Bol whirled and fled, not pausing to retrieve his rifle. He had his pistol, in case he needed to defend himself. As he ran into the night, he gave thought to not returning to the airfield and contacting Pyongyang. He thought about going home.
The small fires near the blast site had been extinguished by the sharp mountain wind. There was nearly complete darkness. He vanished from sight.
Toi's expression was doubtful. "Can we trust him? Our lives are in his hands."
"Our lives are in our hands," said Cho. He turned to Ahn with the demeanor of a student addressing his sensei. "Is that not so, father-in-law?"
Ahn again rested his hand on the young man's shoulder. "You showed great bravery this night, Cho, and now you exhibit wisdom. Yes, you and Toi will now return to the village. Return to your lives."
Toi was frowning. "What about you, Father? Will you return to Mother's grave? Are you sure that is safe? You should return with us."
"There is no place in these mountains that is safe tonight, child, except perhaps, for you, in the safety of your home and your husband's arms. Go now. And be sure not to draw attention to yourselves. You were having a husband-wife quarrel, as far as anyone else is concerned. If you draw attention to yourselves, no matter what that soldier promised, trouble will come."
Cho held his rifle in one hand, and Toi's hand in his other. "You have often asked me to heed the wisdom of your father," he told her. "I now ask you to do the same. Let us be gone from here. We return to the village."
Toi hesitated, then stepped forward to lightly kiss Ahn Chong upon the cheek. They embraced. Clouds blotted out starlight and moonlight, and Ahn lost sight of them as they withdrew.
When the sound of their footfalls had faded into the night, he turned and trudged away in the opposite direction, away from the shuttle. He returned to near Mai's grave, where he retrieved his hidden short-wave radio.
He removed the stainless steel cover, extended the antenna and pressed the buttons that activated the set and automatically synchronized the scrambler. He told himself that he should have done this before. But he had not transmitted anything concerning Chai Bin's location to his CIA control officer because of his concern—his fear—for the safety of his daughter. He was releasing that fear. He had underestimated Toi and her husband. They were showing their best, and so would he. He would save his village from this madness. He began to work the transmitter's code key.
Within a few minutes he had made contact with Fox Dog Alpha.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Special Forces Command Center, Yokohama, Japan
The heavily secured "commercial site" was buried deep in the city's industrial district. The Japanese authorities feigned ignorance of its existence but secretly approved of and facilitated this American covert ops staging area which had been deemed, at the highest level, as beneficial to Japan's national security.
Galt stood beneath an overhang at the front of the hangar, watching rain pelt the helicopter gunships that were poised on the tarmac for lift-off. The helos' landing lights made the slanting rain look like falling multi-colored diamonds. There was a Blackhawk gunship, heavily armed, boasting 5.56mm mini-guns mounted on external turrets. The machine gun protruding from its nose could deliver 20mm cannon shells. The Blackhawk, designed for personnel insertion and extraction, was book-ended by a pair of Apache AH-64s, the most heavily armed, fastest armored aircraft in the world. The Apaches were loaded for bear, each armed with 100-pound missiles, a fully loaded 30mm chain-gun cannon and 70mm rockets. Ground crews had attached 1,700-pound, 230-gallon external fuel tanks to two of the Apaches' left inboard weapons storage areas. To make room for this extra fuel, each aircraft had reduced its number of rockets to nineteen. The wing tank concept had been developed during the first Gulf War. While it raised the gross weight of the aircraft some 1,500 pounds past its combat weight, the up side was that the Apache gained a strike capability in excess of 400 miles.
Set somewhat aside from the others was a third Apache, its pilot visible in his cockpit. This chopper's engine was idling, unlike the others.
Galt wore jungle cammies and combat boots. The 9mm Beretta was again worn in an unconcealed shoulder leather. An M4 carbine, a shortened version of the standard M16, was slung over his shoulder. He wore a K-Bar fighting knife sheathed at mid-chest, and a backpack computer for satellite communications. His Night Vision Device goggles, attached to his combat helmet, were in the upflipped, unused position. His face was darkened with camouflage ointment.
Behind him, smells of oil and grease permeated the atmosphere of the spacious hangar. Pilots and members of the special ops team, combat-outfitted, attired in commando black, milled around folding chairs in a corner where a table with topographic maps had been set up.
In this hundred-percent male atmosphere, Galt oddly found himself thinking of saying goodbye to Meiko at the airport, with Sachito present. Meiko had looked so lovely, and so sad. And there was something else. Something elusive. Something on the edge of Galt's consciousness that was trying to call attention to itself. Something he had missed the first time around. He was forging ahead, but he still didn't have the full picture. . . .
General Tuttle materialized at a run, approaching the hangar through the veil of rain. He found cover next to Galt, beneath the overhang. His eyes were tight, angry.
"Galt, just how goddamn stupid do I look?"
Galt had been expecting this. "Uh, that sounds like a trick question, sir."
"Did you honestly think that I wouldn't find out that you've been using your White House clout to get that CIA hack, Smathers, to jump through your hoops?"
"Sir—"
"Cork it. Goddamn it! You requisitioned that extra Apache out there on the tarmac for your own personal insertion into North goddamn Korea. Smathers told me that you were sitting next to him at the safe house when his contact in North Korea radioed in with the attack coordinates on Chai. And you had the goddamn brass balls to instruct Smathers to set up a rendezvous point with his man! And you draft a chopper pilot to ferry you in, all of it unauthorized."
"He wasn't drafted, sir. I went into the pilots' team room and asked for a volunteer."
Tuttle shrugged off his raincoat. "Jesus on a crutch." He glanced at the squad of Army Rangers, who were outfitted similarly to Galt, gathered at the far end of the hangar, beyond earshot. "I brought them together for the rough stuff, son. You went off-mission to initiate this operation and I put the package together, and part of that deal was that I need you on the outside with a clear overview, helping me to call the shots. I need you right here in Japan to work with me on the big picture while this is going down. You're the last man to stage a maverick strike on a goddamn warlord."
"I'm the only man to do it," said Galt. "I've got to make a preliminary soft probe, General. I can get inside without them knowing I'm inside. I can isolate and protect the crew survivors until the ops force shows."
"Let me tell you something." Tuttle's narrowed eyes burned. "You're talking about risking blowing this whole operation by going wild card on me. You'll only get the wrong people killed, including my men and quite possibly your wife. if Chai Bin catches you, he'll know we're on our way, then he'll really hunker clown. Our advantage of surprise would be lost, and he could well execute the surviving crewmembers out of pure maliciousness. No, that is not acceptable. Galt, you are not going in."
"You're making a mistake, General."
Tuttle angrily tossed aside the raincoat. "I've got a briefing to deliver. Now start acting like a soldier and obey orders." He strode away without waiting for a reply.
The special ops squad seated themselves when Tuttle approached a lectern that fronted a map.
Galt wanted to hear the briefing. He took a standing position behind the last row of men.
"The good news first," said Tuttle. He caught Galt's eye, and nodded in approval of Galt giving in to common sense. "The mission is a go. The not-so-good news is the storm." He nodded toward the wind-whipped rai
n pelting the tarmac outside the hangar. "It's been upgraded to a typhoon."
There was grumbling among the helicopter pilots.
"I know," said Tuttle, "and I don't like it either. The center of the storm is presently north of the Sea of Japan and is coming this way, but its course is not predictable. The target area, this warlord's so-called fortress, should be on the fringe of the storm. Unfortunately. I'm speaking here of the opposite fringe from the one we seem to be on, which means you're likely to encounter extreme turbulence between here and there. As for your penetration of North Korean airspace, you must get in stealthily, without creating a signature. More not-so-good news: the terrain over there is rugged, cloud covered as I say, with high mountains and narrow passes. Expect bad wind currents with sudden downdrafts."
More muttering among those present.
"Belay that," Tuttle growled. And when silence had been restored, he continued, "Our biggest problem is lack of maps. The ones that are available don't have much fine detail. Therefore, the Cobra has been equipped with a Global Positioning System to fix your target position within ten meters. Gentlemen, are there any questions?"
"Uh, yes sir," the team commander said. "What about that extra Apache sitting outside?"
Galt eased about and strode away from the group, toward the front of the hangar. He picked up his pace. He broke into a dead-heat run when he heard Tuttle shout, "Galt!" Galt left the hangar, angling toward the Apache that was set aside from the others, its pilot visible in the cockpit through sweeping sheets of rain. At sight of Galt, the pilot followed his previous instructions and the Apache growled to life, competing with the storm's fury with exhaust fumes and the increasing, whistling rpm's of the rotor blades. Galt pulled himself aboard, into the gunner's position, in the lower front seat. He turned to face Tuttle.
The general appeared oblivious to the drenching downpour.
"Dammit to hell, Galt, get your ass out of that chopper this instant." He shouted to be heard above the revving-up turbines and the whistling of the propeller blades. "You're not going anywhere!"
Galt strapped himself in. "I beg to differ, sir. I want this done right, so I'm doing it. I'm the best shot we've got and you know it. I'm going in to set it up for the ops guys from the inside. Nothing else has changed."
"Everything has changed, you lone wolf son of a bitch. An unauthorized insertion into North Korean airspace and taking out one of their bandits is bad enough. I know you, Galt, and I will not stand for some wild-hair, improvised pick-up-and-go operation."
"I know you know me, sir. You know I have trouble taking orders. Ask the president."
"Galt, I can have that ops team over there give chase in their Apaches and they'll vaporize you before you get a mile off-shore. Don't make me do it."
Galt looked over at the team. They were holding back, observing this confrontation from the hangar.
"Sir, I don't think you'd do that." Galt slammed the hatch shut. He leaned forward to tap the shoulder of the pilot, an intense Hispanic kid from Arizona named Morales. "Get us out of here, son." He buckled himself in and grasped the overhead strap to steady himself.
The Apache lifted off into the storm, immediately being buffeted about by slashing wind and rain, like a toy shaken by an irritable child.
Tuttle remained standing where he was, and watched the Apache vanish from his sight into the turbulence of the storm. The wind and rain battered his face.
"Goddamn you, Galt," he said under his breath. "God bless you."
North Korea
An armored column of Russian-made T-54 tanks was called in from the Provincial Headquarters of the Chinese military at Shenyang. Their course had already been well denoted through the frontier by the previous passage of General Li's column of BTR-40 personnel carriers. The T-54s made good time despite the mountainous terrain and the darkness. In fact, the tanks overtook General Li's convoy one kilometer short of where Li's prisoner, the terrified bandit, claimed they would find Chai Bin's fortress, and the equipment and crewmembers of the Liberty.
The prisoner now cringed against the tire of a personnel carrier. His eyes were swollen shut. Several of his teeth were missing. Two of his fingers had been broken. He whimpered like a sick puppy. He had provided prompt and thorough responses to every question posed by his tank commanders.
The trace of exhaust fumes of the recently departed T-54s still lingered on the air, though their clanking sounds had been smothered beyond the folds of the mountains.
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 crewmembers. 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 Apac
he, 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.
Korean Intercept Page 24