The pain in his shattered arm was so intense that it caused C.J. to vomit. Riley and Comsky ran out and dragged him back into the tree line. Chong waited a second, then joined the rest of the team.
If the helicopter had made the slightest hostile move, Chong had been prepared to fire. He had spotted the miniguns hung on either side of the bird. Chong hadn't fired because he thought there was a chance that C.J. might not have been seen, and firing definitely would have given away their location. That decision appeared to be vindicated as the sound of the Chinese helicopter faded into the distance.
Riley had to look away as Comsky tore the splint off C.J.'s arm. The fall had turned the simple fracture into a compound one. Pieces of white bone stuck out of the skin in two places.
Comsky took off his jacket and wrapped it around the pilot. Then he tenderly started re wrapping the man's arm, using the last of his sterile bandages. C.J. screamed from the pain.
What the hell else is going to happen? Riley wondered.
Camp Page, ChunChon, Korea Friday, 9 June, 0930 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 6:30 p.m. Local
Jean Long was eating her dinner in the dining room of the Page II Club when the news of the lost helicopter in the Sea of Japan was announced by the Armed Forces Korean Network (AFKN) news show. She watched the brief story on the large-screen TV in the corner of the dining room. The report didn't indicate what unit the aircraft was from, only that eight soldiers were known to be on board.
Jean shook her head. Wherever her husband was, she hoped he didn't see the report; he'd be sure to get on her case about how dangerous flying was. Over the past nine years, several of Jean's aviation acquaintances had been killed in various accidents. Every time a helicopter went down, it struck close to home.
Mitch had never asked her not to fly, probably because he knew how important it was to her. Thinking about her husband made her wonder where he was. It had been a week since he'd left and she hadn't heard a word. She knew better than to try to call Yongsan. If Mitch hadn't called her, that meant he was doing something classified.
As she finished her meal, Jean said a silent prayer for whoever had been in that aircraft. She hoped the pilots were no one she knew.
Yongsan Army Base, Seoul, Korea Friday, 9 June, 0943 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 6:43 p.m. Local
Hossey put on his beret and left his office. He had done all he could today in wrapping up loose ends from the mission. The hard part would come tomorrow. He got in his car and drove to the officers' club.
Walking into the pub, he spotted Jim Trapp and the other four healthy members of Team 3 sitting at a table in the corner. Dressed in clean uniforms they looked better than they had getting off the helicopter this morning, but as he drew close, Hossey noticed that their eyes were shadowed from fatigue and their faces were tight with anger and grief.
As Hossey approached their table he was intercepted by the club manager. "Sir, I see you're wearing the same patch as those men. Are they yours?"
"Yeah. Why?" Hossey bristled.
"Sir, some of them aren't officers, so we can't allow them in here. I asked them to leave, but they've ignored me. Perhaps you could tell them to leave."
Hossey glared at the civilian in front of him. "They can drink any goddamn place they want. If they choose to drink here then I think I'll join them. You going to kick me out, too?"
The manager backed away from the angry colonel, deciding he could overlook the isolated table in the corner. "No, sir."
"Thanks," Hossey said dryly. He walked over to his men. "Mind if I sit down?"
"All yours, sir." Jim Trapp pulled over another chair. The tabletop was littered with empty beer cans and shot glasses.
That's one way to deal with it, Hossey thought. Seems like a good one, too, right now. "How's O'Shaugnesy?"
Devito glanced up from his mug. "He's doing fine. Going to have some pretty ugly scars, though. They've got the infection under control. Should be able to fly him back to the States in about a week for recuperation."
Hossey looked at Lalli. "How's the leg, Paul?"
"A little stiff, sir, but other than that, it's OK."
He turned to Trapp next, who was obviously well on his way to a major drunk. "You going to be all right to travel with me tomorrow?"
Trapp glared at the colonel with bleary eyes. "Sure, sir. Just celebrating our successful mission, is all."
Hossey glanced around at the rest of the room. Nobody was paying them any attention. "I'm awfully sorry about those guys. If there was anything that could have been done to prevent it, or anything we could do now, you know I'd do it."
Trapp nodded slowly. His glare had been directed at the situation, not at the colonel. "I know that, sir. It's just that I've been doing this shit for more than twenty years now. I just don't know what the purpose is anymore. We lost some good men back there. Dave Riley was the best damn team sergeant I ever worked with. I don't know what he died for."
Hossey had to agree. "I don't know what he, or the rest of them, died for either. But I tell you one thing we can do. We can have a toast."
He raised his shot glass. The survivors of Team 3 all raised theirs.
Hossey said it for all of them: "To those we left behind."
The team's junior engineer, Smitty, looked up angrily. "Bullshit," he slurred. "Why are we kissing those guys off? We don't know for
sure they're dead. Remember what top and the captain always said? Never quit on a plan. Always follow through, even though it looks like a waste of time. The plan, if someone wasn't exfilled, was to monitor the high frequency. How come we aren't doing it?"
Hossey felt tired. "Mister Trapp and I saw the imagery of the crash site. There was nothing in one piece on the ground. The helicopter must have disintegrated in midair. No one could have survived the explosion."
"Besides," Lalli added, "we torched the PRC70 on the pickup zone, Smitty. You know that. How the hell are they going to come up high frequency if they don't have an HF radio?"
Smith sank sullenly back in his chair.
Trapp stood up abruptly. "If you gentlemen would excuse me, I need to rack out to be prepared for the fun and games tomorrow." They watched as Trapp walked unsteadily out into the dark night.
The chilly night air slapped Trapp in the face as he scrunched his beret down on his head. He thought about what had been said inside. He turned and looked at the stars.
To those we left behind, Trapp thought. I agree with Smitty. Bullshit.
Shenyang Military Region Headquarters, China Friday, 9 June, 1500 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 11:00 p.m. Local
General Yang was upset. It had taken the idiots in the 3d Aviation Regiment five hours to get the information concerning the crash site to his office. He turned to his chief of staff, Colonel Tugur, who had just had the unfortunate responsibility of relaying the late information. "Obviously, the fool in command of that unit needs help. This information should have been here hours ago. First thing tomorrow we must search the wreckage. Maybe we will find the bodies of our so-called terrorists. But maybe some of those terrorists survived the crash and are even now still in the area."
Yang looked at the dark features of the Mongol officer. It was difficult for someone of Tugur's ethnic background to make such a high rank as colonel in the Chinese Army. But Yang appreciated and rewarded ruthless efficiency and competence. Tugur excelled in both areas. He was the right man for this job.
"You will fly out tomorrow morning to personally supervise the search down there. Arrange for your plane to depart at first light."
"He selects his men and they exploit the situation. Sun Tzu: The Art of War
15
Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 9 June, 1500 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 10:00 a.m. Local
Hearing the knock on his door, Meng turned down the image on his computer screen so it could not be seen. "Come in." He relaxed slightly when he saw it was only Wilson carrying the debrief file.
"All done in Tunnel 3. Those US-SOCOM guys about broke down the door hea
ding out. I guess they have an early flight down home to Florida."
Meng took the file. "Everything shut down?"
"Yeah." Wilson sat down on the other side of the desk. "This was a pretty straightforward mission. The computer didn't throw them any curves. I guess US-SOCOM will look pretty good over at the Pentagon when they see the after-action report on Dragon Sim-13."
Wilson noticed something on the desktop. He picked up the copies of the imagery that Meng had ordered the previous day from NSA. "What's this?"
Meng thought quickly. "It's part of a variation of the simulation. One of the possibilities called for one of the exfiltration helicopters to be lost on the way out. That picture is supposed to represent the crash site."
Wilson whistled. "Damn. Nothing could have lived through this. You can't even see there was a helicopter there. Where'd you get these pictures? Is this some real crash site?"
Meng shrugged casually. "I don't know. NSA sent over satellite pictures when I requested them during the initial programming for 13. I imagine it's an old crash site they drew out of their files."
Wilson dropped the imagery back onto Meng's desk. "Well, that wraps up 13. We've got a whole five days before we do 14. When do you want to start the programming for it?"
Meng wasn't really worried about 14. He didn't think it would ever run. "Come in tomorrow and we'll do some work on the Medusa program. I'll knock off 14 on Sunday and Monday." He could tell that Wilson wasn't happy about working on Saturday. But Meng also knew that he didn't have much time left. His sense of duty urged him to get as much done on the Medusa program as he could, before the facts on Dragon Sim-13 surfaced.
Wilson headed for the door. "All right, see you tomorrow."
After the door closed, Meng locked it. He slowly walked back to his desk and looked at the imagery one last time. No one could have survived the crash, and there had been no SATCOM radio calls from survivors. Meng said a brief prayer for the dead men, then fed the imagery through his shredder. He sat back down at his desk and shut down the SFOB program.
Changbai Mountains, China Friday, 9 June, 1900 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 3:00 a.m. Local
The survivors of Team 3 were huddled together beneath the low branches of a weatherbeaten pine tree. The night stretched ahead endlessly. A night spent freezing, high in the mountains, did not possess the same sense of time as a normal night. The hands on a watch slowed down, moving sluggishly. Sleep never came. Instead, there were bouts of a shivering unconsciousness, lasting only a few brief moments, ending with a start.
For the hundredth time, Riley adjusted his meager clothing, trying to get better insulation. He was pressed between Mitchell and the pilot. Riley estimated the temperature to be in the high forties and dropping. With no equipment or extra clothing, and not able to build a fire for fear of discovery, the team was suffering through a long, cold night. Riley had briefly considered building a fire, but he'd decided that being cold was better than being dead. At this point some of the team members might have been willing to argue that point, if they could have spared the energy.
Riley could feel Mitchell shivering in the dark and pressed his body closer, trying to give his team leader what little body warmth he had. During the dash across the open field, the captain's sutures had pulled out and the wound had begun bleeding again. Comsky had used all the sutures in the survival kit to sew up the wound again. Riley didn't think Mitchell could make it much farther.
They had to assume the helicopter crash site had been found by now. That Z-9 must have seen the burned area on its way up the draw. That meant they would begin to see search parties tomorrow. Riley very much doubted the team's ability to make it across the border into North Korea. In fact, he wasn't sure North Korea would be any better than China. The farther down the mountains they got, the more populated the countryside would get—and the greater the likelihood of being found. Already they had passed the first signs of man—two dirt roads leading to old mines on the wall of the draw they were descending.
Riley felt despair seep through him. It was a cold, hollow feeling, chilling his soul as much as the air was chilling his body. He'd been pushing the team ever since the crash, but he was running out of mental energy.
They'd continued walking for three hours after sunset, until finally Riley had been forced to call a halt. They were stumbling along and he was afraid someone else would get hurt in the dark. And they needed some rest. Everyone was exhausted.
Riley still couldn't sleep. It wasn't just the cold. Despite his exhaustion, he wouldn't allow himself to lapse into unconsciousness. He was trying to figure a way out of this mess. Then he saw the lights.
It looked like a car or truck. He watched the headlights until they were turned off about a kilometer and a half away. He hadn't heard the engine, but he was positive it was a vehicle.
He woke up Hoffman and Comsky. "I saw a set of headlights over there." Riley pointed in the dark. They all turned and looked.
"Maybe we can steal the vehicle and drive to the coast," Comsky offered hopefully.
Riley shook his head. "As soon as it got reported, they'd be down on us in a heartbeat. Plus, what are we going to do at the border? Wave at the North Koreans while we break down the barrier? And what are we going to do at the coast?"
Hoffman spoke slowly. "Hey, Top. We don't need to take the truck.
We just steal the battery. That will get reported, but it won't make them as suspicious as the whole vehicle missing."
Riley immediately understood what Hoffman meant. He woke up Mitchell and told him the plan. After a few minutes of preparation, Riley, accompanied by Hoffman and Chong, left the little camp under the pine tree. Comsky stayed behind to take care of the wounded. Riley took Mitchell's MP5 silenced submachine gun, just in case.
3:45 a.m. Local
It took the three of them thirty minutes, in the dark, to reach the small dirt road. Bending down and running his numbed fingers over the surface, Chong could feel recent tire tracks. They followed them, and five minutes later the dim lights of a shack came into view. A pickup-style truck was parked outside. Riley halted them briefly while he considered the setup. There was one shuttered window in the front, to the right of the door. A rutted road ran to the right of the shack. Probably heads toward a mine in the valley wall, he figured.
Riley whispered the improvised plan to Hoffman and Chong. Together, they crept up to the derelict truck. Riley crawled to a position from which he could cover the front, while Chong slipped around back. Hoffman slid up to the old truck. Riley angled the submachine gun at the door while Hoffman carefully opened the hood. The old metal obliged grudgingly. Riley tightened his grip on the gun. He didn't want to kill a civilian if he could help it, but they couldn't risk being discovered.
Hoffman was messing around in the engine. Come on, come on, Riley urged silently. Hoffman finally pulled out the battery and slowly lowered the hood. Riley couldn't believe the people inside didn't hear the creaking of metal. Hoffman laid the hood as far closed as it would go without slamming it, then turned and hurried back into the trees.
Chong appeared from behind the house and joined him. Once the two were out of sight, Riley backed off and joined them. They retraced their steps back to the rest of the team.
Comsky softly challenged them as they loomed up in the dark. Giving their mission code names, the three men crawled in under the tree.
"Go ahead and set that thing up, Dan," Riley indicated to Hoffman.
As the engineer busied himself arranging the transmitter and wires,
Riley spoke to the rest of the team in a low voice. "Anyone have any idea what frequency to send on and who to send this message to?" He turned to C.J. "Is there some sort of international distress band that's always monitored on high frequency?"
C.J. considered this. "Yeah, there is, but the Chinese and Russians monitor it, too. Unless you want them to hear the message, you probably don't want to use that."
Mitchell stirred. "Hey, you're forgettin
g something you taught me, Dave. You must be getting senile in your old age. Let's stick with the plan and use the guard net frequency we agreed on with Hossey."
Riley shook his head. "They won't be monitoring that, sir. Trapp will have told the Old Man that we torched the 70. They think we're all dead."
"That may be so," Mitchell agreed, "but we're still going to stick with the plan. It's as good as anything else."
Riley looked at Mitchell and decided. "Yes, sir. Let's go for it. I'll use a DET-K3 in the clear to start it and then put the rest in code."
Riley pulled out the small New Testament he carried, and began leafing through the pages. Chong held a red-lens flashlight so he could see. Riley wasn't carrying the Bible because he was particularly religious; this Bible was the key to their coding. He'd write out the message, then transcribe it using a trigraph and the letters on a designated page of the Bible. A trigraph was simply a listing of three-letter groups. Riley would take the first letter from the message he wrote in clear text, the second letter from the page in the Bible, and, finding the three-letter combination on the trigraph, write the third into the message. Using the same Bible page and trigraph, Hossey would be able to decode the message by reversing the process.
It was a long shot but better than nothing. Shakily, blowing on his hands every few seconds to get some warmth back in them, Riley wrote the message and transcribed it. Hoffman finished his final adjustments with the transmitter and strung an antenna wire between two trees.
Riley looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was almost five forty-five in the morning in Korea. If someone was monitoring, he hoped that person was awake.
"Ready?" Riley asked.
Hoffman nodded and hooked the twelve-volt battery into the transmitter. Riley slowly read the letters to Hoffman, who tapped out the message using two wires. They made it through the message.
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