by Shawn Kupfer
“Wow. High fashion from the gas station,” Hansen said, chuckling.
“You OK on painkillers?”
“Not supposed to take any more for another two hours or so. Some booze wouldn’t be terrible, though. You happen to steal any of that?”
“Negative. Didn’t see any.”
“Eh. Probably shouldn’t be mixing the two anyway.”
Hansen had suddenly become more agreeable since the stop at the gas station, for no reason Nick could discern. He guessed that maybe the painkillers were leveling the pilot out, which made him envious. Nick worried he was in danger of grinding his own molars to powder. The stimulants weren’t helping any, but he figured he’d be on edge even without chemical help. Still, Hansen wasn’t currently being belligerent, so Nick tried to keep his own mood level, as well.
“OK. So, what’s the plan, my Chinese friend? Notice I did not use the other C-word,” Hansen said, grinning and uncapping a bottle of water.
“I’m American, Hansen. I grew up in Texas, Virginia, and California.”
“Sounds like someone was a brat.”
“Navy. Dad was a SEAL.”
Hansen nodded.
“Plan?” he repeated.
“The plan is north. This GPS is OK, but it needs a location programmed in, and I don’t have that. But we keep along the coast, we’ll eventually hit Mongolia, then Siberia.”
“That’s a negative. Coast loops around the East China Sea,” Hansen said, shaking his head. “We keep following the coastline, we’ll wind up in North Korea. Probably not where we want to end up, unless you really are a Chinese agent.”
“My geography kind of sucks,” Nick admitted.
“I’ll say. Didn’t they bother to give you a map or something?”
“Had one. Lost it.”
“Soon as the coastline starts to turn east, you want to go north overland. If you’re really aiming for the American lines, that’s what’s going to take you up to Mongolia.”
It was the first time Nick felt the pilot was actually cooperating, actually trying to help. It was also the first time he didn’t want to kick him out of the truck at 60 miles an hour. He nodded, then looked back at the GPS.
“Give me some city names. I can program this thing to take us closer to the right route.”
“Well, that’s a problem,” Hansen said, digging through the bag of food and frowning. “I don’t know city names. Locations, generally, sure. These snacks suck.”
“All they had. Food is food. What do you mean you don’t know city names?”
“I’m not sure if you understand this, but for us Americans, the city names in this country make no fucking sense,” Hansen said, finally settling on a bag of chips and holding them up. “What flavor is this?”
Nick turned to catch a glance at the small package.
“Hot and sour fish soup,” Nick said.
“That’s disgusting,” Hansen said with a sigh, throwing the chips back into the bag. “Look, I never met a Lightning Driver who could pronounce a name past Shanghai or Beijing. Kind of important that everyone’s on the same page with where you’re attacking, especially when we’re only going to get one shot to fly into China when the network goes down.”
“That makes sense, I guess,” Nick said. “There should be some plain, salted chips. Yellow bag.”
“Oh, score. So anyway, we had our own code names for the cities in the mission briefing. Gonna be useless for both of us, especially without an actual map. Why didn’t you shoplift one of those?”
“Everything comes with GPS now,” Nick said. “I don’t even think they print them here anymore.”
“Can the GPS zoom out? Kinda let us know where we are?” Hansen asked, ripping open a yellow bag of chips and shoving a few into his mouth. “OK. Those are definitely not just salted chips.”
Nick pressed the “minus” button on the GPS touchscreen four times, zooming it out as far as it would go. He looked at the bag Hansen was holding up next to him.
“Lemon tea,” he said. “Which you might have guessed by the picture of iced tea on the package.”
“Eh. It’s not terrible,” Hansen said, shrugging and shoving a few more chips in his mouth. “OK, looks like you’ve zoomed out to about a mile there. Up ahead – looks like a city to me.”
Nick moved the map with a downward swipe of his finger, and a name popped up.
“Town called Binhai,” he said. “Beyond that, Lianyungang.”
“See why we came up with code names? OK, medium-sized city, approximately four hours up-coast of Shanghai NMB,” Hansen muttered.
“Shanghai NMB?”
“Northern military base.”
“Taizhou.”
“Don’t need a Chinese lesson, pal. It was the military target north of Shanghai. Now, let me think. We been doing about 60, give or take?”
“Pretty close to.”
“Right. The big city, that’s probably Zebra. It was my far-north target city. Big ports, used to ferry heavy equipment over to North Korea. Tanks, fighter planes, that sort of thing. Never made it that far. If we get through Zebra and head west for a couple hundred miles, we can go north again and shoot up straight through eastern Mongolia.”
“It should be safe enough to cut through the city at night. You stay low, and we don’t stop for anything until we get to the northern suburbs. We put as much gas in the truck as we can, then keep going,” Nick said.
“That sounds more like a plan than ‘go north,’” Hansen said, nodding. “Are these chicken feet?”
“Yeah.”
“They any good?”
“No.”
* * *
Nick was right. Getting through the city wasn’t tough, as staying on the expressway meant they only skirted the eastern edge. Traffic was light, and they only had to slow down once, thanks to a lane closure for construction. According to the GPS, they were in the town of Xinpu, just north of Lianyungang, when Nick spotted a gas station and pulled over. He fueled up without robbing the store this time, and was about to get back into the truck when the only other customer, a man in his mid-20s fueling up a tiny Chery M1, spoke to him.
“Nice shirt,” the young man said, nodding at Nick’s horrible knockoff.
“Thanks.”
“You’re pretty brave, man. Walking around like your face isn’t plastered all over every damn screen in the country.”
Nick blinked – the man knew who he was, but he was casual, laid back about it, not making a move toward him at all. He slowly moved his hand toward the pistol hidden under his terrible flannel hoodie.
“Relax, man,” the young man said, smiling and holding his hands up, palms out, to show he wasn’t a threat. “I’m not here to turn you in. Don’t want to get punched out like that poor guy at the PetroChina station, anyway.”
“How –”
“It was on the news. And the Internet. Good right jab you have on you,” the young man said, his smile staying put on his face. He’d switched to English.
“Then you know I won’t hesitate to hurt you if I think I need to,” Nick said, slowly moving toward the driver’s side door of his truck.
“License plate number on that thing is everywhere, too. I’m surprised you made it as far as you have.”
The kid, still speaking English, dropped his voice to a hushed, conspiratorial tone. His smile dropped away.
“Seriously, guy. We need to get you off the streets. Won’t be long before the stiff behind the register realizes what’s happening and calls someone. Response time is pretty quick, too. I’d suggest riding with me.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“Oh. Name’s Chao Li Feng. Call me Feng, though. Most do. I’m... well, I’m an enemy of Unit Ghost, which I suppose makes me a friend of yours.”
“Resistance?”
“We’re not calling it that... but yeah.”
“I have a passenger.”
“White guy?”
“Yes.”
“Fage
. Can’t make that switch here. All right, follow me in your truck. We can get it to a garage I know and switch out there.”
“And if you’re leading me into a trap –”
“I know, I know. You’ll beat the shit out of me.”
“If you’re lucky.”
Feng finished fueling up his compact car and got in the driver’s seat. Nick still wasn’t sure the guy was legit, but a lot of what he said made sense – his picture being up everywhere, the camera feed from the gas station being in the news. The guy obviously knew who he was, and didn’t look or act like PLA. Pulling him into a trap would be unnecessary, too. With the military strength Nick saw all over the country, all the kid had to do was make a phone call, and dozens of soldiers and police would show up, guns blazing.
And if he was going to make it out of the country in one piece, he needed help. Even getting anywhere near Shanghai had been due in large part to other Resistance members, guys scattered up in the mountains who got Nick and his team on a cargo train that carried them halfway across the country in safety. Trusting those guys had worked out, and if nothing else, Nick needed a place to sleep for a couple of hours before he overdosed on stimulants.
“You didn’t believe that guy, right?” Hansen said as Nick started the truck.
“You heard?”
“Just the part where he was speaking English. The windows in this truck suck for keeping out noise.”
“I wouldn’t expect the Navy to brief you on it, but there are resistance cells in China. One helped us get to Shanghai in the first place.”
“I don’t trust it. These Chin... ese guys are pretty fucking devious,” Hansen said, shaking his head and fortunately catching himself before uttering the word that would make Nick punch him.
“We don’t have a lot of options. We’re driving around in a stolen truck, one that’s probably flagged on every camera system.”
“Should have just shot that guy in the head and taken his car,” Hansen muttered as they followed the Chery M1 through darkened streets, winding further and further from the expressway.
“Yeah, because that wouldn’t have raised any red flags,” Nick grumbled.
They drove past a commercial zone, most of the stores closed, and not just for the night. Several of them had boards over the windows, signs saying they were out of business until further notice. The commercial area soon gave way to a more residential zone, huge blocks of sprawling, high-rise apartment buildings, one identical to the next. They turned north, passed over a set of railroad tracks, and finally slowed down in a dark industrial area full of low concrete buildings and vacant lots.
“I get killed by these guys, man, I’m haunting the everloving shit out of you.”
If you get killed by these guys, I’m definitely getting killed by these guys, Nick thought, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He just wanted to follow Feng’s car. He was exhausted, running on chemicals and fear, and he just wanted to close his eyes.
Whether that meant sleep or death, he didn’t know. And he didn’t know if he even cared anymore.
Chapter Thirteen
One-Way Ticket to Pluto
They weren’t told anything right away, just that they’d be on the plane for a shade under five hours, and they’d better strap in. Christopher ended up in a jump seat between Mary and Peter, his gear strapped to the bulkhead under his feet. As soon as the plane stopped climbing, Mary was on her computer.
“What’ve you got?”
“Math,” she replied, tying her hair into a ponytail and turning the screen towards him. She had a satellite map of the great open nothingness of Siberia in one window and a schematic of the C-5 Galaxy in another.
“OK... what am I looking at?” Christopher asked.
“Just trying to figure out where we’re headed. This thing cruises at 570-odd miles an hour, and the pilot said almost five hours.”
“Right. So where does that put us?”
“Nowhere good. Arctic Circle at the extreme north, tip of India at the extreme south. Logically, though, it’s somewhere in between that. North Korean lines are my best bet. China’s my outside possibility.”
Is there a chance of that? Christopher wondered. Are they sending us to bail Nick out?
“Fuck, man,” Peter said, shaking his head. “It’s like they don’t have any other damn teams to do the tough jobs.”
“What makes you think it’s going to be a tough job?” Daniel asked from his seat one over from Peter’s.
“They gave it to us, didn’t they?” Peter asked.
“You’ve got a point there,” Bryce said.
“There are a few other teams we use,” a voice came from deeper in the plane, “But they don’t get the results you people seem to get every time.”
Christopher turned to find the source of the voice. A short, solidly built man was walking out from behind one of the large objects covered in cargo netting. As he came closer, Christopher recognized the man – James Neal, former commander of 47 Echo, and, last he knew, commander of all Marine Echo forces.
“Captain Neal,” Christopher said, unstrapping from his seat, standing, and saluting.
“Gunnery Sergeant Lee. Congratulations on the pardon,” Neal said, returning the salute. “At ease. Wish we were seeing each other under better circumstances.”
“We’re Mecho, sir. Are there any circumstances we see other than bad ones?” Christopher asked.
“When you’re right, you’re right. Come along, folks. You’re safe to walk around now. Time for the bad news,” Neal said with a sigh, turning and waving for the group to follow him.
“I wondered whatever happened to that guy,” Gabriel whispered as he fell into step beside Christopher.
“Technically, he’s still our boss, I think. I don’t know. It’s confusing,” Christopher said, shrugging.
“They’re not pulling us off special forces, are they?” Martin asked.
“No, convict. And learn how to whisper,” Neal said from in front of them. He led them past the cargo nets to a freestanding box with a door on it. Inside, there was a makeshift situation room, a table with fifteen chairs around it. He waved for the unit to take a seat.
“Broad strokes – you’ll get the specifics uploaded to your command screen before we land,” Neal started. He activated the screen at the head of the table, and a picture of a middle-aged white man, slightly doughy, with dark hair and an unconvincing comb-over appeared.
“This is Gilbert Harlan, Army convict, 88 Juliet. Convicted of all sorts of horrible shit, mostly dealing with pederasty and child pornography.”
“Charmer,” Carson mumbled under his breath.
“I’d appreciate not being interrupted, Ranger,” Neal said, glaring at Carson. “I’ll let you know when it’s time for questions.”
“Roger that, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Moving on. Harlan was assigned to Firebase Lakota, about 150 miles from the North Korean lines. While he was there, a Razor came back from a mission into North Korea to refuel and repair. Harlan and as many as four as-yet-unidentified accomplices stole it.”
The image on the screen changed – it was a schematic of a Razor Heavy Assault Vehicle. Christopher and his crew spent a fair amount of time in the vehicles, but he saw immediately that this one was different. At first glance, he noticed it was longer, with ten wheels rather than eight. The surface-to-surface rocket pods on the sides looked different, more angular.
“This is the Razor in question. It’s a prototype, the Razor ELR. It’s a recon vehicle, improved stealth, improved armor, and most importantly, vastly improved range. It’s the only one of its kind, and it represents a quantum leap forward in the adaptive camouflage technology... which you may remember is our only technological advantage over our enemies.”
Neal turned off the screen and sat at the head of the table.
“All of this shit is in your mission briefing, but you’re going to have to get it back. And that won’t be
easy, as we have no way to track it.”
“Sir?” Christopher asked, hoping his old commanding officer wouldn’t yell at him for interrupting.
Neale simply nodded at him.
“Do we have anything to go on?”
“A little. The data leak you uncovered? A separate team at Lakota discovered it about ten hours before you did. Still no idea who did it or how, but Harlan was using it to communicate with someone in the North Korean Army. We don’t know the route he’ll take, but we know his ultimate destination – Pyongyang.”
“And we’re heading to?”
“Carbon-4. We have an important asset waiting there. The designer of the prototype, an engineer with Umbra Dynamics, is currently stationed there.”
“Carbon-4?” Peter asked. “That’s not a U.S. base name.”
Neal didn’t yell at Peter, either. Across the table, Nick saw Carson’s mouth tighten into a scowl.
“Correct. It’s an outpost held by Carbon Consulting. PMCs hired to protect the Umbra Dynamics research station.”
“I wasn’t aware we had PMCs that far in, sir,” Christopher said.
“I wasn’t aware we had Americans that far in, Gunny. So it came as a surprise to me, too. The engineer has been apprised of the situation, and will be working on a way for you to hopefully find the Razor ELR before Harlan can make it to Pyongyang and royally fuck us over. Questions?”
“Sir?” Carson finally spoke up.
“Yes, Ranger?”
“What is my role here, sir?”
“Staff Sergeant Carson Richmond, correct?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Your file says you just completed your DLPTs for Korean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re the closest translator we had on short notice. Make no mistake, folks – I’d love it if you could catch Harlan and his friends while they’re still in Allied territory, but that’s unlikely to happen. You’re going into North Korea.”
