by Marc Cameron
Hala put the collar of her shirt in her mouth and stared at him, unable to speak. She tasted blood, but did not care. Her head spun. The room grew smaller.
“Are you hurt?” the man asked again, pantomiming a knife against his own arm. “Cut?”
Hala shook her head, then, without another thought, threw herself into the stranger’s arms. She wanted to cry, but nothing came out.
23
Gray clouds hung low enough to scrape the ice while Dr. Moon sat in the wardroom and ate a breakfast of steel-cut oats and blueberries. She was dressed for travel: thick socks, heavy boots, insulated Arctic-weight bibs she kept unzipped while inside the boat. A bright red anorak with a wolverine fur ruff lay draped across the packed duffel in the chair beside her. It was custom-made, a gift from her auntie, a famous Inupiat seamstress in her home village of Point Hope.
Moon looked at her watch. It was already ten in the morning. She was ready to go, but skeptical that anything would happen today. Travel this far north meant a lot of waiting.
Utqiagvik did not see the sun from mid-November until late January, but when the light returned, it came back with a vengeance. Now, nearing the end of March, the sun circled overhead from seven in the morning until after nine p.m., giving Patti Moon and the rest of the scientists aboard the research vessel Sikuliaq abundant light for their experiments—weather permitting. Sun or not, the Arctic was a fickle place, with weather patterns that changed rapidly and with little notice. Lois Deering, the meteorologist on board Sikuliaq, often joked that the high-pressure system was so shallow at these latitudes that good weather could be chased away with a sneeze in the wrong direction.
The morning before had broken bluebird clear. Lois the weather guesser had forecast at least twelve more decent hours—then someone sneezed and blew in a low.
The little icebreaker was in pack ice, young, from the previous winter, but still a good foot thick, so they didn’t have to deal with waves. The wind had howled all night. Temperatures fell well below zero—reminding everyone on board that spring in the Arctic was rarely all sunshine and daffodils.
Kelli Symonds came in, wool beanie pulled low, cheeks flushed pink from a stroll on the weather deck.
Moon saluted her with a spoon heaped full of oats. “Looks chilly out there.”
“To the bone,” Symonds said, sounding, as she always did, like she had salt water instead of blood in her veins. “To the bitter bone.” Moon could not help but imagine the pretty young woman wearing a peacoat, smoking a corncob pipe, and calling everyone “matey.” In truth, Kelli Symonds was simply a competent sailor who, when she was not at sea on Sikuliaq, lived north of Seattle with her retired mother, two Yorkshire terriers, and her husband, whom she’d met while they were both attending the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy in Kings Point.
Symonds threw her wool gloves onto the table and poured herself a cup of coffee from an urn against the bulkhead.
“They’re on their way,” she said, flopping down across from Moon, holding her coffee mug with both hands, letting the steam curl up and warm her face.
“Seriously?” Moon said. “In this?”
“The skipper got a call on the radio five minutes ago. Chopper’s half an hour out.” Symonds took a sip of coffee, peering across her mug with narrow eyes. “I’ve been working in these lofty latitudes for almost ten years, and I’ve never seen a chopper fly out to pluck someone off the ice who wasn’t about to keel over from botulism or some such thing.” She took another sip of coffee, then gave Moon a mock toast with the mug. “You must really rate.” Her eyes shifted quickly from side to side, and then she leaned over the table and whispered, “Are you a secret agent?”
“More likely that I’m in trouble,” Moon said.
“Maybe.” Symonds looked into her coffee, then up to meet Moon’s gaze. “Do you really think there was someone down there, under the ice? A Russian submarine or something?”
“I know what I heard,” Moon said. “And it wasn’t farting fish like Thorson says.”
The part about the noises sounding like Chinese seemed like something Moon should keep to herself.
“And you don’t think it was ice? That stuff screams like a banshee all night long.”
“Like you said, it’s weird that they’re sending a helicopter,” Moon said. “Maybe I heard a secret lab under the ice and they’re taking me somewhere to keep me quiet.”
Symonds laughed at that. “Maybe,” she said. “You ever think about how in the movies, when some spy or military dude messes up, really screws the pooch I mean, and the uppity-ups banish him to a science station in Alaska? We must be a couple of first-rate brainiacs, coming, what, five hundred miles off the Arctic Circle of our own free will . . .”
Moon lowered her voice. “Sometimes I think those uppity-ups only say they’re banishing the guy to the North Pole for punishment when what they really mean is they’re dumping his body down a mine shaft somewhere.”
“Like my dad when he told me my dog was in a better place?”
Moon brandished the oatmeal spoon to make her point. “Exactly like that.”
Another crewman stuck his head in the wardroom and twirled his finger in the air. “Captain says you should get out on the ice,” he said. “Your chariot is fifteen out and they don’t want to put down where the ice is chewed up next to the boat.”
“They were half an hour out five minutes ago,” Symonds said.
Moon got up with a groan, gathering her anorak and duffel. “I get it,” she said. “Choppers burn a shitload of fuel every minute. Can’t blame them if they would rather have me waiting on the ice for them rather the other way around.”
“Maybe,” Symonds said. It was her favorite word. She set her mug on the table and stood with Moon. “You’ll need a polar-bear guard. I’ll get the twelve-gauge and come with. Skipper saw two yesterday morning before the weather got bad, chowing down on an adolescent walrus they’d managed to nab off a haul out.”
“I saw the photos,” Moon said.
“Brutal to the bone, right?” Symonds said. “The snow was slathered in blood and gore. One look at that shit is enough to make me never venture onto the ice without the shotgun.”
“You really think any self-respecting polar bear is going to stick around between us and an approaching helicopter?”
Symonds shrugged and gave Moon a wink.
“Maybe.”
* * *
—
The gray twin-engine UH-1Y Venom “Super Huey” helicopter kicked a cloud of white into the air as it settled on thick ice fifty yards from the ship. The pilots kept the rotor spinning while a callow Marine bundled up like the Michelin Man beckoned Moon toward the open side hatch.
She ducked instinctively as she approached, though the rotors were well above her head.
“Dr. Moon?” the Marine shouted above the whumping blades and whining engine. She exaggerated her nod in the big parka ruff. Satisfied that she was the person he’d come for, he waved her aboard. She tried to thank him, but he shook his head, tapping the earmuffs on the side of his helmet and then pointing to another helmet and earphones hanging by one of the vis-à-vis seats inside the otherwise empty cabin.
Moon frowned at the thought of being the only passenger. She’d been only half kidding about the possibility of getting dumped down a mine shaft—or, in this case, into the Arctic Ocean.
In addition to the heavy flight suit, cranial protection, and goggles, the crew chief wore a load-bearing vest that included a sidearm—presumably polar-bear defense if they went down. Moon stifled a smile at the thought. A nine-millimeter pistol was better than your teeth and fingernails against a nine-foot bear who considered you food, but not by much. A cable attached to a line inside the cabin was clipped to the young Marine’s safety harness, allowing him to move around the cabin with relative freedom. He helped her put on the four-point harness i
n one of the forward-facing seats, then had her don the helmet. He pushed the tiny boom mic closer to her mouth.
His voice came over the intercom. “Copy?”
She gave him a thumbs-up. “Five by five.”
“Outstanding,” the Marine said, sounding much more mature than he looked. “I’m Corporal Goen, the crew chief, Lieutenant Eggiman is up front on the left, Captain Pelkey is on the right. He’s the one in charge of this bird.”
“You guys are based in Alaska?”
“Oh, hell, no,” Corporal Goen said. “HMLA-269 out of New River. We’re doing cold weather out of Utgi . . . Utga . . . Barrow . . . for training with Marines from 2nd Division.”
HMLA stood for Helicopter Marine Light Attack.
“I was stationed at Norfolk for a while,” Moon said. “Been to New River a couple of times.”
She’d dated a Marine from Air Station New River for a while. The three-hour drive had been worth it, but then he’d shipped off with a one-way ticket to Fallujah. She mentioned none of this to Corporal Goen, who, she suspected, was at least fifteen years her junior.
“Navy, huh?” The crew chief gave a wide grin. “That’s some different shit, huh, pardon my French. Marines giving you a lift somewhere instead of the other way around.”
“No kidding,” Moon said. “Hard to believe your commander let you fly all the way out here to get one person.”
Captain Pelkey turned to look over his shoulder from the cockpit. He was hooked up to the intercom as well. “That’s correct, Doc. Someone further up the chain said make it so, so we’re makin’ it so. Colonel Cruz wanted to come with us, but frankly we needed the weight for fuel.” Pelkey returned his attention to the cockpit instruments again, but kept talking. “Your ship is right at the edge of how far we can go and get back before bingo. Wind’s been kind of snarky, and with these cold temps, we’re seeing as much as a five percent loss in range.”
Moon nodded. “I’ll bet. The speed of sound decreases with the temperature, increasing Mach drag on your rotors.”
Captain Pelkey turned to look at her again. “You fly choppers in the Navy?”
“Nope,” Moon said. “Sonar. Sound. It’s sort of my thing.”
“Still . . .” Pelkey shook his head. “Anyhoo, weather between here and Utqiagvik is marginal, but we’re equipped for it. We should have you back in a little under an hour and a half. I understand there’ll be a C-21 Learjet out of Eielson Air Force Base waiting to take you to Washington.”
“Unbelievable,” Moon said, mostly to herself, but it went across the intercom. “At least I can visit friends on Whidbey Island, I guess . . .”
“The other Washington,” Pelkey said. “The one on the Potomac.”
Suddenly chilled, Moon looked out the window at the passing ice as the Super Huey banked to the south. If they were going to fire her, they would have waited for Sikuliaq to make her next port call. No, Barker had come through and submitted her findings up his chain of command. Someone believed her theory enough to spend a considerable amount of money snatching her off the middle of the ice pack. She could not believe it. They actually wanted her expertise. Unless . . . what if she truly had stumbled on some ultra-secret operation and they were calling her in to silence her?
She’d grown up in the Arctic, a place with no snakes, but she’d seen enough of the world after leaving home to know that in Washington, D.C., there were vipers behind every rock and tree.
24
The American smelled like soap and oiled leather—like the saddle of a horse Hala’s father had once set her on at the market. He spoke softly, obviously trying not to frighten her. That would be impossible, she thought. Her aunt had died saving her and now lay on the floor mere paces from the lifeless blood-drenched lumps that had once been horrible men.
He said his name was John, and that he was a friend—but nothing more. He’d saved her from Ren, but that only made him slightly less terrifying. John found some pomegranate juice in the kitchen and made her drink it, telling her the sugar would make her feel a little better. He moved quickly, looking out front a lot, like he thought someone else might be coming.
“We need to go,” he said after Hala drank all her juice. “It’s not safe here.”
She chewed on her collar. “Where?”
“I’m not sure.” He looked out the window again, then stepped to the door. “As quick as you can, wash up and change into clean clothes. Sturdy and warm.”
“Clothes are clothes,” she said. “Why would anyone wear clothes that were not sturdy and warm?”
“Right,” the man said. “Quick as you can.”
Hala began to panic when he eased open the door. “Are you leaving?”
“I’m not going anywhere without you, kiddo,” John said. “But these guys had a friend outside. I need to bring him in so your neighbors don’t call the police.”
“But you’re coming back in?”
“I promise.”
“Okay.” Hala gave a shuddering sigh, still chewing her collar. “I will go clean off this blood.”
* * *
—
The idea had been to watch Hala Tohti. Clark was supposed to ascertain if there was anything about the girl that might lead to her mother’s whereabouts. Observe and report. Interview Hala and her aunt if it came to that. Taking either of them had never been on the table. Getting a third party out of any part of China would be difficult enough. Xinjiang, and particularly Kashgar, had so many cameras, checkpoints, and armed patrols that leaving here with anyone would be akin to breaking them out of prison.
Clark dragged the body of the sentry into the house and dropped it in the corner beside a wooden chair. He sighed to himself.
No plan survived first contact with the enemy—which was often a boot to the nose. Things changed. The girl was coming with him, one way or another. She was as good as dead if he left her here.
The room was filled with far too much carnage to fret about the poor kid seeing more of it. He found a cloth vegetable sack in one of the cupboards and filled it with two rounds of naan bread and a shank of roast meat he thought was probably lamb.
The girl had been cooperative so far, apparently accepting the fact that she had no other choice than to come with him, considering the four dead bodies in her living room. Clark knew he could be terrifying, but this girl was incredibly resilient. Judging from her scraped knuckles and the amount of blood covering her body, she’d been smack in the middle of the violence that occurred here. She’d been trying to help her aunt cut a man’s throat when he came in—and then watched Clark finish the job. No, she was tough as a boot. And it would take a whole lot more of the same if they were both going to get out of the country alive.
Hala was washed and dressed by the time Clark had dragged in the dead driver and filled the canvas sack with provisions. The wooly fake-fur ruff around the hood of her blue coat looked out of place against the scene behind her.
“I was thinking,” she said. “There is an old caravanserai about twelve kilometers away from here. We can take my aunt’s scooter.”
“Which direction?”
Hala pointed. “Near the livestock market.”
Caravanserais were the truck stops of the ancient Silk Road that connected China through Central Asia to the rest of the world. Water and food stops for man and beast. A place for weary travelers to lay their heads and worry slightly less about getting their throats cut at night by robbers wanting to take their animals and cargo.
“No one else stays there?”
“It was empty when I went there before. My father let me explore it when he took me to the livestock market. It is not far away, maybe two kilometers into the desert. The spring there has dried up, so no one goes there anymore.”
Clark thought for a moment. The livestock market was RP Bravo, one of six SHTF rally points in and around Kashgar he’d
prearranged with Midas, options for places to meet if things hit the proverbial fan—which they had. It was also the location of Adam Yao’s in-country contact. The area would be crawling with police and soldiers—especially on a Sunday—but it also was a popular tourist destination, a place where it was said a person could find everything but the milk of a chicken. Clark counted on the crowd to be able to blend in.
“The market is on Sunday,” he said. “That’s tomorrow.”
“It is,” Hala said. “But when I saw the caravanserai it was on market day and it was filled with nothing but spiderwebs and dust.”
“We can’t stay here,” Clark said.
“Okay,” she said. “I will show you the way.”
She tiptoed gingerly around one of the many pools of blood and pushed a chair up to the counter next to the small white refrigerator. Removing the lid of a large clay jar of loose tea leaves, she took out a roll of brown waxed paper and held it out to Clark. “My aunt saved some money for . . . bad times.”
Clark nodded. “Emergency.”
“Yes,” Hala said. “I think this is emergency. No?”
“It is.” Clark gently nudged the child’s hand away. “But you keep it. Everyone needs to have some money of their own. Now, it’s going to be cold. We should bring some blankets.” He glanced around the kitchen. “And, if you don’t mind, I would like to borrow a knife to take with us.”
Hala pulled open the drawer below the cupboard where she’d found the money and retrieved a folding knife with a four-inch blade. A simple folded piece of steel formed a flat handle. The blade was carbon steel, with a wicked-sharp scimitar point. The knife did not lock open, but had a hefty spring that kept it from closing on the user’s hand under normal use. Clark recognized it immediately. It was not a fighting knife, as he’d hoped, but a French utility blade often found in the pockets of Legionnaires during conflicts in Algeria and Indochina. They’d generally fallen out of favor with modern Legionnaires, who now carried the wood-handled Opinel No. 08. The Opinel was more comfortable in the hand, but the older style suited Clark just fine.
