Wall of Night by Grant Blackwood Page B

I’m …”
    â€œI know. Just breathe. Enjoy the sun.”
    After a few seconds, Bian’s posture eased. “Your people are interested in helping the general?”
    â€œWe are.”
    â€œWhat about his conditions? He was adamant about the man he mentioned.”
    â€œWe’re working on it. First off, though, I have to ask you some questions.”
    Brown spent fifteen minutes questioning Bian about himself: school, family, work, hobbies, and finally, his motivation for helping Soong. All the answers would later be dissected by the Intelligence Directorate, then compared to what they already knew about the man. If any inconsistencies appeared, the DO would have the option to either abort the operation, or order it forward with the knowledge that Bian may be damaged goods.
    â€œWhere is Soong right now?” Brown asked.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œHe’s in a laogi somewhere to the north, but I don’t know its location.”
    â€œThen how are you in contact with him?”
    â€œI’m sorry, the general was very specific. I can only give those details to the man he asked for … this Tanner person.”
    Alarms went off in Brown’s head. “That’s unacceptable.”
    â€œI know.” Bian hesitated, started to speak, then stopped. “I …”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHe’ll be angry I gave you this information.”
    â€œWhy? What information?”
    â€œHe desperately wants to get his family out of China with him.”
    â€œWe assumed that,” Brown said. “I don’t understand—”
    â€œThat’s why he wants Tanner to come here. Soong trusts him.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo, I may know a simpler way. You may be able to get him out without setting foot in China.”
    San Clemente Island, California
    If not for the added conditions, tonight’s exercise would have been a simple one, something Master Chief Robert Jurens and his team of three SEALs had done dozens of times. In this case, the “added conditions” involved a guided missile frigate lobbing three-inch shells onto the beach they were trying to reconnoiter.
    Known to fellow operators as “Sconi” because of his proud Wisconsin upbringing (one of the only black dairy farming families in the state, he was fond of telling people), Jurens was a rail-thin black man with a goatee and an easy smile. Jurens had been on the teams for fourteen years, having gone from a lowly seaman during BUD/s training to one of the youngest master chiefs in the navy. Since navy SpecWar ran on the merit system, he was frequently put in command of platoons, often over the heads of commissioned officers. No one complained. Jurens knew his business and he knew how to lead.
    Tonight’s swim-in had been taxing, largely because the currents surrounding San Clemente Island were ferocious. In wartime they would have come here to map the shoals for obstacles, dangerous gradients, bed consistency—anything that might impede an amphibious force.
    Through the murky water Jurens could hear the muffled whoosh-crump of the three-inch shells pounding the beach ahead of them. Very close, he thought. He could feel the impacts rumbling through the sand beneath him. Hope the fire-control boys are on their game tonight.
    He reached out and gave the buddy-line a double tug, signaling the team to advance. His belly scraped the sand. As each wave crashed over his head and then receded he caught glimpses of sloped beach and—
    Crump ! A geyser of sand and flame erupted on the beach, then another.
    Suddenly he saw a flicker of blue light in the corner of his eye. He rolled onto his back and poked his mask out of the water. High above, a flare arced into the sky, followed a moment later by a yellow. It was the “abort exercise” signal.
    The other team members had also seen it, and one by one they waded ashore. Before anyone could