Dragon Sim-13 (30 page)

Yongsan Army Base, Seoul, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 0030 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 9:30 a.m. Local

Hossey stared at the phone in disbelief. It had taken him more than an hour to get through the notoriously screwed-up Korean autovon military system to talk to the duty officer at US-SOCOM, and the man had just hung up on him. It was eight at night at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, and the only person Hossey could talk to was the duty officer, a Major Mills, who had almost laughed at Hossey's assertion that he had men on the ground in China who needed exfil tonight. The major said he worked in the S-3 shop and would know if US-SOCOM was running a live operation.

Hossey had referred him to the SFOB they had been working with up at Fort Meade. Then the major did laugh. "You mean the exercise up there?" The major turned serious. "That's a classified exercise and we shouldn't be talking about it over an open line." There had been a second of silence. Then Major Mills swore. "You're with the exercise team, aren't you? You're trying to test our security." That was when he had hung up.

Hossey looked at the other two men in the room. "What the hell is going on?"

Changbai Mountains, China Saturday, 10 June, 0100 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 9:00 a.m. Local

They'd been moving for two hours and had covered three kilometers. Already there had been two overflights by helicopters. The hunt was picking up pace. A Z-9 had flown by thirty minutes after first light and gone up the draw over the crest. An S-70 had flown by only ten minutes ago, heading in the same direction. Riley knew that the Chinese were serious about this operation if they were using their most advanced helicopters in the search.

All four healthy team members were now carrying the stretcher. It had gotten to be too much for just two of them. Mitchell was moving about twenty-five meters ahead of them, through the trees, to provide early warning. He carried his MP5 submachine gun in his left hand and would fire it one-handed if needed.

Riley was halting the team for rest every thirty minutes. After only two hours he could feel the strain of carrying Olinski.

Riley doubted very much that their message had been received. They'd angled Hoffman's wire antenna so that the message would go south toward Korea. But the more Riley thought about it, the more pessimistic he became. He started chiding himself again for burning all the equipment at the pickup zone. Team 3 had had a lot of bad luck on this mission, but that had been a poor decision, not bad luck.

Riley knew that Mitchell was also blaming himself. As the commander, he was technically responsible for everything the detachment did or failed to do. There's too much self-recrimination going on, Riley thought, and he was one of the worst. He vowed to put an end to it. Moping over mistakes of the past wasn't going to do anyone any good. It was draining energy that was needed to solve the problems of the present.

Riley halted the team for the next break. They slumped to the ground as Mitchell came back and rejoined them. Riley looked at the faces etched with fatigue. He got up on one knee and faced the discouraged men.

"Listen up. There's some of us walking around, and being carried around," he glanced at Olinski, "who are spending a lot of mental energy bitching at themselves for what's happened so far. I know that the captain and I both feel real bad about burning the rucks on exfiltration. If we had brought them along we'd be a lot better off right now."

Riley looked each person in the eye as he talked to them. "C.J., you're getting down on yourself for losing your aircraft and copilot. Olinski, you're feeling bad because we have to carry you. Comsky, you're probably feeling bad because you don't have the supplies to help the hurt people. Hoffman, you're down because we burned out the transmitter. Tom, I don't know if anything is bugging you or not," Riley said, looking at Chong.

"But this bullshit has got to stop. We've got to get our heads out of our butts and think about the here and now. We succeeded in blowing the target. We're alive when we should be dead. We're moving. We have the possibility of exfiltration tonight. Yeah, I'll be honest and admit it's not a sure thing, but it's something. If we don't get out tonight, we make it across the border and to the coast and steal a boat or whatever. This life is the only one you got. If you all want to roll over and play dead, then we might as well go stand in the middle of a field and give the finger to the next helicopter that flies by. But that's not the way I'm going. I'm going to the pickup zone. Every one of you has to decide right now whether you want to go on or stay here and roll over."

Riley got up and looked at the team. It was the longest speech he'd ever made in his life.

Slowly, one by one, the men got to their feet. Olinski looked up from his stretcher. "You guys might as well carry me along. Comsky wouldn't be happy if he didn't have enough injuries to play with."

Yongsan Army Base, Seoul, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 0130 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 10:30 a.m. Local

Hossey was running into a stone wall. No one seemed to know anything about the mission they had just run. He had tried Fort Meade and been told by the post duty officer that US-SOCOM was not running an operational headquarters anywhere. The emergency phone number for the FOB was now listed as no longer in service. The duty officer had referred him to the National Security Agency, which also had pleaded ignorance.

Hossey was weaponless in his fight against the entrenched bureaucracy. He couldn't tell people exactly why he was calling because they weren't cleared to know, and since he couldn't tell them, they weren't very interested in his "very sensitive and urgent matter." Even when he tried being explicit about the reason for the urgency, he had been ignored—it was too preposterous. Hossey felt that eventually he would get through to someone who could take some action. But it could take the rest of the day. Time was running out. He had even tried 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group, in Okinawa and encountered the same disbelief.

Trapp looked up from the maps he was poring over as Hossey slammed down the phone in disgust. "Listen, sir. Even if you got through to someone, you know they aren't going to be able to do a damn thing. Not by tonight at least. It's the middle of a Friday night over there." Trapp stabbed a finger at the maps. "Even if you did get someone to act, there isn't an aircraft handy that can do the mission. The range is too great. If anybody is going to do anything, it's got to be us."

Hooker had been watching Hossey's fruitless phone calls, and now he stood up. "Show me on the map where the pickup zone is."

Trapp pointed out the location. Hooker looked at it and then at the large-scale map on the wall that showed Korea, Japan, and southeastern China. He took out a scale ruler and started measuring distance, then shook his head.

'They're a hell of a long way away. I don't know. The 2d Infantry Division up at Camp Casey has Blackhawks, but I kind of doubt we can talk the division commander out of one to fly this mission. You've seen what kind of results we get when we call up someone." Hooker rubbed his face. "I don't suppose either of you are helicopter pilots. We could go steal one. Hell, even then, a Blackhawk can't make it from Korea to China and back out, even going to Japan. It's too far. It would have to refuel somewhere."

Something clicked in Trapp's mind. He stood up suddenly. "I know what we can do. I don't know if it will work, but it's a start in the right direction. At least it beats sitting around here wasting our time on the phone. Hook, we're going to need your help. We need you to get us some things first, then we're going to need you to drive."

"And if in all respects unequal, be capable

of eluding him, for a small force is but booty

for one more powerful."

Sun Tzu: The Art of War

46th Army Headquarters, Yanji, China Saturday, 10 June, 0200 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 10:00 a.m. Local

Tugur had taken over the army commander's office. He sat behind the desk, wreathed in cigarette smoke, with maps of the area spread out in front of him. He glanced up as the army commander walked in. The man seated himself across the desk and peered at the colonel for a few seconds before beginning his situation report. Tugur could tell that the man resented his presence but was too afraid of Yang to make an issue of it.

"All units are in place, Colonel. Two hours early. They are ready to move out when you give the order. We have also received a report from the crash site. They say that the explosion and fire make it impossible to determine the type or nationality of the aircraft. It appears to have been a helicopter. There are some human remains scattered about the area. Again, it is impossible to determine the number or nationalities of casualties."

Tugur shook his head. "Unacceptable! Tell that idiot up there I want to know how many casualties and the type and nationality of the aircraft. I don't care if he has to put the pieces together, both the aircraft and bodies, by hand." 

"Yes, Colonel. I told him that they must remain up there all night if need be, until they have the answers we require. Since it will be cold tonight, I am sure they will work somewhat harder."

Tugur allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "Good. Anything else?"

"Should we not begin the sweep now? All units are in place and awaiting your command."

"Go ahead and get them started." Tugur stirred. "I need to make some phone calls." He waited until the army commander was out of the office, then dialed Yang's number.

"Sir, this is Tugur. The search has started."

Yang's voice acknowledged the news. "Good. We have another problem. I have an eyes-only message from Prime Minister Li Peng demanding any information I have on the terrorists who committed this act. It asks specifically for any indication that students might have been involved."

Tugur digested this new information. His fears grew stronger and more defined. Obviously Yang had not forwarded word on the helicopter. Knowledge is power, Tugur knew. But getting caught withholding knowledge could be very dangerous. They were in over their heads here.

Apparently Yang had come to the same conclusion. "I sent the prime minister a message telling him of the recent discovery of a crash site and also detailing our efforts to catch the terrorists. I hope that will satisfy him." There was a pause and Tugur could almost hear Yang thinking over the phone line. "Why would Li Peng be so interested in this situation? I would think he has enough problems in Beijing to occupy him. None of this makes very much sense. Why would foreigners destroy our pipeline?"

"I do not know, sir." Tugur had no answers and felt that it was a waste of time to speculate. He did not want to mention his personal fear—that the sabotage had been conducted by dissident Chinese soldiers trying to destabilize the government. The only things Tugur didn't understand were where the men had stolen the helicopter, and where they had been fleeing to when they crashed.

Yang hung up the phone. Tugur was more disturbed than ever by Yang's scheming. It was much easier being a simple soldier. Yang was trying to use this incident to advance his career, a move that could easily backfire. There was quite a bit of political maneuvering going on in Beijing, with some of the more liberal generals trying to lever

out the Old Men. Despite their long association, Tugur didn't know where Yang's allegiances lay. Yang had sent divisions down to Beijing to help settle the unrest there, so he was at least putting up the appearance of supporting the current regime. Tugur shook his head. He didn't like it.

Tugur entered the operations center for the army. The radio calls were going out, and the three divisions of the 46th Army had begun moving. From Yanji, down two hundred kilometers to Mount Paektu, the roughly thirty thousand men of the army turned to the west, away from the North Korean border, and moved toward the mountains.

Camp Page, ChunChon, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 0430 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 1:30 p.m. Local

The last people Jean Long expected to see in the doorway of her office were Lieutenant Colonel Hossey and Sergeant Major Hooker, accompanied by a Special Forces warrant officer. The surprise on her face was evident as her first sergeant knocked on the door and escorted them in. Her company was working this Saturday, which wasn't unusual, since they had worked nine Saturdays in a row, trying desperately to keep up with Department of the Army standards for operational readiness.

The ride to ChunChon from Seoul had been harrowing. Hooker had negotiated the narrow mountain road with a skill that any native-born Korean would have been proud of. The normal two-hour ride had taken them only an hour and a half. Five minutes ago they had finally driven down the bustling main street of ChunChon and, at the end of the street, arrived at the only gate to Camp Page.

Jean stood up and greeted them. Hossey introduced her to Warrant Officer Trapp.

"John didn't tell me you were coming up here on an exercise when I talked to him last, sir."

Hossey shut the door behind the departing first sergeant. "I'm not here on a training exercise."

Jean took in the three men's haggard faces and somber expressions. "Did something happen to John? Is he all right?"

"We don't know," Trapp answered. 

Jean stood stock-still. "You don't know! What do you mean you don't know? Where is he?"

Hossey fielded that one. "He's in China."

Captain Long sat back in her chair and let that sink in.

Hossey turned to Trapp. "Give her a brief summary of what's happened."

Hooker held up his hand. "I think I'd better go out and stay by my car, just in case some roving MP decides to get a little nosy and check out what's under the blankets in the back seat." He slipped out the door and shut it behind him.

Trapp began a quick narration of events. Jean remained composed throughout the story, occasionally asking a question for clarification. When Trapp finished, she sat silently for a few seconds. Then she reached into her desk and started to rummage through the drawers. She pulled out a large-scale aviator's map. "Give me those grids again."

As Trapp repeated the numbers, she plotted them out. Then she pulled out a ruler and started calculating.

"I've already done some plotting," Trapp told her, "and there's no way to get in and back without a refuel. And that was using the 1st Group's special ops Blackhawks with external tanks. It's too far."

Jean agreed. "I figure almost five hundred and fifty-nine nautical miles in from here, then the same coming back. Hell, our Blackhawks can only go two hundred and sixty total miles on their normal fuel tanks." She was struck by a thought. Getting up, she walked to the door and called to her first sergeant. "Top, what's the status on 579?"

First Sergeant Lucky spit a stream of tobacco juice into the Coke can he carried. "Ma'am, she's ready to go for that goddamn dog and pony show down at Tango Range tomorrow. I didn't get to tell you earlier this morning, but the colonel ordered everything put on that damn bird. This morning our armament guys wasted three hours loading that thing up with those new Stingers. They just finished about a half hour ago. It's sitting over in the secure holding area now."

"What about the internal auxiliary tanks?"

The first sergeant looked at his commander as if she'd grown wings. "Ma'am, we weren't told to put in the auxiliary tanks."

"I just got off the phone with the colonel, and he says he wants them in."

The first sergeant cursed resignedly. "Damn, ma'am! We've haven't put those things in since we deployed last year to Okinawa. That's going to waste another two hours of maintenance time." 

"I told the colonel that, but he insisted. This is one of those arguments we're not going to win."

The first sergeant spit another gob into the can. "Yes, ma'am. I'll get them started on it. Make it look real purty for the colonel. You know how many hours of good maintenance time we've wasted getting 579 ready for this display? I'm surprised they didn't have us paint and wax the damn thing."

"Don't say that too loud or someone might hear. Thanks, Top."

Jean closed the door and looked at the two men who had been following the conversation without much comprehension. She explained. "We've got an aircraft going down to Tango Range tomorrow to be part of a military display for a bunch of high-ranking Korean officers. I'm going to have my people put in the four internal auxiliary tanks. Normally we don't use them."

She pulled a manual off the bookcase behind her. "With internal auxiliary tanks we add quite a bit of range. That gives us, let's see, nine hundred and thirty-six nautical miles total. Still not enough. Plus, the internal tanks fill up the entire cargo bay."

She shut her eyes in thought for a second and mused out loud. "The internal tanks are basically rubber fuel bladders in a metal frame. If we drain two or three on the way in, the people we're going to pick up could deflate the tanks and cram aboard. We'd have to get down pretty low on fuel anyway because of the weight problem. Damn! All we need is one refuel on the way in or out, and I think I could fly it."

Hossey protested. "Hold on a second there, Jean. We didn't come here to get you to fly the mission. We wanted you to go with us to your battalion commander and convince him to give us an aircraft and crew."

Jean barked a short laugh. "With all due respect, sir—bullshit! Let's be real. We have a snowball's chance in hell of convincing my colonel to give up a helicopter to violate North Korean and Chinese airspace to rescue some Special Forces soldiers trapped there. Do you think he'd believe you? What would you do if someone came into your office with that kind of story? This is the 'real army.' We don't do things without orders in triplicate. Even if he halfway believed us, which I doubt, he'd have to confer with his boss, who'd have to confer with his boss, and so on. Look at all the trouble you've been having dealing with your own special operations people.

"Besides, what's the matter with me flying? Just because I don't have a certain bodily appendage doesn't mean I can't fly a helicopter as well as, if not better than, most men. The only problem we've got is convincing someone else to be as stupid as me. Stupider actually. I've got a definite reason for flying this mission.

"I can't fly alone. The Blackhawk is a two-pilot bird. You can't reach all the switches from one seat. Besides, that's much too long a flight to try with one pilot. I'm going to have to find another fool to go along." She looked at her calculations and started doing some more figuring.

Trapp had a small smile on his face. This female captain sure was damned spunky, he thought. He'd never worked with women in the army before. In fact, he had never been particularly fond of the whole concept. But he had to admit he admired the way the captain had answered the colonel. She was right, too. He glanced over at the colonel. Hossey raised his eyebrows and shrugged at Trapp, as if to say, I'm not going to argue with her anymore.

Jean looked up. "It's roughly a five-hour flight from here to the pickup zone, then five hours back out. That means we'd have to leave early this evening to make it in and out during darkness. By eight at the latest. I've never flown that long continuously. Nobody here has."

She shook her head irritably. "None of that matters anyway if we don't find a way to refuel on the way in. Even flying over to Japan won't work. China is closer to the north and east than Japan is. I'd have to fly south to Japan and then hop north. That would add more than eight hundred miles to the trip. We'd never make it by tonight. Besides, we'd never get fuel. Once we steal the bird we won't have an authorized flight plan."

Trapp suddenly jerked forward in his chair. "I know where we can get refueled."

Changbai Mountains, China Saturday, 10 June, 0500 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 1:00 p.m. Local

Three more kilometers and they'd be at the pickup zone. Going downhill was much easier. The terrain had become less steep, and the bright sun and hard walking had warmed up everyone. Riley called a rest halt beneath a tall tree. He took out Olinski's monocular and climbed up the tree to get a look around.

Looking ahead to the east from his perch, Riley tried to spot the

pickup zone. As the elevation dropped, the vegetation had gotten thicker, and he couldn't tell whether there was a clearing where the map said it should be. He could see the river off to their left front, sloping down toward Yanji in the north. The unimproved dirt road was there also— Riley could catch glimpses of the brown snake crossing the undulating terrain.

Riley looked farther to the east and froze. He spotted a plume of dust. Then another. And another. He spent five minutes studying the activity, then carefully shimmied down the tree.

Mitchell was waiting for him. "What you got? See the pickup zone?"

Riley shook his head. "But I can see the river and the road, so we're only about three kilometers away from where it's supposed to be. We've got visitors coming." Riley had immediately captured the entire team's attention. "I can see dust raised by vehicles heading this way. About ten kilometers past where the pickup zone is supposed to be. They seem to be moving real slow. I'd say we've got a cordon of troops heading toward us. They must have definitely found the crash site and figured out we were somewhere around. Really didn't take any genius on their part to figure out we'd head for the coast."

Comsky was the first to grasp the obvious implication. "Do you think we'll make the PZ before them?"

"Yeah, we can definitely make the PZ before them," Riley assured him, "that's not the problem. The problem is to keep them from seeing us when they sweep by. They're moving pretty slow—I'd say about two kilometers an hour. It gets dark in about five hours, so it's going to be close."