The Korean Intercept (32 page)

General Li sat in a canvas-backed field chair, near his lead vehicle, in the company of Major Kwan. The general sipped
huang chiu
, a sweet yellow wine, which had been heated and served by his orderly. Trees enclosing a natural cup of land formed a natural bowl around them. Li had ordered Major Kwan to post a defensive perimeter, then ordered his troops to check their weapons and equipment, and allowed them a cigarette break. The advantage of this position was that it provided ample cover from a trundling night wind.

Li set aside his teacup. He sighed contentedly, gazing across at Kwan, who had declined tea.

"The rigors of the field can be tempered, Major. You should allow yourself to indulge in some creature comforts at a moment like this."

The young division commander could not seem to relax. His eyes started constantly at the darkness. "I will feel better when this business is done."

"Relax, I say, Major. The prize is within our grasp. We await only radio confirmation that our tanks are in place. The terrain and the wind will conceal their approach from Chai Bin. The tanks will crush his defenses. Then we will attack."

Kwan began pacing restlessly. "I grow impatient to attack."

"And I order you to be patient, Major. After our assault, the surviving bandits will be executed on the spot, and the People's Republic of China will lay claim to the space shuttle
Liberty
and its surviving crew-members. We are less than a kilometer from Chai Bin's fortress, and have encountered no sign of American or North Korean military presence. The prize is as good as ours. We command the element of surprise. We are victorious!"

 

The
whuppa!-whuppa!-whuppa
! of the Apache in flight enveloped Captain Abe Morales. The steady drone did not soothe his senses, but rather honed them to a razor's edge. His gunship was traveling on a northwesterly course, speeding under radar cover at 190 knots.

Gale winds pounded the helo, and Morales's arms were sore from riding the bucking controls. It was like cruising full-tilt in a speedboat, bouncing across waves. But they'd made it through the worst of the storm. There had been a close call on the flight out of Japanese airspace, when a 150-knot wind shear almost slammed them from the sky. Morales had never seen combat, but his training paid off. He navigated through that turbulence and they'd proceeded through the typhoon as if riding out concussions from flak explosions. They had broken from the center force of the storm about midway across the Sea of Japan. Now there was only the wind, the storm's steering winds, which actually made flying more difficult once they penetrated North Korean airspace. Morales used his Night Vision Device goggles and the Apache's full array of electronic navigational equipment to fly at tree-top level over the treacherous mountain terrain. The cloud ceiling was low, volatile.

His passenger's orders were that all due speed was imperative. The guy's credentials were impressive as hell. White House level, no less. Trev Galt had drawn him aside and said he was looking for a volunteer, one-hundred-percent off the record and dangerous as hell. Galt said he'd nosed around and ascertained that Morales was good enough and enough of a loner for him to make the proposition. Was he interested? His answer was simple and direct. Hell, yes.

He eased up on the throttle as they neared the landing zone that was their destination. He'd volunteered for two reasons. One was that he ached to do what he'd been trained to do. There were no secrets in a unit like this, a tightly knit "secret" base operating in the heart of a friendly nation. Tuttle had put together an assault package to break every rule in the book. It was hostile territory passing by below the Apache, and the Chinese were said to have units combing these mountains. The covert insertion and withdrawal could get very hot, very fast, and then he would know combat. And there was the other reason why he wanted a part of this. He liked everything he'd heard about why Trev Galt was breaking all the rules on this one, and the scene between Galt and General Tuttle had sure as hell been proof enough of that. This was far from a routine mission for Galt, because his wife was among the missing shuttle crew. Morales was engaged to his high school sweetheart, who was waiting for him back home. He knew something about love, and about a man doing the right thing by his woman. The exchange between General Tuttle and Galt prior to their departure from Yokohama was a taste of what he could expect when he returned. But it was worth it, helping a man like Galt do right. He'd have done the same.

The signal fire, which he'd been watching for, materialized in the greenish glow of his Forward Looking Infrared System. It flickered valiantly in a windbreak of some kind.

Morales down-throttled. "There it is, sir," he said across the intercom, "about a quarter click ahead."

Then Galt saw it with his naked eye. "Very good, Captain."

"Looks peaceful enough. I'm taking us in."

"Looks can be deceiving," said Galt. "Careful, son. Keep your eyes peeled."

Then they were touching down in a small clearing where tree limbs had been leaned together to form a windbreak, allowing the fire to crackle, unattended. The backwash created by the Apache's landing extinguished the fire.

"Right on time," said Morales, "right on the mark." He looked around. "But I don't see anybody."

Galt unharnessed himself, threw aside the hatch and stepped to the ground.

"Let that be my problem, Captain. You've done your part. Now get the hell out of North Korea."

"Good luck to you, sir."

Morales threw him a smart salute, which Galt returned. Then the young pilot worked the controls and the Apache lifted off. Galt stepped away, raising an arm to shield his eyes against the spiraling debris in the backwash of the chopper's rotors, where the winds began immediately trundling it. Without landing or flight lights, the Apache was nothing but a dark shape against the black sky.

There was a sudden blast that Galt recognized as antiaircraft fire and, a half-second later, the Apache exploded, blossoming into a garish red fireball that veered sharply on its axis and became flame dropping from the sky.

 

The Apache crashed to the ground a hundred meters or so into the trees, to Galt's left. A secondary explosion rocked the night. But the sound of the secondary explosion was lost under the suddenly erupting explosions that made the earth tremble.

Tanks had opened fire nearby, firing systematically, over and over. Then came the chatter of automatic weapons fire and what sounded like more than one heavy caliber M-60 machine gun on full auto.

Galt unholstered his Beretta. No one could have survived the crash of the Apache. So now he had Captain Morales's blood on his hands, along with Barney Markee's, because they had been drawn into his "personal" covert op. He would grieve for them. He would have to wear the hair shirt for his part in their deaths, if he survived what was happening here tonight. As for right now, it was time to kick ass from here to eternity. His only course was to go ahead, whatever the odds.

The illumination of the fiery remains of the chopper cast an amber glow across the distance. Galt glided about in a 360-degree turn, his pistol up, his eyes searching for any sign of human presence. Whoever built the signal fire would still be around. He hated dealing with local talent on a covert op. It was always chancy.

A figure emerged from the tree line; a scraggly, elderly male wearing a frayed woolen jacket, baggy trousers and a straw hat. He fit the description provided by Smathers, the CIA man in Tokyo.

Galt spoke in Korean. "You are Ahn Chong?"

Ann nodded. "What is your name?"

"I'm the one you expect. My name is Trev Galt. You will lead me to Chai Bin?"

"Yes." He indicated the direction where they'd seen the Apache go down. "Chai Bin will have heard the explosion and plane crash. Even now he will be sending men to investigate."

Galt clicked his NVD goggles into place. The man and their surroundings shimmered in high resolution infrared. "That was a Russian T-54 tank. The North Korean military has them by the hundreds. Is your government's military attacking Chai?"

"I think not." Ahn spoke with assurance. "They would have a large force and attack without further delay. This is a smaller force. They are cautious."

Galt picked up on the thought. "Chinese." He regarded this mountain peasant. The old man exhibited a keen intellect. No wonder the CIA had found him invaluable as an intelligence source on the ground. Galt glanced at his watch. He spoke into the mic that was part of his helmet, programmed into the attack team's frequency.

"We just lost one," he said, without preamble, across the tac net. "Chinese tanks. Over and out."

It started raining again, raining in thunderous torrents that filled the air with wild noise. They sought scant cover beneath a towering pine. It rained with the intensity of a waterfall.

Ahn watched. When Galt was done, the old man asked, "Did they receive your warning?"

"We can only hope. I didn't expect a response. The mission is radio silent. They're going to attack Chai Bin like an iron fist. We have to move very quickly now."

"I will show you the way."

 

A pair of huge boulder formations, nearly abutting each other, loomed against the sky. The rock formation formed an entrance. The rain had ceased as abruptly as it began, but not the wind. The wind shrieked.

A lone sentry stood in the lee of one of the massive boulders that sheltered him from the howling wind. The sentry was huddled against the cold. He paced, smoking a cigarette, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

Galt and Ahn were stretched flat, side by side, against the side of a gully, observing. The wind rattled the branches of the trees and sent down an irregular shower of water from rain-drenched pine needles. There had been no more hostile fire since the downing of the Apache. Ahn had led the way here via a network of game trails: a steep climb, the stony paths treacherous with moisture. At the moment, Galt felt wrapped in the scent of pine. Even the ground was covered with pine needles.

"That is Chai's secret tunnel," Ahn whispered. "Even most of his own men do not know of it, which is why he posts only one sentry. That sentry would be killed if he spoke of it."

Galt whispered in reply, "So how do you know about this tunnel, my friend?"

"These are my mountains." The inflection of the old man's words was cold as the stony ground. "I know everything about them."

"I wish we knew where those Chinese tanks are positioned."

Galt eased down from the lip of the gully to where he could stand in a low crouch. Ann did the same. The rumble of helicopters drawing near penetrated the rattle of tree branches and the hiss of wind across icy rock. Galt glanced in that direction.

"If the Chinese commander is smart, he'll keep his head down and let us do the attacking."

"Either way" said Ann, "Hell is about to visit this place."

"And your work here is done," Galt told him. "It is time for you to withdraw. Be mindful of those Chinese."

The old man snorted derisively. "They are like Chai Bin. Intruders in my home."

"And what of me, and those in the helicopters?"

"You are helping to set my house in order," said Ahn Chong. "I will leave this battle to you, American, but the fight against the North Korean regime will not die within me until my last breath. It is good to know that there are those in my own home, my daughter and her husband, who will fight a quiet fight with me. And it is good to know that from the other side of the world, men like you are willing to help us. Goodbye to you, American. And good luck."

His scraggly yet noble figure receded into the night, fading away.

Galt wasted no time in returning his attention to take a final reading of the situation before pushing on. His only course remained to plunge ahead toward his goal.

He bent his head to shelter his face from the stinging wind, and launched himself from the gully at the sentry across the clearing. The rotor noises of the advancing choppers, loud and close under the low cloud ceiling, drew the sentry's attention. Galt came up close behind him and executed a simple
shime-waza
, the strangle hold that clamps across the carotid artery. Galt jerked his arms but, since the sentry was already unconscious when his neck was snapped, he emitted no sound of alarm before his body collapsed.

Galt continued, at a run, into the tunnel.

 

The pair of Apache AH-64s clawed through the predawn darkness at 190 knots, hugging the terrain at fifty feet, thrashed by treacherous, pummeling winds. Two miles and closing fast on the target, the gunships were creating their own "stealth," combining high speed and low altitude with a complete blackout of navigation lights and radio silence.

First Lieutenant Bruce Donnelly, piloting the lead chopper, broke radio silence. "This is Ghost Leader. Assume attack position." Donnelly was thirty-three years old, originally from Columbus, Ohio, married and the father of three.

The other pilot rogered that and broke away.

Donnelly's gunner, WO4 Kendall, positioned in the lower front seat of their Apache, grunted approval across the intercom. "Well, all right. Let's find something to blow up."

The dark valley below was five miles long and cultivated. The choppers roared over a sleepy hamlet. Donnelly scanned the darkness for any sign of the Chinese force Galt had radioed about, but so far it was impossible to visually penetrate the valley's dense foliage.

Then the target came into view. There in the distance, a black butte soared almost straight up at the far end of the valley.

He down-throttled the Apache as the outlines of the installation first began materializing in the greenish glow of his Forward Looking Infrared System. Like his weapons officer, he wore a flight suit without rank or designation, and a shoulder-holstered .45 automatic. He was a combat veteran of Grenada, Panama, the Gulf and Afghanistan. He broke radio silence.

"Big Bird, this is Apache leader," he said over the tac net. "Are you with us?"