Wall of Night (29 page)

Beijing

Kam Hsiao's apartment was located in Beijing's Dabeiyao District in a neighborhood of faceless gray brick apartment buildings and bustling
hutong
markets.

Tanner left the Bamboo Garden late in the afternoon and walked to the Forbidden City, where he strolled the court-yards and museums until the sun began to set, then boarded a bus at the entrance to Tiananmen Square, took it into Dabeiyao, and got off at the Majuan Terminal.

He spent the next0 hour circling the streets near Hsiao's building, looking for signs of surveillance but seeing nothing, which he took with a grain of salt.

This was the part of the job Briggs hated most: the constant, gnawing uncertainty. Living with it for any extended period meant you either developed a “if it happens, it happens” attitude, or you turned into a walking ball of neuroses. So far, he hadn't fallen into the latter trap, but he could feel the fear lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting for a chance to take over.

Once the street was clear, he crossed over and walked into the apartment's lobby. He trotted up two flights, then down the dimly lit hall to Hsiao's door. He hesitated, suddenly remembering a joke a CIA veteran used to tell at ISAG:
How do you know when you're under surveillance by the KGB
?
Answer:
When a dozen of them rush through the door and dogpile you.

Tanner knocked.

The door opened, revealing a slim, clean-cut man in his early twenties. He had large ears and, Tanner thought, sad but honest eyes.

“Yes, can I help you?” he said in English.

“Bian sent me. I believe you and I share a mutual friend.”

Hsiao cocked his head, confused, then his eyes widened. “Oh! Please, sorry, come in.”

Tanner stepped inside. Hsiao shut the door. The apartment had three rooms: a small kitchen, a living room, and a doorway leading to what Tanner assumed was a bedroom. The walls were a stark white, as were the floors, all of which were linoleum.

Hsiao gestured to one of two chairs. “Please sit. Would you like some tea?”

“That would be nice, thanks.”

Hsiao came back a few minutes later with a tray holding two ceramic mugs. “It's young hyson,” Hsiao said. “Organic, no pesticides. Very good.”

“Hyson—green tea?”

“Yes.”

Tanner smiled and raised his mug in thanks. “My favorite. Your English is very good.”

“The army offers a course; it's very popular. I've been studying for three years.”

“You're in the PLA?”

“Yes, a corporal. I have to tell you, I'm very afraid, Mr. …”

“You can call me Ben.”

“Ben. I'm very afraid.”

“That's okay. So am I.”

“You don't look afraid,” Hsiao said.

“I have a good poker face. Plus, I make it a point to have a good cry once a day; it seems to help.”

Hsiao nodded sympathetically. “I see.” Then he saw Tanner's smile. “You're joking.”

“Yes.”

With that, the tension eased. Hsiao let out a chuckle. “That's very funny. I suppose we should talk about … what we need to do.”

Tanner nodded. “First, I want to make sure you're ready for this. It's a big risk.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure? Do you know what will happen if you're caught?”

“I know exactly what I can expect. I see it almost every day. I've made up my mind. General Soong is a good man and he doesn't deserve what's happened to him. Tell me how I can help.”

Tanner decided he would trust Hsiao, not only because he had no other choice, but because his gut was telling him he could. He extended his hand to Hsiao, who took it firmly.

“Okay,” Briggs said. “Welcome aboard.”

“A board? What board?”

“It's just an expression. We're a team now, you and I.”

“Ah! Good! How do we start?”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the camp.”

For the next ninety minutes, Tanner questioned him about every aspect of the camp: physical layout, terrain and climate, security measures, daily routines, emergency procedures … Hsiao answered all the questions quickly and precisely. The only thing he didn't know was what Tanner needed most of all: the camp's location.

“There are two guard rotations that switch off every two weeks,” Hsiao explained. “We're flown to the camp in a helicopter with blacked-out windows.”

“How long is the trip?”

“We're not allowed to wear watches. If I had to guess, I would say the flight lasts between three and four hours.”

“What kind of helicopter?”

“Mi-Eight—I think you call it a Hip.”

“Hip” was the old-style NATO nickname for the MI-8, a Russian built helicopter with accommodations for thirty passengers and a cruising speed of about 150 mph. If Hsiao's estimate was correct, that meant the camp was somewhere within a six hundred-mile radius of Beijing.

“What about your gear? What do you take with you?”

“Nothing. Everything is supplied once we reach the camp. In fact, we're searched before we board the helicopters. You were thinking of a homing beacon of some kind?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible. The helicopters are thoroughly inspected.”

“Where do you take off from?”

“A small air base to near the Miyun Reservoir.”

“After you take off, do you hear a lot of jet noise—other airplanes?”

Hsiao thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes. How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” Tanner replied. They were routing the Hip into Capital Airport's airspace to lose them in the commercial traffic. “Anyone trying to track you by radar would lose you.”

“Ah, I see. Very smart.”

Tanner's options were dwindling. He couldn't track Hsiao … he couldn't track the helo—at least not by traditional means. He'd have to give it some thought.

“How tight is security at the air base?” he asked.

“Average, I would say. You want to get in?”

“I might.”

“I sometimes stand guard duty there when I'm off rotation. I can show you just where to go.”

Tanner stayed for another hour, first discussing communications procedures in case they needed to talk again, then deciding on a way to establish communication when—if—Tanner reached the camp.

Once back at the Bamboo Garden, he opened his Motorola, dialed a number, and waited through two minutes of squelches as the call was bounced from satellite to satellite, then to NSA headquarters in Ford Meade, Maryland, and finally to Holystone.

“Holystone, Shiverick,” Oaken said.

“Oaks, it's me.”

“Hey, traveler. Are you on the Motorola?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on.” Tanner heard a beep as Oaken switched to a secure line. “Everything okay?”

“Yep. I need a favor,” He explained his conundrum with Hsiao's transport helo. “We can't do it electronically, so why not chemically?”

“You're thinking some kind of paint job?”

“If we can get Dick to give us a bird's eye, it might work. I'd also need a recipe.”

“I'll make some calls. Give me a few hours and I'll get back to you.”

The Motorola's vibration ringer woke Tanner just before dawn. “Yes.”

“Okay, we're set,” Oaken said. “Dick's going to do some shuffling and get your coverage.”

“And the recipe?”

“That, too. Got your shopping list ready?”

Tanner turned on the bedside light, grabbed a pad and pen to copy down all the items. “You're sure about the ratios? I don't want to end up a human torch.”

“They're straight from the official cookbook. When do you plan on going in?”

“Tonight or early tomorrow morning. They're scheduled to take off at dawn.”

“We'll be watching,” Oaken replied.

Three miles away at the
Guoanbu's
headquarters, Xiang was arriving for the day. As he'd expected, he found Eng in a conference room surrounded by stacks of manila file folders.

“Any luck?” Xiang asked.

“Two hundred fifty-seven Westerners arrived in the city during the period you indicated,” Eng answered. “Of those, there's no way to know which of them are here on business or pleasure without checking each file.”

“What about camera permits?”

“Same thing. There are no separate records.”

“What about Bian? Any activity since his meeting with our mystery man?”

“Nothing. We've got a team watching him day and night, but so far he's behaving.”

“What about his embassy contact—this Brown fellow?”

“He hasn't left the embassy since.”

“Then it all comes down to Bian's mystery man.”

“Which works in our favor,” Eng answered. “He's an illegal and he's on our ground. If we catch him—when we catch him—we can dangle him like a hooked fish.”

Who was he
?
Xiang wondered. Better question: Why was he here? True enough, Bian was a known supporter of Soong, but that didn't make him unusual. Even after twelve years, the general's supporters were still pressuring the government to commute his sentence. Were Bian's activities connected to Soong, or was it something else?

It didn't matter, he decided. He couldn't take the risk. “I think it's time we got proactive.”

“How so?”

“Arrest Bian. Let's see how much he'll endure before giving us his new
waiguoren
friend.”

Nakhodka-Vostochny

With the sunrise, Jurens and his team got their first clear view of the port.

Whether by design or by accident, the Harpoons had impacted critical areas of the complex.

At the port's easternmost berth, the first Harpoon had struck a crude oil carrier, triggering a chain of explosions that had rippled from ship to ship down the wharf.

The second Harpoon had traveled inland several hundred yards, then plunged into the tank farm, igniting three tanks and puncturing six more, releasing a flood of flaming oil and diesel fuel that had spread through the port like a molten river, touching off flash fires wherever it touched.

Along the waterfront, dozens of ships still burned, adding their smoke to the pall that hung over the bay. Most of the heavy-lift cranes had toppled onto their sides like giant Tinkertoys, crushing beneath them warehouses, straddle carriers, and sheds

Through his Owls, Jurens could see figures shuffling along the waterfront. There seemed to be no organized fire fighting or rescue effort under way.
Probably not enough left alive for that,
he thought. Part of him wanted to take his team and go down to help, but he knew it was impossible.

“Is that snow?” Smitty muttered, looking up.

Jurens looked up. Bits of white fluff drifted before his face. He held out his hand, caught a flake, and tasted it. He spit. “Ash.”

Smitty leaned closer to Jurens. “What the hell's going on, Skipper?”

“I don't know, but I'll tell ya what: Harpoons are smart birds; what they did last night … it's a one in a million chance. They just don't go haywire like that.”

“Agreed.”

“That leaves one option: Somebody else with an LTD took control and guided them in.” As smart as Harpoons are, they don't discriminate between targeting signals. First come, first served.

“The best place for that would be closer to the mouth of the bay,” Smitty said. “If I had to guess, I'd say … there.” He pointed to the opposite cape.

They were in trouble, Sconi realized. They'd been set up. Someone not only knew they were here, but also why. They—whoever
they
were—had lain in wait for
Columbia
to launch her missiles, then taken control of them and guided them onto their own targets.

Answers would have to wait. Right now, they had to leave before the hills were crawling with Federation Army relief units.

“Zee, how're we doing? Any word from our ride?”

“Still nothing, Skipper. SATCOM's working fine; we're getting a clean bounce off the satellite, but she just ain't answering. Want me to keep trying?”

“No, leave it for now,” Jurens said, then turned back to Smitty, “We gotta start thinking worst-case. If
Columbia
is gone—”

“Gone how?”

“I don't know, and it doesn't matter. If she's gone, we're gonna have to find our own way out.”

“Long swim.”

“Too long. First things first: I want to have a talk with Dhar.”

“You think he knows something?”

“There's one way to find out.”

Jurens picked up his MP-5, walked over to where Dhar was lying, and knelt beside him.

Dhar stared at him. “What?”

“I'm going to be straight with you: We're in trouble. Somebody's set us up—all of us, including you. In a couple hours, troops are going to be hunting for us.”

“Why? I don't understand.”

“We're being framed for this disaster.”

“By who?”

“You tell me.”

“I don't know.”

“Who hired you?” Jurens said.

“The JRA.”

“You're sure about that? Think hard.”

“I'm sure.”

“Okay,” Jurens said with a shrug. He flicked off the MP-5's safety. “Sorry about this, but you're extra baggage.” He pressed the muzzle to Dhar's forehead.

“Wait, wait! I can help you! Maybe … I may know something.”

“Then share it.”

“The man who approached me claimed to be JRA, but I've done business with JRA before, and something wasn't right about this one, so I did some digging. It took me a couple months, but I discovered the man was working for the Chinese—the
Guoanbu.
”

“But you still went through with the deal.”

“They paid me, why wouldn't I? Besides, you don't understand. If I'd backed out, they would have killed me just for good measure. As it is, I'm probably a dead man anyway.”

You play,
you pay,
Jurens thought. Dhar's life had finally caught up with him. “Is that all?”

“That's it, I swear. What're you going to do with me?”

“Since you've been honest with me, I'll be honest with you. We're going to take you with us, and providing we get out of this alive, you'll be turned over to the CIA, who'll milk you for every bit of info you've got. After that … I guess that depends how -useful you are to them.”

Dhar considered this for a moment, then nodded. “I could do worse.”

Maybe you deserve worse,
Jurens thought. “Zee, get Mace on the line. I think somebody's going to want to hear this.”

Langley

At eight a.m. Beijing time the Chinese government drew its line in the sand.

Reading identical statements, both China's foreign minister and its ambassador to the United States decried the Russian Federation's lack of concern for the safety and welfare of Chinese citizens living within its borders, and set a deadline of forty-eight hours.

“If this deadline should pass without President Bulganin fully admitting the Federation's role in the deaths of nearly two thousand Chinese citizens, as well as agreeing to allow Chinese government inspectors full access to facilities employing Chinese citizens, the People's Republic of China is prepared to take whatever steps necessary to ensure the welfare of its people.”

From the audience a CNN reporter shouted, “Mr. Ambassador, has your government ruled out any options? Is military force a possibility?”

“We have not ruled out any options. That President Bulganin has so far refused to acknowledge his country's role in these deaths is no surprise; Russia has a long history of covering up disasters.”

“What type of military force would your government consider and when might it take place?”

“Those are not issues I will discuss.”

“Is an evacuation of Chinese citizens living in Russia a possibility?”

“Again, we are not ruling out any options. We are committed to—”

Mason muted the TV, then turned to Dutcher. “Well, what do you think?”

“That's how it will start: a mass evacuation,” Dutcher predicted. “They'll call it a humanitarian mission, but it'll be their way of getting their foot in the door.”

Mason nodded. “From what little we know about Bulganin, I don't see him backing down. Less than a month into his presidency, it would be political suicide.”

“Agreed. He's going to give the Chinese exactly what they want, and the poor bastard doesn't even know it. What worries me is, how is he going to react once they make their move?”

“That's anyone's guess.” Mason sighed. “Dangerous goddamn game they're playing.”

Mason's intercom buzzed: “Mr. Director, General Cathermeier on line two.”

“Thanks, Ginny.” Mason punched the speaker button. “Chuck, I've got Leland here with me.”

“You two better get over here. We've got problems.”

Dutcher and Mason found Cathermeier in the secure conference room standing before a map of Russia's eastern coast. He turned as they entered. “We've lost
Columbia.
”

“What?” Mason said. “When?”

“About an hour after she launched her missiles. The message came over VLF. What little we got was garbled. They were under attack, they said.”

“By whom?” Dutcher asked.

“No idea, but now they're off the air. We've sent a surface-for-traffic message over ELF, but we're not even getting a signal confirmation.”

“Which suggests her transponder is damaged or—”

“Columbia's
gone. Destroyed.”

Dutcher said, “Have we heard from Jurens and his team?”

“No, but I wouldn't expect to yet. If they know about
Columbia,
their doing E&E,” Cathermeier replied, referring to evasion and escape: clear the area and find another lay up. “If they don't know about
Columbia,
they're probably in transit to the pickup point.”

“Let's hope they know,” Mason said. “Best not to have them exposed.”

Dutcher asked Cathermeier, “Who knows about all this?”

“Us three and the CAC duty officer. I can't keep it from Martin and Bousikaris for long.”

“How far is the battle group from
Columbia's
last known position?”

“Three days. I could break away one of the subs to hunt for her, but that'll only leave one covering the whole group. If the Russians come out to meet us in any force, we could have a problem. You know, I can't help but wonder if this is part of China's plan.”

“We had the same thought:
Columbia
mysteriously sinks after launching a missile attack against a Russian port. More proof we're in bed with China.”

“Either that or another chance to pull us into the fight,” Mason said.

The intercom came to life: “General, we've got secure traffic. Eyes only for you.”

“On my way.”

The duty officer, an army major, walked over. “Sickle on SATCOM, General.”

Cathermeier picked up the handset and keyed the button. “Sickle this is Mace, say status, over.”

“Mace, this is Sickle. We are intact and operational. Standby to copy sitrep in three parts.”

Cathermeier glanced at the duty officer, who nodded. “Recorders on.”

“Ready to copy, Sickle.”

“Sitrep: reference my grid one-four-six-nine-two. Target is foul; birds astray; see grid for result.
Break,
Blade unavailable, cause unknown; request instructions.
Break,
Kashmiri intercepted; ID confirmed as papa romeo charlie. Copy all, Mace?”

“Roger, copy all. Standby.” Cathermeier turned to the duty officer. “Major, match Sickle's coordinates and check to see if we have any satellites overhead.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mason said, “Okay, so they know about
Columbia.
What's the rest about?”

“Something went wrong with the launch. The Harpoons malfunctioned.”

Dutcher said, “How could that happen?”

The watch officer interrupted, “General, the NRO has a real-time feed from a Keyhole over the Sea of Okhotsk. The angle's going to be a bit oblique, but it should work.”

“Put it on the big screen.”

The screen turned to snow, then resolved into an overhead picture of Russia's eastern coast. “Overlay Sickle's grid,” Cathermeier ordered.

The screen refocused. The Bay of Vrangel appeared, bracketed by Cape Kamensky and Cape Petrovosk. The water of the bay was an indigo blue, the land mostly green with splotches of brown. In the crook of the bay was the white concrete expanse of the port.

“What the hell … ?” Cathermeier muttered. “Major, what do you make of that?”

“Looks like smoke, General. Lots of it. I can see ten—no, twelve smoke columns, and flames at the western end of the pier. Damn, there's nothing left standing.”

“Transmit those coordinates to the NRO,” Cathermeier ordered. “I want a damage analysis as soon as possible.” He turned to Dutcher and Mason. “That's what Jurens meant. Somebody got ahold of those Harpoons and diverted them—probably right into the tank farm, judging from the damage.”

Mason said, “That business about the Kashmiri. He's talking about Sunil Dhar.”

“That's my guess,” Cathermeier said, then recited: “Kashmeran is papa romeo charlie …”

“People's Republic of China,” Dutcher said. “It was a setup from the start.”

“It's starting,” Mason said. “We've got to move on Martin before it's too late.”

Eight thousand miles away,
Columbia
was alive, but barely so, lying on her port side at the edge of the continental shelf.

The torpedo should have killed them, Kinsock knew. What he would only later realize was that Jurens's decision to push forward the missile launch had given
Columbia
a fighting chance at survival.

Wary of her target's sensors and determined to launch a killing shot at point-blank range, the attacker had for hours been closing on
Columbia's
position, creeping along at three knots, riding the currents and hiding in thermal layers.
Columbia's
premature rise to periscope depth caught the attacker four thousand yards out of position, giving Kinsock those vital seconds he needed for evasive maneuvers.

After launching its torpedo, their attacker had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, slipping into the depths as Kinsock struggled to get his wounded boat pointed in-shore and away from the continental shelf and the crushing depths beyond.

As they spiraled downward, the sonar techs kept their headphones on, ignoring the chaos around them and trying to identify the rapidly fading signature of their attacker. In the final seconds before they struck bottom,
Columbia's
sonar chief managed to record an ever so faint shaft whine to their southeast. However fleeting the contact, it was enough to identify the boat as the same mysterious Kilo they'd detected soon after arriving on station.

Kinsock stood in the wardroom and read the damage report as his department heads waited for him to finish. Throughout the control center, crewmen were running diagnostic tests and talking quietly amongst themselves. Occasionally the deck would tremble as
Columbia
settled into the silt.