The Emperor's Tomb

first. One thought flashed through his mind. The floats on the underside of each wing needed to stay on top of the water, as both could quickly become anchors.

The Twin Bee bounced twice, then hydroplaned. The rudder fishtailed and the plane came to a rest about two hundred yards from shore.

He popped open the door.

Cassiopeia did the same on her side.

The Twin Bee bobbed in the agitated water, its fuselage riddled with bullet holes. Malone studied the sky. The fighter was nowhere to be seen. Off to the south, a flash appeared. An instant later a vapor trail snaked a path across the morning sky.

He knew instantly what was happening.

Air-to-ground missile, its fire-and-forget active radar zeroing in on them.

“In the lake. Now. Go deep,” he yelled.

He waited an instant to make sure that both Cassiopeia and Pau made it into the peaty-green water, then leaped in. He ignored the chill and powered himself toward the bottom, pawing with cupped hands.

Another disturbing thought swept through his brain. Pollution. Most likely this water was not safe.

A few seconds later an explosion rocked the surface as the Twin Bee was obliterated by the missile. He arched his body and kicked for the surface. His head found air and he opened his eyes to see nothing left of the amphibian except burning wreckage.

A second later Cassiopeia and Pau broke the surface.

“You okay?” he called out.

Both nodded.

“We need to get to shore.”

He waded around the smoldering debris, toward them. He cocked his head toward the south. A black dot began to grow in size.

The Annihilator was returning.

“Float in the water, facedown. Play dead,” he said, “and don’t move until he’s gone.”

He quickly assumed the same position and hoped the trick worked. He’d wondered why the fighter had not simply shot them down. It would have been easy, especially in the beginning when its presence was unknown. But the idea had surely been to allow the lake to swallow the evidence.

He extended his arms and allowed his body to float, hoping the pilot did not ensure the kill with a strafe of cannon fire.

FORTY-EIGHT

LANZHOU

TANG LEFT THE LABORATORY, SATISFIED THAT THE PROBLEM OF Lev Sokolov had been resolved. He’d instructed the men he’d left to guard the facility that any attempt to escape should be met with deadly force. He now knew enough to know how to begin—with or without Sokolov. The Russian merely offered a more convenient way to confirm the discovery, not the only means.

And its implications were enormous.

China craved more than 300,000,000 tons of crude a year. Its industrial output—which meant its entire economy—was based on oil. Sixty % was currently imported from Africa, Latin America, and Russia, as a way not to be vulnerable to volatile Middle East politics and not be within America’s sphere of influence. Why else, except to monopolize the Middle East oil supply, had America occupied Iraq? No reason he could conceive, and his foreign affairs experts said the same. Those same experts had repeatedly warned that the United States could easily wield Middle Eastern oil as a weapon. Just a minor disruption in supply could send China into a free fall, one that the government would be impotent to halt. He was tired of dealing with rogue nations rich in oil. Just a few weeks back, billions of yuan had been loaned to another African nation that would never repay—all to ensure that China was first on its oil export list. The present regime’s foreign policy—a dizzying blend of appeasement, contradiction, dismissal, and defense—had long bartered away ballistic missiles, nuclear resources, and precious technology just to ensure that oil kept flowing inward.

That demeaned China, and exposed a weakness.

But all that could change if the thousands of wells that now dotted China could provide perpetual energy. He could not reveal the how, but he could exploit the what by keeping the oil flowing and eliminating the tankers that flooded into Chinese ports every day loaded with foreign crude. Results bred success, and success bred pride. Properly packaged and distributed, its effects could certainly bolster any political regime.

According to the fossil fuel theory, he knew China possessed a mere 2.1% of the world’s oil reserves. The United States 2.7%. Russia 7%. The Middle East, 65%. Nothing can be done about Arab dominance, one of his vice ministers had recently warned. He disagreed. It all depended on what you knew.

His phone rang.

He stopped walking toward the waiting car and answered.

“The target is on the lake,” Viktor Tomas said.

The idea had been to attack Pau Wen’s plane with minimal attention. Radio traffic, monitored by countless governmental agencies, including officials in Yunnan province, would verify that an unidentified aircraft had been intercepted by an army fighter. Protocol required that the intruder be brought to the ground.

“Survivors?” he asked.

“Three. In the water. The fighter is making its final pass. He’ll use cannons to make sure they will not be swimming to shore.”

“You know what to do.”

MALONE LAY PRONE, THE WATER SPLASHING IN AND OUT OF HIS ears making it difficult to hear. He was hoping three floating bodies would satisfy the pilot’s curiosity. He risked only a slight angle of his head and determined that the fighter was still south, its afterburners growing in intensity.

Then a new sound invaded. From the east.

The steady thump of whirling blades biting through air.

He rolled over and shook the water from his face.

A helicopter roared in over the treetops. Bulkier than a swift-attack chopper, more an armed transport. The craft assumed a position over the lake, facing south. Cassiopeia and Pau both apparently sensed a change and started treading water, watching, too.

“Malone,” a voice said through external speakers. “I’m contacting the jet and asking the pilot to retreat.”

Viktor.

Malone treaded water and watched as the Annihilator continued its approach.

“He doesn’t seem to want to listen,” Viktor said.

Another few seconds passed, then flames exploded from the chopper’s underwing as two air-to-air missiles erupted from their pods. Each followed a track for the fighter. Less than ten seconds later the jet disintegrated, its burning debris emerging from a dense cloud of black smoke and showering the distant shore with wreckage.

“We have to get out of this water,” Malone called out.

They started swimming toward shore.

“Would you like a lift?” Viktor asked.

The chopper hovered over them.

Two cables with harnesses descended.

“You and Pau take them,” he said. “I’ll swim.”

“A little foolish, isn’t it?” Cassiopeia said, as she and Pau strapped themselves in.

“Not to me.”