Wall of Night

68

Tanner spent the first half of the day asleep, curled up inside the rotted bole of a black walnut with underbrush and branches piled around him for camouflage.

A little after noon he woke up, coded a message for the Motorola, and sent it home. He then ate his last remaining rations of trail mix and beef jerky and washed it down with some of Wu’s sweat sock soup spiked with honey; it tasted almost pleasant.

At two, he left his cave and headed out, crawling deeper into the forest. His destination lay two miles to the south and he had three hours to get there, but without knowing what kind of daylight patrols Xiang had set, he wanted to allow plenty of time.

It turned out to be the right decision.

The forest surrounding the camp was thick with Xiang’s paratroopers as roving patrols had been dispatched to augment the OPs. A few hundred yards from his starting point Tanner again found himself playing a nerve-wracking game of hide-and-go-seek.

The paratroopers were good, but, as before, Tanner used patience to his advantage. Patrols came and went, oftentimes passing within feet of him as he lay under his homemade ghillie cape, holding his breath until their footsteps faded and he could continue on his way.

At four-thirty he reached the edge of the woods. Ahead lay a clearing at the center of which was a wide, sand-filled pit; to his right, back toward the camp, was the road Hsiao had described. Briggs was about to grab his map to confirm his location when the stench of feces filled his nostrils. A spurt of bile filled his mouth; he swallowed it.

This has to be the right place, he thought.

Now he waited.

Thirty-five minutes later he heard the roar of a truck engine echoing through the trees. Tanner peered down the road. The tanker truck, driven by a guard from the camp, chugged around the bend and pulled into the clearing. Black hoses dangled like tentacles from their mounts on the holding tank, bouncing and swaying with each bump in the road. With a grinding of gears, the truck stopped, did a Y-turn and backed toward the pit, stopping a few feet short of the edge.

The guard shut off the engine and got out. He wore rubber chest waders and elbow-high gloves. He walked to the rear of the truck, unhooked one of the hoses, and dropped it into the pit.

Tanner got to his feet and sprinted to the truck’s front bumper, where he dropped to his belly. Beneath the length of the truck he could see the guard’s feet shuffling as he readied the vehicle.

With a whine, the tank’s pump kicked on. The man’s feet backed away from the hose and stopped beside the rear tire. The hose convulsed a few times, then came the sound of gushing water. And then, the odor — the sickly sweet stench of feces, urine, and garbage.

Tanner felt his belly heave. He set his teeth against it.

Forget it, he ordered himself. This is your way in.

He crab-walked around to the passenger side, mounted the access ladder, and climbed to the top of the tank. He laid himself flat and shimmied forward until he could see the guard’s head. The man was smoking as he watched the hose, seemingly transfixed by the effluent gushing into the pit.

Tanner reached out and lifted open the tank’s hatch. A cloud of fat, blue-backed flies burst from the opening; it took all his self-control to not drop the lid. Don’t think, just do it … Fingers clenched around the strap, he lowered the pack through the hatch until he felt it bump the ladder, then clipped the D-ring to a rung and released it.

Eyes fixed on the guard below, Briggs turned the AK so it hung across his chest, then dropped his feet through the hatch. He took one final breath of fresh air, then started downward.

The tank’s interior was a perfect echo chamber, amplifying the rhythmic grinding of the pump. He closed the hatch and the tank fell into complete blackness. Tanner felt a flash of claustrophobia. He closed his eyes, pressed his ghillie mask tighter over his nose, and concentrated on his breathing until the panic waned. He clicked on his flashlight and felt instantly better.

The tank was half full of fecal bilge, a brown-green quagmire that lapped at the sides of the tank with a sickening, gurgling sound. A miniwave of it washed over the bottom rung and left behind an oily deposit on his boot. At the rear of the tank the fluid whirl pooled around the vent valve.

Slowly but steadily the effluent level began to drop. A sporadic sucking sound echoed through the tank. The pump chugged and groaned. Tanner felt like he was trapped inside the belly of some prehistoric beast.

After another ten minutes, the tank was finally empty except for a half-inch of waste. Briggs stepped down, careful of his footing on the stainless-steel surface.

With a great sucking whoosh, the last of the tank’s contents disappeared through the valve. The pump went silent. The cab’s door opened, then shut. The truck’s engine growled to life, and as Tanner reached out to steady himself on the ladder, it began moving.

He spent most of the twenty-minute trip perched on the ladder, holding the hatch open a few inches and breathing fresh air. He couldn’t remember a more beautiful smell and vowed to never take it for granted again.

With more grinding of gears, the truck began slowing, then came to a stop. Outside, a voice — the driver’s, he assumed — called out in Mandarin. Another voice answered, followed by the squeaking of steel hinges. The main gate, Briggs thought. The truck lurched forward again.

Inside—

The truck lurched to a stop. Silence. Then footsteps clanking on the access ladder outside. What the hell is this …? Hsiao had mentioned nothing about anyone inspecting the inside of the tank. Briggs unclipped his pack from the ladder, unzipped the side pocket, pulled out the revolver.

The hatch opened. A shaft of sunlight knifed through the darkness.

Tanner raised the revolver and pointed at the opening.

A hand appeared and gave the thumbs-up sign. A moment later, Kam Hsiao’s face appeared in the opening. He spotted Tanner, gave him a brief nod and a smile, then withdrew.

The hatch clanged shut. Then Hsiao’s voice: “All clear! Drive on!”

After a few more stops and turns the truck was backed into the garage and the barn doors shut behind it. Briggs remained inside the tank for another ten minutes until certain he was alone, then climbed the ladder, popped the hatch, and peeked out.

Aside from some daylight showing around the edges of the doors and through a small, tarnished window in the rear, the garage was dark.

He grabbed his pack, climbed down the ladder, and dropped to the floor.

Hsiao’s directions took him into the garage’s small office, where he found a battleship gray desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and a mangy, threadbare rug covering the floor. Tanner lifted its corner and there, set into the floor just as Hsiao had promised, was a hatch. He grabbed the handle and lifted, exposing the dirt foundation. A gust of cold, musty air blew past his face.

Built in the early fifties, all of the camp’s buildings had been equipped with crawl spaces for easy access to the electrical conduits and plumbing. Chosen twice a month by lottery, three guards were forced to inspect each building’s crawl spaces for rodent infestation and weather damage.

“It’s the least favorite duty in the camp,” Hsiao had explained, “Believe me: no one will go there unless they have to. You’ll be safe.”

Tanner dropped his pack and AK through the hatch, then stepped down. The opening came up to his waist. He reached back, grabbed the corner of the rug, then pulled it over the hatch as he closed it behind him.

A few feet into the crawl space Briggs found a black plastic garbage bag — the items he’d asked Hsiao to gather. He took a quick inventory and found everything there — including a surprise: a small tinfoil package. Inside was a hunk of roast pork tenderloin, some grilled broccoli, and fried rice.

Good ol’ Hsiao.

Despite the grumbling in his belly, Briggs resealed the food and set it aside. First work, then eat.

He had a lot to do if he was going to be ready for tonight.