Wall of Night (50 page)

Jaw set against the pain, he began scooping up snow and packing it against the wound. Almost immediately the snow turned crimson.
Snow cone,
he thought, then chuckled.
Cherry snow cone
…
Then, from the still-lucid part of his mind,
You‘re going into shock.

In the distance he heard a hollow
thunk.

He peeked over the berm. A dark object was sailing through the air from the paddle wheel. It took a moment for Tanner to realize what he was seeing:
rifle-grenade.
He watched, transfixed, as it dropped toward him and slammed into the ice. He rolled into a ball.

The explosion rippled beneath him. Snow billowed over the berm. His vision contracted and started to dim at the edges.

Thunk.

The second grenade impacted to his right. With a sound like a steamroller crushing a bed of glass, the ice began shifting beneath him. Icy water bubbled between his legs.

Thunk.

Snow erupted to his left.

With a grating
pop,
the ice gave way. He felt himself sliding. He grabbed for the trunk, but it rolled away. He slipped into the water up to his waist; the cold sucked the air from him. He glanced around for something to grab. There was nothing. He clawed at the ice. The water reached his chest, then his neck.

He looked back at the paddle wheeler's bridge wing. Smiling triumphantly, Xiang lowered his binoculars. He turned to the soldiers, mouthed an order, and pointed in Tanner's direction. A single soldier stepped forward and raised his rifle.

Here it comes,
Briggs thought.
Would he hear the shot
?
he wondered,
or would there be nothing
?
Alive one minute, blackness the next.

Suddenly, from beyond the river bend, came the thumping of rotors. The sound grew until it was a roar. A blizzard of . snow and spray washed over him. A shadow blotted out the sun. He looked up to see the olive-green belly of a helicopter stop in a hover above him. Jutting from the cabin door was a 12.7 mm machine gun. It began coughing. Fire flashed from the muzzle. Spent shells rained down on him, sizzling as they hit the water.

Bullets pounded into the paddle wheeler's bridge. Xiang and the paratroopers scattered. One of them, too slow, was struck in the chest and his upper torso disintegrated in a plume of blood.

Tanner saw a face appear out of the cabin door and look down at him.
Hsiao
… A horse-collar attached to a rope dropped into the water beside him. The machine gun kept coughing. Hsiao was mouthing something:
Grab it
…
put it around you,
Briggs
!

His eyesight contracting to pinpricks, Tanner reached out, grabbed for the horse collar, missed it. His hand felt encased in lead. He felt the water engulf his throat and slosh over his chin.
Try again
…
come on
… He threw his hand out, snagged the rope with a finger, and dragged the horse collar to him. He stuck one arm through it, then the other, then clasped his hands.

As the blackness closed in around him, Tanner felt himself rising into the air.

NMCC

Lahey, Dutcher, Mason and Cathermeier sat around the table staring at the phone. Mason shoved out his chair, stood up, and began pacing. “Where the devil are—”

“General Cathermeier, I have Marshal Beskrovny on secure line two.”

Everyone stood up. Cathermeier punched the button. “Victor, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you, Charles. We have them. They just landed at our base in Novotroitskoye.”

Dutcher let himself drop back into his chair. He closed his eyes.
Thank God
…

Cathermeier said, “How many?”

“Three. General Soong, a man claiming to have helped him escape, and your man—Tanner.”

“Everyone's all right?” Mason asked.

“General Soong's legs are broken; the guard is fine. But Tanner … ” Beskrovny hesitated.

Dutcher thought,
No,
God,
no
…

“He is badly wounded. He's in the infirmary as we speak. I'm very sorry, but it sounds grave.”

Standing beside Dutcher, Mason clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“I see,” said Cathermeier. “Please tell your people to do their best for him, Victor.”

“Already done, my friend. We should have three-way communication set up with Novotroitskoye within minutes. They're bringing Soong to the base commander's office now.”

Ten minutes later the link was established. Over the speaker, Soong called, “Who am I speaking to, please?” Cathermeier listed the people in the room. “The Russian commander here tells me my country has already begun the attack,” Soong said.

“Yes, sir,” Cathermeier replied, then recounted the air skirmishes that had taken place over the last few hours. “We're assuming they're just the opening moves to a larger plan, but we don't know what that is. We're seeing no movement of tanks or infantry.”

“And you won't—at least not until the next phase is complete.”

“Please explain that. Are we seeing your plan here—Night Wall?”

“They're calling it something different now—Rubicon, I believe—but yes, essentially it is the plan I authored two decades ago.”

“How do you know that?” Mason asked. “If you've been in prison for—”

“The man in overall charge of the operation—Kyung Xiang—has spent the last decade planning Rubicon. He took Night Wall—a plan I prayed would never be used—and put it into action. Whether from vanity or cruelty, he's been diligent about keeping me informed. Given the nearness of my escape twelve years ago, I suspect he holds a special hatred for me.”

“Do you know how to stop it?”

Soong hesitated. “Stop it? No, I'm sorry, I don't. I know its Achilles' heel, however.”

“That'll do,” Cathermeier said. “Let's hear it.”

Soong knew any invasion of Siberia that involved a head-on tank and infantry assault was bound to fail. Not only were the Russians tactically adept standing toe-to-toe with invaders and slogging it out, but the very spirit of the army depended on such clarity of purpose: Us versus Them, invaders of the Motherland and her valiant defenders.

In 1812, when Napoleon invaded Russia, he was turned back at Moscow; in 1941, Hitler's
wehrmacht
marched on the Motherland only to be defeated by an army that not only absorbed some of the bloodiest punishment in history, but also eventually laid waste to Hitler's eastern front. Vowing to avoid a similar fate, Soong had turned his attention to what he called “strategic irregular warfare.”

“Russia knows how to fight on multiple fronts hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles long,” Soong continued. “Armies clashing into one another in a battle that requires stamina, resources, and the willingness to sacrifice life for territory. Of course, I knew we would have to eventually take and hold the ground, but I envisioned that coming well after the main phase of battle had been joined.”

“Joined by whom? With what?” Cathermeier asked.

“Airborne troops—paratroopers trained to fight at battalion strength complete with light artillery, antitank and air-defense companies.”

Over the speaker, Beskrovny asked, “How many?”

“Ten divisions. Nearly one hundred thousand men.”

“That's impossible,” said Cathermeier. “That would take an air armada of.…”

“Eight hundred planes,” Soong answered. “Not impossible, General. Difficult, but not impossible. In China, we have a saying: ‘Water is patient; its anvil, the rock, soft.' Patience can solve any problem. Xiang and my former colleagues in the PLA have long been preparing for this battle.”

Mason said, “Eight hundred planes and a hundred thousand men are tough to hide. Certainly we would have seen indications—”

“Only if you'd been diligently assembling the pieces for the last ten years,” Soong said. “For example, I think if you go back and dig deeply enough, you'll find that
Guoanbu
front companies have been buying up old transport planes for many years—obsolete AN-twelves from Estonia's air force; C-eight Buffalos from Canadian freight companies; Seven-oh-sevens from bankrupt airlines—Anything big enough and durable enough to a single round trip.”

“That's what this opening air gambit is all about? To make way for a massive airborne drop?”

“That, and to ensure our strike aircraft can support them once they're on the ground. As the Russians wait at the border for our tanks, they suddenly find themselves fighting an enemy from within. Every critical point in Siberia would be under almost simultaneous attack—rail junctions, supply depots, airports and air bases, command and control centers … I think you get the point.”

“It's bold,” Beskrovny admitted. “General, what would be the battalion's composition?”

“Each is made up of three rifle companies, each equipped with light mortars, and two defense companies—one antitank and one air defense. They are trained to fight not only at battalion strength—roughly five hundred men—but also as a part of a divisional force should it become necessary to link pockets into a larger front.”

There were several seconds of silence as everyone absorbed this. Finally, Cathermeier said, “Your impression, Victor? Is it feasible?”

“As General Soong said, it would be difficult, but not impossible. Providing the PLAAF did in fact gain air superiority,
and
if they managed to put the troops on their targets … I have to say, we would be in trouble. Ten divisions is nothing to take lightly; and once their tanks and mechanized infantry started rolling … It pains me to admit it, but I don't know that we could stop them.”

For the first time since the discussion had begun, Dutcher spoke up. “General Soong, there's one thing that confuses me. If this airborne assault is the lynchpin to their plan, it already must be under way. It must be assembling somewhere.”

Cathermeier said, “Good point. We've seen no movement of that size. Where are they hiding?”

“That's the Achilles' heel I spoke of,” Soong said. “You see, I know exactly where they are and how to find them. Now, whether it will do us any good is another matter altogether.”

Novothoitskoye's base commander quickly fetched Soong a map of the Russian-Chinese border and the Mongolian salient. “There will be twelve bases,” Soong said. “All in the foothills of the Hingaan Mountains, all within a hundred miles of the Russian border.”

“How do you know their locations?” Marshal Beskrovny asked.

“In his arrogance, Xiang never bothered changing the locations I originally laid out for Night Wall. I can give you the latitude and longitude of each.”

“I'm still confused,” Cathermeier said. “You said twelve bases. If my math is correct, each one would have to be large enough to accommodate some seventy transport planes and over eight thousand troops—not to mention support staff. Again: You can't hide something of that size.”

“You can if you put it underground,” Soong countered. “Each of these bases has been under construction for a decade, disguised as strip mines or quarries. They're carved into the bedrock of the Hingaan range—each one a small, self-sufficient city complete with hangars, elevators, crew quarters, ventilation systems, mess and recreation halls … In fact, General Cathermeier, when I was imagining these bases, I used your own Cheyenne Mountain as my model.”

“Glad to hear we could help.”

Mason asked, “How deep underground are they?”

“Roughly thirty feet below the bedrock.”

“Like hardened silos,” Beskrovny said.

“Exactly so,” Soong replied. “They were designed to withstand near-full nuclear strikes. And therein lies our problem, you see. Simply knowing their location may not be enough.”

David Lahey spoke up. “What about that, General?”

“I'd have to see surveillance photos, of course, but if what General Soong says is true, conventional munitions won't be enough. General, you said nuclear—I assume you're not talking about tactical weapons, but strategic?”

“Correct. Anything short of the megaton range would be useless.”

“Not much of a choice,” Beskrovny said. “Either we stand by and watch helplessly as Chinese paratroopers drop into my country, or we start a nuclear war.”

Mason said, “There may be a third option.”

“What's that, Dick?” asked Cathermeier.

“Toothpick.”

Cathermeier sighed, shook his head. “Jesus.”

“What's Toothpick?” asked Lahey.

The project codenamed Toothpick began in 1983 as an offshoot to Reagan's Strategic Defense Initiative, Mason explained. Having been proven impractical for ABM, or anti-ballistic missile defense, space born kinetic-energy weapons were scrapped in favor of particle and focused radiation weapons until the wholesale scaling down of the U.S.'s nuclear arsenal began in the '90s. Recognizing the need for semi-smart, autonomous conventional weapons that could be employed in low-intensity conflicts, Toothpick was taken off the shelf in 1993.

Based on a KH-12 spy satellite platform, Toothpick consisted of a “nested drum” of five hundred fifty pound “spikes,” each made from an alloy of super-dense, heat-resistant tungsten, tantalum, niobium, cobalt, and nickel.

Receiving input from a constellation of surveillance and weather satellites, Toothpick's targeting computer at NO-RAD was designed to calculate a target's location, air temperature and wind layering, earth rotation, and atmospheric turbulence to arrive at the optimal aiming point for Toothpick's designator, a blue green argon laser able to penetrate fog, rain, snow, and clouds.

Costing a mere $3,000 apiece, each six-foot spike consisted of little more than a teardrop head, fins, and a rudimentary seeker designed to guide the spike down the beam like a pea through a straw.

“Six feet and fifty pounds?” said Lahey. “Forgive me if that doesn't sound very impressive.”

“It's all about speed and focus,” Cathermeier said. “Toothpick orbits at about twenty-five miles—roughly one hundred twenty thousand feet above the earth. By the time one of the spikes hits the ground, it's traveling at nearly eighteen thousand miles an hour—or five miles a second. You get the kinetic energy equivalent of a ten thousand pound blockbuster bomb.”

“In other words,” Mason added, “All that destructive power—millions of pounds of pressure, heat, and energy—is focused into an area the size of a dinner skillet.”

Lahey stared at them. “I think I'm starting to get the picture. How many of these things do we have?”

“Three in orbit,” Cathermeier said. “The first live-fire test is scheduled for next month.”

“So we have no way of knowing whether it will even work.”

“No, sir, we don't. Given our alternatives, though, I suggest it might be time to find out.”

Lahey turned and stared at the wall map for several seconds. He turned back to Cathermeier. “How long do you need?”

The ambassador of the People's Republic of China stepped off the elevator in the White House's subbasement and was met by a pair of Secret Service agents who escorted him down the hall to an oak-paneled door bearing a small placard reading SITUATION ROOM. One of the agents punched a code into the pad beside the knob, then pushed open the door and nodded to the ambassador.

The ambassador stepped through. The room was darkly paneled with subdued track lighting along the walls and a long, diamond-shaped conference table in the middle. High-backed leather chairs ringed its perimeter. Sitting at the far end of the table was David Lahey; standing behind him, Leland Dutcher and Dick Mason.

“Please come in, Mr. Ambassador,” Lahey said, gesturing to a chair.

Visibly wary, the ambassador pulled out a chair and sat down. “Where is President Martin?”

“President Martin is indisposed,” Lahey replied. “As of last night, he transferred to me all the powers of the presidency.”

“I … I don't understand.”

“You had an arrangement with Phillip Martin. I'm here to tell you it's over. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're not privy to the whole of your government's plans for Siberia, but trust me when I tell you: Your role in this fiasco is enough to land you in prison for the rest of your life.”

“First, Mr. Lahey, I don't know what you're talking about,” replied the ambassador. “Second, I have diplomatic immunity; the worst you can do is expel me.”

“Don't push your luck. You played intermediary for a pair of
Guoanbu
spies who not only conspired to blackmail a president of the United States, but who also slaughtered an entire family—including two little girls. We're well beyond expulsion at this point, Mr. Ambassador, so choose carefully your words. They may decide your fate.”

The ambassador lifted his chin indignantly. “Why have you summoned me here?”