Wall of Night

Epilogue

China’s invasion of Russia ended with a whimper.

Alerted to the alleged demise of their base, PLAAF surveillance planes were quickly dispatched to the area. The pictures they returned with were quickly sent up the chain of command and landed on the desk of the premier two hours after Toothpick’s first salvo.

The cornerstone to their Rubicon gambit, the PLA’s decade-long marvel of engineering had in the space of ten seconds been turned into a crater. Every blade of grass, every tree, every slab of concrete was dust. Not a single aircraft or soldier survived.

Further satellite and aerial reconnaissance showed no evidence that nuclear weapons were involved; rescue workers found no signs of radiation. Nothing could explain the utter destruction that had befallen their installations — nothing but the ambassador’s testimony that the United States caused it.

With no other course left open, the premier acceded to David Lahey’s terms.

Two days later, under the watchful eyes of Russian and American strike aircraft orbiting above, the troops and support personnel of the remaining eleven bases were shuttled south to Beijing, two airplanes at a time.

With the images being transmitted to PLA headquarters in Beijing, the remaining underground bases, now ghost towns, were one by one destroyed by Toothpick’s deadly rain.

Spared the brunt of the explosion by Mike Skeldon’s sacrifice, Ian Cahil survived with only a broken collarbone, several dozen scrapes’, and some bruises. Twelve hours after clawing his way out of the partially collapsed vent tunnel, he drove Skeldon’s truck to a village called Tas-Yuryakh sixty miles east of Chono Dam and pulled to a stop before a ramshackle hut that served as the village’s general store, barbershop, and administration building, and walked inside.

The proprietor, a toothless old man smoking a pipe, gaped at him.

Putting on what he hoped was his most amiable smile, Bear cleared his throat and said, “Can you please tell me where the nearest phone is? I seem to be a little lost.”

Intimidated by Columbia’s timely and dramatic appearance in front of them, the soldiers in pursuit of Jurens and his team stopped and began circling at a distance as the commander in charge pondered his next step. To nudge him in the right direction, Archie Kinsock called out his twelve-man Security Alert Team, which emerged from the fore and aft escape trunks, trotted to the foredeck, and snapped into parade rest formation, M-16’s held across their bodies.

Eyeing each other across the water — Kinsock standing on Columbia’s monolithic fairwater, the Russian commander at the stem of wooden skiff — the two men came to an unspoken agreement. Columbia’s raft was sent across to Jurens and his team, who were pulled aboard and ferried back.

Columbia’s escape from Russian territorial waters was a close-run race. Alerted to her presence by the Federation ground commander at Nakhodka-Vostochny, the Krivak frigate and two Osa patrol boats to the northeast came about and headed down the coast at flank speed and were soon joined by the lone Akula Columbia had encountered days before.

With the pursuers closing the noose around his boat and no chance of evading them, Kinsock sent a flash message to the NMCC reporting their situation. What he wouldn’t know until days later was that General Cathermeier had already informed Marshal Beskrovny about Columbia’s peril. Aware that Columbia had played a role — albeit an involuntary one — in the destruction of Nakhodka but determined to avoid the war China was so desperately trying to manufacture, Beskrovny sent his own flash message to his Far East District Commander. With both the Krivak and Akula closing to within firing range of Columbia, each captain got the same baffling yet unequivocal order: Let the American submarine pass unmolested.

Four hours after rising off the bottom, Columbia, tooling along on the surface at four knots, exited Russian territorial waters, where she was met by Cheyenne, dispatched from the Stennis group to serve as her escort. An hour later an SH-60 Seahawk from Stennis picked up an unconscious but stable Smitty and flew him to the carrier for treatment.

Jurens and Dickie, both uninjured but sick at heart, remained aboard Columbia to see Zee’s body back to Pearl, where they were met by his wife, his four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter.

As for Sunil Dhar, he was met pierside by two men in dark suits who ushered him into the back of a nondescript government sedan and whisked away.

In the end, it had been a bizarre confluence of irony and luck that had saved Tanner’s life.

The first bullet had torn through his right buttock, missing his pelvic bone by a quarter inch, then blasted out of the front of his thigh. The second shot was more serious, having entered his lower back and cutting a ragged groove through both his diaphragm and spleen before exiting his abdomen.

Already slipping into shock, Tanner’s plunge into the icy water pushed him toward the edge of hypothermia, slowing both his respiration and circulation as his body began to instinctively shut down nonessential systems. The snow he’d packed around his wound further slowed the bleeding of his ruptured spleen. By the time Hsiao pulled him aboard the helicopter, Tanner’s heartbeat and respiration were nearly undetectable.

His stroke of luck came in the form of Novotroitskoye’s base doctor, a former army field surgeon who’d served during the Soviet Union’s invasion of Afghanistan. He’d seen and treated the worst of wounds in the worst of conditions. Upon seeing Tanner, he wasted no time, bypassing traditional treatment methods for those he’d successfully used so many times on the battlefield.

Keeping Tanner in a limbo of near-hypothermia, the doctor packed the major arteries in his arms and legs in ice, then took him straight to surgery, repairing the gash in his diaphragm and removing his spleen in a record thirty-four minutes. As the last stitch was closed, he ordered Tanner transferred to a warming table, covered with blankets, and pumped full of intravenous fluids.

For two days Briggs lay unconscious, his lungs and heart pumping at bare sustenance levels.

As the doctor predicted, on the third day Tanner’s natural healing system took over and he regained consciousness. “Welcome back,” the doctor said with a smile.

Tanner blinked his eyes open. “Where am I?” he rasped.

“Under the care of the greatest doctor in all of Siberia, that’s where.”

“Glad to hear it. How long have I—”

“Three days. This afternoon we’ll have you up and walking — with a cane, mind you — and by the end of the week you’ll be well enough to leave for your cell at the gulag.”

“What?”

“Just a joke.” ‘

“Very funny.”

The doctor shrugged. “As I understand it, there’s an American transport plane waiting for you.”

“Where are my—”

“Friends? They’re outside, waiting to see you.”

“They’re okay?”

“Compared to you, they’re Olympians.”

Tanner nodded, then laid his head back and closed his eyes. “Good.”

Twenty days after entering China, Tanner was back home.

Kam Hsiao and Han Soong were secreted in a luxurious CIA safe house in rural Maryland, where they would spend the next few months, after which both would receive new identities, homes, and vocations if they so chose. Either way, Dick Mason said, both men would never want for anything again. Along with Tanner, Cahil, Mike Skeldon, and Charlie Latham, Soong and Hsiao had helped prevent what could have easily become the third world war.

Kyung Xiang had vanished. As Tanner and the others were en route back to Novotroitskoye, the base commander had ordered a pair of Havoc helicopter gunships loaded with soldiers back to the Bira River. Xiang, his remaining paratroopers, and Lian Soong were gone, as was Xiang’s Hind. The Hoplite pilot was found alive in the cabin where they’d left him and was returned to the border.

In subsequent meetings between the U.S.-Russian delegation and its Chinese counterpart, questions about Xiang were deflected with the vague comment, “Former-director Xiang is unavailable at this time.” Recognizing diplomatic subtlety when they saw it, State Department analysts took it to mean Xiang had either already been executed, or he was already locked away in a dank laogi cell.

For Tanner’s part, he spent his first days home savoring hot showers, home-cooked meals, dry clothes, and a bed with soft sheets and thick blankets. After his time in China, each experience seemed new. He vowed to never take such amenities for granted again.

All in all, he decided, it felt good to be alive.

It was just after dusk when Tanner arrived home from his second-to-last physical therapy session. Though the damage to his leg was neither permanent nor disabling, the bullet had badly torn muscles and tendons in its passage. Tanner had rid himself of the cane the previous week and now walked with only a slight limp. Ignoring warnings to the contrary, he’d started swimming in the mornings and running in the evenings — or as Cahil had called it, “hobble-jogging.” Tanner found every stroke and step painful, but each day he awoke feeling a bit more like himself.

He pulled into the driveway behind the lighthouse, got out, then grabbed the mail from the box and walked around the deck to the back door. A wind was coming up and he could smell rain in the air. The hanging baskets swung in the breeze.

Leaving the screen door open for some fresh air, he dropped the mail on the kitchen counter then checked his voice mail. There was one message: Oaken had found Andrew Galbreth Hadin’s descendants. His three great-grandchildren, the oldest of whom was the director of the Hadin Museum, all lived in Long Island, New York.

“I didn’t contact them,” Oaken said. “Thought you’d like to do that yourself. Anyway, gimme a call when you get a chance, and I’ll give you the info. Bye.”

Tanner almost hated parting with Hadin’s diary; it had been his constant companion over the past several weeks as he’d sat in the hospital’s whirlpool or laid for hours as the flexor machine stretched and contorted his leg. He read and reread the diary from cover to cover, each time feeling a bit closer to Hadin. Their stumbling upon the Priscilla had not only saved their lives, but possibly hundreds of thousands of others as well. In a way, Hadin was again the dashing hero, albeit eighty years after his death.

Tanner grabbed an apple from the fridge, then shuffled through the mail. Bills, junk mail, a mailer insisting that he “may already be a winner” … and a padded, manila envelope. He checked the front; there was no return address. He tore open the top.

Inside was a black, unlabeled, VHS tape.

Curious now, he took the tape into the living room, slipped it into the VCR, then grabbed the remote and hit Play. There was ten seconds of blackness, then the picture swam into focus. A dark object swung before the lens. The camera retreated until he recognized it: a shoe.

The angle widened and began to pan upward.

“Good God,” Tanner murmured.

The shoes had feet in them. The camera skimmed up past a pair of calves, then thighs and torso, then finally to the neck and face.

Briggs felt his stomach heave into his throat. Oh, God. No, no …

Suspended from a noose, her face bruised and bloody, was Lian Soong.

Tanner snatched up the envelope, turned it over. The postage stamp bore no cancellation mark. Someone had delivered the envelope in person.

“She hardly struggled at all,” a voice called behind him.

Briggs felt a shiver trail down his spine. He turned around and looked up.

Standing at the loft’s railing was Xiang. He held a small-caliber automatic in his right hand. It was leveled at Tanner’s chest.

Briggs stared at Xiang, unable to speak. The room swirled around him. He glanced back at the television; Lian’s face filled the screen. After a moment, the screen went black.

Tanner turned back to Xiang. “You did that?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Why? For God’s sake, why?”

“She’d served her purpose. I was done with her.”

You’re lying, Briggs thought. Xiang had killed Lian as punishment for her silence at the paddle wheel. Her refusal to pinpoint their location had bought Hsiao and her father the time they’d needed to get away. Whatever her reasons, in that last act of defiance, Lian had again become the daughter Soong had thought he’d lost, and the woman Tanner had feared never existed.

And Xiang had killed her for it.

Briggs felt a ball of hot rage explode in his chest. Focus, Briggs. He’s come here to kill you. Think! Tanner took a step forward, blocking the television screen. He fingered the remote’s volume button to it’s highest setting. Set on the VCR channel, the screen flickered silently.

“You came all this way for revenge,” Tanner said. Play him along, Briggs.

“That’s right!” Xiang growled. “Why not?”

“I’ll say this much: You plan a pretty lousy invasion, but you sure can hold a grudge.”

“Shut your mouth! You destroyed my life! I can never return to China. I’ll be hunted until the day I die. Everything I struggled for is gone, and it’s your doing!”

“Glad I could help.”

“Tell me: Where did they put Soong and the other one — the guard from the camp?”

Holding the apple in his right hand, Tanner held it up for Xiang to see, then took two slow steps to the left and set it on the dining table. The door was seven feet away now.

“That’s your plan?” Tanner said. “Once you’re done here, you’re going to hunt them down?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll never find them.”

“I will if you tell me.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“It could mean the difference between living and dying,” Xiang said.

“Even if I believed that, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to reconsider?”

Tanner shook his head.

“Very well.”

His gun never leaving Tanner’s chest, Xiang started toward the stairs.

Behind his back, Tanner aimed the remote at the TV. Wait … wait …

Xiang reached the head of the stairs, placed his foot on the top step.

Tanner punched the channel selector. Static blasted from the TV. Xiang flinched, spun that way.

Tanner sprinted for the door. Four shots boomed. The French doors shattered. The paneling beside Tanner’s head splintered. Half hobbling, he put his head down and bulldozed into the screen. With a ripping sound, the mesh parted. Entangled in his arms and legs, the frame ripped off its track.

He lurched onto the deck, shrugged off the frame, then turned and staggered to the beach stairs.

“Stop!”

Crack!

The balustrade beside him shattered.

He was five feet from the top step when he felt a stab in his calf. Pain seared up his thigh. Only partially healed, it was more than his leg could bear. It buckled beneath him and he collapsed.

“Don’t move!” Xiang ordered. “Stay right there!”

Footsteps clicked on the wood behind him.

Don’t give him the satisfaction, Tanner thought. Get off your knees.

Briggs reached up, grabbed the deck railing, and struggled to his feet. His calf burned as if coated in acid. He shifted his weight to his good leg and rotated himself around.

Xiang was standing a few feet away, gun leveled. “Almost,” he said.

At close range Tanner now recognized Xiang’s gun. It was a compact .25-caliber Sig Sauer. Seven- or eight-round magazine? he wondered. Seven. Xiang had already fired six. The man had just broken a cardinal rule: count your shots; know your reserves.

It was cold comfort. No matter what Tanner did, he was going to get shot. At this distance, Xiang couldn’t miss. The only question was, Could he cross the gap fast enough, throw off his aim enough to avoid a fatal wound? There was only one way to find out. Tanner steeled himself for it.

“Do me a favor,” he murmured, letting his shoulder slump.

“Why should I?”

“Because you’ve won. You can afford to be gracious.”

“What is it?”

Tanner pointed to his forehead. “Make it quick.”

Xiang considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Have it your way.”

Xiang jerked up his pistol. As the barrel came level with his chin, Briggs ducked and pushed off the railing with everything he had, aiming his shoulder for Xiang’s belly. The gun roared. Tanner felt a hammer blow to his chest. His shoulder slammed into Xiang’s solar plexus. They stumbled backward. Before his leg could buckle, Tanner wrapped him in a bear hug and pushed off, driving Xiang back.

Xiang began flailing with his gun hand, pounding the butt into Tanner’s neck and face and shoulders. Briggs felt the skin on his cheek split open. He held on. Xiang cocked back his leg and slammed his knee into Tanner’s groin. Pain erupted in his belly. He reached up, groping for Xiang’s eyes, his throat, anything. Hold on, Briggs.

“Bastard!” Xiang roared.

He kneed Tanner again, then again, then a third time, driving him backward across the deck.

Tanner felt his foot slip off the edge of the deck and onto the top step. He glanced down between his legs and saw his foot teetering on the edge of the step. Below him, the stairs dropped sharply to the beach. You’re going, Briggs, he thought. Take him with you …

He took a breath, corralled his last bit of strength, and pushed off into his good leg. He lifted Xiang off the ground, turned, and pitched himself down the stairs.

Locked together, they tumbled end over end. His vision became a blur of dark sky, steps, wooden railing, and flashing foliage. The impacts came one on top of the next, the wood gouging into his head, shoulders, and back. Tanner bit his tongue, tasted blood. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Then, suddenly, it was over.

He lay motionless for a few moments, then forced open his eyes. He was lying ten feet from the bottom of the stairs. Somewhere in the distance, a thousand miles away, he heard the swoosh-hiss of waves. Then, another sound: a gurgling.

A few feet away, Xiang lay on his side and stared up at him with bulging eyes. His upper arm hung across his chest while his lower one, pinned against the steps by his body, twitched spasmodically.

For a moment Tanner’s brain couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. Something was wrong … something about the way Xiang was lying. Then he saw it. Good God …

The violence of the fall had wrenched Xiang’s head nearly 180 degrees. His chin was resting on his shoulder blade. He coughed, a wet gurgle. Froth bubbled from his lips. His eyes, filled with a mixture of terror and confusion, darted around him, then returned to Tanner’s face.

Shot, Briggs thought. You’re shot, again …

He touched his chest, expecting to feel warm, wet blood. There was nothing. He probed his jacket until he found the bullet hole and, beneath it, a hard object. He reached into his pocket.

Hadin’s diary. The bullet had cut an oblique groove through the leather cover and half the pages before exiting the spine and punching out the side of his coat. Good ol’ Dashing Andy.

Beneath him, Xiang gurgled again. Wincing against the pain, Tanner scooted forward, dropped to the next step, then another until he was sitting beside him. Xiang’s lips curled into a snarl. He stared into Tanner’s eyes and tried to mouth something.

“What?” Briggs said.

Xiang tried again. This time Tanner caught it: Damn you …

Xiang hung on for several minutes, as each breath became more labored than the last. Tanner watched, unable to tear himself away as the life steadily slipped from Xiang. In the final seconds Xiang locked eyes with him, gave a final cough, twitched, and went still. His dead eyes gazed at the sky.

“Almost,” Tanner murmured. “But not quite.”

Tanner reached up, grabbed the railing, pulled himself upright, and began climbing.