Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

HMLA stood for Helicopter Marine Light Attack.

“I was stationed at Norfolk for a while,” Moon said. “Been to New River a couple of times.”

She’d dated a Marine from Air Station New River for a while. The three-hour drive had been worth it, but then he’d shipped off with a one-way ticket to Fallujah. She mentioned none of this to Corporal Goen, who, she suspected, was at least fifteen years her junior.

“Navy, huh?” The crew chief gave a wide grin. “That’s some different shit, huh, pardon my French. Marines giving you a lift somewhere instead of the other way around.”

“No kidding,” Moon said. “Hard to believe your commander let you fly all the way out here to get one person.”

Captain Pelkey turned to look over his shoulder from the cockpit. He was hooked up to the intercom as well. “That’s correct, Doc. Someone further up the chain said make it so, so we’re makin’ it so. Colonel Cruz wanted to come with us, but frankly we needed the weight for fuel.” Pelkey returned his attention to the cockpit instruments again, but kept talking. “Your ship is right at the edge of how far we can go and get back before bingo. Wind’s been kind of snarky, and with these cold temps, we’re seeing as much as a five percent loss in range.”

Moon nodded. “I’ll bet. The speed of sound decreases with the temperature, increasing Mach drag on your rotors.”

Captain Pelkey turned to look at her again. “You fly choppers in the Navy?”

“Nope,” Moon said. “Sonar. Sound. It’s sort of my thing.”

“Still …” Pelkey shook his head. “Anyhoo, weather between here and Utqiagvik is marginal, but we’re equipped for it. We should have you back in a little under an hour and a half. I understand there’ll be a C-21 Learjet out of Eielson Air Force Base waiting to take you to Washington.”

“Unbelievable,” Moon said, mostly to herself, but it went across the intercom. “At least I can visit friends on Whidbey Island, I guess …”

“The other Washington,” Pelkey said. “The one on the Potomac.”

Suddenly chilled, Moon looked out the window at the passing ice as the Super Huey banked to the south. If they were going to fire her, they would have waited for Sikuliaq to make her next port call. No, Barker had come through and submitted her findings up his chain of command. Someone believed her theory enough to spend a considerable amount of money snatching her off the middle of the ice pack. She could not believe it. They actually wanted her expertise. Unless … what if she truly had stumbled on some ultra-secret operation and they were calling her in to silence her?

She’d grown up in the Arctic, a place with no snakes, but she’d seen enough of the world after leaving home to know that in Washington, D.C., there were vipers behind every rock and tree.

24

The American smelled like soap and oiled leather—like the saddle of a horse Hala’s father had once set her on at the market. He spoke softly, obviously trying not to frighten her. That would be impossible, she thought. Her aunt had died saving her and now lay on the floor mere paces from the lifeless blood-drenched lumps that had once been horrible men.

He said his name was John, and that he was a friend—but nothing more. He’d saved her from Ren, but that only made him slightly less terrifying. John found some pomegranate juice in the kitchen and made her drink it, telling her the sugar would make her feel a little better. He moved quickly, looking out front a lot, like he thought someone else might be coming.

“We need to go,” he said after Hala drank all her juice. “It’s not safe here.”

She chewed on her collar. “Where?”

“I’m not sure.” He looked out the window again, then stepped to the door. “As quick as you can, wash up and change into clean clothes. Sturdy and warm.”

“Clothes are clothes,” she said. “Why would anyone wear clothes that were not sturdy and warm?”

“Right,” the man said. “Quick as you can.”

Hala began to panic when he eased open the door. “Are you leaving?”

“I’m not going anywhere without you, kiddo,” John said. “But these guys had a friend outside. I need to bring him in so your neighbors don’t call the police.”

“But you’re coming back in?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.” Hala gave a shuddering sigh, still chewing her collar. “I will go clean off this blood.”

The idea had been to watch Hala Tohti. Clark was supposed to ascertain if there was anything about the girl that might lead to her mother’s whereabouts. Observe and report. Interview Hala and her aunt if it came to that. Taking either of them had never been on the table. Getting a third party out of any part of China would be difficult enough. Xinjiang, and particularly Kashgar, had so many cameras, checkpoints, and armed patrols that leaving here with anyone would be akin to breaking them out of prison.

Clark dragged the body of the sentry into the house and dropped it in the corner beside a wooden chair. He sighed to himself.

No plan survived first contact with the enemy—which was often a boot to the nose. Things changed. The girl was coming with him, one way or another. She was as good as dead if he left her here.

The room was filled with far too much carnage to fret about the poor kid seeing more of it. He found a cloth vegetable sack in one of the cupboards and filled it with two rounds of naan bread and a shank of roast meat he thought was probably lamb.

The girl had been cooperative so far, apparently accepting the fact that she had no other choice than to come with him, considering the four dead bodies in her living room. Clark knew he could be terrifying, but this girl was incredibly resilient. Judging from her scraped knuckles and the amount of blood covering her body, she’d been smack in the middle of the violence that occurred here. She’d been trying to help her aunt cut a man’s throat when he came in—and then watched Clark finish the job. No, she was tough as a boot. And it would take a whole lot more of the same if they were both going to get out of the country alive.

Hala was washed and dressed by the time Clark had dragged in the dead driver and filled the canvas sack with provisions. The wooly fake-fur ruff around the hood of her blue coat looked out of place against the scene behind her.

“I was thinking,” she said. “There is an old caravanserai about twelve kilometers away from here. We can take my aunt’s scooter.”

“Which direction?”

Hala pointed. “Near the livestock market.”

Caravanserais were the truck stops of the ancient Silk Road that connected China through Central Asia to the rest of the world. Water and food stops for man and beast. A place for weary travelers to lay their heads and worry slightly less about getting their throats cut at night by robbers wanting to take their animals and cargo.

“No one else stays there?”

“It was empty when I went there before. My father let me explore it when he took me to the livestock market. It is not far away, maybe two kilometers into the desert. The spring there has dried up, so no one goes there anymore.”

Clark thought for a moment. The livestock market was RP Bravo, one of six SHTF rally points in and around Kashgar he’d prearranged with Midas, options for places to meet if things hit the proverbial fan—which they had. It was also the location of Adam Yao’s in-country contact. The area would be crawling with police and soldiers—especially on a Sunday—but it also was a popular tourist destination, a place where it was said a person could find everything but the milk of a chicken. Clark counted on the crowd to be able to blend in.

“The market is on Sunday,” he said. “That’s tomorrow.”