Prince Edward Island, South Africa
November 12, 4:30 A.M.
Lieutenant Colonel Raeburn actually welcomed the nighttime hours he spent in the cabin of the Chinese patrol boat.
He was seated on the galvanized floor, surrounded by the sailors who remained standing, studying their instruments, watching the sea, and receiving instructions from the corvette. He barely heard their chatter over the sound of his own breathing in the mask. Staying comfortable and trying to sleep, just a little, gave him something to do other than to think about the Exodus bug. Added to that was nausea from the constant rocking. He did not dare throw up, however. He could not risk removing the mask.
When ebb tide arrived it was time to move out. Raeburn’s eyes were shut; his only signal was the toe of a boot and the gesturing of the pistol.
The doctor’s knees were bent and it took effort to move. When he finally got up on his painfully straightened legs, he stood for a last moment savoring the heat of the cabin. The instant the door opened, the icy wind gusted in, making the yellow suit flutter. His parka would only retain heat for so long, though the airtight hazmat attire would hold it in a little longer.
He and the man with the pistol made their slow, cautious way back to the unnatural excavation in the seawall. The sailor was followed by a man with a small hatchet that had a ball-peen knob on the other end. Raeburn presumed it was onboard for chopping caked deck ice if the corvette went farther south.
The spotlights were on again, their white light on the black stone making the vista seem like a Doré etching, something from Rime of the Ancient Mariner—agonized faces cut into ice and rock or briefly formed by full-bodied, high-crested breakers. Because of the curvature of the rock wall, the sea smashed every which way and rebounded, arching backward, often higher than when it came in.
Tiny chunks of ice floated on the waves, worn smooth and occasionally cracking as they were heaved skyward.
The man with the ax removed a vinyl covering from a coiled rope hanging on a hook at the top of the rail. It was attached to a life preserver that hung beside it. He undid that end and, tucking the hatchet under his arm, tied the rope around the waist of each man. Raeburn wasn’t sure whether this was to keep them from drowning or him from trying to escape. There was nowhere to go, but the Chinese were cover-your-ass efficient that way.
With the sea spray, Raeburn realized those knots would tighten and solidify very quickly. The fate of one was the fate of all.
The man with the hatchet descended to the stones first, followed by the South African and then the sailor with the gun. The man put the pistol in a zippered pocket on the right leg, obviously realizing it was extraneous here. He removed a waterproof flashlight.
The men got their footing, the first man slowly putting his fingers around one of the wider cuts in the rock, careful not to tear his suit. He eased forward and used the ball-peen hammer to lightly tap away the edges of the opening from the inside out. Chips fell at their feet and plunked into the sea. When the hole had been sufficiently enlarged, the seaman swapped with his superior, the hatchet for the flashlight, and shined it down into the artificial fissure. There was enough play in the rope and room on the rocks for Raeburn to half walk, half slide his way around the man to peer down.
If Raeburn thought he had been sick before, he was wrong. What he saw made bile, shame, and tears rise in equal measure. Below, its heavy lid eaten like ratty cheese, was the concrete container with the canisters of the Exodus bug. It was set in the well-like tomb they had cut in the natural rock. Most of the large container was submerged in pooled water left over from high tide.
Raeburn took the sailor’s wrist and adjusted the flashlight so he could see inside. The acid had eaten through two of the six containers.
The people who had been here would not have seen that. Obviously and illegally looking for evidence of gem deposits, they had hand-drilled three holes in the roof of the well. He could see, in the light—as they surely did—faint traces of what looked like diamond dust. The person or persons had used acid to eat away the rock below them simply so they could fit their tools to drill up. They did not realize what they were releasing as the acid continued to burn down.
These were not careful geologists, Raeburn thought bitterly. They were poachers in a hurry.
Tragically, the recent visitors had drilled here for the same reason Raeburn had buried the bug here. The rocks afforded footing and the environment made it unlikely that anyone would come nosing around.
He did not know who was more reprehensible: himself or the pirates who had done this.
Accessing the containers from here would be difficult, especially in the time they had before the tides returned. They were going to have to chop through the rock near the waterline.
He indicated as much to the man standing beside him. The leader was watching and shook his head. He ordered the others back to the patrol boat. Raeburn hesitated as he looked up on deck, shielding his eyes from the bright spotlights. He saw two seamen on deck, each with a CQ 5.56 assault rifle.
They were going to shoot the wall away.
“No!” Raeburn shouted into his face mask. “You may damage one of the other containers, release more—”
“Tíngzhǐ!”
Raeburn heard the leader’s muted shout, saw his arm sweep angrily toward the patrol boat. He did not have to know the meaning to recognize he was being told to go back. To make the point, the leader withdrew his pistol.
The lieutenant colonel steadied himself on the wall to turn around, and did as he had been ordered. The man with the hatchet followed and the leader came after. When they were all back on deck, the two armed men listened to shouted directions from the man who had looked into the opening with Raeburn. He pointed and they nodded.
With the three men standing behind them, still tied, the sailors opened fire on the stone wall. Bullets and shards of stone pinged and ricocheted in all directions, sparks lighting the sky beyond the rocking cones of light. Raeburn watched carefully as the rock was picked apart, chewed up around the edges of the area with the container. As they continued firing, larger pieces of wall fell away. More and more of the concrete case was revealed; the way the lights were rolling with the flow of the ocean, the shifting shadows made the container seem to be breathing … alive.
Suddenly, the fusillade came to an abrupt stop as one of the lights went out. In the moment of silence, a single shot broke from above and shattered the other light.
The five men on deck stood very still in darkness that had suddenly become their enemy.
Commander Eugène van Tonder had not been able to reach anyone by radio for several hours. He did not expect to be able to talk to Simon but he had heard nothing from the outpost, either. Nor were they answering.
Equally puzzling, what was apparently the helicopter from the mainland had flown directly over—then continued on to Marion, without stopping. There was no way they could have missed the downed helicopter. Despite the drain on the batteries, he had kept the navigation lights on so the AH-2 would be seen.
It was perplexing and van Tonder wondered if Simon knew more than he did about the toxicity of whatever was out here. Perhaps Sisula had been evacuated. The commander would not necessarily have seen or heard the helicopter if it refueled and took off from the eastern side of Marion.
There was nothing to do but sit there with the mask on as Lieutenant Mabuza slept. An explanation would come—eventually. One of the many things van Tonder had learned in the navy was that it took its own time doing things, a pace that left no seaman content.
Van Tonder was forced to run the heater from time to time, and managed to sleep a little between. Waking up from the cold, he happened to notice the faintest glow from somewhere below the northern ledge. It was not long after midnight and the lights were only there a short while, but he had bundled himself as tight as possible against the wind—which included stuffing his gloves against his chest and shoving his hands in his deep pockets—and had gone out to investigate. He knew the terrain well enough from twice-daily patrols to know where the cliff ended.
Reaching the ledge, he looked down and saw what resembled a ship anchored and sloshing nearby. The lights were off, and he couldn’t be sure. Nor did he study it for very long. Off to the east, maybe a mile and a half, he saw lights that seemed to describe a shape he had studied and knew well, the silhouette of Chinese corvette.
Van Tonder was patriotically indignant and personally vengeful. These people had endangered the life of his comrade. The commander understood why the helicopter had not landed—and, most likely, why the outpost had gone silent.
He went back to the helicopter to wait for daylight. There was nothing else to do, except to make sure his firearms were in good working order.
When he heard the shots droning below, he got out again—this time with the clunky but powerful machine gun. That was the spot where he and Mabuza had been headed. He understood too, now, exactly what the Chinese were doing down there. They were trying to get at whatever this was.
That wasn’t going to happen.
The men were some two hundred feet below. He did not aim the M1919 Browning at the men but at their lights. The lamps exploded in turn and he dropped flat on his belly, his head back from the ledge. He expected the men to return fire.
They did not.
Either the Chinese Navy is suddenly afraid of the SAN or they are close to their goal and don’t want to be distracted, he thought. The latter, almost certainly.
He edged forward and looked down.
Working by flashlight now—which was protected by the back of one of the men so van Tonder could not shoot at it—three men were kneeling and huddled close around the gunned-out section of the wall of Ship Rock. One man appeared to be reaching into the wall while another was standing by the ladder of the rocking boat. He was handed what looked like a cooler, the kind used for organ transplants. Van Tonder could not be sure in the dull light.
He considered the situation carefully.
They are military trespassers. Are they invaders? What happens if I cut them down? Does the corvette open fire?
Still lying flat on the cold rock, he trained his gun on the rear of the vessel, where the fuel tanks were located. If he could perforate those, the patrol boat would not be going anywhere.
He fired again.
He saw the distant sparks of the bullets as they met the hull. It was impossible to tell what damage he might have caused. He would only know by the reactions of the crew.
This time the Chinese on deck fired—lower than the ledge, not at him. They drove him back, which was apparently all they wanted.
He wished he could offload Mabuza and drive the damn helicopter over the cliff onto the stern to stop them from leaving.
Van Tonder heard shouting from below. Something had happened but he could not be sure whether it was his doing or something at the wall. He edged ahead even slower than before.
The shouts were from the wall. The light was playing every which way and it was like trying to see terrain by flashes of lightning. But what he saw—what he thought he saw—was a nightmare made real.