Wall of Night (44 page)

“Gun! Mr. President, get down … !”

Still clutching the phone, Bulganin cocked his head. “What is this, Ivan? Why—”

“Mr. President,
move
!
”

Too late,
Nochenko thought in the final seconds.

He raised his gun and began pulling the trigger.

Inside the NMCC's conference room, the sound of gunfire burst from the speakerphone. Lahey jumped to his feet. “What the hell is that? President Bulganin! What's going on?”

There was a moment of silence, then three more shots. Silence again. In the background, a moan, followed by confused shouting and the sound of footsteps.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Lahey called. “Can anyone hear me?”

From a range of five feet, Nochenko had fired four rounds into the center of Vladimir Bulganin's chest before Pyotr got off his first shot. The bullet tore into Nochenko's side below his nipple, the second into his neck just above his collarbone. As he fell, he turned the gun on Pyotr and fired three more shots. Two missed completely, but the third found its mark, striking Pyotr in the center of the forehead.

Having dropped to the ground at the first shot, Beskrovny and Fedorin now raised their heads and looked around. Guns drawn, a dozen guardians had flooded the room. Bulganin lay on his back on the carpet, a pool of blood spreading beneath him like a pair of black wings.

From the phone, a voice: “Anyone hear me? President Bulganin … Marshal Beskrovny …”

Fedorin was the first to regain his composure. “Victor, talk to them. Take charge. Do what needs to be done. I'll take care of this,” Fedorin said. “Hurry, Victor, time is short!”

Stepping over Nochenko's body, Beskrovny grabbed the phone receiver. “I am here, Mr. Lahey,” Beskrovny said, panting. “There's been an … incident here.”

“What's happened?”

“President Bulganin and his chief bodyguard are dead. They've been shot.”

“By whom?”

“One of his advisors—Ivan Nochenko. He's dead as well.”

“Are you injured, Marshal?”

“No.”

“Who's there with you?”

“Sergei Fedorin. Is your General Cathermeier still with you, Mr. Vice President?”

“I'm here,” Cathermeier answered.

“Until things get sorted out here, it seems I'm in charge. General, does your offer still stand?”

“It does.”

“Then on behalf of my country, I accept. When we're done here, I'll alert my district commanders. General Chonyesky in Vladivostok will make the necessary arrangements; he'll contact you with the necessary radio frequencies.”

“Good, Marshal. Your ships are still steaming toward our group, however. If you can divert them so our carrier can maneuver—”

“I'll do better than that, General. I'm ordering my ships south. If the Chinese want to reach our coast, they're going to have to fight their way through.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

Another voice came on the line: “Marshal Beskrovny, this is Dick Mason of the CIA.”

“Yes, Mr. Mason.”

“We feel that these air sorties are just the spearhead of the Chinese attack, but we've seen no movement from PLA ground units. Mechanized infantry, tanks … all of it is sitting still.”

“That has puzzled us as well. They must have a … what's the phrase? A trump card?”

“Exactly right. I suggest we put our heads together and figure out exactly what that is before the Chinese play it.”

Birobijan,
Russia

Tanner awoke to the feeling of icy wetness creeping over his scalp.

He forced open his eyes, blinking until his vision focused. For several dizzying seconds he couldn't remember where he was.
The Hoplite
… we
crashed.
The cabin seemed to be sitting upright and, aside from a floor-to-ceiling crack in the fuselage, seemed mostly intact. Faint moonlight and puffs of snow filtered through the crack.

Tanner reached up and touched his scalp. Half expecting to see blood, he was surprised to find nothing on his fingertips. He pushed himself upright. The cabin floor was covered in two inches of icy water. Lying about the cabin were Hsiao, Soong, and Lian. Hsiao groaned and rolled onto his side.

“Hsiao,” Tanner called. “Hsaio, can you hear me?”

Hsiao's eyelids fluttered open. “Briggs …”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I don't think so …” Hsiao sat up. “I'm wet … why—”

“I don't know.” Briggs looked around until he spotted his backpack. As he crawled toward it, the cabin floor rocked under his weight, as though it were resting on a fulcrum. He opened the pack, pulled out a flashlight, and clicked it on. “Help me check Han and Lian.”

They crawled over to them and after a few minutes of coaxing, both of them started coming around. Lian had a large bruise on her cheek and two of her fingers appeared to be broken. Tanner cradled her in his lap. “Anything else hurt?”

“No, I don't think so. Your cheek, Briggs.”

Tanner reached up and felt his face; the cheekbone was swollen and crusted with what he assumed was blood. “It's just a cut. Han, how're you doing?”

“I don't know,” Soong answered. “My legs … something doesn't feel right.”

Tanner crawled over and shined the light over Soong's legs, both of which were submerged in the water. As he lifted them up, he felt them bend in mid-shin. Soong screamed.

“They're broken, Han,” Tanner said. . From outside there came a loud
pop,
followed by a grinding sound like stone on stone. The cabin trembled around them. Tanner's eye was drawn toward the door; a small geyser of water was spurting past the weather stripping. “Nobody move,” Briggs ordered.

“Why?” Lian asked. “What's going on?”

“We landed on a frozen river. We're sinking.”

As if on cue, there came another
pop,
then a second. The cabin rolled sideways, throwing Tanner against the bulkhead. He slipped and plunged into the water. Lian screamed.

“Everybody stay still, grab on to something,” Tanner said. He reached out, lifted the door handle, and shoved. It opened a few inches, then stopped. Water gushed through the opening and began rising. “Hsiao, grab my pack and pass me the AK.”

Hsiao did so. Tanner slammed the rifle's butt into the window. The cabin lurched and settled lower. The water reached his knees.

“Hurry, Briggs …”

Tanner hit the window again, cracking it. On the fourth strike, the glass shattered outward. He knocked loose the rest of the shards and peered out. He turned back.

“The ice is about three feet below the window. When you're out, lay flat so your weight is distributed. Hsiao, you first, then Lian, then Han. Once you're out, start belly crawling away from the helo. Come on, Hsiao.”

Hsiao crawled through the water. Tanner boosted him through the window, then stretched out his hand to Lian. “You're next.”

“I'm scared, Briggs.”

“You're fine, come on.”

Once Lian was through, Tanner grabbed his pack and shoved it into Hsiao's waiting hands. He crawled over to Soong; he was shivering, his face twisted in pain. Briggs said, “Some rescue, huh?”

“You've done wonderfully. I knew you would get us out.”

“Out, but not quite in one piece.”

Soong forced a grin. “Alive—that's what counts.”

“Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

Tanner put one arm under Soong's shoulder blades, the other under his buttocks, then lifted him up and began scooting on his knees toward the door. He slipped Soong's head and shoulders through the opening. “Got him,” Hsiao called. With he and Lian pulling, Tanner eased Soong's legs outside.

“Come on, Briggs.”

Tanner was halfway through the window when he remembered:
The pilot
… He started wriggling backward, lost his footing, and plunged back into the water. The flashlight slipped from his hand and dropped into the water. The cabin went black. With another grinding crackle the cabin rolled onto its side and began sinking.

“Briggs, hurry—”

Hsiao's voice was cut off as the window slipped beneath the surface. Tanner plucked the flashlight from the water and shook it off. Water gushed through the window opening. He scrambled forward into the cabin.

The pilot was still strapped into his seat, limp and hanging against his restraints. The right side of his head was bloody. Tanner felt his neck for a pulse; he was alive. Using the armrest as a step, he climbed over the pilot, grabbed the door latch, then turned it and shoved. The door swung open.

“Briggs?” Hsiao called. “Is that you?”

“It's me. Keep going. I'll be right behind you.”

Briggs chinned himself level with the door, then rolled out onto the fuselage. The Hoplite wallowed from side to side, its roof and belly scraping the edges of the ice hole. Trapped air hissed from the crack in the fuselage. Two of the rotor blades were underwater; the third, which had been sheared off at the halfway point, jutted skyward. Down on the ice, Liah and Hsiao were crawling away, dragging Soong between them.

Tanner sat in the doorway with one foot braced against the frame. He reached down with one hand, gripped the pilot's collar, and then unlatched the restraint with the other. The pilot's weight dropped. Tanner heaved against the weight, using his leg as a lever until he could grab the pilot in a bear hug and roll back onto the fuselage.

Dragging the pilot behind him, Briggs shimmied down the fuselage, letting its natural slope ease them onto the ice. He started crawling.

He got twenty feet before he heard a final hiss of trapped air. He turned in time to see the Hoplite slowly sink from view until only the tip of a rotor was visible.

Fifty yards from the hole, Tanner called a halt and gathered everyone in a circle. Still spread flat, they joined hands. “Now what?” Hsiao asked.

Tanner opened his pack and pulled out the Motorola. Immediately he could feel the case was cracked. He turned it over and found the rear plate shattered; the nicad battery was missing. He rifled through the pack, removing its contents one by one. The battery was gone.

“It's not working?” Hsiao said.

“Not without the battery. Looks like we're going to have to make our own way.”

Testing the ice before him with the butt of the AK, he slowly stood up and took a few tentative steps. The ice seemed solid.

“Hsiao, see what you can do about the pilot's head. Han, Lian, are you okay?”

“Cold but okay,” Soong answered.

“I'm going to scout ahead, then we'll see what we can do about finding some shelter. Stay here and stay still. I'll be back.”

Tanner had only a vague idea where in Birobijan they were, but judging from the width, they'd probably crashed into a tributary of the Bira River. From shore to shore it was nearly three hundred yards, and both shores were lined with cliffs that sloped upward to jagged, tree-lined ridges.

Though dawn was still an hour away, the sky was partially clear, revealing a star-stippled sky and a full moon bright enough to read by. The earlier storm had left almost a foot of snow that swirled across the ice with the gusting wind.

The good news was, they were out of China and in relatively friendly territory. The bad news was, given the remoteness of Birobijan they could be fifty miles from the nearest civilization. Cold and wet and tired, with two of them injured, they wouldn't make it five miles. If he could at least get them off the river, into some rudimentary shelter and build a fire, they might have a chance.

He skate-walked forward, probing ahead with the AK's butt and listening to the ice grate and moan around him, ready to drop flat at the first sign of cracking. A hundred yards from the group, he came to a bend in the river. As he came around it, he found himself staring at an island rising from the channel.

About one hundred feet long and forty feet wide, it was roughly oval in shape, and thick with trees and undergrowth that climbed away from the beach in terracelike strata. Though the trees themselves were heavy with snow, Tanner was guessing the undergrowth would have some nooks and crannies dry enough to provide shelter.

He was about to turn around and call to the others when something caught his eye.

He cocked his head, looking more closely at the island.
Something there
… He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a pattern to the underbrush. Slowly at first, and then more steadily, he began to see it: Straight lines, angles, corners … As if there were a structure hidden by all the foliage.

He scanned the island for a few more moments, then suddenly saw it: What looked like the skeleton of a massive barrel lying on its side. But instead of staves it was joined together by … what?

Fins
—
horizontal fins.

The image was familiar somehow, but each time be reached for it, it slipped from his grasp

Come on,
what is it
…
?
Then, from his subconscious, thoughts began to bubble forth:
Tom Sawyer
…
Huck Finn
…
the Mississippi River
…

“That's it,” Tanner said aloud.
How in the world
…

He was looking at the waterwheel of a paddle boat.

Five miles to Tanner's south and east, Kyung Xiang's Hind sat in the small clearing the pilot had managed to find after their collision with the Hoplite. Armored as it was, the Hind had survived with only a rough landing and a damaged rear tailfin. The pilot reported he would be able to make the repair, but it would take several hours.

“What about communications?” Xiang asked.

“We lost our VLF antenna, along with most of our tactical frequencies,” the pilot told him. “I'll start rotating through the emergency frequencies, but—”

“Fine, fine,” Xiang said. “What about the beacon?”

“That shouldn't be affected.” The pilot powered up the RFDF console and adjusted it to the correct frequency. The beacon showed as a spike radiating from the center of the screen. “There it is—northwest of us … make it bearing three-four-zero.”

“How far?”

“Signal's pretty strong,” the pilot replied. “Not more than ten miles.”

Xiang walked out of the cockpit into the cabin. Two of Shen's men—one with a broken collarbone, the other with a concussion—lay on the floor. Xiang stepped over them and hopped to the ground. The remaining paratroopers were squatting in the snow in groups of twos and threes. “Report, Lieutenant.”

Shen said, “Twenty-six men, two injured.”

“Good,” Xiang said. “Get them up and moving. We have a trail to follow.”