Dragon Sim-13 (38 page)

Parker was relieved. The first operational mission flown by the Stealth fighter had proven a success. The two Stealth fighters had been stationed in northern Japan the last three months conducting classified training flights near Russian airspace, testing the aircraft's capabilities against the radar array on the Soviets' east coast. The performance during this crisis had proven the plane's capabilities and worth. Of course, it had also disclosed the aircraft's operational existence to the North Koreans, but Parker felt that was a price worth paying. The Stealth fighter's existence would have come out in the next few months anyway.

Parker keyed the mike again. "Do you have any communications with the helicopter?"

"We haven't tried yet, sir. It doesn't have secure capability."

"Can you talk to it if you need to?"

"Yes, sir. We can broadcast on the guard net, and that will override whatever frequency they're on now."

"Get them on the radio and then patch me in," Parker ordered.

"Yes, sir. Wait one."

Parker heard Ehrlich make the call.

"Army helicopter 579. Army helicopter 579. This is Tango Station. Over."

There was a long pause, then a woman's voice came over the air. "Umm . . . Tango Station, this is 579. Over."

"579, this is Tango Station on an unsecure link. We're the people who have been looking after you the past half hour. We also control your escort. I have someone in your chain of command who wants to talk to you. Over."

"Roger, we're standing by. Over."

Ehrlich keyed in Parker. "Go ahead, sir. Your transmissions will be relayed through us to 579. Just key your mike when you're ready to talk to them. Let me know when you want me to shut them out. Over."

Parker keyed his mike. "579, this is . . ." he hesitated and looked at Major Thomas. "What's our call sign?"

"Papa Sierra Twelve, sir."

Parker thumbed the mike. "579, this is Papa Sierra Twelve. What is the status of the personnel you picked up? Over."

"Papa Sierra Twelve, this is 579. We've got four wounded, one critically. The medic says that if we don't soon get him to a hospital equipped with suction he won't make it. The others are all stable. Over."

Parker paused and looked at Thomas and Hossey. "Any ideas?"

Thomas shook his head. "There's nothing closer than here as far as hospitals go."

"They could land on the Rathburne again," Hossey suggested.

Parker contacted 579 again. "This is Papa Sierra Twelve. The only place we have that is closer than coming here is the same place you refueled. Over." 

"This is 579. We understand. Heading for that location now. Could you check to see if that location has the facilities to handle our patient? Over."

USSRathburne, Sea of Japan Saturday, 10 June, 1920 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:20 a.m. Local

Commander Lemester couldn't believe it. "Say again. Over."

The speaker on the bridge crackled. "I say again. Reverse course and assume a heading of three-five-four degrees at maximum speed. You have an inbound helicopter with wounded on board. Over."

Lemester rubbed his forehead. He had a hell of a headache. The caller had identified himself with the classified call sign of the commander of the U.S. Eighth Army in Korea. Lemester wasn't sure if the commander of Eighth Army could order him around, not being in the direct chain of command of the Rathburne. On the other hand, that fellow was a four-star general. What the hell, Lemester decided. They were getting pretty good at picking up mysterious helicopters. One more wouldn't make much difference.

"Roger. We're coming about. Over."

"Do you have medical facilities to handle . . . ," there was a pause, "a pneumothorax? Over."

"Wait one. Over." Lemester grabbed his intership phone and dialed the dispensary. "Doc, can you handle a pneumothorax?"

"Not really, sir. I don't have the right equipment. I could probably stabilize it."

Lemester keyed his mike. "That's a negative. Over."

Airspace, Sea of Japan Saturday, 10 June, 1925 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:25 a.m. Local

Riley was conscious now. At least his eyes were open. His overall situation was deteriorating. Comsky had redone the bandages and tried to fashion a valve to allow air to get out, but it wasn't working well. Riley's skin was turning blue and the veins in his neck were distended. Mitchell watched as Comsky forced his finger into the bullet hole to release some of the air that was building up between the outside of the lung and the chest cavity, desperately trying to prevent the lung from collapsing.

Jean gave them an estimated time of arrival at the Rathburne of 6:30 a.m. Another two hours.

The team's successful mission and exfiltration was now overshadowed. Mitchell shook his head. He wasn't sure what they had accomplished, and he certainly wasn't sure that the price they were paying was worth it. Blood was a valuable currency.

They'd gone this far and now everyone had run out of ideas. He gripped Riley's hand. "Come on. Don't quit now."

In the front, Jean Long had taken the controls from Lassiter. They were down at a hundred feet and she had the throttle wide open.

"579, this is Tango Station. Over."

Lassiter keyed the mike. "Tango Station, this is 579. Over."

"Your present destination doesn't have the facilities to handle your most serious casualty. Over."

Lassiter looked at Jean. "What now?"

Eighth Army Headquarters, Yongsan, Seoul, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 1926 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:26 a.m. Local

General Parker looked around the room. "Any bright ideas?"

Major Thomas was already dialing the phone. "Yes, sir. Tell the helicopter to keep on heading for the Rathburne. If I remember rightly we ought to be able to work something out."

Airspace, Sea of Japan Saturday, 10 June, 1927 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:27 a.m. Local

"579, this is Papa Sierra Twelve. Continue on course for refuel point.

We've come up with an alternate plan. Over."

Jean Long looked distrustfully at the radio. She called over the intercom

to her husband. "What do you think, Mitch?" "Go for it. We don't have much choice." Jean keyed the mike. "This is 579. Roger. Over."

6:14 a.m. Local

Jean Long expertly flared the Blackhawk over the fantail of the Rathburne. She settled the bird down and slowed the engine to idle. Everyone sat still. In the dawn's dim light she could see some of the crew of the frigate staring at them from the edge of the large helipad. The chronometer on the instrument panel said 0614.

Two figures approached the helicopter. Mitchell slid open the right door and Sergeant Major Hooker and Chief Trapp climbed into the crowded back.

"Who was hit?" Trapp asked anxiously. Mitchell pointed at the body that Comsky was preparing for the move. The medic was tightening down the bandages, especially the ones across the chest. "A lot of people would have given up by now," Comsky whispered. Still, they knew that willpower could do only so much.

Trapp shook his head. What a screwed-up mission. Dave Riley dying would be a hell of a way to end it. Trapp looked out the open door as another helicopter roared in from the west with all its lights on and settled down twenty feet away from 579. Its side doors slid open and two men carrying a stretcher raced over. Comsky opened the door closest to the other aircraft and waved the men in. As he rapidly helped them strap Riley to the stretcher, he yelled in one of the men's ears, giving him Riley's status. As soon as they got him tied in, Comsky leapt out and helped them carry Riley to the other aircraft. He got in with the stretcher. Both aircraft lifted off and headed to the southwest.

Inside the other helicopter, Comsky stared in amazement as the medics got to work. He'd heard about the new UH-60 aerial medevac helicopters but had never seen one. The aircraft had more equipment than many emergency rooms. Already the onboard medics had rigged suction into Riley's lungs and had an IV going, trying to replace some of the lost blood. It was going to be touch and go, but Riley's odds had improved dramatically.

Osan Air Force Base, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 2330 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 8:30 a.m. Local

The medevac helicopter landed at the helipad of the base hospital. 579 was directed to land outside a hangar on the main airstrip. Jean Long protested that 579 should land at the hospital also, since she had other wounded on board. The request was denied. The airfield tower promised there would be ambulances waiting at the hangar.

As she hovered above the tarmac and brought the aircraft down slowly, the helicopter was surrounded by air force police cars with their lights flashing. The helicopter came to rest and she shut down the throttle. The doors to the hangar swung open and a ground guide gestured for her to roll in. As soon as the aircraft cleared the doors, they were shut.

When the blades halted, Mitchell opened the cargo door and stepped out. Two men in three-piece suits were waiting for him. Mitchell sighed. The spooks were here to take over. The one in apparent charge stepped forward. "I understand you've got some more wounded on board."

"Yeah, that's right. Three."

"The ambulances are right outside. I'll have them bring in the stretchers." The man gestured to his partner. "The rest of your people need to stay on board for a few minutes."

The unidentified man looked at Mitchell. "We need to keep things under wraps. I can't tell you all that has gone on, but suffice it to say that things are pretty screwed up. It's my job to do as much damage control as possible."

Mitchell didn't care. He walked away from the man and went around to the right side of the helicopter. He gave his wife a big hug and kiss as she stepped out of her door.

Fort Meade, Maryland Sunday, 11 June, 0130 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 8:30 p.m. Local

Wilson watched with sadness as the men in the suits escorted Meng out of the Tunnel. He shifted his attention as the man who had led the party into the Tunnel more than an hour ago stopped in front of him. "I don't need to tell you, but everything that has happened with Dragon Sim-13 is highly classified. You will discuss this with no one."

If you didn't need to tell me, then why did you? Wilson thought sardonically. But he dared not say it. These men were scary. "Right. Not a word."

As the door shut behind Meng, Wilson thought about how little he had known about the man other than his brilliance at programming. 

Before the men came to take him away, Meng had revealed to Wilson the reasons he had sent the go code words. Wilson sympathized with Meng, although it didn't appear that all that effort and blood had achieved anything.

US-SOCOM Headquarters, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida Sunday, 11 June, 0200 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 9:00 p.m. Local

Colonel Moore was ordered not to brief even his own commander on the events of the past twelve hours. He hated the smug spook who relayed that information. This was an event that was going to be swept under the rug.

As Moore drove home, he wondered idly whether the team had really blown the pipeline.

Osan Air Force Base, Korea Sunday, 11 June, 2300 Zulu Monday, 12 June, 8:00 a.m. Local

Team 3 was intact again. O'Shaugnesy, C.J., Olinski, and Riley were in the same ward of the hospital. The rest of the team was gathered around the beds. Even the presence of the spooks outside the ward door couldn't put a damper on the feelings inside.

Mitchell's side had been rebandaged, and he now stood at the foot of Riley's bed with the other ambulatory members of Team 3. His wife was close by his side, her hand wrapped around his. Through the windows to their left, a new sun was rising over the mountains of South Korea. They'd been standing in the same positions for forty-five minutes.

Finally, their wait was over. Dave Riley blearily opened his eyes. His entire chest and stomach hurt like hell. He saw Mitchell and his wife and the other team members and managed a bleak smile. He painfully tried to whisper something.

Mitchell came forward and put his ear next to Riley's lips.

Riley tried again. "I told you I'd see you in Korea."

Therefore it is said that one may know how to win,

but cannot necessarily do so."

Sun Tzu: The Art of War

POSTSCRIPT

Hills of West Virginia

Tuesday, 19 December, 2300 Zulu

Tuesday, 19 December, 6:00 p.m. Local

The newspaper was filled with news of the American invasion of Panama. The old man had no time for that. His interest was drawn to a smaller article.

Meng rubbed his old scar as he read. Members of Congress were reacting with outrage to a report that the president had sent a high-level diplomatic mission to China only a few weeks after the Tiananmen Square massacre. The trip by Mr. Eagleburger and Mr. Scowcroft had violated the president's own ban on such liaisons, the paper reported. Additionally, the secretary of state had just told reporters that a trip made last week was the first high-level contact the administration had had with the government in China. The media did not like being lied to.

Meng shook his head. He knew why that first trip had occurred so soon after the massacre, but he would never be able to tell anyone. The Americans still used his knowledge, but now he was well guarded and had no access to anything of a critical nature.

His stomach twisted in disgust as he continued reading the article. The administration also had just announced negotiation of a $300 million

sale of three satellites to China. The president was determined to maintain commercial relations with the People's Republic of China.

The almighty dollar ruled. Meng wondered what would happen when the dam finally broke in China. How would the present American course of action look then?

Meng knelt on his praying mat and said a prayer to the souls of the men, American and Chinese, who had died because of his manipulations. He had done what he could and failed. It made all those deaths seem much less worthy.