Nighthawk

4

Constantin Davidov sat in the back of an American-made sedan as it moved along a crowded Chinese highway through a canyon of high-rise office towers built from Brazilian steel, Korean glass and cement imported from Australia.

Throngs of people moved along the sidewalks. Armies of them massed at each intersection like opposing battalions. They surged toward each other at the changing of a light but mixed and meshed and passed on through without incident as they traveled to a hundred different destinations.

Street vendors and shops by the hundreds catered to them with food brought in from the countryside. Construction engineers dug up the road to bury new pipelines that would feed the city’s ever-growing need for water and natural gas, while smog from exhaust pipes and coal-fired power plants choked the air, blotting out the light of the noonday sun.

“How can you stand it?” Davidov muttered to himself.

A Chinese man sitting beside him overheard and looked appropriately offended. Li Ying was a liaison officer in the People’s Liberation Army, a captain in a pea-green uniform with gold stars on his shoulder boards and a smattering of ribbons above his breast pocket. “This is globalism,” Ying said. “The engine that drives the Chinese economy.”

A look of disgust settled on Davidov’s face. As far as he could tell, globalism and the interlinking of the world’s economies was nothing but a disaster in the making, a disease slowly infecting the cells of the world’s collective body. Everything, everywhere, all the time. At least that seemed to be the motto. Personally, he longed for simpler days.

The Chinese officer continued. “China has transformed in a single generation from a backwater land to a global powerhouse. We’re very proud of what we’ve built.”

“Pride goeth before the fall,” Davidov said.

The sentiment was lost on his host. And why not? Why should Ling worry? He was twenty-eight. A captain in the army of an ascending nation. Like his country, Ling was bold and brash at this point in his life, undaunted by decades of work that might lead nowhere.

“At least we move forward,” Ling said. “Russia seems to do nothing but regress these days.”

Davidov couldn’t argue with that. Forty years prior, he’d come to China with a group of Soviet officials. They found no cars on the street, few working phones and nowhere decent to stay — even by Moscow standards, which at the time were dreadfully low.

Back then, the Chinese bought Russian MiGs and patrol boats with borrowed rubles. Back then, Russian oil, coal and financial aid were a lifeline for Mao’s hermit kingdom, but now… Now, even a pitiful, junior-grade officer could be rude to a Russian emissary.

The sedan pulled up to a modern, angular building. Walls of gray cement, broken by narrow, vertical bands of glass. The design was dramatic; it brought to mind a medieval castle, complete with slits in the wall for archers to fire through.

A white-gloved soldier stepped forward and opened the door. He stood at rigid attention as Ling climbed out and Davidov followed.

“This way,” Ling said.

“I know where to go,” Davidov said. “Stay with the car.”

“Excuse me?”

“Trust me. This won’t take long,” Davidov said. “You can even keep the engine running,” he suggested, glancing up to the brownish sky. “Add to your precious globalism.”

A minute later, Davidov was inside the building, his shoes making distinctive clicks on the cultured granite floor of the Ministry building. He was ushered into a conference room. The man he’d come to see waited for him.

“You’re free to speak in here,” General Zhang, of the Chinese Ministry of State Security, insisted.

“Thank you for the reassurance,” Davidov said. He was quite certain the room was bugged. It didn’t matter. He had no intention of disclosing anything General Zhang didn’t already know. “We have word on the American space plane,” he announced. “Confirmation.”

“And?” Zhang said excitedly. “What happened? Did the Americans regain control?”

“They tried,” Davidov said. “But our transmission was closer and more powerful than theirs. We overrode their commands. Unfortunately, it becomes difficult to ascertain what happened after that.”

“Difficult?” Zhang crossed his arms. “Did the Nighthawk reach California or not?”

Davidov offered a subtle smile. “You know the answer to that as well as I do, Zhang: the craft did not make it home. But our team was unsuccessful in tracking it to a final location.”

The two men stood quietly. The tall, lean Russian on one side, his shorter, stockier host on the other.

Davidov was a horseman whose ancestors had ridden the frozen tundra. He had long, flowing limbs and preferred speed and stealth over massed strength — a cavalryman at heart.

Zhang was shorter, stockier. His muscular build, thick neck and heavy hands creating the look of a powerhouse who could break down walls. A bulldog who moved with the grace of a tank, slowly but inexorably, grinding and pulverizing anything in its path.

Neither was superior or inferior to the other, but they were so different as to be opposites, unable to mix for long without combustion. It made everything tense.

“You expect me to believe that?” Zhang said, a practiced edge in his voice.

Davidov sat down. “Not really. Though it is the truth. You had ships on the flight path. Spy trawlers in the area. You know as well as I do that the Nighthawk is invisible to radar.”

“You must have some data,” Zhang proposed, trying to pry anything out of the Russian. “Some suggestion to the ultimate outcome.”

Davidov shrugged. “Perhaps. But if there is anything else, the men in Moscow have not seen fit to share it with me.”

“Then why have you come?”

“To inform you that our partnership is over.”

This time, Zhang seemed surprised. Score one for the swiftness of the cavalry.

“The mission has failed,” Davidov added. “All our efforts have been for naught. So, I’ve been sent to officially dissolve our joint enterprise.”

“Surely we don’t need to part ways so quickly,” Zhang said. “We could talk some more. Smooth out our differences. Over dinner, perhaps.”

“I would enjoy that,” Davidov said. “Except that, as we speak, your salvage vessels continue at flank speed toward the possible crash site.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zhang replied.

“Then I suggest you contact your naval chief of staff.”

Zhang’s posture stiffened. “Perhaps you’re right. It seems this latest bout of teamwork has outlived its usefulness.”

“It was doomed from the start,” Davidov said. “At least this way we have no spoils to argue over.”

Zhang moved to the head of the table and slid some papers together in a folder. In truth, he was pleased. Freed of the Russian shackles, his men could go to work immediately with no need to hide in the shadow of the Bear. “So it’s every nation for itself,” he said. “I assume your ships will be looking for the wreckage?”

“Of course.”

“As will ours,” Zhang replied. “I can only hope there will be no conflict.”

“I wouldn’t expect any,” Davidov said, standing and drawing himself up to his full height. “By the time your fleet reaches South American waters, the Nighthawk will be in a crate on its way to Moscow with a large red ribbon tied around it.”

Zhang scoffed at the boast and pressed an intercom button on the conference table. It buzzed his assistant. “Comrade Davidov will be needing a ticket back to Moscow,” he said. “Make sure it’s first class, China Air.”

Davidov offered a bow of thanks and then turned for the door. Both of them knew he wasn’t going to Moscow.