The Emperor's Tomb

FORTY-SEVEN

MALONE SPIED THE GREEN EXPANSE OF A HIGHLAND LAKE, ITS surface shining with ripples and dotted with junks.

Lake Dian.

Mountains bordered the west shore, the lush slopes sheathed in trees, the eastern side mostly plains of ocher-colored farmland. Smoke belched from chimneys in a fishing hamlet a few miles away.

He dropped the plane’s altitude to 500 feet.

Cassiopeia released her harness and moved forward, gazing down through the forward windows. He’d noticed on the chart that the mountains to the west were called Xi Shan. Carved into the cliff faces he spotted paths and stairways linking a succession of temples, their towering pagodas, with curved tile roofs and painted eaves, reminding him of Tivoli and home.

“The undulating contours of the hills,” Pau Wen said, “resemble a reclining woman with tresses of hair flowing to the water. So they are called Sleeping Beauty.”

He noticed that the label seemed apt.

“The temples are from the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. There, where the chairlift stretches to the summit, in the 18th century a Daoist monk chipped a long corridor up the face of the mountain. Legend says the tip of his chisel broke as he neared the end. In despair, he threw himself into the lake. Fifty years later his followers reached the goal, which is now called Dragon Gate.”

“Sounds like something for the tourists,” Cassiopeia said.

“Actually, the tale is reasonably close to the truth.”

Ivan had said that the lake stretched forty kilometers north to south, and Malone could believe that claim seeing nothing but water toward the horizon.

“Let’s see what’s down there before we land.”

He eased the yoke forward and reduced airspeed.

The flight northward across Yunnan province had been quiet, the skies clear of traffic. He’d grown accustomed to the smooth journey but, suddenly, the Twin Bee’s wings skipped air.

Engines sputtered, then quickly refired.

Projectiles pierced the hull and rocketed through the cabin.

Air rushed in through holes.

The right wing sheared further from more impacts and the ailerons went loose. The plane arched left as the starboard side failed to respond to commands.

“What was that?” Cassiopeia said.

The answer came as a jet roared passed overhead, its afterburners flaming in the late-morning sky.

“Cannon fire,” he said.

The fighter’s delta-winged triangle disappeared in the distance, but a vapor trail indicated a turn for another approach.

“That’s a People’s Liberation Army fighter,” he said. “And it ain’t here by accident. The Chinese knew we were coming.”

He worked the rudder and used airspeed to regain some semblance of control. He’d been annoyed the entire flight by the lack of synchronization in the two engines. Pitch was a pilot’s best warning, but the Twin Bee’s engines screamed at each other like an arguing soprano and baritone.

“What can I do?” Cassiopeia asked.

“Tell me where that jet is.”

“He’s coming straight toward us, from behind,” Pau calmly reported.

They were plowing through thick air, only a few hundred feet above the lake. He added altitude and rose to 1,000 feet. The Twin Bee was little match for modern avionics, cannons, and radar-guided missiles.

There was, though, one weapon they did possess.

“How far away?”

“Hard to say,” she said. “Several miles.”

He’d been around enough fighter pilots to know how they thought, no matter the nationality. Hell, he’d wanted to be one himself. This was easy prey, a hawk challenging a pigeon. The pilot would wait until he was close before firing.

He checked his airspeed.

A little under 110 kilometers.

He recalled what his instructor had taught him.

Nobody ever collided with the sky. Altitude is your friend.

“He’ll be here in a few seconds,” Cassiopeia said.

He hoped the Twin Bee could handle what he was about to do. The starboard control surfaces were damaged, but the port side and tail rudder seemed okay. Most important, the engines were working. He waited another two seconds, then slammed the throttle wide open and pulled back on the yoke. The amphibian rose in a steep climb, prying upward with a groan from her hull. Tracer rounds rocketed past as their altitude increased.

2,000 feet.

2,500.

3,000.

The fighter shot passed beneath them, its turbofans leaving a trail of black smoke. Fighters were not low-altitude machines. They worked best in the stratosphere, not near the ground where fuel and computers could be tapped to the max.

He topped off at 3,300 feet.

“My stomach is in my throat,” Cassiopeia said.

“I had to do something he wouldn’t expect.”

“That certainly qualified.”

He knew small planes were not her favorite mode of transportation, recalling a rough helicopter ride in Central Asia, when Viktor had been at the controls.

He focused through the windshield. The Annihilator loomed in the distance. He realized the fighter could easily shoot them down with air-to-air missiles. Another navy lesson flashed through his mind.

Learn from other people’s mistakes.

“We’re going in,” he said.

He lowered speed and cranked the elevators. The outside air was capricious and inconsistent, which only aggravated the situation. He dropped the left wing and slipped into a slow bank. After a sharp turn he angled the nose and leveled off at 800 feet above the lake.

“You see the jet?” he asked.

Cassiopeia’s head spun in every direction. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. He could still have us in his sights.”

A fact he realized. He struggled to keep the wing level as the port side control surfaces ignored his commands.

“Apparently this was a trap,” Pau Wen said.

“Brilliant observation.”

He threw Cassiopeia a glance that she seemed to understand. Viktor. How else would they have known? China was a big place, yet here they were, waiting, over Lake Dian, exactly where Ivan had sent them.

Treetops grew in size as he glided toward the lake. Luckily, the nearest junk floated a mile or so away.

A rush of wind shoved them to the right.

He held the nose high.

He’d never landed on water and could already tell depth perception was going to be different. He would have to judge the distance correctly and make sure speed was perfect when the plane’s bottom kissed the surface. The last thing he needed was to porpoise across the lake. He was also worried about stalling. Luckily, no crosswind blew, or at least none he could see on the treetops. He decided to make it easy and switched off the engines just as the last of the trees raced beneath and nothing but water loomed ahead.

Like he’d been told, Gravity never loses.

“I’m glad there’s lots of room,” she said.

He was, too. Plenty to glide to a stop. He eased down the yoke and pitched the nose up so the tail touched first. One thought flashed through his mind. The floats on the underside of each wing needed to stay on top of the water, as both could quickly become anchors.

The Twin Bee bounced twice, then hydroplaned. The rudder fishtailed and the plane came to a rest about two hundred yards from shore.

He popped open the door.

Cassiopeia did the same on her side.

The Twin Bee bobbed in the agitated water, its fuselage riddled with bullet holes. Malone studied the sky. The fighter was nowhere to be seen. Off to the south, a flash appeared. An instant later a vapor trail snaked a path across the morning sky.

He knew instantly what was happening.

Air-to-ground missile, its fire-and-forget active radar zeroing in on them.

“In the lake. Now. Go deep,” he yelled.

He waited an instant to make sure that both Cassiopeia and Pau made it into the peaty-green water, then leaped in. He ignored the chill and powered himself toward the bottom, pawing with cupped hands.

Another disturbing thought swept through his brain. Pollution. Most likely this water was not safe.

A few seconds later an explosion rocked the surface as the Twin Bee was obliterated by the missile. He arched his body and kicked for the surface. His head found air and he opened his eyes to see nothing left of the amphibian except burning wreckage.

A second later Cassiopeia and Pau broke the surface.

“You okay?” he called out.

Both nodded.

“We need to get to shore.”

He waded around the smoldering debris, toward them. He cocked his head toward the south. A black dot began to grow in size.

The Annihilator was returning.

“Float in the water, facedown. Play dead,” he said, “and don’t move until he’s gone.”

He quickly assumed the same position and hoped the trick worked. He’d wondered why the fighter had not simply shot them down. It would have been easy, especially in the beginning when its presence was unknown. But the idea had surely been to allow the lake to swallow the evidence.

He extended his arms and allowed his body to float, hoping the pilot did not ensure the kill with a strafe of cannon fire.