Shadow Catcher (24 page)

CHAPTER 53

C
olonel Walker lifted a fresh cup to his lips, glancing around the command center as he took a lengthy sip. Romeo Seven had become a ghost town. Navistrova had disappeared, and now McBride. Tarpin wasn't answering his phone either. Scott had left him several messages asking for help with the SATCOM problem, but all he received in return was a cryptic text indicating that the CIA man was tied up with another op at Langley.

The command center staff had withered down to just Scott and a couple of low-level techs. “Where is everyone?” asked Walker. But the few minions that remained just shrank down behind their workstations.

“I've got it!” Scott popped up from behind the SATCOM terminal like a gopher from a hole. Wires and cables fell down around him. “We still have a few second-generation birds working,” he said. “They use elliptical tracks rather than the geostationary orbits used by our new Milstar satellites. One of them just rose over the ground team's horizon. It will be in view for several hours.”

“What good will that do?” asked Walker.

The engineer moved two of his cables to new ports on the terminal and then started typing frequencies into the control heads. “I still can't talk to the Wraith,” he said as he worked, “but I can crosslink from our SATCOM bird to the old one. Then I should be able to force open a link to the ground team's comm implants, one at a time.”

Scott moved from the terminal to the adjacent workstation and started working the keyboard. The command center's big screen changed to a satellite map of Fujian Province. “The easiest part is getting their telemetry, their GPS data.” A blue dot labeled
SHADOW TWO
appeared on the screen. Then, several seconds later, another one appeared, labeled
SHADOW ONE
.

“Tell me that's not the real data,” said Walker. “Tell me you still have to make some adjustments.” He didn't like what he saw. Several hundred meters separated the two dots, and Shadow One was moving farther away, fast.

“I'm sorry, sir,” said Scott, dread creeping into his voice. “That's it. What you are seeing are their true positions.”

Walker moved around the stations to join the engineer. “Get their comms up. Now!”

Scott's fingers pounded the keyboard, sending line after line of commands to the computer, but the comm link still showed no connection. “I can't get Quinn,” he said. “Someone muted his implant. It will take me a while to get it working.”

“Forget Quinn,” ordered Walker. “Get me Baron.”

The engineer repeated his procedure. This time, the link connected. “I've got it,” he said. There was a lot of static, but they heard voices. Men were talking close enough to Nick for the comm implant to pick them up. They were speaking Mandarin.

“That's not good,” said Walker.

Scott returned to his keyboard. “Stand by. I'll run the feed through a language filter.” A digital voice began to translate:

“Where are we taking them?”

“The general said to bring them to the factory.”

“You mean, the minister.”

There was a chuckle. “It is so hard to keep up.”

“The prisoner will be happy that we are not bringing him back to Detention Center Twenty-six.”

Another laugh. “I don't think he is going to be happy about anything.”

The two men stopped talking. Walker's eyes widened. “Baron was right,” he exclaimed. “This whole thing was a trap.”

“Is he dead?” asked Scott, the color draining from his face.

Walker stared at Nick's GPS track, rapidly moving away from Quinn. “Baron isn't the prize,” he mused out loud. “This wasn't a trap for him. This was a trap for our stealth plane.” He drained his coffee cup and then crushed it decisively. “He's still alive. He has to be. They don't want revenge for the Persian Gulf operation. They want to finish the job. They still need him so they can find Shadow Catcher.”

The colonel quickly turned back to Scott. “Get working on Quinn's comms,” he said. “We're going to need him.” Then he signaled Molly. “Get me Dr. Heldner. If Baron is alive, we have to activate the Kharon Protocol.”

CHAPTER 54

N
ick thought he heard someone calling his name. He felt numb. He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't tell if he succeeded. He saw only darkness, a void.

“Shadow One, respond. Can you hear me?”

Whose voice was that? Which direction was it coming from? It seemed as if the words came from inside his head.

“Come on, Baron. Respond.”

The voice sounded urgent. He felt compelled to answer. He tried to answer. But he couldn't make his mouth form the words. He couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing. The memories were there, lined up like words on a page, but he couldn't read them. The letters were all jumbled up.

“Major Baron, answer me!”

This time Nick recognized the voice. The void before his eyes turned gray, and the silhouette of a man formed. He forced his lips to form a single word. “Colonel?”

“He's alive. Clean up the channel, I'm getting too much static. Focus, Shadow One, they have you. You have to enable Kharon. Do you understand? You have to activate the Kharon Protocol.”

Kharon. Shadow One.
The words drifted around the page in his mind like flowers in a pool. He tried to grasp them, but each time he reached, his hand caused a ripple of letters that carried them away.

The silhouette became solid. As the fog in his vision thinned, Nick began to see color. The man wore a green uniform, but he seemed to be facing away. “Colonel, what are you doing? What's going on?”

“Shadow One, this is Lighthouse. Focus. You have been captured. You need to activate the Kharon Protocol. Respond.”

Shadow . . . One . . . Suddenly, Nick caught hold of the words. Like the key to a cipher, they unscrambled all the others. The memories came flooding back. The mission. Novak!

As his mind cleared, so did his vision. He could see now that he lay in the back of an open vehicle. The man in front of him no longer faced away. He wasn't Colonel Walker. He was a Chinese soldier. There was a bloodied bandage on his arm.

Nick tried to sit up. Pain wracked his body. The wounded soldier gave him a vengeful grin. He said something in Mandarin, hefted an electric shock baton in his good hand, and then viciously shoved it up under Nick's chin.

He felt his flesh burn. Everything went black.

After what seemed like an instant, Nick opened his eyes. This time the fog cleared almost immediately. He saw green branches moving past him against a pale blue sky. His neck stung horribly beneath his chin, and his head throbbed. The jostle of the ride did not help.

He no longer lay in the back of a vehicle. Instead, a pair of men carried him on a litter. They marched quickly, with little regard for their patient, exchanging snippets of conversation, always in Mandarin. Nick tried to look around. He tilted his aching head at an agonizingly slow rate so as not to draw the attention of his human transports. He did not relish another shock with the baton.

The soldiers carried him through an opening in a tall chain-link fence, topped with two rolls of concertina wire. Nick wondered whether it was meant to keep intruders away or to keep prisoners inside. A wide gravel yard separated the gate from a three-story building. Beyond the crunch of the soldiers' footsteps and the whine of their conversation, Nick heard the low drone of heavy machinery. He cautiously righted his head again. Instead of open blue sky, he found the face of an angry Chinese soldier. The man spoke rapidly to the soldiers carrying the litter. They halted obediently. Nick noted with frustration the same bloody bandage on the soldier's arm. He brandished his miniature cattle prod. Nick winced.

After a few seconds without the burn and involuntary calisthenics of electric shock, Nick opened one eye. He saw an older man in a white shirt and white lab coat scolding the soldier. This new arrival lifted a syringe and squirted a bit of brown liquid through its needle. Nick felt a prick in his arm. The trees started spinning. The void returned.

“Wake up!”

Once again, Nick found it hard to focus his thoughts. Hadn't he just been through this?

“Wake up. We have to get out of here!”

Walker.
The colonel had brought him back before.

“Can you hear me? Please get up!”

No, this voice was not Walker's. It was an American voice, but it was not the colonel's. Walker commanded him in clear, even tones. This voice begged him to get up in harsh whispers. Nick tried to answer, but as before, he found it difficult to force the words out of his mouth.

“You're mumbling. They drugged you. I need you to fight it. You've got to wake up before they come back.”

This time, the void glowed white when Nick opened his eyes. Bright, almost blinding light spread across his vision. He tried to shield his eyes, but his arm wouldn't move. He turned his head in the direction of the voice. The light dimmed. Shapes began to form.

“That's right. Fight it.”

Nick's head still throbbed. His body ached. He squinted and blinked until his vision cleared. A man lay next to him on a gurney, only a few feet away, wearing green and brown tiger-striped camouflage. He was belted down with heavy leather straps. “What is your name?”

“Novak. My name is David Novak. Please, we don't have time. You have to get up.”

With effort, Nick moved his head around, tilting his chin and straining his neck. He was lying on a metal table in some sort of infirmary. There were short rails running along either side of him. He tried to move other parts of his body, but nothing worked. “I can't move my arms, David.”

“That's just the drugs. The fact that you're awake means they're wearing off. Fight it.”

Nick struggled against his paralysis. It felt as if a two-hundred-pound sandbag were lying on his chest. After a few seconds, he found that he could move his fingers. He gripped the rails and tried to pull himself to a sitting position.

“That's it. You've got it,” urged Novak.

The steady throbbing in Nick's head became a relentless pound. He felt certain that some of his ribs were broken. Sharp pain stabbed at his chest as he pulled, but finally, he sat completely upright. The first thing he saw from his new vantage point was the IV line running into his arm, descending from a bag full of clear liquid that hung on a rolling stand. He had no way to tell whether the fluid was saline or something more. His captors had removed his armor, shirt, and pants, leaving only his black Kevlar-elastane boxers. A thin sheet covered him from his bare feet to his waist.

Nick tried to shift onto his side. That's when he noticed the cuffs and chains, securing his hands and feet to the rails. “My hands and feet are bound, David,” he said quietly. “I can't move them more than a few inches.”

Novak pounded the back of his head against the thin mattress of the gurney and thrashed against the belts. “I'm not going back in,” he exclaimed. “I'll fight them until they kill me.”

For the first time, Nick took a good look at the man he'd come to rescue. Novak should be about fifty, but this man looked well over sixty. He had coarse gray hair. His cheeks were taut, stretched so thin that Nick could see blue veins beneath his pale skin. His uniform lay over his gaunt frame like a blanket. The Chinese had cut away a section of his pants to treat his bullet wound, and his leg looked thin and frail. Nick had never seen the effects of extreme malnourishment up close before. Twenty-five years
.
An involuntary shiver shook his frame.

“Did you make those radio calls?” Nick spoke his next words slowly.
“Are you Jade Zero One?”

Novak stopped struggling, exhausted. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes and slid down his crow's feet, gathering in tiny pools on the vinyl mattress. “Are you the one they sent to rescue me?” he asked, staring at the ceiling.

“I'm still working on it,” Nick replied.

Novak snorted. Then a spark of hope flashed across his face. “What about Jozef? Did you get him out?”

Jozef. Nick searched his mind, fighting the cobwebs. “Do you mean Starek?”

“Yes, Jozef Starek. We were shot down on the same day. I know he survived. I saw him.”

Nick stared hard at Novak, trying to determine how much delusion had corrupted the poor man's memory. “You saw Jozef Starek in a Chinese prison? Are you certain?”

Novak turned his head and looked Nick in the eye. He spoke confidently. He seemed to be in right mind, mostly. “Ten years ago, they transferred me to a new facility. They forgot to bag my head. As they marched me out of the old prison, I saw him, surrounded by guards. He looked older, but it was definitely Jozef Starek.”

Nick wondered if Walker was getting any of this. He hadn't heard anything on his comm unit since he woke up on the table. He wanted to check its function, to whisper a call to Lighthouse, but he dared not risk the exposure.

They were being watched.

CHAPTER 55

T
he room looked very much like an infirmary. There were cabinets with glass-paned doors filled with medicines and bandages. All the labels were in English. A long counter held a stainless-steel sink and a bottle of antibiotic hand cleaner. There was a rolling rack of electronic equipment in the corner, with a heart monitor and a blood pressure machine. Nick sat on a sterile metal table. Novak lay on a gurney. Someone had even neatly stacked their tactical vests and equipment on chairs in the corner—except for the guns, of course. Novak's leg wound had been treated. Nick's chest had been wrapped tightly with bandages. If not for the restraints, the two of them might be recovering in the clinic at Andrews.

This was the first stage of interrogation.

Treat the prisoners' wounds. Put them together in a nonthreatening environment. Then vacate the premises and watch them spill their guts to each other through an observation mirror or closed-circuit television. This was the easiest and most effective interrogation technique available. Nick had experienced it before, though not from this side of the glass. He couldn't risk trying to contact Lighthouse because he knew that Chinese cameras and microphones were picking up every word that he said.

“We don't know Starek's whereabouts,” said Nick. “As far as we know, you are the only prisoner.”

The hope fell from Novak's expression. “Then it is likely that he and I are both dead now.” He became silent for a while, and Nick turned his attention to his restraints, trying to assess their strength without being too obvious. Both the cuffs and chains were made of good steel. He would not be able to break them. They were tight too. He couldn't wriggle his wrists free.

“How did you get here?” asked Novak after several minutes.

“HALO jump,” Nick lied.

“We tried that in the eighties,” replied Novak in a matter-of-fact tone, still staring at the ceiling. “Back then, we couldn't get the drop bird deep enough inside the Chinese radar fence for the jumpers to make the shoreline. How did you manage it?” He seemed to take a passing interest, just making conversation until it was his turn to die.

“Wingsuits,” explained Nick. “They greatly extend our range.”

The door to the mock infirmary suddenly opened. “Are you so cruel that you will even lie to the condemned?” asked a stocky Chinese man in general's fatigues. “Please, Major Baron. You are his first American visitor in twenty-five years, and you are treating him like a hostile interrogator.”

Nick assessed the newcomer. He entered the room with swagger, followed by a cordon of troops with their weapons raised. This was no mere interrogator. This guy was running the show.

Novak did not bother to look up at his captors, even when one of the soldiers stuck a needle in his arm. He did not resist. He just closed his eyes and went to sleep.

The same soldier moved over to Nick and began unlocking his restraints. The others brought their weapons up to their shoulders and tightened their fingers around the triggers, making it clear that any false moves would invite a storm of bullets. Then two more men entered the room. They wore white lab coats and pushed a heavy metal contraption that looked like an industrial-sized coatrack. One of them carried an aluminum briefcase.

The soldier roughly pulled Nick off the table, standing him up next to the unconscious Novak. After yanking the IV out of Nick's arm he marched him around the table and stopped him in front of the doctors and their strange coatrack. They unfolded heavy stabilizers and locked the brakes on the rack's wheels. Finally, it dawned on Nick what the contraption was for. “This is going to get uncomfortable,” he said out loud.

The soldier put new cuffs on Nick's wrists and a set of shackles around his ankles. Then he jerked Nick's hands in the air and lifted the center chain of the cuffs over a U-shaped hook on the rack. Nick heard a whirring sound. The top of the rack telescoped, lifting him up by his wrists until his feet dangled a few inches above the ground. His shoulder blades pinched together, forcing his chin to his chest. He winced with pain.

Suddenly Nick heard an electronic shriek in his ear, followed by radio static. He tried to look around and see if anyone else had heard the sound, but none of those that he could see from his awkward position showed the slightest reaction to it.

“Shadow One, this is Lighthouse. Do you read?”

Nick smiled for the small victory. “What took you so long,” he said out loud.

The Chinese general pointed at Novak. “I would have waited even longer, but it seemed pointless if you were just going to lie to him.”

“We read you, Shadow One,” said Walker. “We're with you now. Something shorted the implant out for a while, but now we've got you back.” Walker paused and then came back on the line. “Shadow One, activate Kharon before it's too late.” The command came slowly, but firmly.

The general waved his hand, and all of the soldiers left except for one. Nick recognized the remaining man by the bandage on his arm. “Looks like I have a fan,” he said.

“This is Ma,” said the general. “He is one of my elite Special Forces soldiers. You shot him three times, wounding his arm and leaving bruises on his chest despite his body armor. We think that you cracked one of his ribs.”

“Must've got him with the Colt,” said Nick.

“Ma is most interested in watching our interrogation techniques. He has even asked for some . . . how would you Americans say it? Oh yes, hands-on training.”

“Good, he needs the training. So far his technique is horrible,” replied Nick. His head and neck still throbbed from Ma's previous attention.

“You should not make jokes with me, Major Baron. It is not proper. I am an important man here in China. You may call me Defense Minister Zheng.”

Nick's shoulders began to ache from the strain. He tried to shift his weight, but with every movement, the steel cuffs cut into his wrists. “Okay, Defense Minister Zheng, I'm on vacation here in beautiful Fujian. Why have you detained me?”

Zheng sighed. “Please, Major Baron. Or should I call you Nick? As I said, I am an important man, and I have little time for games.” He checked his watch—a gaudy gold number that seemed completely out of place with his fatigues. “I have a schedule to keep. I need you to tell me where your transport is, the stealth vehicle with which you violated my country's sovereignty. I also need to know where I might find your compatriot. What was his name?” One of the doctors handed Zheng a clipboard, and he made a show of flipping up a page and studying the one beneath it. “Ah, here it is. Quinn. Senior Airman Ethan Quinn.”

Nick said nothing. He saw the doctor with the case lay it on the table and flip it open. A cold fog lifted up from the interior. The doctor removed a glass vial and then held up a syringe. He shoved the needle through the top, withdrawing a large amount of translucent red liquid.

“I'm already in plenty of pain,” said Nick.

“Don't insult my intelligence,” replied Zheng with a frown. “You and I both know that pain drugs are useless as interrogation tools; they are only used by amateurs and your Hollywood writers. The subject must feel that he has something to lose—his thumb to some bolt cutters perhaps. Or, in the case of your CIA's favorite technique, his life during waterboarding.”

Zheng walked over to the doctor and gazed admiringly at the syringe. “Dr. Chao is an expert in narco-interrogation. He will give you just enough of his cocktail to lower your defenses.” He brandished a scalpel, eliciting an evil grin from Ma. “But it will not defer the pain of my more
traditional
techniques.”

“Shadow One, activate Kharon,” said Walker, his voice calm but still commanding. “It's time, Nick.”

The doctor pressed his needle into the crux of Nick's arm. He felt the icy cold drug entering his vein. He closed his eyes and tensed his muscles, bracing himself for the neurological onslaught of barbiturates and stimulants. “Nicholas J. Baron,” he said, forcing the words out, “Major, US Air Force, seven one three, two six, four zero two one.”

“Now you are just being ridiculous,” said Zheng, pushing his face close to Nick's. His breath smelled of rotting garlic. “The name, rank, and serial number technique went out of fashion years ago.”

Nick coughed and opened his eyes. Zheng's unpleasant visage began to deform. The room seemed to tilt one way and then the other, as if he were on the deck of a ship, riding out a storm. He heard three sharp beeps in his ear. A digital voice said, “Activation code accepted. Kharon Protocol initiated. Local control is online. Lighthouse control is online.” He gave Zheng a grim smile. Then he heard Walker's voice again.

“Good work, Shadow One. You have the lead now. We have your back.”