The Quiet Ones, as the CIA called them, were two OH-6As specifically modified for stealth in an operation code-named MAINSTREET. The test flights were done at Area 51—giving rise to many a “black helicopter” conspiracy, and the ultra-quiet birds were handed over to CIA’s front company, Air America. Many who were in the business of stealth felt that there was no modern helicopter as quiet as these MAINSTREET Loaches had been.
Yao scoffed. “If you were the CIA and you’d developed the quietest chopper in history, would you toss it into the dung heap after a single secret mission into North Vietnam?”
“I suppose not,” Chavez said.
“Anyway,” Yao said, climbing into the truck, “my official answer is what black helicopter? I don’t know about any black helicopter.”
Before boarding one of the remaining trucks, the Mongolian military officer, a general named Baatar, welcomed the group to his country and gave a short speech about how Mongolia considered the United States its most important “Third Neighbor.” He assured them that he was at their disposal, and then urged them to consider departing his country as quickly and quietly as possible — so as not to alert the dragon or the bear who were his actual neighbors.
“I do not understand,” Medina Tohti said when they were all seated around the table and the truck was moving — also toward the airport in the city of Khovd. Her face was flushed red with sleepy warmth after hours in the cold. Everyone was beyond exhausted. “How did the Chinese not see us when we flew out? I know you stayed low, but surely they were looking—”
“They were,” Yao said. “But they were looking in the wrong place. Russia and Kazakhstan were less than twenty-five kilometers away from the lake. Mongolia was double that.” Yao gave an impish smile. “And someone may have reported the son of a Russian politburo member who had gone missing out on a mountain adventure in the wilderness area north of the border. Chinese air assets would have seen the search-and-rescue efforts on radar and assumed they were there to assist in our escape.”
Chavez put a hand flat on a blank yellow notepad in front of him. “They will, in fact, likely still assume that.”
“I would like to speak to my daughter again,” Medina said.
Chavez dug the satellite phone out of his duffel. Yao had obviously put it there when he thought he might be left behind. “Of course.” Chavez slid the phone across the table to her and yawned. “Entirely up to you, but it is the middle of the night where she is, just like it is here. I’m sure she is sleeping.”
Medina pushed the phone away. “Okay… then tell me what you want to know.”
“It involves Professor Liu Wangshu,” Yao said. “Why would Beijing be so determined to find you? What do you have to do with him?”
Chavez nodded. “That’s our question. Why you?”
“I am sure I do not know,” Medina said. “I was one of his engineering students for a time. I was what you would call his teaching assistant.”
“Forgive me for being so blunt,” Yao said. “But I know how the Han majority feel about Uyghur people. How were you able to attend university as a teaching assistant?”
“I am not offended,” Medina said. “In western China there are two kinds of schools for Uyghur children. Schools where Uyghur children learn Mandarin and Han Chinese history with other Uyghur children — and schools where Uygur children are fully integrated into schools that are majority Han. My math and science scores were such that I attended the latter. Eventually, I was sent to university. Hala was very young, but she was even more skilled in gymnastics than I was at mathematics. The state took her away to train at a special school in the city. I believe they may have done this so I would go willingly to Huludao.”
Ryan, who had said little up to this point, frowned. “Bastards.”
“Yes,” Medina said. “They are that — though they would assure the world that everything they do is for our good.” She sighed, staring down at the table as she spoke. “I am sure I was the first Uyghur student to hold this position with Professor Liu. And I feel equally sure I was the first female Uyghur engineering student. I believe he truly respected me for my intellect, though…” Her voice trailed off, changing direction. “We worked on several different projects, all having to do with propulsion — submarine drives, propellers, for the most part.” She glanced up. “Submarine propellers are often closely guarded secrets. Maybe this has something to do with that.”
“Maybe,” Yao said. “Were these projects all on paper, or did you have functional buildouts?”
