Wall of Night (48 page)

“Go, Dickie!”

Dickie shoved the throttle to its stops. The trawler surged forward. Bullets thunked into the transom and gunwale, sending up a shower of wood chips. The cabin windows shattered. Dickie dropped to his knees, one hand on the wheel as he steered blindly.

Jurens felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. Smitty gave him a wan smile. “Good to be on the water, boss,” he murmured. He coughed and a pink, frothy bubble burst from the hole in his field jacket.
Sucking chest wound.

“Amen, Smitty. Hang on, bud.”

“How's Zee?”

A few feet away, Zee lay on his back. His eyes stared sightlessly at the sky.
No,
God,
Zee
…
“Don't worry about him; he's fine.” He tore his eyes away, then opened Smitty's pack and withdrew a field dressing. “Dhar! Take this, put pressure on his wound.”

“What? Where.”

“There, goddammit, stop the bleeding! Turn him on his side.”

Abruptly the gunfire stopped. Jurens peeked over the transom. On the beach, a single soldier was standing ahead of the others. He held a long cylindrical object to his shoulder. Jurens recognized it.

“RPG!” he shouted. “Dickie, help me!”

Together they dragged Smitty and Zee toward the cabin door.

From behind there came a
whoosh.
Jurens spun. A smoke trail arced across the water.

“Down!”

The rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the starboard comer of the transom. The boat rocked hard to port, then righted itself. Shrapnel and wood splinters peppered the cabin. The smoke cleared.

A four-foot section of the transom had been blown off. The deck was listing sharply. Water poured through the splintered gunwale. The engine whined and sputtered.

Back on the dock, a half mile away, the soldier's were racing toward the remaining boats.

With a final cough and a burst of black smoke from the exhaust, the engine quit. As Jurens watched, the top of the transom slipped beneath the surface. The deck began sloping to starboard.

Jurens turned to Dickie. “What's your vote? Here, or in the water?”

Dickie gave him a game smile. “The water. It's the only way to go.”

“You take Zee; I'll grab Smitty. Smitty, how 'bout it? You up for a swim?”

“Always, boss.”

“Dhar, can you swim?”

“Barely.”

“Do your best. Don't put up a fight when they try to take you. Tell them we kidnapped you.”

“What will they do to you?”

“As far as they're concerned, we destroyed their port, killed their men. You do the math.”

“Certainly they won't—”

“Of course they will.”

Dickie called, “Here they come.”

A half mile astern, the soldier's boats were pulling away from the docks.

Beneath Jurens's feet, he could feel the deck settling lower. Seawater lapped toward the cabin door. “Time to go,” he said.

“Wait!” Dhar called out. “What the hell is that?”

“What?”

“There!”

Jurens followed his extended finger. Fifty yards to their right, a periscope jutted from the ocean, a curve of white water trailing behind it. As Jurens watched, transfixed, the periscope rotated toward them, then stopped. A light blinked twice, then twice more.

God bless,
Archie.

“That,” Jurens replied, “is the man I'm going to name my firstborn after.”

Birobijan

Taking the steps two at a time, Tanner rushed back down to the engine room and climbed the catwalks to where Hsiao was kneeling. He'd managed to connect the generator cable to the radio's transformer, which in turn was linked to the Motorola by a pair of fine, copper wires.

“They're here,” Tanner said.

“I told you he would come,” Lian said. “You're not going to get away. You won't live to see another hour—none of you!”

Briggs ignored her and focused on Hsiao. “Any luck?”

“Perhaps. Listen.”

Hsiao began slowly turning the generator's hand crank. Tanner knelt down and pressed the phone to his ear. At first he heard only static, then in the background came a faint pulsing squelch.

“That's a carrier wave,” Briggs said.

“Is it the right one, though?”

“It's all we've got. How's your Morse code?”

“It's been a while—since boot camp—but I think I can manage as long as it's short.”

“Just two words: Pelican and Dire. Keep sending it over and over.”

“That's all?”

“If someone's listening, it should be enough—I hope.” Tanner unzipped his pack and pulled out his supply of AK magazines—six of them, each containing thirty rounds—then checked over both weapons. He handed one to Hsiao. “You've got twenty rounds. Use them wisely.”

“I'd prefer to not have to use them at all.”

“Keep thinking good thoughts. I'll hold them off as long as I can, then come back here. If I can't make it, I'll fire six shots in sets of two. If you hear that, get out.”

Hsiao nodded. He looked Tanner in the eye and extended his hand. “Good luck.”

Briggs took his hand. “You, too; thanks for everything. We wouldn't have made it this far without you.” He turned to Soong. “Han—”

“Don't say it. Just go and come back safely.”

“Okay.”

Tanner faced Lian. He could think of nothing to say to her. She glared at him, and he felt her hatred down to his very core.
Put it away,
Briggs.
She's gone.
Put it away
;
you'll have time later.

He stood up, tucked the magazines into his belt, and headed for the door.

Once back on the bridge, he dropped into a crouch and waddled out the door to the aft railing.

The soldiers had paused at the river bend. In the middle, two men stood together conferring, one in camouflage gear, the other in civilian clothes. The soldier, Tanner assumed, was the platoon leader, which meant the other man was probably Xiang. Standing behind them was the team's radioman.

They spoke for a few more moments, then the platoon leader turned and barked an order to his men. His voice echoed across the ice. The men began spreading out in a staggered line abreast. It was a smart move, Tanner knew. The less they bunched up, the harder a time a sniper would have.

Briggs dropped onto his belly and wriggled back from the rail so they would have a more difficult time pinpointing his muzzle flashes, then settled into a firing position. He tucked the stock into his shoulder.

The morning sun was at his back. Light sparkled on the river ice and the air was dead calm. Both conditions would work to his advantage, he hoped, as the soldier's vision would be degraded by the glare and the lack of wind would better echo his shots.

Regardless of nationality, soldiers share a universal fear of snipers. These paratroopers would probably react better than most, but watching helplessly as comrades are struck dead by phantom bullets tends to shake even the best troops. Even so, Briggs doubted he'd get more than three or four men before the platoon scattered and began laying down suppressing fire.

They were seventy-five yards away now, spread in a staggered line about one hundred yards long. Xiang, the platoon leader, and the team's radioman had moved to the rear.
Which one first
?
Tanner thought. He desperately wanted it to be Xiang, but he knew better. Once under fire, the troops would look to their leader. He had to be the first target. The radioman would be second; the psychological effect of losing their communications would further unnerve the platoon.

Briggs laid his cheek against the stock and took aim.
Breathe and squeeze,
breathe and squeeze
…

Lieutenant Shen pulled out his compass and took a bearing on the opposite ridgeline. Walking beside him, Xiang said, “Well?”

“We're on their track.” Two hours after leaving the Hind, they'd spotted the Hoplite's rotor blade jutting from the hole in the ice and gone to investigate. “At least one of them had to have been injured in the crash,” Shen said. “That had to slow them considerably.”

“Considering they shouldn't have gotten even this far,” Xiang said, “that's a rather stupid statement, don't you think?”

“I suppose.”

“Lieutenant!” Ahead, Sergeant Hjiu was waving. “Come take a look at this!”

They jogged forward to where Hjiu was standing with a group. “What is it?” Shen asked.

Hjiu was pointing upriver to a tree-covered island rising from the ice. “What do you make of that?”

Xiang said, “It's an island, so what?”

“No, sir, look more closely,” Hjiu said. “You see the straight lines, the tiers …”

“Yes,” Shen murmured. “I see it now. It's man-made …”

“A boat,” Hjiu said.

“Check the bearing,” Xiang said.

Shen did so. “It matches. If they survived the crash, they'd have been wet and cold, and—”

“Looking for shelter,” Xiang finished. “Let's check it out.”

Shen nodded. “Sergeant Hjiu, spread the men out and start them forward.”

“Yes, sir.”

They were seventy-five yards away from the island when Xiang heard a double
crack.
As did a dozen others, he looked down, sure the ice was giving way, then dropped to his belly to distribute his weight. Beside him, he saw Shen and his radioman do the same.

“Shen, do you see anything?”

Silence.

“Shen, answer me—”

Xiang saw blood spreading from beneath Shen's body. Xiang glanced at the radioman; he lay on his back, dead eyes staring at the sky

Crack
!
Crack
!

To the right, another man dropped, then a third.

“Sniper!” Sergeant Hjiu shouted. “Sniper!” Hunched over, he scrambled back to Xiang, grabbed Shen's collar, and started running toward the shoreline. “Come on! Move!”

Xiang turned and chased after him.

They were well-trained, Tanner saw. At the shout of “sniper,” there'd been the barest of hesitation before the platoon broke into two sections, each heading for an opposite shoreline. Despite the ice, they covered the distance in less than twenty seconds and slipped into the trees.

Tanner waited and watched for movement.

From the left shore, a lone soldier leaned out from behind a tree. Tanner took aim and fired. The soldier toppled over and rolled onto the ice. To their credit, the paratroopers kept their cool; there was no shouting, no panicked movement.

After thirty seconds, a voice from the right shoreline barked an order; a second voice called back. Tanner missed most of words, but the one he caught was enough: “encircle.”

From both shorelines, he saw movement in the trees as each group began making its way up the slope. Tanner spotted a leg sticking out from behind a tree trunk. He adjusted his aim and fired once. The bullet struck the leg's thigh; it jerked behind the trunk.

Five down,
Briggs thought.
Time to move.
Once fully under the cover of the trees, the paratroopers would converge on the paddle wheeler from both sides for a simultaneous charge.

Tanner backed away from the railing and started crawling toward the pilothouse door.

CIA Headquarters

Case Officer Karen Hensridge had just come on duty as the OpCenter Duty Officer, or OCDO. Already bored, she stood at the communications console looking over the previous watch's log entries. Aside from the routine daily traffic, there wasn't much going on in the intelligence world today—a couple of embassy contact reports and info requests from field personnel, but little else.

The joys of OpCenter duty,
Hensridge thought. All case officers had to go through OCDO qualifications, and only the greenest case officers—the ones who hadn't yet sat through a dozen mind-numbing shifts—looked forward to the experience. However, if you wanted to get promoted up through the CIA's Operations Directorate, OCDO was part of the price.

“Say, Karen, you got a minute?” one of the communication techs asked her.

“Got more than a minute, Kent. What's up?”

“Listen to this.”

He handed her his headset, which she put to her ear. “Sounds like static to me.”

“No, listen deeper. Behind the static.”

Hensridge closed her eyes, trying to mentally blot out the hissing. She was about to give up when she heard it—a series of clicks embedded in the carrier wave. “It's repeating,” she said.

The tech nodded. “Five second intervals.”

“Can you amplify it, maybe bring it to the front?”

“Hold on.”

The tech tapped his keyboard and the static faded slightly. The clicking was more prominent now. Unconsciously, Hensridge began drumming her fingertip along with it. She opened her eyes. “Gimme your pad, quick!”

As the series repeated itself, she began doodling, trying to ferret out the pattern. In a flash, it struck her. “Dots and dashes … It's Morse code.”

“You're kidding?”

“No.”

She copied down the series, then snatched a binder from the shelf above the console and began rifling through pages until she came to the reference section. The Morse code page was yellowed from neglect, but still readable.

“P-E-L-I-C-A-N … D-I-R-E,” she recited. “Pelican …” She grabbed another binder, this one the OCDO daybook, and flipped to the “Comms” section. “Pelican” was at the top of the list. “Jesus!”

“What?”

Hensridge reached for the phone.

Mason was in the tank when Coates's call came through. Mason put him on speakerphone.

“Dick, we think Tanner's made contact.”

Dutcher was on his feet instantly. “Where, how?” he demanded.

“Morse code, of all things. We're working on triangulating the signal, but it looks like it's coming from Siberia just north of the Chinese border. Khabarovsk region, probably.”

“How long till you can pinpoint it?” Mason said.

“Five minutes, maybe less.”

“Did he give anything else? Whether Soong was with him … their condition?”

“No, just the word
dire.
”

“Call me the second you know.”

Mason disconnected.

“He's in trouble,” Dutcher said.

“But alive.” Mason turned to Cathermeier. Mason said, “Can we get Beskrovny on the phone?”

“Goddamn right we can!”

The CAC duty officer made the connection and routed it into The Tank. Mason called, “General Beskrovny, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you. Who is this?”

“Dick Mason, CLA. We've got a situation we need help with.”

“Go ahead.”

“It's rather complicated … Ten days ago we sent a man into China to rescue an imprisoned PLA general.”

“Who?”

“Han Soong.”

“He's alive?”

“Not only is he alive, but we think he may have the answer to what China is up to.”

“And you're just telling me this now?” Beskrovny snapped.

“Until now, there was no point. We'd lost contact with our man, but we just heard from him. We believe he's managed to cross the border into your country—somewhere in Khabarovsk.”

“With Soong.”

“We hope so. His situation may be grave, however. If we give you the coordinates, can you—”

“Of course,” Beskrovny said. “I'll call the Khabarovsk garrison commander.”

“We'll get back to you.”

Five minutes later Coates called with the coordinates. As Mason recited the numbers, Cathermeier plotted them on the map. Once done, he got Beskrovny back on the line and repeated the coordinates “They're in Birobijan, Marshal, about seventy-five miles northwest of Novotroitskoye.”

“I know the area. I'll get the helicopters moving.”

As the phone line went dead, Dick Mason sighed and turned to Dutcher. “I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I can't believe it. He made it out. Jesus.”

Dutcher nodded.
Hang on,
Briggs.

Birobijan

​Tanner was only halfway to the pilothouse hatch when he heard a double
thunk
behind him. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see a pair of grenades arc over the handrail and roll to a stop beside the smokestack. Briggs dove for the hatch.

The grenades exploded in quick succession, each a muffled
crump.
Shrapnel struck the open hatch like a flurry of hail. A few still-sizzling chunks landed on the deck beside Tanner. He crawled to the hatch and peeked out.

The underbrush and trees lining the railing were shredded and blackened. The smokestack, along with his makeshift antenna, lay in a smoking heap.
So much for the phone call,
Briggs thought. There was no reason to loiter now. Xiang and his men would be coming. The only questions were, would they charge in force, or send a recon team, and could Briggs lure aboard the bulk of the platoon before making a run for it?

Tanner dropped through the hatch to the deck below, ran to the spiral stairwell, and down to the main deck. Once there, he sprinted down the main alleyway to the midships intersection, stopping short of the corner. He dropped to his belly, crawled ahead, then peeked out.