Wall of Night

56

A few hours after he and Skeldon returned from the silver mine, Cahil was set to work.

With a few murmured orders from their colonel, the commandos began laying crates at his feet: C4, detonators, detcord, and six pieces of heavy, steel pipe, each closed at one end, about a foot long, and a few inches smaller in diameter than the bore holes in the mine.

They want me to build shaped charges, Cahil thought.

A shaped charge is designed to focus explosive force in a specific direction. On a small scale, antiterrorist units use them to knock down doors; on a larger scale, military demolition teams and miners use them to punch holes through obstacles and solid rock.

The idea here would be to slide the charges into the bore holes until they were resting against the bedrock. Upon detonation, the force of each charge would have nowhere to go but through the rock and into the dam’s footings, setting off a shock wave that would ripple and crack the rest of the dam. With each charge packing ten pounds of C4, it would have enough force to create a car-size crater.

Cahil stared at the crates for several moments, his mind whirling. He was in an impossible position. He couldn’t build these charges — or at least he couldn’t build them to work — but if he chose either of those options, he had little doubt they’d kill him on the spot They’d come here to not only destroy the Chono, but to die here as well. For all he knew, they were perfectly capable of building the charges themselves, and his participation was simply more window dressing.

So where did that leave him? Counting Skeldon as an enemy, the odds against him were seven to one. But should he count Skeldon as an enemy? He was assuming so, but was he certain?

The colonel walked over, gave him a grim stare, and gestured to the crates: Get started.

Skeldon walked over and sat down. “How goes it?”

“Getting there,” Cahil replied.

“What is that you’re using — steel wool?”

Cahil nodded. “For the best effect, the inside of the pipe needs to be completely smooth.”

“Why?”

“You never handled shaped charges in the Lurps?”

Skeldon smiled. “Hey, man, we were all booby traps and small IM stuff,” he replied, referring to improvised munitions. “We left the bunker busting to the engineers.”

“The theory’s pretty simple: The bowl — in this case, this pipe — acts as a lens to focus the explosion. If the pipe isn’t smooth, some of the force might get redirected.”

“Gotcha. Want some help?”

“Sure. Start with the next pipe.”

After working in silence for a few minutes, Cahil decided to dive in. It was time to find out where Skeldon stood. “Mike, what do you know about these guys?”

“Not much. They’re special forces types, that’s obvious.”

“They’re called Flying Dragons; they’re paratroopers — the cream of Chinese special forces.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Mike, you know they’re going to kill us once we’re done, don’t you?”

Skeldon’s head snapped. “Keep your goddamned voice down,” he whispered. “That’s crap — you’re full of crap.”

“You think so? How do you imagine it happening? We blow up the dam, have a little lunch with our new friends, then drive south and share a tearful good-bye at the border?”

Skeldon frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Nothing like that. Once we set these charges, we’re dead men.”

“Who the hell are you? Where’s all this shit coming from?”

“I can tell who I’m not: I’m not Stan Kycek—”

“What the hell—”

“My name is Ian Cahil, and I work for our government.”

Skeldon tensed, preparing to stand. Cahil clamped a hand onto his thigh. “Sit down.”

“Go to hell.”

“Mike, I have no intention of dying here. I’ve got a wife and two kids back home, and I want to see them again. Now sit down, or I’ll kill you before you reach your feet.”

Skeldon stayed seated, but stared Cahil in the eyes. Measuring me, he thought.

“I mean it,” Bear pressed. “Better I kill you now; it evens my odds.”

After a few moments, Skeldon picked up his pipe and began working. “Okay, start talking. Where’s the real Kycek?”

“In a CIA safe house, thanking his lucky stars we got to him before he left.”

“How’d you find him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I wanna hear it.”

“You know about Baker?”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead — he and his family.”

“What?”

Cahil spent the next twenty minutes taking Skeldon through the Baker case, from Latham’s entry into it, through his trip to Asheville and his discovery of Lamar Sampson and Stan Kycek.

He ended by explaining the scope of the Chinese plan: the SEALs at Nakhodka-Vostochny; the battle group; China’s ultimatum to Russia; and finally, the reason they were sitting in the middle of Siberia making improvised shaped charges. The one item he left out — Martin’s complicity in the affair — was something Skeldon could not know about.

“I don’t believe it,” Skeldon said.

“Why would I lie?”

Skeldon sighed and shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t know. Are you lying?”

“No. It’s time for you to decide, Mike: Whose side are you on? If we don’t stop this here, there’s gonna be a war. I need your help. I can’t do it alone.”

Skeldon stared at him. “We’re in some deep shit, aren’t we?”

“Yep.”

Skeldon chuckled humorlessly. “I guess there’s some loyalty left in me after all. Okay, Ian Cahil, what do you want to do?”

The Towncar carrying Mason, Dutcher, and Cathermeier pulled up to the side entrance of the Naval Observatory at the corner of Massachusetts and 34th and stopped. Also known as the Admiral House, the white-brick Victorian was the official residence of the vice president of the United States.

Flanked by two Secret Service agents, the chief of the detail stepped forward and opened the door. “Evening, Gentlemen. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Always discreet, Dutcher thought. If the agents were at all curious why their boss was receiving a late night visit from the director of central intelligence, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and a long-retired CIA veteran, they gave no indication of it. If the matter didn’t involve the safety of their charge, it didn’t involve them.

They were led through the French doors into the foyer, then down a long hallway. The agent stopped before a door, knocked once, then opened it. He gestured for them to enter, then closed the door behind them.

With its green-baize wall coverings and heavy, brocade drapes, Vice President David Lahey’s study reminded Dutcher of a reading room in an old gentlemen’s club. Oil paintings depicting various naval battles decorated the walls. A fire burned in a flagstone hearth.

At forty-two, Lahey was one of the youngest vice presidents in contemporary history, and since joining the Martin ticket, had struggled to shrug off the shadow of the “Quayle Syndrome.” Lahey was bright, down-to-earth, and like Martin’s former boss, President John Haverland, dedicated to the value of service — all of which had thus far been obscured by the debate over Lahey’s age.

The rumor among Washington insiders was that Martin and Lahey’s relationship was strained, and Dutcher suspected it was because Lahey was realizing what many people already knew: Consummate politician though he was, Phillip Martin was about as genuine as a nine-dollar bill.

Lahey came from around his desk and greeted them, shaking hands first with Cathermeier, then Mason, then finally Dutcher. “Leland, I don’t think we’ve met. Welcome.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”

They arranged themselves in a semicircle of wingback chairs beside the fireplace. Lahey poured each of them a cup of coffee, then said, “Leland, did Chuck ever tell you how we met?”

“He told me you were friends, but nothing else.”

“We were both serving at the National War College over at Fort McNair. Chuck was a colonel, I a lowly second lieutenant. One day we were war-gaming a problem involving the Balkans—”

“Macedonia,” Cathermeier corrected him.

“That’s right — Macedonia. Idiot that I am, I decided I understood the scenario better than Chuck, and before I knew it we were in a shouting match. Here’s this roomful of army and navy officers watching some fresh-mouthed lieutenant flushing his career down the drain.”

“What happened?” asked Dutcher.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Cathermeier answered. “David turned out to be right. We played out both our solutions — his worked, mine didn’t.”

“Dumb luck,” Lahey said. “Afterward, Chuck walks up to me — with the whole room still watching, mind you — apologizes, then hands me his fountain pen, and says, ‘My sword, sir.’”

Dutcher and Mason burst out laughing.

“I still have that pen,” Lahey said. “I carry it everywhere.”

Cathermeier said, “I’m still hoping to win it back some day.”

“Not likely,” Lahey shot back

After a few moments of laughter, Lahey poured himself another cup of coffee. “I have to admit, gentlemen, you’ve piqued my interest. When Chuck asked for this meeting, I wasn’t quite sure what to think. Who’s going to put me out of my suspense?”

As planned, Cathermeier took the lead. Given his relationship with the vice president, he had the best chance of getting Lahey to listen. “David, we’ve got a problem with Martin.”

“Then you’ve joined a sizable club. Many people do.”

“It goes beyond personality, I’m afraid.”

“Go on.”

It took thirty minutes for Cathermeier to lay out their evidence. Occasionally, Dutcher or Mason would interrupt to clarify a point, but Lahey himself never spoke, simply listening, his face unreadable, until Cathermeier was done

Lahey stood up, walked to the fireplace, and stared into the flames.

Dutcher held his breath. This was the watershed. All Lahey had to do was pick up the phone and they were finished. Dutcher studied Lahey’s face, looking for a sign.

“Leland, Dick, you were wise to let Chuck do the talking. If anyone else had brought this to me … I’m not going to ask if you’re sure about this. I can see by your faces that you are. When does China’s deadline expire?”

Mason said, “Four hours.”

“Do we have any idea what will come after that — or how soon?”

“No, sir.”

“I want to talk to Bousikaris myself.”

Cathermeier nodded. “We thought you might. He’s in the car.”

Lahey remained seated as Bousikaris entered. “Come on in, Howard.” Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier stood behind Lahey’s chair, hands clasped. “Have a seat.”

Bousikaris’s eyes were bloodshot and droopy. As he sat down, his shoulders slumped forward.

“Is it true, Howard?”

Bousikaris nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is.”

“Look at me, Howard.” Bousikaris stared at his lap. “Howard: Look at me.” Bousikaris did so. “If you’re under duress, being pressured somehow into—”

“No.”

“If you are, say so now. This is serious business we’re talking about. Is everything they’ve told me the truth? Martin, the election, China — everything?”

“Yes.”

Lahey sighed. “Jesus, Howard, how in God’s name did you let this happen? You’re smarter than that. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you have any idea?”

Bousikaris nodded; his cheek twitched. “I’m sorry.”

“Unfortunately, sorry isn’t enough. You and that … narcissistic son-of-a-bitch have brought us — and maybe the whole world — to the brink of war. Get out of here, Howard.”

Once Bousikaris was gone, Lahey said, “Gentlemen, I wish there were time for me to absorb this, but I suspect time is the one thing we don’t have. What are we going to do, and what’s my part?”

Mason answered. “It’s pretty straightforward, Mr. Vice President. You’re going to have to take over the country and stop a war.”