by Chuck Dixon
“We researched all this up the yin-yang, Mo,” Chaz said. “We know ordnance, all right? We took your guidelines seriously. These weapons give us an edge but are still within the guidelines.”
“I hope so. Because this is the closest insertion to our time we’ve ever taken. You won’t have the luxury of a couple thousand years’ buffer. Leave a modern weapon back in the sand of Judea or on a beach in Phoenicia, and time will turn it to a layer of rust. And no one in that time possesses the technology to reproduce it,” Morris said. “But that same weapon carelessly left behind in 1865 could change the nature of warfare. You guys may know guns, but I know my science and my history.”
“None of these weapons are going to turn the tide for anyone, brother,” Lee said, hand raised in a mock Scout oath.
“And I plan on bringing this son of a bitch back with me,” Chaz said, gripping his faux-Henry in his fists with a childlike gleam in his eyes.
Byrus was excited at first, sharing the others’ enthusiasm as they unpacked crates and displayed the contents on the deck. But the firearms didn’t interest him. Like a faithful dog, he squatted back on his heels and watched his friends celebrating their new weapons.
“Bruce, I think this one’s for you.” Jimbo waved him over.
Byrus approached to see that his former master and good friend had laid out an array of edged weapons on the deck. Long bladed knives, Bowie-style; tempered steel blades with brass bolsters, tangs and butts, and polished wood handles with finger grooves. There were slim bayonets in leather scabbards. Nasty things, eighteen inches long with beveled triangular blades. Chaz snapped one into place at the end of one of the rifles and tested its range and heft. Jimbo was taking the bubble wrap off a longer blade. He held it out to Byrus, who goggled at it in awe.
It was close to the design of a gladius, the sword of the Roman army and a weapon that was a familiar tool to the hand of the Macedonian. Familiar as well as deadly. An eighteen-inch flat blade tapering down to two razor-sharp beveled edges. The point ended in a spade shape. The handle was dark wood set in a heavy brass tang ending with a rounded pommel that was a blunt trauma weapon as dangerous as the blade. It came with a leather sheath lined with an envelope of oiled steel for easy draw.
Byrus slid the blade from the scabbard and held it balanced on his palm, only his thumb on the center of the tang holding it in place. He gave it a few practice swings. The blade sang through the air. A broad grin split his face.
“It is good. Bitchin’ good blade,” Byrus said. His English was improving but sprinkled with terms he learned from hours of watching what he called “the story box.” He stuck his open hand out to Jimbo.
“My gift to you, bro,” Jimbo said, taking the hand in his.
“You now give me two swords. I am grateful, and in your debt,” Byrus said, pumping Jimbo’s arm.
Jimmy Smalls had gifted Byrus with a wooden sword upon their return from ancient Judea. The wooden sword was a symbol that the Macedonian was freed from the bondage of slavery that he had known all this life. He no longer had to treat Jimbo as a master. They were equals now. But rather than break his indentured service to Jimbo, the gift of his freedom only deepened his debt to the Pima Indian, who had become his closest friend in this strange world of the far future.
“That is an anachronism,” Morris said, pointing at the gladius in Byrus’ fist.
“If anything, it’s a reverse anachronism,” Jimbo said. That gave Morris pause.
“There’s all kinds of knives in that period, Mo. Everyone had one. They were as individual as a signature, custom knife makers in every town. So, one guy wanted something heftier,” Jimbo explained.
“It will still draw attention.”
Jimbo shrugged. “Well, you can take it away from him then.”
Morris looked at the little man, admiring the gleaming blade of his new prize.
“I suppose it will pass. You guys know best, right?” Morris said.
8
Foul Shots
In the days that followed, Morris had his hands too full of his own logistical challenges to be concerned with anomalies and paradox. He worked with shipwright engineers from Dex-Tan Marine, a shipbuilding firm owned by Jason Taan with dry docks and yards in Shanghai, Taichung, and Panama. He made rough designs for a kind of floating boat barn that would rest on pontoons and be anchored mid-channel in the mouth of the Yangtze. The Raj would be concealed within the giant buoyant box. Taan shared Morris’ concerns about security and provided the financing and personnel to see the shelter built.
“You are an engineer, Dr. Tauber. But not a structural engineer,” Li Chen, a structural engineer informed him.
“Excuse me, but I’m more informed of my requirements than you are,” Morris insisted to the trio of dour men standing with him at a table in the galley. Schematics were unfolded on a table. The three men peered at the drawings with supreme disapproval when they were not doing calculations on their tablets.
“It is too heavy, Dr. Tauber. Too unwieldy. It will not float,” Li Chen said. He was the only one of the trio who spoke English.
“By your assertions, the boat we’re currently standing on is too heavy to float.”
Li Chen resisted the urge to correct the doctor that it was a ship they were standing on, not a ‘boat.’
“It is your choice of materials, Dr. Tauber. A carbon steel frame is not needed. Aluminum would do. Or a similar alloy. Much lighter. More buoyant.”
“The carbon steel arches are important for reasons that are need-to-know for the time being. I’m sure Mr. Taan has impressed on you the secretive nature of this endeavor,” Morris said.
Li Chen’s frown deepened. He turned to the other two men. All three men engaged in a muttered exchange, trailing off each utterance in the whine peculiar to the Cantonese dialect. Li turned back to Morris. The other two bent to their tablets, hands moving over the screens like agitated spiders.
“We can do the walls and roof in fiberglass to lighten the total load. We also suggest angling or curving the roof to allow rain to run off. The supports and arches of the superstructure could be tapered to prevent the entire structure from being top heavy.”
“That all sounds promising,” Morris said.
“Only if the computer models work, Dr. Tauber,” Li Chen said and smiled for the first time.
“Make them work, Mr. Chen. I know what your boss is like when he doesn’t get his way,” Morris said, touching a hand to a tender spot on his arm where his shirt hid a bruise still livid after two weeks.
Confined aboard the Raj while the work on the boat barn was progressing, the crew was getting restless. Lee, Bat, and Chaz decided that something needed to be done before they all went mental. They approached the leader of the security team, their guards, to contact Jason Taan and ask about some kind of parole. Binh was the security team leader, a man with a hard face and harder heart. A by-the-book asshole who projected anger that probably covered a mortal fear of his boss. Binh pretended not to understand what the crew was talking about.
“Let a couple of us ashore. Just a few at a time. Dinner and movie. A walk in the park,” Lee said to the unsmiling man standing on the weather deck before the bridge.
“No one leaves the ship,” Binh said. “You can send guards with us,” Bat said.
Binh stood silent, not even recognizing that she had spoken.
He would only look at Lee.
“It’s not like we’re going to run off. You’re holding our friends,” Lee said again.
“No one leaves the ship,” Binh said again, voice flat.
“Jesus, what a prick,” Bat said and walked away, flinging her hands up.
“Look, Binh, these guys have watched all the movies on board. Ten times. We’ve read all the books, played all the games. And the water around here is too fucked up to catch any fish in,” Chaz said, stepping up.
“You want more movies?” Binh said.
“You’re not really listening to us, Binh. We’re
bored, and there’s no fun, only one woman on board, and she’s taken. You digging me, Binh?” Chaz stepped up within inches of the smaller man, looming close to stare Binh down, speaking low.
“I will call the office and share your concerns,” Binh said but did not move from where he stood, boots braced on the deck.
The next day a pole, hoop, and net were delivered along with a box filled with basketballs. This would be their new distraction. They bolted the pole down to an open area of the main deck and played three-on-three in the afternoon sun and under the lights. It wasn’t shore leave, but it was something. They worked up a sweat and an appetite anyway.
Further distraction was provided when the pre-fab sections of the boat barn were delivered to the pier. A crew of workers arrived on a bus along with a rolling crane and began assembling the structure in a dry berth opposite the Raj. Air hammers whined, and sparks from welding arcs blew like runaway stars on the wind. The work went on in shifts, night and day.
Jimbo taught Byrus how to dribble and free-throw. The little man picked it up quickly and made up in speed what he lacked in height. He’d never be able to jump high enough but developed a killer overhand shot. The two were playing one-on-one on the dark deck under a pool of light from an overhead lamp that illuminated the half court they’d marked out with paint. Crewmen smoked and watched from the rails, making remarks and applauding points made.
Two of their guards stepped into the rim of light. Jimbo caught a rebound and stood dribbling in place.
“Problem?” Jimbo said to the pair. One was about Byrus’ height but with thick arms and wrestler’s shoulders. The other was just shy of six foot with a horse face and sad eyes.
“We play too?” Horse Face said.
“Why not?” Jimbo shrugged. He turned to Byrus who said nothing.
The two guards stripped off their jackets and shirts and neatly folded them. They set their holstered handguns atop the stacks, well off the court and out of easy reach.
“Twenty-one okay?” Jimbo said. Horse Face nodded followed by the wrestler, who Jimbo suspected spoke no English.
The guards had game, and soon all four men were bathed in sweat in a tight match under the lights. Most of the crew was watching now. Boats and Chaz stood leaning on the rail of the observation deck, calling encouragement and sharing criticism. They were joined by Lee and Bat, who brought a bucket of iced beers with them. Even Dr. Fong came to the port of his cabin, drawn by the noise.
Byrus played guard to Jimbo’s center. The smaller man kept pace with the Pima, always to Jimbo’s side, covering the blind spot left by the eye lost two thousand years before on a hillside in Judea. Byrus blocked the two security men, dashing like a terrier close by Jimbo’s side all the way to the net again and again.
Jimbo slammed his twenty-first shot down through the hoop, beating the guards who only reached eighteen after a hard-fought game.
“Again,” Horse Face said and gestured for the ball.
“Yeah, okay,” Jimbo said, winded but game.
The second game wasn’t friendly. The loss stung the two guards, and they played for keeps this time. Jimbo was fouled each time he jumped. Shoulder checks and jabbing elbows. The two guards weren’t concerned with niceties and rules. If that’s how they wanted to play it, Jimbo decided, then he was willing to take them downtown the hard way. He grew up playing b-ball reservation style and had dirty tricks of his own. Byrus picked up on the shifting tone of play and brought some pit-fighter moves to his game.
They were tied at sixteen apiece when Byrus came out of a jump with his sandaled foot driving down on Horse Face’s instep. The man howled and swung at Byrus, catching the smaller man by surprise and sending him to the deck. Jimbo was across the half court in a second, firing a rebound into the wrestler’s face that sent the man staggering back. Then he was in Horse Face’s grill, both men with fists clenched and elbows cocked.
Binh appeared, marching into the light, barking a blistering string of Cantonese that didn’t need translation. He shoved Horse Face away and kicked at the wrestler. He was reaming them both fresh new assholes while they put back on their shirts, jackets, and weapons. He continued the harangue as he followed them aft where the dressing down continued for the better part of an hour, Binh’s high voice echoing over the harbor.
It was Boats who came up with a name for the two guards. The Bruise Brothers.
9
The Worm in the Bottle
“So, this is the prize in the piñata,” Chaz said in a sour tone. “Looks like something from a gay garage sale,” Lee said.
The team was studying the image on the big screen in the chartroom. The computer model was as accurate as it could be based on descriptions from texts at the time. Dr. Fong said that a detailed description was recorded in meticulous detail in a hand-written inventory of the palace of the East King.
“There are a lot of lesser kings among the Taiping. Think of them like vice presidents of a corporation,” Dr. Fong said.
On the screen was a fully rendered image of a white tubular shape with a slight curve to it. Its surface was engraved with row after row of Chinese characters inlaid with jade. It was capped either end with matching devices in gold fashioned on one end in a swan drifting across a pond with wings spread; on the other was a frog squatting atop a lily pad. Both had eyes made of some kind of red gems.
“The reliquary is approximately two and a half feet in length and roughly six inches in diameter,” Fong said, holding his hands apart in approximation. “The barrel is prehistoric mammoth ivory, preserved in peat in the northern tundra and recovered by Mongols who carried it to the markets in the south where it was fashioned by artisans into the object you see here.”
The team knew all about mammoths.
“A reliquary? It’s a container,” Bat said, standing close to the screen to study the image.
“What’s in it?” Lee said.
“That is need-to-know. But you can assume that Jason Taan believes it’s worth all this trouble and expense,” Fong said.
“His expense. Our trouble,” Chaz groused.
Fong touched a key on his laptop, and the image on the screen changed to a detailed schematic of a series of buildings enclosed within concentric walls.
“This is the palace of the East King in Nanking,” Fong said, stepping to the screen and touching a finger to a long building set within the walls.
“The prize is there?” Bat said.
“In a holding room somewhere in the northern wing. Here.”
“And what’s the situation there?” Jimbo said.
“Uncertain. The city fell to Imperial forces on July 19th, 1865. That is the last recorded sighting of the reliquary found in the diaries of a clerk for General Sang of the Emperor’s army. After that night, it vanishes into the mists of history.”
“That’s the timetable then. A ticking clock,” Lee said, frown deepening.
“It’s a clusterfuck. We’ve all read this bullshit after-action report. It’s a meat grinder.” Chaz held up a hundred-page report written and printed up for them by Dr. Fong.
“Makes Fallujah look like Lilith Fair,” Jimbo added. “One million plus troops fighting by medieval rules of engagement. ‘Clusterfuck’ doesn’t cover it.”
“You will have to enter the city with the invading forces once they’ve made a breach in the walls,” Fong said, changing the image on the screen to an interactive three-dimensional model of the city of Nanking of a century and a half ago. It was a formidable fortress of towers, walls, moats, and earthworks. Inside, it was a labyrinth of closely packed buildings with winding lanes leading off broad avenues arrayed like the spokes of a wheel.
“It is as accurate as it can be based on historical records and the findings of archeologists,” Fong said with an apologetic tone.
“So, we go charging in, a pack of round-eyes, under heavy fire against determined defenders, with an invading force hot to steal anything that’s not nailed down, killing anything th
at doesn’t kill them first and raping anything that moves,” Jimbo said, riffling pages of the report.
“But with an advantage the pillagers do not have,” Fong said, adjusting his glasses.
“What’s that, doc?” Chaz said.
“You know what you are looking for and where the reliquary is. You should be able to reach it first.” Fong shrugged.
“We can’t keep calling it ‘the reliquary.’ That word sucks. Tell us what it is, doc,” Lee said, stepping close to put a hand on Wesley Fong’s shoulder.
“It is referred to in the inventory as the Chronicle of the Khan,” Fong said in a quiet voice.
“The Khan? There were lots of Khans,” Lee said.
“Which Khan are we talking about?” Bat said, leaning on the table, eyes fixed on the elderly man.
Fong’s face flushed.
“Hot shit,” Jimbo said, a broad smile creasing his face.
Bat lay spent in the shaft of moonlight coming in through the port, her head on Lee Hammond’s chest. Cool air from a fan dried the sweat from her naked back. The damp sheets beneath them were suddenly chilled. She snuggled closer. He drew her tight with an arm about her waist.
“Chaz is right,” he said after a while.
And that’s the end of the afterglow, she thought and made to move away. His hand pressed her back against him.
“About what?” she said, fingers playing with the hair on his stomach, feeling raised furrows of scar tissue atop the muscles there.
“This is a clusterfuck.”
“It’s looking that way.”
“The intel is unreliable. We’re on our own. The plan is based on horseshit and hearsay.”
“Ever been on an op that wasn’t?” She felt him shrug under her.
“We need an exit strategy,” he said.
“From Nanking back to the exfil point? That’s the part I’m least worried about,” she said, voice becoming drowsy.
