time before they think to check on you.”
Choi watched in stunned silence as Taft quickly withdrew a global positioning system, or GPS, from his pack. He scanned the numbers, checking their exact location. Staring briefly at a plastic-covered map, Taft next glanced at the small compass on his wristwatch, then stuffed the GPS and map back in the pack.
“This way,” he said quietly to Choi.
Choi struggled to keep pace with Taft, who made his way quickly down the gully. After a twenty-minute jog, Taft stopped and checked their location once again. Glancing at the moon, he took a northern fork of the gully. Two hundred yards later, the pair sighted the Shule River. The river was flooded with recent rains and the muddy water surged quickly past. Taft stopped and took his bearings again. After staring around for a second, he walked a few feet to the left then reached beneath a pile of brush at the water’s edge and removed a metal folding shovel.
“Eureka,” Taft said quietly.
Choi watched in amazement as Taft unfolded the shovel and began quickly digging in the sand of the riverbank. After removing two feet of sand overburden, Taft uncovered a four-foot-by-six-foot wooden crate. He dragged the box out of the hole and pried open the top with the shovel. Moving quickly now, he removed a package from the box and tossed it on the ground. Next he pulled a nylon cord lanyard. With a loud hiss a black rubber raft began to inflate. When the raft was partially inflated he pulled a strip running down the center. This released a catalyst into die bottom compartment, and he waited as the chemicals mixed and the floor became rigid.
“So far so good,” Taft said, as he dug farther into the crate and removed a compact four-stroke outboard motor and an auxiliary fuel tank.
Taft looked at Choi, then into the box. “You want a cold beer?”
Seeing the look of shock on Choi’s face, Taft smiled. “Just having fun with you, pal,” he said quietly.
Moving rapidly, Taft dragged the raft into the water. Wading in, he attached the motor to the stern, then placed the extra fuel tank in the rear. Taft climbed back onto the shore and threw the wooden crate in the hole and shoveled sand over the top. After smoothing the sand with the shovel, he brushed over the area with a tree limb to blend it in with the surrounding shoreline. Hoisting the shovel to his shoulder like an ax, he turned to the thoroughly stunned Choi. “How do you feel about boat rides?”
“They’re okay,” Choi stammered, still somewhat in shock.
“Good. Climb in,” Taft said, wading in the river. Then he tossed the shovel inside and pulled the stem farther into the current.
“You ride in front,” he said to Choi.
Choi settled into the bow as Taft, dripping water, climbed over the side at the stern. He settled into the seat and pulled the rope start for the motor. Firing on the first pull, it quietly settled into a low rumble.
Taft flicked the reverse gear on the motor body and backed the raft into the current. As the force of the current flipped the bow around and downstream, he flipped the gear box into forward and began to steer the raft downstream. In a matter of three minutes’ time the raft was approaching speeds of thirty miles an hour.
Wrapping his arm around the tiller, Taft pushed a series of buttons on his watch again. When he finished, he throttled the outboard to full speed. The wind from the raft shooting downstream was whipping Choi’s hair as he turned in his bow seat and glanced back at Taft. The American was staring straight downriver. A dull glow was emanating from his icy blue eyes as he steered the raft carefully through the narrow rock canyons.
Although Choi could not hear over the muffled roar of the engine and the sound of the water slapping against the hull, Taft’s lips were pursed.
It appeared he was whistling.
CHAPTER 5
In the nerve center of the Qinghai facility it was absolute chaos. The portable radios carried by the
Choi watched in stunned silence as Taft quickly withdrew a global positioning system, or GPS, from his pack. He scanned the numbers, checking their exact location. Staring briefly at a plastic-covered map, Taft next glanced at the small compass on his wristwatch, then stuffed the GPS and map back in the pack.
“This way,” he said quietly to Choi.
Choi struggled to keep pace with Taft, who made his way quickly down the gully. After a twenty-minute jog, Taft stopped and checked their location once again. Glancing at the moon, he took a northern fork of the gully. Two hundred yards later, the pair sighted the Shule River. The river was flooded with recent rains and the muddy water surged quickly past. Taft stopped and took his bearings again. After staring around for a second, he walked a few feet to the left then reached beneath a pile of brush at the water’s edge and removed a metal folding shovel.
“Eureka,” Taft said quietly.
Choi watched in amazement as Taft unfolded the shovel and began quickly digging in the sand of the riverbank. After removing two feet of sand overburden, Taft uncovered a four-foot-by-six-foot wooden crate. He dragged the box out of the hole and pried open the top with the shovel. Moving quickly now, he removed a package from the box and tossed it on the ground. Next he pulled a nylon cord lanyard. With a loud hiss a black rubber raft began to inflate. When the raft was partially inflated he pulled a strip running down the center. This released a catalyst into die bottom compartment, and he waited as the chemicals mixed and the floor became rigid.
“So far so good,” Taft said, as he dug farther into the crate and removed a compact four-stroke outboard motor and an auxiliary fuel tank.
Taft looked at Choi, then into the box. “You want a cold beer?”
Seeing the look of shock on Choi’s face, Taft smiled. “Just having fun with you, pal,” he said quietly.
Moving rapidly, Taft dragged the raft into the water. Wading in, he attached the motor to the stern, then placed the extra fuel tank in the rear. Taft climbed back onto the shore and threw the wooden crate in the hole and shoveled sand over the top. After smoothing the sand with the shovel, he brushed over the area with a tree limb to blend it in with the surrounding shoreline. Hoisting the shovel to his shoulder like an ax, he turned to the thoroughly stunned Choi. “How do you feel about boat rides?”
“They’re okay,” Choi stammered, still somewhat in shock.
“Good. Climb in,” Taft said, wading in the river. Then he tossed the shovel inside and pulled the stem farther into the current.
“You ride in front,” he said to Choi.
Choi settled into the bow as Taft, dripping water, climbed over the side at the stern. He settled into the seat and pulled the rope start for the motor. Firing on the first pull, it quietly settled into a low rumble.
Taft flicked the reverse gear on the motor body and backed the raft into the current. As the force of the current flipped the bow around and downstream, he flipped the gear box into forward and began to steer the raft downstream. In a matter of three minutes’ time the raft was approaching speeds of thirty miles an hour.
Wrapping his arm around the tiller, Taft pushed a series of buttons on his watch again. When he finished, he throttled the outboard to full speed. The wind from the raft shooting downstream was whipping Choi’s hair as he turned in his bow seat and glanced back at Taft. The American was staring straight downriver. A dull glow was emanating from his icy blue eyes as he steered the raft carefully through the narrow rock canyons.
Although Choi could not hear over the muffled roar of the engine and the sound of the water slapping against the hull, Taft’s lips were pursed.
It appeared he was whistling.
CHAPTER 5
In the nerve center of the Qinghai facility it was absolute chaos. The portable radios carried by the
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