Wall of Night (43 page)

China,
seventeen miles south of Birobijan,
Russia

“We've got weather ahead!” the pilot called over his shoulder.

Tanner walked into the cockpit. The pilot pointed to the windshield. Swirling out of the blackness, ice pellets peppered the windscreen, their rapid-fire ticks sounding like a Geiger counter gone haywire. Even over the thump of the rotors Tanner could hear the wind howling.

“Barometer's dropping, too,” the pilot said. “It's a front, all right.” Suddenly the Hoplite lurched sideways. The pilot compensated and they leveled off. “Wind shear!”

“What's air temperature?”

“Two degrees centigrade.”

Just above freezing,
Briggs thought. “Climb to a hundred feet,” he ordered.

The pilot sighed. “Finally.”

“Don't thank me. When we're ten miles from the border, I want you to take it back down.”

“In this weather? We're gonna die!”

“Maybe so,” Tanner replied, “but at least it won't be in China.”

Twelve miles from the border, red lights began flashing on the ESM console. A rapid chirping filled the cockpit. From the tone, Tanner knew immediately it wasn't a standard radar warning.

“Fire control,” the pilot announced. “From our six o'clock … he's close!”

“What kind?”

The pilot punched a few buttons. “Raduga-F. It's the Hind! He's locked onto us!”

Tanner knew the Hind was primarily an antitank gunship, but its 20 mm nose gun was equally effective against air targets. A three-second blast from the 20 mm would slash the Hoplite in half.

“He won't shoot,” Briggs replied. “Not yet. He'll try to force us down first. Descend.”

As the Hoplite nosed over and dove downward, Tanner turned and yelled back into the cabin. “Hsiao, get everyone strapped in. It's gonna get rough!”

The chirp of the ESM grew louder.
Getting closer,
Tanner thought.
Was he guessing right
?
Would Xiang shoot first,
or try to force them down
?

“Fifty feet!” the pilot yelled.

“Keep going!”

Through the windscreen, Briggs could see the ice pellets had changed to snow. The flakes swept past the nose like miniature stars and for a moment he felt dizzy, as though looking into a kaleidoscope. He glanced at the pilot; he, too, was staring, transfixed, at the effect.

“Watch your gauges,” Tanner said.

“Sorry … sorry! Twenty feet …”

“A few feet … ”

Tanner could see the earth now, a carpet of blackness below them dotted with clumps of trees and rolling hills. The ground loomed before the windshield until the Hoplite's belly seemed to be skimming the dirt. “Pull it up!”

The pilot eased back. “Ten feet! I can't do this!”

“Yes you can.”

The ESM grew louder, the chirps overlapping one another.

“They're going to fire!”

“Keep going. How far to the border?”

The pilot glanced at this console. “Two miles! What about Russian SAM sites?”

“This is Birobijan. There are no SAMs,” Tanner called back.
I
hope.

In the eyes of the post-Soviet government, Birobijan was not only one of the Federation's poorest oblasts, but also a disposable buffer between it and China The chances of anything but token units being assigned to this section of the border were slim.

“You sure about that?” the pilot asked.

“Just fly. If we get across the border, we're home free.”

In the Hind's cockpit, the pilot said, “We've got a gunlock, sir.”

“How far from the border?” Xiang asked.

“Thirty seconds. I'm firing!”

“No, I want them alive!”
You're not getting away
—
not this time
!

“They're almost across!”

“Then follow them,” Xiang ordered. “We'll overtake them and force them to land.”

“That's Russian airspace! You don't have the authority to—”

Xiang drew his pistol and let it dangle beside his leg; the pilot glanced at it. His face went pale. “Is this enough authority for you?” Xiang asked.

“You're crazy.”

“And I'm also in charge. Now, follow them!”

“We're crossing the border!” the Hoplite's pilot yelled. “They're not breaking off!”

“What?”

Suddenly the ESM panel went silent. In its absence, the cockpit was eerily quiet. Random ice pellets ticked off the windscreen and the wind whistled through the cabin door. Beyond the windscreen the snow was thickening.

“Where are they?” the pilot said.

“Close,” Tanner said. He stood up and peered through the windshield. “Turn on your landing light for a second.”

The Hoplite's nose beam glowed to life, illuminating the ground below. The terrain had become more rugged: jagged mountains cut by steep river valleys, all covered by a thick layer of snow.

“Okay, turn it off—”

Out of his peripheral vision he saw a dark shape materialize out of the darkness.

“There he is,” Briggs said.

The Hind pulled ahead until it was at their 2 o'clock. Its landing lights blinked twice, then twice more. The cockpit's interior light clicked on. Inside, the pilot jerked his thumb downward.

“He's signaling us to land,” the pilot said.

“Keep flying.”

“They're giving us a chance! Listen, maybe your government can negotiate for your—”

“My government will be lucky to find out where my body's buried.”
And Soong and Lion go back to the
laogi
where they'll rot away and die.
“Keep flying.”

The Hind matched their course for another thirty seconds, then abruptly banked away and disappeared into the darkness.

Ten seconds passed. Both Tanner and the pilot scanned the sky outside the windshield. In the cabin, Hsiao stood at the door window, face pressed to the glass.

Briggs called, “Anything, Hsiao?”

“No, nothing—there! Right side, right side!”

Rotors thumping, the Hind dropped out of the darkness and swooped across their nose. The pilot pulled back and banked right. “Whoa!”

“He's coming around again,” Hsiao called. “Behind us! He's making another pass!”

This time the Hind came from the left and above, dropping across the windshield, so close Tanner could see the tail number.

“He's going to bump us!” the pilot shouted.

“Hsiao, do you see him?”

“Wait … wait. Yes! He's below us!”

“Climb!” Tanner ordered the pilot. “Fast as you can!”

The Hoplite's nose canted upward. Tanner gripped the armrests tighter. In the cabin, Lian cried out. Tanner glanced back. “Hsiao?”

“We're okay! Everybody's okay!”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know!”

Tanner stood up and stooped closer to the windshield outside. As he did, the bulbous nose of the Hind appeared out of the blackness below, matching their angle of ascent. With a sudden surge of power, the Hind shot ahead and upward, banking as it went.

“He's too close,” the pilot yelled. “He's going to hit us …!”

The Hoplite lurched sideways as though struck by a giant hammer. A shudder tore through the fuselage and they tipped sideways, then back upright. A light began flickering on the console; then two more, followed by a buzzing.

“What is it?” Tanner said.

“Oil pressure's dropping! The temperature on the number two engine is redline!”

Another light; more buzzing. “Fire warning!” the pilot shouted. “We're losing altitude!”

Tanner turned around: “Hsiao?”

“I'm looking! Yes, I see it … there are flames coming out of the stack.”

“We're finished,” the pilot said. “We're going down.”

A jagged valley appeared before them. Steep-walled, forested cliffs swallowed the Hoplite. Through the darkness and swirling snow, Tanner glimpsed a clearing.

“There,” he said, pointing. “An open spot!”

“I see it! I see it!”

Ten feet from the ground, a wind gust hit them broadside and pushed them toward the cliff face. The pilot compensated and banked the Hoplite onto its side. The ground rushed toward the windscreen. “I'm losing it!”

“Pull up!”

In the final seconds, Tanner turned in his seat and shouted, “Hold on!”

One of Hoplite's rotor blades struck the ground and they began tumbling.

NMCC

“General, we've got new satellite images coming up,” the CAC duty officer called.

“Put them on the big screen,” Cathermeier ordered. Eight black-and-white images, each two feet square, appeared on the monitor. “What are we looking at, Commander?”

“Two pictures each of four air bases just north of the Hinggan Mountains,” she answered. “Gulian, Changying, Pangu, and Ershizhan. We're reasonably sure these are the primary launch points for the Chinese sorties.”

“Good God, look at that,” Mason murmured.

In each photo the tarmacs were covered with lines of black dots.

Each dot a plane,
Dutcher thought. “Looks bigger than the last sortie.”

“Initial estimate puts the combined total at five regiments—two hundred aircraft.”

“Composition?” asked Lahey.

“Almost identical. MiG Seventeens, Nineteens and some a mix of older Sukhois.”

“More cannon fodder,” Mason said.

Lahey asked, “Commander, any estimate of how long before they liftoff?”

She cocked her head, thinking. “Using their first sortie as a guide … four hours, give or take.”

“Makes sense,” Cathermeier said. “Dawn attack.”

“Can the Russians handle it?” Mason asked.

“They'll try, and the Chinese will lose a lot of planes, but the PLAAF has the numbers on its side. The Russians have no other choice but to play their game. If they split their force and go after the high-orbiting J-tens and -twelves, they'll get overwhelmed by the front wave.”

“Lose-lose,” Lahey said.

“Exactly. Now, once they can throw some MiGs into the fight that have stand-off missile capability, their chances improve. Problem is, will they come soon enough, and in enough numbers?”

“Stand-off missile capability,” Lahey repeated. “Like our Tomcats and Hornets?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lahey thought for a moment, then sighed. “Though I don't hold out much hope, I've got to try to reason with Bulganin again. Together, if we can somehow blunt this next Chinese sortie …”

“Its unlikely he'll even entertain the idea,” Dutcher said. “He's made up his mind: We're the enemy.”

“I have to try.”

“It's worth a shot,” Mason agreed. “But even if he agrees, it doesn't solve our larger problem: The Chinese aren't going to stop. For argument's sake, let's say we repel this next wave … What about the one after that, and the next? The Chinese have everything riding on this; they've gotta have more up their sleeve than an air campaign.”

Cathermeier nodded. “It's the old maxim: Until you take the soil you haven't won the war.”

“Tanks and infantry,” Lahey murmured.

“Yep. And once that starts, it's going to make these air skirmishes look like a snowball fight.”

Moscow

Ivan Nochenko stared out his office window at the night-lights of Moscow and beyond. Light now swirled against the glass like moths fluttering to a light

It's very simple
…
We'll blot them off the map
…

“I did this,” Nochenko muttered. He felt drugged; everything around him seemed hazy, as though time was moving erratically around him. “This is my doing.”

After Bulganin's cruise-missile proclamation, they'd stood frozen in place, staring at him.

To Nochenko's initial surprise, neither Fedorin or Beskrovny put up any argument, and in that moment he knew they'd turned a corner. Lost in his world of paranoid delusions, Vladimir Bulganin was about to start a nuclear war. The time for talking was over.

After giving the order and seeing there was no dissent, Bulganin had been buoyant, joking and slapping them on the back, chillingly oblivious of what he'd just done.

Once dismissed, Nochenko, Fedorin, and Beskrovny returned to Nochenko's office. He dropped wearily into his chair and stared, slump shouldered, at his desk blotter.

“The man's insane,” Sergei Fedorin murmured. “He's going to kill us all.”

Beskrovny said, “The only question left is how it will happen. The Chinese will respond in kind—that much is certain—but will it be against tactical targets or population centers?”

“What does it matter? Millions are going to die. Whether it's today or spread out over a few weeks, what does it matter?”

Beskrovny nodded. “You're right, of course. If I refuse to carry out his plan, he'll simply have me arrested and take direct command. Some idiot colonel in Kungara or Urasha will get the order, snap off a goddamned salute, and launch the strike.”

“Then what do we do?” Fedorin said. “We're running out of time.”

Nochenko lifted his gaze from his desk and said, “I'll take care of it.”

“What?” Beskrovny said. “How? He doesn't listen to a word we say. What makes you think you'll have any more luck if you try again?”

“I'll take care of it,” Nochenko repeated. “I understand Vladimir. We simply haven't been taking the right tack with him.” Seeing the doubt written on their faces, Nochenko forced a confident smile. “Gentlemen, trust me. I'll take care of it. In the meantime, Victor, go through the motions of ordering the strike.”

“What?” Beskrovny cried.

“If he sees you're dragging your feet, he'll do just as you said and replace you. Make the preparations, but don't order the release of the warheads. Victor, please, do as I ask. I'll take care of everything.”

“How, exactly?” Fedorin said.

“That's not your worry. I'm asking for your trust. Russia is going to need men like you in the coming days. This crisis will pass and when it does, your expertise will be instrumental in repairing the damage that's already been done. So, I'm asking you, can I count on you?”

Beskrovny and Fedorin exchanged confused glances, then nodded.

Who is worse?
Nochenko wondered, staring in the blackness.
A paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of Stalin-hood,
or a blind,
ego-driven old fool
?
His is a sickness of the mind
;
mine a sickness of conceit.
Without me,
he wouldn't be here.
Without me,
the world wouldn't be teetering at the brink of a nuclear war.

Every step of the way he'd ignored Bulganin's rantings, his vicious mood swings, his Cold-War mentality … Worse still, after the Irkutsk Massacre, when his conscience had finally risen up and refused to be silent, he'd tricked and cajoled and deceived himself back into ignorance.

I've done this,
Nochenko thought again.
This is my responsibility.

At four a.m., Bulganin recalled the three of them to his office.

Nochenko found his president pacing near the window, occasionally peeking out the curtains and muttering to himself. As usual, Pytor stood against the wall behind Bulganin's desk, eyes scanning the room. Another two guardians stood on either side of the door, hands clasped behind their backs.

“Ivan!” Bulganin shouted. “Where are … There they are. Good, gentlemen, come in.”

Beskrovny and Fedorin walked in and stopped in front of Bulganin's desk.

“Marshal, how go the preparations for our strike?”

“Everything is proceeding, sir. The strike will lift off from Urasha in eighty minutes.”

“Excellent!” Bulganin boomed, clasping his hands in excitement. “Little devils are going to find it difficult to carry on their little scheme once those air bases are gone, eh Marshal?”

“Yes, sir,” Beskrovny replied with a stiff nod, then a glance at Nochenko.

Bulganin's intercom buzzed. “Mr. President, Vice President Lahey is on line three.”

Bulganin threw up his hands. “Ah! What does this rube want now? All right, send it through!” When the phone rang, Bulganin pushed the speaker button. “What now, Lahey?”

“Mr. President, I have a proposal for you. I have General Cathermeier, my chairman of the Joint Chiefs here with me. Do you have someone similar there with you?”

“My defense minister, Marshal Victor Beskrovny is standing beside me. Why, Lahey, what game are you playing now?”

“No games, Mr. President. I'm going to let General Cathermeier explain my proposal. Marshal Beskrovny will be able to advise you as to its soundness.”

“Get on with it.”

“President Bulganin, this is General Cathermeier. Our satellite intelligence shows activity at four Chinese air bases north of the Hinggan Mountains. We believe they're preparing to launch another air attack against you.”

“Yes, yes, we're aware of that,” Bulganin barked. “Make your point.”

“Our proposal is this: With your permission and with the support of your refueling facilities, we are prepared to dispatch from our carrier group a support force to aid you in defending against the next attack.”

“That's nonsense,” Bulganin shot back. “We will not—”

Marshal Beskrovny interrupted: “General, this is Beskrovny here. Tell me, what kind and how many aircraft are you talking about?”

“F-14s and F/A-18s. Approximately thirty aircraft.”

“What percentage of the group's total aircraft does this represent?”

“Over fifty percent, sir.”

“That would leave your carriers largely undefended, would it not?” Beskrovny asked.

“The group would still have the support of its surface vessels, but yes, those aircraft are critical to the group's defense.”

“These Tomcats and Hornets would be equipped with stand-off missiles?”

“Yes, Marshal. Phoenix air-to-air missiles with a range of one hundred plus miles. We feel these aircraft could make a real difference in the coming fight.”

Beskrovny nodded thoughtfully, then said, “General, will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course.”

At Beskrovny's urging, Bulganin muted the phone, then said, “Surely you're not taken in by this, Marshal?”

“Sir, I think we should consider the proposal.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You heard the man—they would be stripping their group of almost every aircraft it has.”

“And sending them, fully armed, into our airspace. As the Chinese attack us from the south, the Americans attack us from the east. They're asking us to agree to our own envelopment. Surely you can see that.” Bulganin glanced at Fedorin and Nochenko. “You must see that.”

Fedorin said, “Mr. President, we're not going to win this next air encounter. We haven't yet got the forces in place to do anything but stall the Chinese. These American fighters would tip the scale in our favor. We have to consider—”

“They have attacked us once already. I will not open the doors for a second strike.”

“Mr. President, I may have a solution that will ease your mind. May I?”

Bulganin grumbled, but nodded.

Beskrovny unmuted the phone. “General Cathermeier, would you be willing to provide us the individual IFF codes for your aircraft so we may track them more effectively?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And agree to allow them to be tracked by SAM site radars while they are crossing our airspace to the battle area?”

There was a short pause. “Yes, sir, we can do that as well.”

“Thank you. One more moment, please.” Beskrovny muted the phone again.

“That means nothing,” Bulganin said. “They agreed too quickly to your demands. They're still playing their games—I'm sure of it.”

“And I'm sure they're not,” Beskrovny replied. “Mr. President, for God's sake …”

Watching the exchange, Ivan Nochenko again felt the druglike haze settle over him. His vision tunneled and sounds around him seem to fade, as though he were underwater. He watched Bulganin's lips moving, his bulging wild eyes and flushed face, and realized for the first time what Beskrovny and Fedorin had themselves been witnessing: a ranting madman.

In that same moment Nochenko felt what he could only describe as a sad affection for Vladimir Bulganin.
My golem,
he thought. Had he not interfered, would Bulganin have simply lived and died a shoe factory foreman in Omsk, bothering no one but those forced to listen to his silly diatribes?
I
did this.
My responsibility
…
mine and no one else's.

Caught up in the argument, no one saw Nochenko leave. The two guardians at the door stared at him as he stepped out, but they said nothing. Mind blank, moving like an automaton, Nochenko walked down the hall to his office, opened the door and walked inside. He strode to his desk. He bent over and opened the bottom drawer.

The gun, a 9mm Makarov semiautomatic, was exactly where he'd left it the night before. He inserted the magazine, cycled the slide, and flicked off the safety. He slid the gun into his belt beside his hip, then smoothed his suit jacket and headed for the door.

“…NO!” Bulganin was saying when Nochenko stepped back into the office. “We don't need their help, and we certainly don't need their trickery. You may be fooled by them, Marshal, but I am not so gullible. Ivan, there you are. Where did you go off to? As I was saying, General, we're—”

I
created him
…
Beskrovny and Fedorin will do their duty.
Now it's time to do yours
…

Nochenko strode forward, eyes fixed on Bulganin.
Must get close
…
must be sure
…

“—done arguing about this! I've made my decision. The attack will continue—”

Bulganin picked up the phone: “General Cathermeier, your offer is declined. If your aircraft approach our coast, they will be shot down. As for your ships—”

Bulganin glanced up, saw Nochenko striding toward him.

Do your duty
…

“Ivan, what in the world is wrong with you?”

Nochenko reached into his belt, drew the Makarov, raised it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pyotr moving, reaching into his own coat, his gun coming clear and turning toward him …