over his head.

Tanner began creeping forward.

The cover of rain sped his progress, but it still took him forty minutes to cover the one hundred yards to the truck. As he drew even with it, he heard the squelch of the radio: “Post four …”

The soldier on the bumper raised his radio. “Post four, all clear.”

“Very well.”

Moving inches at a time, Tanner began dragging himself up the slope until his outstretched fingers felt dirt The soldier was five feet away now, with his arms resting on his knees and the AK leaning against the bumper.

Nice and easy,
Briggs.
Don't rush it
…

If the soldier sounded the alarm, he'd have a firefight on his hands.

Tanner stood up, stepped forward, and knelt beside the soldier. “
Ni
hao,
”
he whispered.

The soldier snapped his head around. Tanner stuck the barrel of the revolver in his face. The man's eyes bulged. “No sound. One noise and you're dead.
Dong
?”
Understand
?

The soldier nodded.
“Dong.
”

Tanner gestured for him to lower himself to the ground, which he did. Tanner pointed at his hood:
off.
With trembling hands, the soldier complied. “Hand me your rifle,” Tanner whispered.

As the soldier turned to reach for it, Briggs reversed the revolver in his hand and smacked the butt behind the soldier's ear. Tanner caught him as he fell, then laid him flat and took his radio.

From the truck: “Okay out there?”

“Hao,
hao,
”
Tanner replied.
Yeah,
yeah.
Disgruntled solder in the rain.

Briggs picked up the AK and crouched down to wait. Nothing moved. After five minutes he heard snoring coming from the truck.

The radio squelched: “Post four, report.”

He paused to rehearse his lines, then keyed the radio: “Post four, all clear.”

“Very well.”

Tanner quickly disarmed the remaining three soldiers—Flying Dragon paratroopers, he saw—then had them climb out and march to the front of the truck. Seeing their comrade laying in the dirt, the team leader, a sergeant, knelt beside him. He glared up at Tanner.

Briggs shook his head. “He's alive.
Ni xing shem ma
?”

“My name is Hjiu,” he replied in English. “I know who you are.”

“Good for you,” Tanner said. “Open my pack, Sergeant. Inside you'll find some duct tape.”

Carrying their still-unconscious comrade between them, Tanner marched them into a field beside the road, where he had them lie down on their sides next to one another. He ordered Hjiu to bind the other's hands, feet, and mouths and then, satisfied with the job, did the same to Hjiu. Finally he taped them together, back to back, wrists to feet, until they were all immobilized.

Once done, he knelt down beside Sergeant Hjiu. “Sorry about the rain.”

Hjiu mouthed something behind the tape; Tanner peeled it away. “Yes?”

“You will kill us now?”

“What for?”

“They told us you would.”

Briggs shrugged. “They lied.”

Back at the truck, Tanner gathered the AKs together, removed the magazines, then tossed the rifles into the back. He climbed into the cab, started the engine, then did a Y-turn on the road and headed north.

Ten miles to go.