Wall of Night

60

With Skeldon now on his side, Cahil’s chances of stopping the dam’s destruction had improved, but he still faced tough odds. They were not only outnumbered, but without weapons.

With no way to fight, Cahil had turned his mind to sabotage, but as the first day passed and moved into the second, the Chinese colonel began inspecting his work on the charges. The man knew his business, Cahil immediately realized. There was no way to make the charges both defective enough to fail, and convincing enough to pass muster.

“We’re going to have to take them on,” Cahil whispered as he and Skeldon worked.

“With what, sticks?”

“Either that or your charming personality.”

Skeldon grinned at him. “Smart-ass.”

“Do we know what they’re waiting for? A signal, or are they on a timetable?”

“I’m betting a signal,” Skeldon said. “I’ve been watching their radioman; he’s been making contact every four hours since yesterday.”

“Then we might be coming down to the wire,” Cahil said. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts, but no more than usual.” Skeldon paused, frowning. “Here’s a thought: What if we take some of my pills and slip them into their—”

“I considered that,” Cahil said, “They’re too sharp. I haven’t seen them let down their guards once. Besides, they eat in shifts. We’d only get a couple of them before they caught on.”

“Then what’re we going to do?”

Cahil thought for a few moments. “Is there any way we can get back into the mine? Can you tell them I need to see the boreholes again?”

“What did you have in mind?”

Cahil explained briefly, and Skeldon said, “There’s one way to find out.”

The Colonel gave them permission, but ordered one of the commandos to escort them.

Once through the entry hole and into the main tunnel, they began walking, Cahil in the lead, followed by Skeldon, then the commando, who carried his M-16 at ready-low with the safety off. Cahil studied the walls and ceiling, hoping he’d recognize what he was looking for when he saw it. About halfway to the cavern, he spotted it: A bowl-shaped shelf jutting downward from the ceiling.

“Hold up,” Bear called as he drew even with the shelf. Skeldon stopped, as did the commando, who backed up a few feet, M-16 pointed in their general direction. “I’ve got a rock in my boot.”

He went through the motions of fixing his boot, then stood up. As he did so, he reached up and grabbed the shelf. “Boy, that’s handy, ain’t it?”

Skeldon nodded. “Sure is.”

They spent ten minutes in the cavern as Cahil pretended to study the boreholes, then retraced their steps to the outside. Once back in camp, he and Skeldon returned to work on the charges.

“Think you’ll be able to spot it?” Cahil asked him.

“Yep. Why that spot?”

“You saw how it was angled down?” Skeldon nodded. “It will work just like a shaped charge. If we time it right, whoever’s behind us will take the brunt of the explosion.”

“I like it. So what do we need?”

“A few ounces of C4.”

“What about a detonator?”

Cahil smiled. “I thought you might be able to use your winning personality to steal one.”

Though Cathermeier’s words had been oblique, the message for Jurens and his team had been clear: Columbia is gone, either missing or dead; don’t count on extraction anytime soon. It wasn’t exactly what Sconi had wanted to hear, but he was unsurprised. However bad their own situation, it was obviously worse elsewhere.

Time to get wet and go home, he thought. The idea of continuing this game of hide-and-seek with the Russian troops didn’t appeal to him. Confident as he was in his team, he also knew a good commander didn’t pit himself against a force many times his size unless he had no choice.

Shortly after midnight, Smitty and Zee slipped back into their camouflaged bolt-hole above the road junction. Parked fifty yards below their perch was a Federation Army truck and a squad of eight soldiers. Laying on his belly, Jurens surveyed the road block through his Night Owls.

“They’re new,” Smitty whispered. “How long’ve they been here?”

“About an hour. So far they don’t look inclined to send out patrols, but the night is young.”

“And if they do?”

“We let them slip past us.”

“And if they don’t?”

Jurens gave him a glance. They both knew the answer to the question: Kill the squad as quietly as possible and move on. Jurens hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “What’d you find?” he asked.

“Not our ride home, but maybe the next best thing.”

“Where and what?”

“About three miles south of here there’s a small cove with a pier. We counted eight boats moored alongside.”

“What kind?”

“Mostly small trawlers and a few skiffs. Good enough to get us into international waters.”

“See any Indians?”

“They’re thick, Skipper. All the road junctions are covered. We had to bypass three foot patrols on the way back. When we make our move, we better not be in a hurry.”

Jurens nodded. “Nice work. Get some sleep. You’ve got the four to six watch.”

Smitty crawled away.

How many out there looking for us? Jurens wondered. At least a company, and more coming into the port every hour, it seemed. No matter how good his team was, it was only a matter of time before some patrol stumbled onto them.

Columbia had been resting on the bottom for two days, and like Jurens, Archie Kinsock was itching to move. Two days of sitting, listening to the hull settle deeper into the silt, feeling the deck tremble with every strong current … And waiting — waiting for the eerie whistle of an active sonar scouring the seabed for them.

So far the crew had handled the stress well, but sooner or later the boredom and uncertainty would take its toll. Aside from the SLOT buoys — which provided only one-way communication — their link to the outside world was gone. If they hadn’t already, some of the crew would start to worry they’d been abandoned. They knew better, of course, but unlike knowledge, which is born of logic, despair and fear work on those dark places in your brain where logic doesn’t live.

In their case, there was only one cure against despair: action.

Get off the bottom, get moving, and take our chances, Kinsock thought.

MacGregor walked over to the status board where Kinsock stood. “He’s back,” the XO said.

“Is he all right?”

“Cold but fine.”

“Thank God.”

Two hours earlier Kinsock had sent the boat’s diver, Gunners Mate John Howley, out the escape trunk to determine whether the hatches to the maneuvering thrusters were clear. Sitting as they were in the silt, one or both of them might be buried.

“Remind me to put him up for an accommodation,” Kin-sock said. “How’d it look?”

“The port-side hatch is clear; starboard is partially blocked, but by only a couple inches of silt Howley said it’s fine, almost powdery.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while. Get down to engineering and tell the chief we’re in business. Next high tide, we fire up the thrusters and drive outa here.”