by Marc Cameron
“Boss,” the driver said, knuckles white on the wheel. “I could use some light . . .”
60
He’s back there,” Chavez said above the roar of the twin Tohatsu 150-horsepower outboards. “For sure. Lights just came on.”
He stood at the rear of the cabin, watching the lights of the approaching vessel grow larger and larger with each passing minute. Ma had provided them with an SKS rifle, old and beaten half to death, but it was better than a pistol and Ding was glad to have it.
Yao was on deck, slumped beneath the edge of the transom to remain out of sight, making yet another call on the satellite phone.
Ma was at the helm of his boss’s second boat, a thirty-five-foot day cruiser for use when they did not have enough customers for the Eternal Peach. Ding suspected it was also the boss’s play boat, the one he used for personal fishing trips and wining and dining influential members of the Party when they visited the park.
Over a hundred and eighty meters at its deepest point, Kanas was shaped like a crescent moon, much longer than it was wide, and curving gradually to the east as they sped toward the Russian border—just ten miles from the north end of the lake.
Medina stood next to Ma, her hand on the back of the captain’s chair. The glow of the radio illuminated her gaunt face. Outside, snow, stark and white against the backdrop of the water, shot by in the beam of the single halogen running light. Spray chattered along the hull of the boat as it skimmed across the glass-slick surface.
The three other members of the Wuming had stayed behind, helping to cast off, vowing to continue the fight against their oppressors if Ma did not return. Once Medina had agreed to help, there had been no argument.
Jack assisted Adara as best he could. They’d turned on the propane cabin heater and made Lisanne a bed on a cushioned vinyl passenger bench that ran along the starboard wall, wedging her in with life jackets and covering her with wool blankets they found in an aft storage locker. Beyond that, there was little to do but hold Lisanne’s hand and try to comfort her. She drifted in and out of consciousness, which, Ding thought, was probably a blessing, since they had no morphine. Medina, who had apparently taken upon herself the responsibility of medic for the Wuming, brought a small kit containing a bag of saline and an IV catheter. The fluids helped some, but Lisanne needed blood—a lot of blood.
Yao finished his call and walked past Chavez, into the relative warmth of the cabin.
“We good?” Chavez asked.
Yao nodded and said “Yep,” which sounded to Chavez to be slightly less than good.
With Yao out of the way, he aimed the rifle at the oncoming light. If he couldn’t kill the son of a bitch in the felt hat, he could at least blind the boat, snuff out the light so they would be unable to follow.
“They’re moving up fast,” he yelled. “I’ll pop them when they get a little closer. Make them keep their heads down.”
Nine minutes from the time they left the docks, Ma eased back on the throttles.
The oncoming boat loomed closer now—less than a quarter-mile behind and closing fast.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this,” Yao said over the engines, “but if they’re in range, we are in range.”
The beam of the approaching vessel flooded the cabin’s interior, throwing distorted moving shadows around the walls as the boats bounced along on step.
Ma turned sharply to the right, nudging the throttles back even more. The roar of the engines fell dramatically. Their speed dropped by half.
Medina looked at him. “This is too soon!”
Yao checked the moving map on his phone and moved forward, grabbing handholds as he went to keep his feet. “We’re not far enough.” He held the screen down so Ma could see it, pointing at two respective spots. “We’re here. You need to be here.”
The other boat was almost on top of them now.
Ma gave a curt nod. Instead of speaking, he continued to turn the wheel to the right, pushing the throttles forward only when the other boat was almost on top of them.
Even at less than fifteen knots, the twin 150s were clearly outrunning the running lights. Snow and glare reduced navigational visibility to a few dozen yards.
Bullets from the pursuing vessel slapped the transom, narrowly missing the motors.
Chavez pushed open the door, firing the SKS at the most blinding point of light—to absolutely no effect. He fired again anyway, on the off chance he could force the pursuers to keep their heads down. Another volley thwacked the doorframe by his shoulder, chasing him inside the cabin.
“Any reason why we’re letting these guys climb up our ass?”
Ma glanced over his shoulder. “Hold on!”
Downed trees, a line of bright grass, and jagged black rocks suddenly filled the windshield, caught in the glare of the single halogen light.
Ma jammed the throttles forward and cut the wheel hard left.
* * *
—
Fu Bohai’s driver, being unfamiliar with the lake—and boats—focused with laser precision on the vessel ahead, mirroring its every turn. Clouds obscured even the hint of a moon. The incredibly bright running lamps were almost a hindrance in the driving snow and surface spray, making it easy to become confused.
“You must have struck a fuel line,” the driver said when the fugitive boat began to slow. “Shall I ram them?”
“No!” Fu said, standing beside the captain’s chair, one hand on the console, the other clutching an H&K rifle. “I do not want you to ram them. That would sink us both. Stay close. He may speed up again once he makes this turn—”
Fu glanced at the chart plotter mounted to the ceiling, surprised that the moving triangle that represented their vessel had not caught up with their actual location. Ma was clearly following Kanas Lake’s dogleg bend to the right, but the plotter showed they were still at least three miles away.
The driver cursed.
Ahead, the fugitive vessel increased its speed and virtually stood on its side as it arced sharply to the left, cutting a deep C of froth in the water and heading back the way it had come, roaring down the port rail, almost close enough to touch.
“You fool!” Fu screamed. He dropped the rifle to brace himself with both hands. “Turn! Turn the boat!”
They hit the mud at over twenty knots, slamming everyone forward. The driver flew out of his seat, impacting the windscreen with the crown of his head and breaking his neck.
Fu was thrown sideways against the metal console, snapping his left arm in at least two places. Pain and nausea brought him to his knees. One of the engines still roared, grinding the exposed propeller against the mud and gravel. Fu felt certain the otherworldly whine would shatter every piece of glass on the boat. He dragged himself up with his good arm long enough to kill the engine, before collapsing again to the floor.
The motors were off, but battery-powered lights were still operative, for the time being at least. Cold air poured through the shattered windscreen. The smell of fuel permeated everything.
Fu coughed, bringing sharp pains to life deep inside his skull. Seething fury blurred his vision. A steady flow of blood dripping off his brow said he probably had a concussion as well. Yang fared little better with a shattered leg and jaw.
Fu didn’t care how badly the man was hurt.
“Find me the phone!” The excruciating pain in his head made him gag when he shouted. He lowered his voice to a whispered hiss. “Now!”
The boat lay keeled over to port on her V-shaped hull, piling everyone and everything that wasn’t fastened down on the left. Yang found the phone under a pile of orange life vests.
Concentrating to stay awake, Fu telephoned the Burqin Airport, sixty kilometers to the south. He invoked the name of Admiral Zheng of People’s Liberation Army Naval Intelligence and demanded to speak to the XPCC 10th Division officer on duty. Fu
was connected immediately and gave a hurried rundown of his urgent need to stop the escape of a valuable fugitive from the forest around Lake Kanas. The officer in charge, a youthful-sounding captain, was extremely cooperative but not especially helpful. Air assets this far north consisted of a handful of L-39 Czechoslovakian fighter jets for border patrols, and two helicopters, both of which were Harbin H425s, the civilian version of the Z-9W (or WZ-9) built in China for the PLA Air Force on a licensing agreement with Eurocopter. The colonel barked at a subordinate to get both birds in the air and then contact Xinjiang Corps Helicopter Brigade in Urumqi.
“But . . . the helicopters are generally used for search-and-rescue,” the captain said. “They are both equipped with infrared cameras, but no weapons.”
“That is fine,” Fu said, feeling as though he might pass out. “Just send them. These fugitives should not be difficult to find. Their boat will be visible somewhere on the north end of the lake.”
“Please excuse me.” The captain broke off the conversation to speak with someone else on his end.
“Major,” he said as he came back on the line. “A JY-14 radar station near our frontier with Kazakhstan and Russia reports numerous contacts less than ten kilometers across the border toward the Novosibirsk region of Russia. An unknown type of aircraft, but judging from the speed and varied course, they are believed to be rotary-wing.”
“The Russians . . .” Fu mused, too light-headed to think. “Why would the Russians be involved . . . ?”
“Unknown, Major,” the captain said. “But considering your situation, it seemed connected. The Russian border is a mere twenty-six kilometers from Kanas Lake.”
“Yes,” Fu said. His left eye would not stay open, no matter what he did. “That makes sense.”
“Two of our L-39s will overfly you in approximately twenty minutes,” the captain said. “Perhaps they will discourage the Russian aircraft from making any incursions into China. I have already notified my superiors of your fugitives as well as the radar contacts. Very soon, you should have all the resources you need to make your capture.”
Fu leaned against the bulkhead, ending the call as he watched a steady trickle of blood drip from the driver’s ear where he lay draped over the wheel. The dead did not bleed, meaning the man was still alive. Fu took a deep breath, steadying himself. There was little he could do. He would need all his wits and strength when it came time to strangle every last person who had helped Medina Tohti lead him on this ridiculous chase.
61
SKS in hand, Chavez watched out the back window for ten full minutes after Ma’s last-second turn, fully expecting to see the larger boat appear at any moment.
The snow had abated to a few flakes here and there, but temperatures fell sharply, making Chavez wish he had a thicker hat.
Adam Yao ended another call out on deck, patting Chavez on the shoulder as he passed, coming in to get warm. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tense.
“Everything on track?” Chavez asked.
“All good,” Yao said, just like before, sounding as if he didn’t quite believe his own words. “They’re five minutes out.”
Medina gazed out the back window, an unfocused, thousand-yard stare. “Do you think they survived?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if none of them made it,” Yao said. “A hard stop like that . . . It can be like falling off a roof.” He stuffed the sat phone in Chavez’s bag. Odd, but both were simple earth tone duffels. They were all running on fumes. It was an easy mistake to make—and Chavez didn’t mind carrying a few extra ounces of weight.
“I hope it killed them all,” Ma said. “For the sake of our people who remained behind.”
He reduced power again, this time referring to the moving chart on the electronic plotter as he scanned the shore.
Yao pointed with an open hand at the darkness beyond the glow of the running light. “There,” he said as a small cove materialized out of the black void. Two boulders the size of small cars guarded the entry to the cove, forcing him to hug the southern shoreline as he entered. Deadfall floated in the still water. Ma nosed the logs gently out of the way. The bank was relatively flat, rising gradually toward the tree line fifty meters away. Between water and trees lay a grassy meadow the size of a soccer field and braided with small streams flowing out of the Altay Mountains beyond.
Ma worked the twin Tohatsus in opposition, reversing the port engine while he nudged the starboard throttle forward, swinging the stern around so the starboard, or right side, of the vessel sidled up parallel to the shoreline.
Medina stood beside him as he worked, engaged in a deep and whispered conversation.
The others worked quickly, speaking little, grabbing what few bags they had and wrapping Lisanne in a blanket to get her ready for transport. They expected unfriendly company at any moment.
Even with Ma’s expert parking job, they were still ten feet from the mossy bank. Chavez and Ryan bailed off the boat into knee-deep water while Yao and Adara worked quickly to pass Lisanne, swaddled like a baby, over the side to them.
Out on deck now, Medina stormed to the far side of the deck, staring out at the water again. Her hushed conversation with Ma had apparently reached a boiling point.
A low hum, like the sound of a distant lawnmower, carried through the trees.
“We have to go,” Yao said. “Now.”
Medina wheeled, refusing to budge from her spot. “They will kill him if he does not come with us.”
“Ma?” Yao said, glancing to the Han man, who stood at the cabin door.
Ma gave a knowing nod. “They will see the boat. Someone needs to lead them away.”
It was hard to argue, but Chavez waved him on anyway. “We’re not even sure anyone’s coming after us since you took care of those last guys.”
“Oh,” Ma said. “You are a professional. You know they will come—and you know I must stay. Now take her and get off my boat.”
Medina shook her head, digging in. “I am not going.”
Ma went to her, taking her gently by the shoulders. “There is no time. I will take the boat north, away from here—”
Her head snapped up, the sorrow clearly visible even in the scant amber glow of the single lamp on deck. “We sink it!”
“No.” Ma shook his head. “They will surely spot it from the air. Someone must draw them away. I do not know what your secret is, but—”
“I do not know, either—”
“Whatever it is,” Ma said, “it is dangerous for Beijing—and that is good for us. You know this.”
Her chest shook, overcome with sobs. She nodded, unable to meet his eye.
“What will happen to the work?” she whispered. “The cause?”
Ma smiled softly. “I am not the only one,” he said, already steering her by the shoulders toward Yao and the shore. “We are nameless, but we are many.”
* * *
—
Medina Tohti stood on the bank until Mamut was out of sight, swallowed up by the darkness of Kanas Lake.
“You are fortunate you have my daughter,” she said under her breath.
“She’s not a hostage,” Chavez reminded her. “We only wanted you to know she is safe.”
Medina considered this for a moment, and then started up the bank without looking back. “You are fortunate nonetheless.”
Chavez motioned the group after her, wanting to vacate the area as soon as humanly possible.
The vague lawnmower hum suddenly grew louder, bursting into the clearing as a Hughes OH-6 Cayuse (Little Bird or Killer Egg), skimmed in at treetop level and descended toward the grass, thirty meters away. Commonly called a “Loach” for its designation as a Light Observation Helicopter, or LOH, in Vietnam, the egg-shaped chopper was completely blacked out with both pilots wearing NVGs. Absent the thumping roar of a normal helicopter, the Loach was so quiet that
Chavez hadn’t heard it at all until moments before its arrival. Even then, it had been impossible to tell from which direction it came until an instant before it cleared the trees. Closer inspection revealed it had several modifications from a regular Loach—an extra main rotor blade, four tail rotor blades instead of two, a large baffled muffler under the tail boom. An infrared camera the size of a bowling ball hung off the bird’s nose, imperative for guiding the pilots as they navigated narrow canyons and craggy mountain passes with no running lights. This one, an MH-6 variant, had two horizontal platforms resembling black boogie boards, one on each side at the base of the doors like stubby wings.
“Looks awfully small,” Chavez said as they helped carry Lisanne’s blanket roll across the grassy hummocks.
“There were supposed to be two,” Yao said, floundering in the spring mud, grunting in his effort to keep his corner of Lisanne’s blanket roll straight and level. “We brought them in on a C-130. That last phone call on the boat was to tell me one of them had crapped out after it was off-loaded, leaving us with limited space for an evacuation. I’m not sure what the problem was, but I thought I might have to see you guys off and then hoof it back to the village—blend in, adapt, overcome, that kind of shit.”
Chavez chuckled despite the situation. “Two is one and one is none,” he said—one of Clark’s favorite quotes. “We’ll fit. If these guys are like the Loach pilots I know, they’d strap us to the skids before they left one of us behind.”
Yao turned as he walked, head to one side. “Hmmm. Don’t be too sure. Their mission is to get Medina back. The rest of us are expendable.”
The MH-6 copilot leaned out of the left-side door, waving them forward.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” He tapped his headset. “Multiple aircraft heading this way from the south at a high rate of speed. ETA eight minutes.” He twisted in his seat, pointing east. “We need to be behind that mountain in six.”
“Copy that!” Chavez helped feed Lisanne into the side door while he listened for further instructions.
