Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  Jurens would never know how Dhar managed it, but halfway across the road he stumbled and sprawled in the dirt. He gave a sharp cry of pain. Dickie and Zee slipped out of the bushes, grabbed his collar and pulled him down the slope.

  Jurens lay still, listening.

  Then, from up the road, he heard the scuff of boots and a harsh whisper:

  “Shtoh … gdeh?” What … where?

  Jurens knew immediately what was happening. The squad had left behind a trailing OP, or observation post, designed to watch for enemy movement in the wake of the main force’s passage.

  Ten seconds passed. From Jurens’s left came the sound of boots crunching on the gravel. A pair of man-shaped shadows slipped across the trail. The two soldiers stopped in front of him and knelt.

  Very slowly, Jurens eased his MP-5 up and took aim.

  “Shtoh?” one of the soldiers asked. Where?

  The other one pointed toward where Smitty and the others had crossed into the underbrush. Rifles held before them, they began creeping toward the spot. They stopped, peered into the foliage.

  Nothing to see, Jurens thought. Keep walking—

  “Stope!”

  In unison both soldiers jerked their rifles to their shoulders.

  Jurens and Smitty fired simultaneously. Sconi’s three-round burst impacted the back of the first soldier’s head. The second one, his chest similarly riddled, crumpled. As he did so, his rifle discharged. The single crack echoed through the night air.

  Smitty and Zee were out of the trees in an instant, providing cover for Jurens’s crossing. Sconi sprinted across the road, paused to snatch up the soldier’s rifles, then slipped into the brush. Smitty and Zee each grabbed a soldier by the collar and pulled them out of site as Dickie tossed dirt over the blood stains and drag marks. Once done, they all gathered in a circle.

  “So much for stealth,” Dickie said.

  “What’d they see?” Jurens asked.

  In response, Smitty jerked his head toward Dhar, who said, “Sorry.”

  From up the road they heard the sound of a truck engine revving. Excited voices shouted to one another.

  “Time’s up,” Smitty said.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” asked Zee.

  “Run for all we’re worth. It won’t take them long to find these two; by then, we best be on a boat and heading to sea.”

  USS Columbia

  “On my mark,” Archie Kinsock called. “Three … two … one—Blow ballast!”

  “Blow ballast, aye,” the chief of the watch replied from the control panel.

  A shudder rippled through Columbia’s hull as compressed air rushed from the flasks and expelled the boat’s water weight. The deck rolled beneath their feet; Kinsock and MacGregor grabbed at the chart table to keep their balance.

  Kinsock kept his eyes fixed on the depth readout. The diving officer leaned over the helm console, his hands resting on the shoulders of the helmsman and planesman. Five seconds passed. Ten.

  Lift, lift, lift … Kinsock chanted to himself. Up baby …

  As if following his orders, the readout clicked from 160 to 158.

  “We’re moving,” the diving officer called. “One fifty-seven … fifty-six.”

  “Trim us out, Chief. Even keel.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Eyes fixed on his gauges, the chief punched a series of buttons. With a groan, Columbia rolled slightly to starboard, her deck coming level. “Coming level.”

  The diving officer called, “One hundred fifty and rising.”

  Kinsock keyed the squawk box. “Engineering, Conn.”

  “Engineering, aye. Chief here, Skipper.”

  “We’re off the bottom, Chief. Deploy the thrusters.”

  “Stand by.”

  A few seconds passed and then Kinsock heard a faint hum as the thruster doors opened and the outboards deployed. “Conn, Engineering. Thrusters locked and ready. On your order, Skipper.”

  “Conn, aye. Diving officer, bring us to PD.”

  Without propulsion to give her headway, Columbia’s climb to periscope depth became a careful dance of cooperation between the chief at the ballast controls and the diving officer, who passed a continuous stream of murmured orders to the planesman and helmsman.

  Columbia wallowed and tipped as she rose through the currents and thermal layers.

  “Coming to PD,” called the diving officer.

  “Gimme zero bubble.”

  “Zero bubble, aye,” replied the chief. “Zero bubble. Steady at depth.”

  “We’ve got a drift. Southeast at two knots,” the diving officer added.

  “Aye. Up scope.”

  With a hum, the periscope ascended from the well. Kinsock caught the grips and put his face to the viewer.

  His first sight of the surface in three days took his breath away. The water was a cobalt blue, rolling and choppy with the wind tearing the crests into spindrift. He duck-walked the scope from the northeast to southeast; the horizon was clear of ships. He turned landward, skimming the viewer first over Cape Kamensky and then past the mouth of Vrangel Bay. Aside from a flurry of tugboat and ferry activity nearer the port, the surface was clear.

  Kinsock closed the grips. “Down scope. Raise the antenna.” He turned to MacGregor. “Jim, go to Radio; time to tell home we’re alive.”

  “Aye.”

  Two minutes later, MacGregor called: “Conn, Radio. Skipper, you better take a look at this.”

  “On my way.”

  When Kinsock pushed into Radio, MacGregor handed him a flimsy message:

  WELCOME BACK COLUMBIA. CLEAR AREA ASAP. TACTICAL SITUATION DIFFICULT; WILL ATTEMPT DISPATCH ESCORT YOUR POSITION. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. SICKLE SITREP: OPERATIONAL; ATTEMPTING EXFILTRATION; DESTINATION: 42° 44′ N/132° 51′ E, GRID REF 12 ECHO DISCRETION YOURS. LUCK.

  “I’ll be damned,” Kinsock muttered. “They’re alive.”

  “And making a run for it,” MacGregor replied. “What’d that mean: ‘Discretion yours.’”

  “It means we can either clear out and save our asses or go get Jurens and his men.”

  “I vote for both.”

  They returned to the Control Center and walked over to the chart table. Kinsock quickly plotted the message’s latitude, longitude, and grid coordinates. “It’s a fishing village,” he said.

  “Makes sense. Steal a boat, get into international waters. How far away are we?”

  Kinsock measured the distance. “Two miles southeast.”

  “What do you think?”

  Kinsock looked around the Center, his eyes resting briefly on each of the watch standers. One hundred twenty men, he thought. All trusting me to get them home. And if this was a democracy? What would be their vote? Run away or go back?

  Even before he asked the question of himself, Kinsock knew the answer.

  “The hell with it,” he said. He keyed the squawk box. “Engineering, Conn. Power up the thrusters, Chief. Diving officer, make your course two-one-zero. We’ve got passengers waiting.”

  With Smitty still on point, Jurens and his team were halfway across the last road above the village when an army truck skidded around the corner and stopped fifty yards away. Soldiers began jumping from the back and running toward them. Behind them, up the embankment, gunfire raked the trees and punched the dirt at their feet.

  “Go, Smitty, go!” Jurens called.

  Smitty took off with Zee and a wide-eyed Sunil Dhar on his heels. Firing from the hip, Jurens and Dickie sprinted across the road and down the opposite slope. Bullets crashed into the trees around them, each impact sounding like a whip crack. Branches and leaves rained down on them.

  “Keep going!” Jurens ordered Dickie.

  Jurens dropped to one knee, plucked a grenade off his web belt, and tossed it through the canopy toward the road, then kept running. With a crump, the grenade exploded. Cries of pain and anger filtered through the trees.

 
Jurens crashed from the tree line and onto the beach. Dickie was waiting. Smitty, Zee, and Dhar were thirty feet ahead, running toward the pier some one hundred yards distant. To the left, Jurens heard an engine revving.

  A truck screeched to a stop on the beach road. Sconi turned, fired half his magazine into the cab. In twos and threes soldiers leapt from the tailgate and began climbing down the rock wall. As each landed, he dropped to one knee and began firing. Jurens counted ten soldiers, then fifteen … twenty. Up the embankment, soldiers were crashing through the trees, calling out to one another.

  Jurens and Dickie took off, heads down as they sprinted for the pier. Still in the lead, Smitty mounted the planking and kept running. Dhar tripped, fell. Zee stopped, grabbed him by the shoulder, and began dragging him.

  “I can’t!” Dhar cried. “I can’t run anymore.”

  “Then crawl!” Zee shouted. “Move!”

  Dickie caught up to them, hitched one arm beneath Dhar’s arm and together they began dragging him. Running beside them, Jurens turned and fired from the hip. Two soldiers went down. He ejected the spent magazine, slammed another into the butt, kept shooting.

  From the pier he heard the throaty roar of an engine. At the end of the pier Smitty stood at the controls of a trawler. “Come on, come on …!” He mounted the transom, brought his MP-5 to his shoulder, and began firing three-round bursts over their heads.

  “The hell with this!” Zee yelled.

  He handed his MP-5 to Dickie, then heaved Dhar over his shoulder. Dickie lagged back with Jurens, both of them firing together. There were nearly forty soldiers on the beach now. Sergeants and officers were shouting orders, trying to organize their fire.

  “How many grenades you got?” Jurens called.

  “Two!” Dickie replied.

  “Use ’em!”

  As Jurens provided cover, Dickie tossed both grenades. Crump, crump! Double geysers of sand erupted amid the soldiers. With Dickie in the lead, he and Jurens turned and charged down the planking. Dickie cried out, grabbed his leg, stumbled. Jurens caught him. They kept running.

  Ahead, Zee was five feet from the boat’s transom when suddenly his arms went wide and he pitched headfirst onto the planking. Dhar landed in a heap on top of him.

  “Zee’s down!” Smitty called and leapt onto the dock. He grabbed Dhar and gave him a shove; he tripped over the gunwale and crashed to the deck. Smitty turned back for Zee. A bullet struck him in the upper chest; he spun and plunged into the water.

  “Get him!” Jurens ordered Dickie.

  As Dickie tossed both his MP-5s onto the afterdeck and dove into the water, Jurens dropped to one knee, turned, and poured fire onto the beach. He plucked his own remaining grenades from his belt, tossed one toward the soldiers, then rolled the last down the planking. It exploded, disintegrating a ten-foot section of the dock.

  He turned, grabbed Zee by the collar, and staggered the last few feet to the boat. Zee was unmoving; there was a ragged bullet hole between his shoulder blades. No, no, no …

  At the transom, Dickie struggled to climb aboard with Smitty, who clutched the gunwale with both hands. His face was ghostly white. Watery blood coated his neck. Dickie reached over, grabbed his belt and heaved. Together they rolled onto the deck.

  “Catch!” Jurens called. He tossed his MP-5 to Dickie, then dragged Zee to the edge of the dock and jumped onto the afterdeck. He and Dickie grabbed Zee’s shoulders and pulled him aboard.

  “Get us outta here!” Jurens ordered.

  Dickie ran for the cabin. Jurens snatched up his MP-5, fired three rounds into the stern cleat, shredding the mooring line, then turned and did the same for the forward cleat.

  “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.”

  83

  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 puls
ing 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.