Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  The morning sun was at his back. Light sparkled on the river ice and the air was dead calm. Both conditions would work to his advantage, he hoped, as the soldier’s vision would be degraded by the glare and the lack of wind would better echo his shots.

  Regardless of nationality, soldiers share a universal fear of snipers. These paratroopers would probably react better than most, but watching helplessly as comrades are struck dead by phantom bullets tends to shake even the best troops. Even so, Briggs doubted he’d get more than three or four men before the platoon scattered and began laying down suppressing fire.

  They were seventy-five yards away now, spread in a staggered line about one hundred yards long. Xiang, the platoon leader, and the team’s radioman had moved to the rear. Which one first? Tanner thought. He desperately wanted it to be Xiang, but he knew better. Once under fire, the troops would look to their leader. He had to be the first target. The radioman would be second; the psychological effect of losing their communications would further unnerve the platoon.

  Briggs laid his cheek against the stock and took aim. Breathe and squeeze, breathe and squeeze …

  Lieutenant Shen pulled out his compass and took a bearing on the opposite ridgeline. Walking beside him, Xiang said, “Well?”

  “We’re on their track.” Two hours after leaving the Hind, they’d spotted the Hoplite’s rotor blade jutting from the hole in the ice and gone to investigate. “At least one of them had to have been injured in the crash,” Shen said. “That had to slow them considerably.”

  “Considering they shouldn’t have gotten even this far,” Xiang said, “that’s a rather stupid statement, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Lieutenant!” Ahead, Sergeant Hjiu was waving. “Come take a look at this!”

  They jogged forward to where Hjiu was standing with a group. “What is it?” Shen asked.

  Hjiu was pointing upriver to a tree-covered island rising from the ice. “What do you make of that?”

  Xiang said, “It’s an island, so what?”

  “No, sir, look more closely,” Hjiu said. “You see the straight lines, the tiers …”

  “Yes,” Shen murmured. “I see it now. It’s man-made …”

  “A boat,” Hjiu said.

  “Check the bearing,” Xiang said.

  Shen did so. “It matches. If they survived the crash, they’d have been wet and cold, and—”

  “Looking for shelter,” Xiang finished. “Let’s check it out.”

  Shen nodded. “Sergeant Hjiu, spread the men out and start them forward.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were seventy-five yards away from the island when Xiang heard a double crack. As did a dozen others, he looked down, sure the ice was giving way, then dropped to his belly to distribute his weight. Beside him, he saw Shen and his radioman do the same.

  “Shen, do you see anything?”

  Silence.

  “Shen, answer me—”

  Xiang saw blood spreading from beneath Shen’s body. Xiang glanced at the radioman; he lay on his back, dead eyes staring at the sky

  Crack! Crack!

  To the right, another man dropped, then a third.

  “Sniper!” Sergeant Hjiu shouted. “Sniper!” Hunched over, he scrambled back to Xiang, grabbed Shen’s collar, and started running toward the shoreline. “Come on! Move!”

  Xiang turned and chased after him.

  They were well-trained, Tanner saw. At the shout of “sniper,” there’d been the barest of hesitation before the platoon broke into two sections, each heading for an opposite shoreline. Despite the ice, they covered the distance in less than twenty seconds and slipped into the trees.

  Tanner waited and watched for movement.

  From the left shore, a lone soldier leaned out from behind a tree. Tanner took aim and fired. The soldier toppled over and rolled onto the ice. To their credit, the paratroopers kept their cool; there was no shouting, no panicked movement.

  After thirty seconds, a voice from the right shoreline barked an order; a second voice called back. Tanner missed most of words, but the one he caught was enough: “encircle.”

  From both shorelines, he saw movement in the trees as each group began making its way up the slope. Tanner spotted a leg sticking out from behind a tree trunk. He adjusted his aim and fired once. The bullet struck the leg’s thigh; it jerked behind the trunk.

  Five down, Briggs thought. Time to move. Once fully under the cover of the trees, the paratroopers would converge on the paddle wheeler from both sides for a simultaneous charge.

  Tanner backed away from the railing and started crawling toward the pilothouse door.

  CIA Headquarters

  Case Officer Karen Hensridge had just come on duty as the OpCenter Duty Officer, or OCDO. Already bored, she stood at the communications console looking over the previous watch’s log entries. Aside from the routine daily traffic, there wasn’t much going on in the intelligence world today—a couple of embassy contact reports and info requests from field personnel, but little else.

  The joys of OpCenter duty, Hensridge thought. All case officers had to go through OCDO qualifications, and only the greenest case officers—the ones who hadn’t yet sat through a dozen mind-numbing shifts—looked forward to the experience. However, if you wanted to get promoted up through the CIA’s Operations Directorate, OCDO was part of the price.

  “Say, Karen, you got a minute?” one of the communication techs asked her.

  “Got more than a minute, Kent. What’s up?”

  “Listen to this.”

  He handed her his headset, which she put to her ear. “Sounds like static to me.”

  “No, listen deeper. Behind the static.”

  Hensridge closed her eyes, trying to mentally blot out the hissing. She was about to give up when she heard it—a series of clicks embedded in the carrier wave. “It’s repeating,” she said.

  The tech nodded. “Five second intervals.”

  “Can you amplify it, maybe bring it to the front?”

  “Hold on.”

  The tech tapped his keyboard and the static faded slightly. The clicking was more prominent now. Unconsciously, Hensridge began drumming her fingertip along with it. She opened her eyes. “Gimme your pad, quick!”

  As the series repeated itself, she began doodling, trying to ferret out the pattern. In a flash, it struck her. “Dots and dashes … It’s Morse code.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No.”

  She copied down the series, then snatched a binder from the shelf above the console and began rifling through pages until she came to the reference section. The Morse code page was yellowed from neglect, but still readable.

  “P-E-L-I-C-A-N … D-I-R-E,” she recited. “Pelican …” She grabbed another binder, this one the OCDO daybook, and flipped to the “Comms” section. “Pelican” was at the top of the list. “Jesus!”

  “What?”

  Hensridge reached for the phone.

  Mason was in the tank when Coates’s call came through. Mason put him on speakerphone.

  “Dick, we think Tanner’s made contact.”

  Dutcher was on his feet instantly. “Where, how?” he demanded.

  “Morse code, of all things. We’re working on triangulating the signal, but it looks like it’s coming from Siberia just north of the Chinese border. Khabarovsk region, probably.”

  “How long till you can pinpoint it?” Mason said.

  “Five minutes, maybe less.”

  “Did he give anything else? Whether Soong was with him … their condition?”

  “No, just the word dire.”

  “Call me the second you know.”

  Mason disconnected.

  “He’s in trouble,” Dutcher said.

  “But alive.” Mason turned to Cathermeier. Mason said, “Can we get Beskrovny on the phone?”

  “Goddamn right we can!�
��

  The CAC duty officer made the connection and routed it into The Tank. Mason called, “General Beskrovny, can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you. Who is this?”

  “Dick Mason, CLA. We’ve got a situation we need help with.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s rather complicated … Ten days ago we sent a man into China to rescue an imprisoned PLA general.”

  “Who?”

  “Han Soong.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “Not only is he alive, but we think he may have the answer to what China is up to.”

  “And you’re just telling me this now?” Beskrovny snapped.

  “Until now, there was no point. We’d lost contact with our man, but we just heard from him. We believe he’s managed to cross the border into your country—somewhere in Khabarovsk.”

  “With Soong.”

  “We hope so. His situation may be grave, however. If we give you the coordinates, can you—”

  “Of course,” Beskrovny said. “I’ll call the Khabarovsk garrison commander.”

  “We’ll get back to you.”

  Five minutes later Coates called with the coordinates. As Mason recited the numbers, Cathermeier plotted them on the map. Once done, he got Beskrovny back on the line and repeated the coordinates “They’re in Birobijan, Marshal, about seventy-five miles northwest of Novotroitskoye.”

  “I know the area. I’ll get the helicopters moving.”

  As the phone line went dead, Dick Mason sighed and turned to Dutcher. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t believe it. He made it out. Jesus.”

  Dutcher nodded. Hang on, Briggs.

  Birobijan

  ​Tanner was only halfway to the pilothouse hatch when he heard a double thunk behind him. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see a pair of grenades arc over the handrail and roll to a stop beside the smokestack. Briggs dove for the hatch.

  The grenades exploded in quick succession, each a muffled crump. Shrapnel struck the open hatch like a flurry of hail. A few still-sizzling chunks landed on the deck beside Tanner. He crawled to the hatch and peeked out.

  The underbrush and trees lining the railing were shredded and blackened. The smokestack, along with his makeshift antenna, lay in a smoking heap. So much for the phone call, Briggs thought. There was no reason to loiter now. Xiang and his men would be coming. The only questions were, would they charge in force, or send a recon team, and could Briggs lure aboard the bulk of the platoon before making a run for it?

  Tanner dropped through the hatch to the deck below, ran to the spiral stairwell, and down to the main deck. Once there, he sprinted down the main alleyway to the midships intersection, stopping short of the corner. He dropped to his belly, crawled ahead, then peeked out.

  Noise. Port side.

  Beyond the vine-entangled handrail he could hear the soft crunch of footfalls. A few seconds passed, then a pair of hands emerged from the foliage. One of them gripped the railing, the other, parting the leaves to make an opening. A head emerged, then a torso. The paratrooper moved slowly, quietly, his eyes scanning for movement. Once he was crouched on deck, he gave a soft bird whistle. A second paratrooper crawled over the railing and dropped beside the first.

  Wait, Tanner commanded himself. He could feel sweat rolling down the back of his neck. His heartbeat rushed in his ears. Were there more coming? he wondered.

  After another ten seconds, no one else had joined the first two. That answered his question: Xiang was taking his time before rushing in. They sat crouched together, unmoving, AKs tracking up and down the deck.

  Moving with exaggerated slowness, Briggs edged the barrel of his AK around the corner and pressed his cheek to the stock. He took aim, took a breath, then squeezed off a round. Even as the first paratrooper fell back, Tanner adjusted his aim and fired again. The second man slumped over.

  Beyond the railing, a voice called in Mandarin: “Shin-kao!” Report!

  Hunched over, Tanner rushed to the bodies. On each he found a pair of grenades and a spare AK magazine. He pocketed everything, then grabbed their weapons and tossed them down the deck, out of site. He grabbed the first body by the arms and dragged it around the corner, then came back and did the same with the second.

  More voices now. Boots pounded through the underbrush. Four to six men, Tanner estimated.

  Gunfire erupted, slashing through the vines and foliage. Leaves fluttered and branches dropped to the deck, revealing patches of daylight. Bullets pounded into the exterior bulk-head. The fusillade lasted ten seconds, then went silent.

  Thunk … thunk … thunk …

  Tanner knew the sound: More grenades.

  A shouted order: “Go, go, go …”

  Here they come … Their recon party having failed, the paratroopers would come in force now, trading bodies in an attempt to overrun him.

  He ducked down, covering his ears. Three overlapping explosions shook the deck beneath his feet. A cloud of smoke and debris rushed the alleyway. Shrapnel ripped into the wood beside his head.

  He ejected the AKs magazine, slammed home a fresh one, then peeked around the corner. The alleyway’s walls looked as though a giant rake had been dragged over them. Through patches in the smoke he could see the handrail trembling under the weight of multiple bodies. A pair of hands appeared, then another, and another …

  From the starboard side he heard more grenades crash through the vines and bounce against the bulkhead. “Kuai pao, pa xia! “ a voice shouted in Mandarin. Run, take cover!

  Crump, crump, crump … More smoke billowed. Wait, Briggs … The urge to run was strong. He quashed it. Wait … Now!

  He spun around the corner, dropped to one knee, and opened fire. Using three-round bursts, he raked the railing until his magazine was dry. He ejected it, inserted another, kept firing. Bullets sparked off the steel railing. Chunks of foliage disintegrated, revealing more daylight.

  He pulled back around the corner and glanced over his shoulder. Four paratroopers were climbing over the railing. One of them saw him and jerked his rifle up. Tanner ducked away. Bullets shredded the wood over his head. Briggs felt a sting on the back of his neck; he reached up and his hand came back bloody. Splinter.

  “Zai Nar! Zhua Zhú!” There! After them!

  From the corner of his eye, Tanner saw a grenade bounce off the bulkhead and roll to a stop a few feet away. He kicked it with his heel, sending it back around the corner. Crump! Screams of pain echoed down the intersection. He turned and sprinted down the alley and the engine-room hatch.

  Halfway there, he stopped and knelt. He pulled out a grenade, jerked the pin, then pressed it spoon-down into his last boot print and covered it with a small mound of dirt.

  Behind him, voices.

  He spun, fired a dozen rounds at the paratroopers standing in the intersection. They scattered.

  He sprinted the last ten feet to the engine-room hatch, heaved it open, and stepped through. He closed the dogging lever and leaned on it. “Hsiao!”

  “Here!” Hsiao’s flashlight shone down from the upper cat-walk. “Briggs, the phone—”

  “I know, forget it. Come help me.”

  Before Hsiao reached him, Tanner heard a muffled boom from the alleyway as his booby trap detonated. Hsiao jogged up. “What—”

  Tanner held up a silencing finger. He pressed his ear to the hatch. Five seconds passed, then, from the other side, came whispered voices. He felt the dogging lever rise; he leaned on it. He grabbed Hsiao by the shirtfront and jerked him toward the hatch. At that instant, multiple AKs opened fire, tearing holes in the bulkhead on either side of them.

  Hsiao stared wide-eyed at him and mouthed, “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure,” Tanner replied, then explained what he wanted to do.

  “Got it. Ready when you are.”

  Briggs gestured for him to lean on the lever, then backed up, took aim on the weakened bulkhead,
and fired off half a magazine, further widening the gash in the wood. He pulled out a grenade, popped the pin, and shoved it through the hole.

  “Pa Yia!” Take cover!

  Boots pounded. The grenade exploded. Shrapnel peppered the hatch.

  “Now!” Tanner rasped.

  With their feet on its lowermost rung, he and Hsiao mounted the railing beside the hatch, gripped the top rung, and heaved back. Under their combined weight, the corroded steel groaned and began to bend down

  “Harder!” Tanner urged.

  The hatch buckled against Tanner as multiple bodies crashed against it. The dogging lever jiggled; Briggs took a hand off the railing and leaned on it

  “Pull, Hsiao!”

  Using their legs as levers, they began bouncing up and down in unison. With a shriek, the railing folded over until it lay across the hatch’s jamb.

  “Go, go!” Tanner ordered.

  With Hsiao in the lead, they raced to the upper catwalk. Soong, struggling to raise himself to a sitting position, said to Tanner, “Good to see you.”

  “Good to be alive. You ready to travel?”

  In response, Soong turned to Lian. Eyes welling with tears, he studied her face.

  Looking for his little girl, Briggs thought

  “Lian …” Soong pleaded.

  She turned her back on him and stared at the far bulkhead. Below, there came a sharp gong as the hatch crashed open against the railing. Through the quarter-inch gap Tanner could see bodies pressed against the steel.

  Soong tore his gaze from his daughter and looked up at Tanner. “I’m ready.”

  Hsiao knelt down and hefted Soong onto his back.

  Tanner said, “Go to the tunnel and wait for me.”

  Hsiao nodded. “Okay.”

  As they passed him, Soong grabbed his hand. “We go together, right?”

  Tanner squeezed his hand and smiled. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Moving at a hurried waddle, Hsiao started down the ladder. Once they were out of sight, Tanner knelt down beside Lian. She glared back at him. “You won’t make it out of here.”