Hunter Killer: The War with China: The Battle for the Central Pacific

by David Poyer

  “Colonel Fierros here is with the United States Air Force. I’m with the CIA,” he told them.

  The effect was everything he’d hoped for. Shock, recoil, outrage; then heated debate. Two of his judges almost came to blows under the torches. But finally Middle Guy shushed them. He pulled the old pistol from his belt and threw it down on the blanket. Pointed at it. Said a word that Teddy figured had to be “disassemble.”

  Five seconds later it lay field-stripped into barrel, guide, slide, recoil spring, barrel bushing, slide stop pin, magazine, hammer assembly, and frame. He gave it a beat, then reassembled it. Four seconds.

  They brought him a clayey gray paste in waxed paper and the sort of junk drawer a geek teenager might accumulate, filled with old batteries, broken radios, scrap wiring, miscellaneous electrical shit. Then sat back and fingered their beards, watching.

  Teddy sniffed the plastic—nearly odorless—and figured it for Semtex, or maybe a Chinese rip-off of the Czech explosive. It didn’t look recently manufactured, but the binder was still malleable. He rooted around in the junk box and came up with a bent nail. He also found a spring-loaded switch.

  His mimed request for a tool produced a pair of battered pliers. Which might work …

  He bummed a cartridge from the guy whose rifle he’d fixed. Wrenched the bullet out, discarded it and the powder, and packed the case with a teaspoonful of the plastic explosive. He crimped the case by hammering the handle of the pliers with a rock. After straightening the nail, fitting it into the switch, and filing on the switch for a while with another rock so that it held the nail back, he screwed the case into it.

  He got up and hobbled on numbed legs across the cave, unraveling a string out of Fierros’s disintegrating blanket. He tied that to a broken statue of a dancing god, lashed the other to his improvised device, and tied that to the stone lectern, despite a frown from one of the judges.

  Then stood back and, with a bow and a sweeping gesture, invited them to try it: Be my guest.

  “Ni neng xíng de,” said Tokarev Guy. He returned Teddy’s bow. No, you go ahead.

  Teddy put his hands over his ears, hoping he hadn’t gotten too generous with the Semtex. Then limped between the stones, catching, as if by accident, his trailing foot on the low-strung string.

  The loud crack and flash, the ping of hot steel around the cave, brought shouts and exclamations. Also raucous laughter, as Teddy howled and slapped at his buttocks, which stung like hell. Other fighters ran in from side chambers, weapons at the ready. They got loud explanations in jocular tones, complete with acting out and repeated exclamations of “CIA, CIA.”

  Teddy made a production out of rubbing his ass and grimacing, but made sure that when he eased himself down again, it was up front, beside his erstwhile judges. He wasn’t sure which one was head honcho. But they’d had the same problem in the Philippines. With the Abu Sayyaf, there’d been three guys to play to. A clan chief, a war leader, and also an imam, a religious leader. But he didn’t see anybody like either a clan chief or a religious leader here. They all seemed to be fighters, and none over thirty, at a guess.

  Which might make it easier. He spread his hands, mustering his Chinese. “Women shi mengyou,” he said again, making it slow. “We are allies. The great war. It is still being fought?”

  “Oh, yes. America, China … Zhang still fights.”

  “Then we both fight Han. Yes? America on east, Uighur on west. Same enemy. Yes?”

  He read mingled agreement and doubt in the murmurs, shakes, and nods. Okay, making progress, but not there yet. He gave Fierros a squint, trying to signal him to quit kneeling in the position of the suppliant, the defendant, and to come over with him, with the council, as it were. After a second squint, the airman got up. His guards looked doubtful, but when none of the judges objected, let him join them. Good, another step forward.

  “Let me find out … let me…” Christ, his rice-bowl pidgin wasn’t up to this. “Does anyone here speak English? Russian? How about Arabic?”

  The reference to Arabic got dropped gazes. Thought so. Teddy almost grinned.

  “Ya gavorit’ nim noga Russki,” said White Mustache, reluctantly. “I speak little bit Russian.”

  “Great. Horosho’. Kak vas zovut? And I’m calling you … what?”

  “My war name is Tokarev.”

  Figured. Teddy hesitated. Go with his real name? Probably a bad idea. His Team name? Maybe an op name … But before he could respond, Tokarev was tracing the scars on his face with his finger. “Vy poluch’te eti boyev’ye kitaiski? You get these fighting Han? Or in camp?”

  That was an easy lie. “Fighting Han.”

  The Uighur laid a hand on his bad leg. Teddy couldn’t help wincing. “And this?”

  “Pytali … tortured. By Han interrogators.” No point telling them where he’d picked up the original injury. In the White Mountains, fighting the Taliban.

  Tok translated it for the others, who nodded and stroked their beards. Teddy bowed. They bowed back.

  “So, you are CIA agent,” Tok said. “Vy tak stary.”

  Teddy inclined his head modestly. Time to get the conversation off them and onto their hosts. He said, “Yes, I am old. But not as old as I probably look right now. Please translate this for your friends. I fight Han because my country is at war with Beijing. Zhang is a tyrant. An aggressor. Please tell me why you fight.”

  They nodded and milked their beards, and gradually the answers came. “We fight for independent Uighuristan, under rule of true Islam,” said one.

  The older guy said, at least as Tokarev translated, “No Muslim should live under the rule of infidels. Those who worship Confucius and Marx are not people of the Book.”

  One of the guards, who’d sidled up to join the discussion, put in: “They have taken our land with arms. The mujid must resist until we are free again.”

  “We must overthrow Zhang and set up a democracy. Then all can live together in peace, both Han and Uighur. But of course, we were here first.”

  Yet another said, “Our brothers in Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, and Turkey are of one blood with us here in Xinjiang. We must all be united. Can America help us in this?”

  Teddy nodded sagely at each statement, contradictory though they were, patting his own beard too, as if taking it all aboard. Murmuring “Ah” and “Ponimayu.”

  Presently a small figure draped head to toe in black appeared from the shadows. It waited silently until the oldest guy beckoned. Gave peremptory orders. When it returned, accompanied by several others, the women—if that was what the toe-to-head sacks covered—set out plastic trays of rice, naan, and lamb. Not a hell of a lot of any of these, but apparently as close to a feast as the resistance could muster on short notice. Tea arrived too, steam rising from the cups as a trembling hand poured it. The dark eyes behind the hijab never rose to meet his. “Looks like we’re in,” Obie muttered to Fierros, rolling a piece of bread preparatory to digging in.

  “No haircut?”

  “Not today.”

  “What was all that about? I only followed parts of it.”

  “They want to know what we can do for them. I had to make some promises.”

  “Promises about what?”

  “Weapons. Support.”

  “I thought the idea was to get across the border. Get the fuck out of this fucking country. We’re still in fucking China. You know that, right?”

  Teddy tested the tea. Way too hot. “That’s still the idea, Ragger. I’m just playing with a different approach here, okay? Trying to establish friendly relations. Feel out a quid pro quo. Maybe plant the idea, they help us out, we got something to offer too. Okay?”

  The airman subsided, reaching for the rice and lamb. Teddy grabbed his left hand just in time.

  * * *

  THREE days later he and Ragger stood under an overhang of rock while the pickup idled not far away, while boys with sticks urged baaing sheep up a plank ramp into the bed. Tok, whose real name was Guldulla, sai
d they had to stay under overhead concealment, and anyone traveling by truck had to remain hidden beneath the sheep while on the road. The Han had drones that watched, and struck from the sky. He and the older rebel, Akhmad, stood a few paces off, letting them say their farewells. The third leader, Nesrullah, had gone over the mountain, into the town on the far side, for supplies.

  Teddy doubted that Chinese internal security would have drone coverage out here, in this terrain, but these guys were the local knowledge. They did seem to have an effective lookout system: the shepherds all toted cheap walkie-talkies.

  Fierros was dressed like one of the locals. Black embroidered four-cornered hat, long-sleeved black shirt, raggedy pants, cheap Chinese running shoes. With hair all over his face, he might pass. At a distance. If they didn’t get stopped.

  Oberg was out of the lice-ridden goatskins too. He had his rifle slung over his shoulder, the one he’d taken off the wounded Han back at the square. Tok had given it back to him. “A fighter needs a rifle,” he’d said. Teddy had cleaned it, and lubed it properly. They’d been able to give him only five rounds for it, but it would do for now.

  Ten paces off, squatting in the shadows, Dandan waited. A shadow herself, in the black cloak that covered her from bare feet to crown. That was her name. Dandan. They’d assigned her to him after he’d made clear he intended to stay. Rather to Fierros’s annoyance. Teddy wasn’t sure of her status. Slave? Volunteer? Temporary wife? Hostage? As far as the rebels were concerned, women seemed to be on a par with sheep. She didn’t seem to be Uighur. He doubted she was even thirteen, though it was hard to tell, and they had no language in common. But she looked old enough for the basic purposes. To cook his naan, and keep him warm at night. Beyond that, he was still too weak to be good for much. Although he had ambitions.

  He told the pilot, “Tok says they’ll have you over the border tonight. Deliver you to somebody who can get you to the embassy. Couple days and you’ll be back in uniform, dude. And they’ll be counseling you about that beard.”

  “You’re really not coming,” Fierros said, not for the first time. As if he couldn’t believe it.

  “These guys are pretty hopeless right now. Just small-town bandits. But they could be made into a significant resistance. Cause Zhang some real headaches. Pull maybe as much as a couple divisions out here, if I do this right.”

  “You don’t think we’ve done enough? You and me?”

  “This war’s not over.” Teddy gripped Fierros’s hand again, then wrapped him in a guy hug. They held it, unembarrassed after all the nights spent cuddling in the mountains. “But you gotta get back. Tell them what we got here, and what we need. Primarily comms, to start coordinating. An A-team, if they can spare one. If not, I guess I can run things for a while. But they need weapons—LMGs, rockets, grenades, ammo. Mines, for the roads. All these guys have is worn-out AKs and some construction-grade explosive they stole. Send boots. Food. Medical supplies. Ballistic vests. Gas masks. Water treatment. But mainly, we need comms.”

  Water and ammo and comms, a voice from his past said in his head. Who had that been? Oh yeah. Old Master Chief “Poochin’” Stroud. Never have too much ammo, Stroud had always said. And Let the fucking officers display the fucking leadership. You just make goddamned sure everything’s there when your troops need it, and it all works.

  Fierros stepped back, but kept a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “You really okay, Obie?”

  “Yeah—yeah. But hit that ammo button hard, okay? And comms—squirt transmitter, a prick-one-seventeen or the new one, if they can spare one. With lots of batteries, or a solar. There’s a lot of resentment here. Akhmad says if he had the weapons, he could put two hundred fighters in the field next week. Anything they can get to us, air drop, even mules over the border, we can build this thing into a real pain in the ass for the fucking Chinks.”

  “What about you, Teddy?”

  “Me?” Since his vision on the mountain—or hallucination, or whatever it had been—he didn’t seem to want anything. He, himself, didn’t seem to matter so much. If something was going to happen, so be it. Then he remembered the slip of paper he’d prepared. “Oh yeah. Here, I wrote down the measurements. That’s in centimeters. If they can make me some kind of a brace for my fucking leg, that would be cool.”

  “Sure, of course. What else?”

  “What else? Oh … a thin-blade knife. And maybe a case of beer, if they’re really … no, that wouldn’t go down with the fucking mujes. Can you believe now we’re on the same side? Scratch that. The beer, I mean.”

  The airman scuffed the dry pebbly soil, not meeting his gaze. “I meant personally. You told me about Salena. Your girlfriend? What do you want me to tell her? And that Japanese woman. Your producer, you said?”

  “Hanneline.” Teddy took a breath, peering out from under the shelf at the distant mountains. The last of the sheep were loaded. The driver was beckoning.

  On the far side of those snowcapped peaks, Tajikistan. But not safety. The war seemed to have spread while they’d been prisoners, from what he was able to gather from BBC World Service on the single little radio the rebels had. The whole world seemed to have been dragged in, one by one, while they’d been starving in camp. And it didn’t seem as if the Allies were winning.

  Salena? She was a distant memory. A scene from a film he’d watched long ago.

  Hanneline, his mother’s friend, his old agent? He could hardly believe he’d wanted to make movies once. He couldn’t even remember the name of the project now. No. That was all gone. Blown away, like the pollen of the poppies, lost on the thin cool wind of the Tien Shan.

  You have always done My will.

  There was no such thing as choice. There was no such thing as chance.

  Teddy Oberg said, “Just tell them that the guy they used to know is dead.”

  23

  Arlington, Virginia

  THE house overlooked a creek that ran through a wooded ravine. A brick colonial, with flagstone walks and three bedrooms and a family room in the basement, though Blair and Dan didn’t have children, aside from his grown-up daughter. She’d furnished it from the antique shops she liked to stop at when they drove to Maryland to visit her parents. Other pieces were from her family’s estate, things her mom and dad had let go when they’d redecorated.

  It wasn’t as nice a home as she’d grown up in, but it was all they needed. She spent most of her time elsewhere anyway.

  “You bad boy,” Blair said. “Go on. Eat your food.” Jimbo preened under her hand, purring, stretching as if his black-and-white body were made of taffy. She didn’t mind talking to the cat when Dan wasn’t around. Actually, he did sometimes too.

  The teapot began to whistle. She made a peach momotaro. Glanced at the clock while she waited for the sachet to open. Frowned, then realized the power must have gone out again during the night.

  In their bedroom, she dressed. A severe blue suit. Dark pumps. Then clattered down the stairs. They wanted her in the Tank at seven.

  She was checking her briefcase when she noticed activity on the street in front of the house. Several people had stopped their bicycles, or held their dogs on leashes, just standing there. Watching her house? She frowned, peering through the curtains.

  No. They were watching two people who stood beside an official-looking sedan, consulting tablet computers. A short white woman and a Hispanic-looking man. Both were in Navy blue and gold.

  Taking a deep breath, she searched around for a chair. “Not this house,” she murmured. Then immediately thought: How selfish. Do I really want someone else to get such news?

  That’s right. Anyone else. Just not me.

  When the doorbell chimed she couldn’t make herself get up. Her knees didn’t feel like they’d hold. Finally she groped to the door, pausing to lean on a side table.

  “Mrs. Blair Lenson?” the woman, a lieutenant by the two gold stripes, said, meeting her gaze. In unison, a practiced movement, they both removed their hats.

&n
bsp; “Um, well, I’m Blair Titus.”

  “Wife of Captain Daniel Valentine Lenson?”

  She braced a hand on the jamb, feeling, somehow, stronger than she’d have thought she would at such a moment. Or maybe the collapse would come later. “He’s an admiral. Not a captain.” The next second she thought, Why did I say that? What difference can it possibly make now?

  The Hispanic guy nodded soberly. “I’m sure that’s being corrected, ma’am. But you are Daniel Lenson’s wife?”

  “I am.” Let it only be a wound, God. Even his legs.

  But they called you on the phone to report someone was wounded. They didn’t send official notifiers.

  The woman said, “Would you like us to come inside?”

  “No, I don’t—you can tell me whatever it is out here.”

  The man, a chief, said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to notify you that Captain—Admiral—Lenson has been reported missing in action.”

  She sealed her mouth with a palm. Said though her fingers, “Missing. What does that mean? Exactly?”

  “You understand, we can only give confirmed information,” the lieutenant said. “All we know at present is that he was involved in an aircraft crash, in the line of duty. No bodies have been recovered, and the status of survivors, if any, is unknown.”

  This felt like a dream, but she didn’t think it was one. “Um … an, a crash. You say. Was he lost at sea? In battle? Is it possible he was captured?”

  The woman said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. —Ms. Titus. We really don’t have any more information. I wish we did.”

  The man said, “Is there anyone we can call for you? A friend, or a pastor?”

  “No. No, I don’t think that’s necessary. A crash. Does that mean he’s probably dead?” Wait a minute … she’d already asked that. Hadn’t she? Now she couldn’t remember.

  The chief said patiently, “We really don’t have any more information, ma’am.”

  After a pause the lieutenant glanced at her tablet, and thumbed something on the screen. “I have secondary next of kin listed as a Nan Lenson, daughter, residing in Seattle. Do you know if that’s correct?”