by Shawn Kupfer
The pilot said nothing, just looked down at his bloody leg and scowled.
“How’s the leg?” Nick asked.
“Fuck off, Chink.”
OK, I can’t boot him out of the car. But no one could blame me for punching this motherfucker in the mouth, Nick thought, his molars grinding together as his jaw set into a frown.
That gave Nick an idea. About 18 months ago, he’d lost the ring and little fingers of his left hand escaping from a North Korean weapons lab near Pyongyang – someone had shot them off, he assumed. He hadn’t even noticed they were gone until he was already on the escape chopper. When he’d finally made it back to an American base, the doctors had replaced the missing digits and a fair bit of his left hand with black metal prostheses. He’d never seen a Chinese soldier with similar gear, though he had seen some missing limbs every now and again. Maybe the American technology that was part of his body would convince his passenger he was who he said.
The Brave Warrior was on a freeway now, heading North at a sustained 50 miles an hour, so Nick lifted his left hand off the steering wheel and pulled off his black glove with his teeth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he held up his hand, palm out, fingers spread wide, across his chest so the pilot could get a good look at it.
“See that? American steel,” Nick said, a grin starting on the left side of his face where the pilot couldn’t see it.
Argue that one away, motherfucker.
“Bullshit. So you got black metal fingers. Good for you. You don’t think I know Chink doctors can do the same shit?”
“So your logic – and let me see if I follow this – says that some Chinese doctors, what? Ripped off half my hand and replaced it just on the off chance I met some Cracker pilot one day, saved his ass, and had to convince him I was an American?”
The pilot again said nothing. His scowl just deepened, and he resumed his intense study of his leg.
“I have some painkillers I liberated from my medic’s pack,” Nick said.
The second he said the words, his brain reminded him that said medic was now dead, his body probably being dragged through the streets outside the Songshan Nuclear Plant by angry citizens. Nick tried to chase the thought out of his head as he dug into his cargo pocket and pulled out two pill bottles. He checked the labels – one was Hydrocodone, the other was Dextroamphetamine. He put the Hydrocodone on the dashboard and stashed the other bottle back in his pocket.
“Yeah. Like I’m taking any pills from you,” the pilot scoffed.
“Your choice, man. Sit there and let it hurt for all I care.”
The freeway was long and straight, and the sun was high in the sky. Visibility was decent, though every once in a while, they’d drive through smoke wafting from a damaged building, most likely where F-35s had dropped bombs. Thanks to the lack of smoke at that particular moment, Nick could see that traffic was at a standstill up ahead. He took the next exit and got off the freeway. It was probably best to keep moving, he reasoned, even if he didn’t quite know where he was or where he was going.
“I mean, if you read the label, you’ll see it’s in English. And issued out of the pharmacy at Camp Justice,” Nick said.
That was true. The old-school brown pill bottle had “JAMC PHARMACY” on the first line, and “CAMP JUSTICE RUSSIA” on the second. It also had “US AIR FORCE 24 STS” on the last line, indicating that it had been issued to an Air Force Parajumper – that had been Ben Briggs, the medic Nick had watched bleed out in front of him only three and a half hours before.
Seems like it was days ago, Nick thought, and decided to take a pill from the other bottle as soon as he hit a stop light. He’d been awake for the better part of three days, and the pills in his pocket would make sure he stayed that way.
The pilot made no move to reach out and take the bottle, though Nick thought he saw the man take a glance in its direction. Pilots were a pretty eagle-eyed group – came with the job – so even if he hadn’t read the specifics, he’d probably noticed the label was in English rather than in Chinese.
“Fine. Show me your dog tags,” the pilot said after a long moment.
“Special Op. We didn’t wear tags. We’re not psychotic,” Nick said with a sigh. “You really think I’d wear a sign around my neck saying “U.S. Marines” when sneaking around this deep in enemy territory? I mean, who do you think took down the defense grid so you could fly in and do your damn job?”
The pilot grumbled something Nick couldn’t make out.
“What was that?”
“I said, that pill bottle could have been some shit you found lying around. Not buying it.”
So he had seen the English writing on the bottle, Nick thought. And he had asked to see dog tags. Nick was starting to get through to him, to open the door on the possibility that he just might be the American Marine he claimed to be. He just needed one more big piece of evidence he could show the guy...
And he got it a few seconds later. Power was fluctuating on and off in the city. The Brave Warrior would pass blocks of buildings with darkened windows, deactivated street signs and billboards, then drive through an area where everything was on all at once. When he saw it, Nick slammed on the brakes and stabbed a finger straight ahead, pointing through the front windshield.
“That. Right fucking there. Look at that.”
Down the road a half a block, one of the buildings, a long, low office block, was completely lit up. Displayed on the side of the building, facing the Brave Warrior, was a collection of eight mug shots, seven of them white people. The first mug shot, though, was Nick himself. Even as the pilot looked up and then back to Nick, confirming that he was the same one on the huge digital wanted poster, Nick noticed that one of the mug shots had a big, red “X” over it. It was Ben Briggs. Nick fought down the desire to get out of the truck and empty his assault rifle into the building.
“Looks like the Chinks are looking for you pretty hardcore,” the pilot finally said after Nick got the truck moving again.
“And why do you think that is?” Nick spat, still pissed off at seeing his friend Ben’s face X’d out.
“Could be you are who you say you are. Could be you just pissed off someone in the PLA you shouldn’t’ve,” the pilot said, shrugging. “Either way, if I’m riding with you, that means I’m probably riding away from the guys who want you dead. Good enough for now.”
Un-fucking-believable, Nick thought. He still thinks I’m one of them.
“Fine. Whatever. Think I can get a name, now?”
“Lieutenant Ryan Hansen, U.S. Navy, serial number –”
“I don’t give a fuck what your serial number is. Jesus, Hansen. I’m not fucking taking you prisoner. You wanna get that through your fucking skull?”
“Fine way for a Marine to talk to a superior officer.”
“By your age – you’re what, 24? – I’m guessing that ‘Lieutenant’ has a ‘J.G.’ attached, doesn’t it?” Nick said.
“It does.”
“Then we’re the same goddamn rank, and you know it. Now, listen, Hansen – I’m getting us back across into Russia one way or another. I’d prefer you help, but even if you don’t, I’m not leaving you here if I can help it. No matter how fucking annoying you are. You wanna give me a damn break here?”
“We’ll see.”
Nick pulled a cigarette out of the front pocket of his uniform jacket and lit it. He rolled down the driver’s window a crack to let the smoke out.
“You got another one of those?” Hansen asked.
“Oh, so you won’t take my pills, but you’ll take one of my smokes,” Nick grumbled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the pack of Red Suns. He noticed there were only two left in the pack – he’d have to remedy that soon. He tossed the pack to Hansen, then held out his lighter to the young man.
“Yeah, but I saw you take a drag first. If they’re poisoned, you’d be in the same boat as me. Besides, I wanted a smoke.”
Up ahead, Nick saw they were approaching a large body of wat
er. He hoped it wasn’t the China Sea – he’d spent the last hour trying to put distance between himself and the sea. As the truck got closer, though, Nick realized he could see land on the other side of the water. That meant it was the Yangtze River, and that they were headed more or less in the right direction to get out of the city. If he could find a place to cross, then go north from there...
Problem was, Nick didn’t see any bridges. From what he could see, the road he was on just went right into the water. There were boats just at the end of the road...
Ferries, he realized. Which means they’re probably going to want money to cross the thing, or at least want to see some orders or something to let us across.
“You decided if you’re on my side yet or not, Hansen?” Nick asked.
“Not yet,” Hansen shot back, taking a drag of his cigarette. “These things taste like shit.”
“Decide fast. I think we’re about to have some eyes on us. Just sit there, look pissed off, and don’t say a fucking word.”
Nick looked over at his passenger and grabbed the cigarette out of his hand, flicking it out the half-open driver’s window. Hansen’s scowl came back, worse than it had been minutes earlier, and Nick could see anger in the young pilot’s eyes.
“Yeah. Like that. Look exactly like that,” Nick said, suppressing a smile.
Chapter Five
I’ve Got A Problem
Christopher recognized the building as soon as the Cougar dropped them off outside. It looked like, in a previous life (or at least a previous incarnation of the city of Novosibirsk), it had been an auto shop. The garage doors had since been concreted over, and the doors that would have led to the lobby were gone, replaced with thick, steel blast doors. There was a small intercom panel on the outside, and Evans pushed the button.
“Lt. Gaines,” a voice came through the speaker immediately.
“Lt. Colonel John Evans, 1-3-8 Ranger,” Evans said.
“Right. Got your call. Come on in.”
Christopher heard a loud click – they must have updated the security door. It used to just swing open, he remembered. He’d been to this building more than once. On his first mission as an Echo Marine, he’d stolen a bunch of food – actual food, not FSRs or MREs – headed to an Air Force office to give to his underfed team. The guy who had come looking for them was a Captain in Air Force Intelligence, but rather than rail Christopher out for the theft, the two men had become friendly. The man he’d met was the type who could get things done, the type of man who seemed to know everything and everybody.
So Christopher wasn’t surprised that the man Evans had taken him to see was Captain Jason Black. But Evans was surprised.
“Wait, you two already know each other?” Evans asked.
“Oh, yeah. Me and Chris go way back, to the guy with the thing in the place,” Black said, smiling broadly.
He was in his late 30s or early 40s, and built like a brick shithouse in spite of his less-than-impressive height. His hair was prematurely gray, and cropped close to his skull. For as well as he felt he knew the guy, Christopher suddenly realized he knew next to nothing about him – his age, where he was from, what he did before the war, or really even what he did now. Christopher got the impression of some vague intelligence career, something to do with... surveillance, maybe? Christopher just knew that if he needed something while he was at Camp Justice, and his own efforts to put hands on it had failed, Jason Black could probably make it happen.
“Let’s go to my office, gents,” Black said, leading Christopher and Evans through the office filled with Air Force analysts. He opened an unmarked door at the back of the large, open workspace. Christopher had never been in Black’s office, but he expected it to be loaded down with computers, tech, and flat-screens on the walls feeding him a constant screen of information. He was wrong. As Black opened the door, Christopher saw three mismatched, overstuffed easy chairs, a mini-fridge, and a stand-up ashtray. It looked like the waiting room of a tire shop.
“Have a seat,” Black said as he closed the door behind them and flopped down into the chair closest the fridge. “Anyone need a beer?”
“It’s seven in the morning,” Evans said.
“Yeah, but I’ve been up for days,” Black said, shrugging and opening a bottle of Klinskoe. “Chris?”
“I’m good.”
“Right on. Now, what brings the two of you to see me? I mean, I think I know already, but...”
“You heard about what happened with Lieutenant Morrow?” Evans asked, taking a seat in one of the easy chairs. Christopher took the other.
“Yeah. Bad situation. But I’ve been keeping half an eye on him. Just before y’all came in, he was almost out of Shanghai. Near the Yangtze River.”
“How are you tracking him?” Christopher asked.
“Remember those old-ass cell phones you guys had on the mission? Those came out of my shop. The frequency and service-hopping algorithm was my idea. As long as your boss has his on him and turned on, I can get a location on him within about a hundred feet.”
“Wait – you mean you can call him?” Christopher asked, leaning forward.
“No. I mean, yeah, I could – but that wouldn’t be a good idea. The phone’s only useful as long as it has a charge, and talking on it even for a minute drains the battery. It’s a Nokia, so it’s damn near indestructible, and the battery will last a couple of days on standby,” Black explained, taking a long swig of his beer. “But we also don’t know what kind of situation he’s in. A ringing phone could get him killed.”
That made sense. As much as Christopher wanted to talk to his friend, to let him know they were working on getting him out, he wasn’t willing to compromise his safety any further than it already was.
“What do you think his chances are?” Evans asked.
“Approximately not great,” Black said, sighing. “I mean, he’s hardcore, your boy... but alone in-country with his face plastered everywhere? No resources, no good way through the defense grid? He doesn’t have a good shot.”
“Colonel Ross mentioned something about intelligence agents being dropped into China,” Christopher said. “You think they can help?”
“If by agents, you mean two, then yes. We managed to sneak two deep-cover guys into China during the mess. Neither of them is anywhere near your boy, and they have no way to contact each other. And those guys, as you might expect, have a lot on their plates,” Black said, shaking his head.
“Which brings us to you,” Evans said.
“I don’t see how,” Black said.
“We want you to see if there’s anything you can do. If there’s any of your people you can send in to help extract Lieutenant Morrow.”
Jason Black leaned back in his chair and took another gulp of his Klinskoe. He was powering through the bottle pretty quickly, Christopher noticed. He wondered if the guy would make it through the whole meeting without falling asleep.
“You got orders? An official request for someone in my shop to be reassigned to your command?” Black asked after a long moment.
“Negative. This is off the books, completely,” Evans said, shaking his head.
“Can’t do it, then. Can’t assign one of my people without someone noticing they’re gone.”
Fuck. Well, that was a huge waste of time, Christopher thought, getting ready to get up out of the chair. But a thought struck him, and he didn’t get up. Instead, he put on his most winning smile and pulled out a cigarette.
“So, you say one of your people can’t go. But you’ve gotta be getting bored around here, sitting in an office doing what amounts to paperwork,” Christopher said, lighting his cigarette. “You could get into China undetected, couldn’t you?”
“What makes you think that?” Black asked, trying to keep his face blank. Christopher was sure he caught a hint of a grin forming, though.
“Come on, Jason. You’re the guy. My bet is you speak fluent Mandarin, and that you’ve already snuck past the defense grid at least
once,” Christopher said.
He was guessing, of course. But he’d always gotten the impression that Jason Black was more than he claimed, more than a standard Air Force Captain working in an intelligence office. Those suspicions were confirmed a second later.
“Yěxǔ,” Black said, the subsurface smile finally breaking free. “Maybe – maybe I can get away for a couple of days and help your boy out. I’ll have to get someone to step in here and be me for a bit, but let me see what I can do. Y’all check back in with me in an hour or so.”
“Thanks, Jason,” Christopher said, taking that as his cue to leave. He rose from his chair, and Evans followed suit, looking confused. The two of them walked in silence back out through the main office and into the street.
“How the hell did you pull that off?” Evans asked as they walked down the street with no real destination in mind.
“Like I said, I know that guy. Something about him... I don’t know. I’m a con man, a scrounge. And we can kind of smell our own.”
“Still, the whole bit about him speaking Chinese and having broken into China already?”
“That’s nothing,” Christopher said, finishing his cigarette and flicking it off into the street. “You know what’s really fucked up? I don’t think he’s even in the Air Force, really.”
“What? He’s in the CIA or something?”
“Or something,” Christopher said, shrugging. “Let’s just hope he’s bored enough pretending to be a flyboy that he decides to help us out.”
Evans led Christopher to one of the Army mess halls at Camp Justice about four blocks down from JSOC Tracking. They were on their third cup of coffee, having already finished breakfast, when Jason Black walked in the door. He was dressed in brown cargo pants – the type one would buy off the shelf, not ones that were issued by any governmental agency – and a black Under Armour T-shirt. He appeared unarmed, and was wearing a pair of sunglasses pushed up on his head when he came in. He looked less like an Air Force captain than a divorced dad waiting at DFW for the 3:45 flight to Las Vegas.
“OK. Here’s a list of the shit I’ll need,” Black said without preamble, plopping heavily in a chair next to Evans and tossing a folded-up piece of paper on the table. Christopher picked it up and read it through.
