Forged in Honor (1995)

by Leonard B Scott

  Tan walked to the board; beside the name of Xu Kang, he wrote "FIND HIM!" Tossing the piece of chalk back onto the rail, he strode confidently toward the phone to report to General Swei that the wrath of the White Storm had begun.

  .

  0235 Hours, Northern Burma "Oh shit," Josh moaned as the huge helicopter dropped and bucked back up, forcing his stomach into his throat. The two remaining passengers beside their team leader made the mistake of smiling. Their faces were eerie enough in the red glow from the interior lights, but smiling made them look like red-faced ghouls with black eyes and mouths. He cussed them both, along with the Air Force Special Operations Command's Pave Low III crew and everybody else who had told him the ride would be "a piece of cake."

  Seeing his team leader squirming, Crow leaned closer to be heard over the roaring twin turbo shaft engines. "Hawk, don't embarrass me. The crew bet me you'd toss your cookies in this bad weather. They say we'll be busting out of this little thunderstorm in just a few minutes. Hell, enjoy the ride-some people pay to be bounced around like this."

  Josh looked at Crow's red, glowing face and wanted to smash the old soldier's teeth in. His own friend was making fun of his weakness! The bastard! They were all bastards! He clenched his jaw tighter and clamped his eyes shut.

  He wanted to remember every detail for the scathing report he would write once the mission was over. Paragraph one, the fucking Agency had rehearsed the infils at Fort Pickett in CH-47s. He knew Chinooks. Hell, he loved Chinooks. They were slow, reliable, and weren't filled with computers-the pilots actually had to fly them. But when he arrived at the staging base in India what did he find? Fucking monster helicopters he'd never seen before except in pictures! Pave Lows? What the fuck are Pave Lows? he'd asked. They'd said they were the newest and best thing going for special ops. Hadn't he been in one before? they'd asked. What else could he do but lie? Sure, he'd said. Then he found out the goddamned things were flown by fucking computers! Here he was in a fucking multimillion-dollar machine flying two hundred knots per hour at treetop level, at night, in a small thunderstorm while passing through the mountains of Burma!

  And the fucking pilots were probably reading fucking comic books!

  Crow patted Josh's trembling hand. "Hawk, snap out of it, the crew chief says we're four minutes out from the LZ."

  Josh filed his future report away and opened his eyes. His partners were unbuckling their seat belts, so Josh forced himself to believe in the computers and tried to lift his hand to pick up the pack at his feet. He found he was frozen to the seat.

  The crew chief materialized from somewhere and held up two gloved fingers in front of Josh's face. "Two minutes out, team leader!" he yelled over the engines.

  Josh nodded and unbuckled his seat belt. He hadn't realized he was moving until he saw he was holding his pack.

  He smiled inwardly, knowing his past experience and training were finally overcoming his fear. Feeling better and more confident, he allowed his eyes to move toward his team members. He gathered even more strength and yelled, "Last equipment check!"

  He patted his pockets and all the equipment attached to his body, feeling for the items that were essential for survival and necessary for successful completion of the mission.

  "One okay!" Crow yelled.

  Sergeant Vee checked his shirt pocket once more to make sure his compass hadn't slipped out and was still tied to his lapel. It was. He nodded. "Two okay!"

  Josh stood and barked, "Team leader okay! Stand by!" He threaded his arms through the pack's straps and hefted the weight to his shoulders. He tapped Crow's shoulder. "How much they bet ya?"

  Crow held up five fingers. Josh turned and looked at the embarrassed crew chief, who shrugged.

  Josh felt the bird beginning its flare to slow its forward air speed. The crew chief stepped forward and yelled into Josh's ear. "Pilot says he scanned the area with infrared coming in and didn't pick up any human activity for miles around. It's clean, so you're good to go. Good luck!" He turned and opened the side door. Josh moved closer to the door and saw a moonlit view of a wind-whipped grassy field he knew all too well.

  The bird was still four feet from the ground when Josh jumped, followed by his team. He hit the ground and screamed in silent joy as he ran a few paces; then he dropped to his knees and turned to check if Crow and Vee were with him. They were, and he ducked his head and closed his eyes as the huge bird lifted off like a mini-hurricane and shot forward over the treetops.

  The team remained perfectly still, giving their ears and bodies time to adjust from the constant sound and vibration, while Josh scanned the moonlit valley. He was in his element now with the Pave Lows just a bad memory.

  He waited another full minute and then whispered, "Get me a GPS check to confirm."

  Crow pulled out a small device from a pouch on his web belt and pushed the Position button. The Global Positioning System's digital display began showing numbers behind a small backlit screen. The high-tech device was like everything else they carried--nonmilitary and non-American. It was a sterile operation, meaning that if they were captured, nothing they were wearing or carrying could be used as proof they were a U. S. government--sponsored unit.

  The high-powered binoculars and night-vision goggles in their packs were German; the freeze-dried food and their boots were French; the camera equipment, watches, and radios were Japanese; their knives were Swiss; packs, canteens, and dark brown, lightweight hiking clothes were Spanish.

  They carried no identification and nothing personal in their pockets. For personal protection they were issued small, Italian-made .22 semiautomatic pistols with silencers, concealed in covered holsters that looked like canvas map cases.

  The GPS finished its data exchange with circling satellites above them and gave a ten-digit grid coordinate. Crow compared the display with the numbers written in washable ink on the back of his left hand.

  He shook his head as if disgusted and whispered harshly, "Leave it to the Air Force to fuck up a good op. They put us down twenty feet from where we were supposed to come in."

  Josh couldn't help but smile. His thoughts of the Pave Low went from hate to love. The chopper had flown three hundred kilometers, at night, low level, and placed them within a few steps of where he had put a small X on a planning map a week before. That was really somethin', he thought. He turned and whispered to Vee, "Give 'em Charlie Mike."

  Vee had already taken the small radio out and unfolded the miniature satellite dish. He punched in the code words on the keyboard for Continuing Mission and pushed the Send key. A satellite received the secure data-burst transmission and sent it back to the staging base in India within seconds. Josh smirked, thinking this high-tech shit wasn't half bad. He stood and whispered, "With the moon's light I don't think we'll need the NVGs for a while. Your call. Check equipment and give me an up, then we'll move out. I'll take the point."

  Vee took out his night-vision goggles, not as confident as his team leader about seeing in the semidarkness. He put them on his bare head and quickly patted and touched his equipment again. Both he and Crow whispered at the same time "Up."

  Josh took out his compass, looked at the luminous arrow, and turned to the south. It was all the direction he needed. He had memorized the route and recognized the dark mountains to his left and right. He was in the valley where he and Stephen had gone on their first boar hunt without the Teacher. They were only five kilometers from Shaduzup. Setting his shoulders, he took a breath, let it out, and took the first step.

  .

  3 P. M., Seattle, Washington.

  Stephen stood on the dock watching as the first trucks loaded with the second shipment of plywood arrived at the plant dock. He felt a strange chill and for some reason glanced at his bracelet. He pushed thoughts of those days from his mind and turned to Colonel Po beside him. "You did say they have shut down the production facilities, didn't you?"

  Po wrinkled his brow, surprised at the question. He had to think for a moment t
o remember what he'd told him. "Yes, of course, as soon as the first shipment came, the facilities were closed. Why do you ask?"

  Stephen shrugged. "I just wanted to make sure I understood you correctly. Last night I thought of my wife and son and how different things will be when I return. My people won't be growing the poppies anymore. I admit to you I'm torn between joy and sorrow. We are doing a great thing for our country but are bringing a horrible plague to America"

  Po nodded as if in agreement, knowing full well phase seven was under way. He felt the same feelings of joy and remorse. It was going to sadden him to have to order Stephen's death, but Tan considered the deputy finance minister a loose end. Po put his hand on Stephen's shoulder. "I was in contact with headquarters this morning and asked about your family.

  They are doing fine."

  Stephen lowered his head. "I miss them terribly."

  Po smiled and patted Stephen's back. "And you will see them very soon, my friend. In three days the last shipment arrives-I received word last night. You'll be home within a week and all of this will be behind you. The economic programs you developed will soon be a reality."

  Stephen gave his chief a muted smile. "I guess I'd better buy some presents after I've finished with this shipment. My son wants something called a skateboard."

  .

  6:30 P. M., Washington, D. C.

  Seated behind his desk, Anton Simmons, known as "Cage" to his forty-two street dealers, looked up at B-Ball Thomas with a sneer. "What da fuck they want now?"

  B-Ball tossed his thumb over his shoulder. "They wanna talk again. Them Jamokes is a pain, man. They ain't listen ta English, y'know. They sayin' somethin bout it being good business to talk over the dispute, and dis is our last chance."

  "Dispute? What da fuck they talkin' about, dispute? The nigger muthafuckers ain't got no dispute. I ain't givin' up shit! Who da fuck they think they are to threaten us?"

  B-Ball glanced at the two men seated in easy chairs beside the desk. "Tell him. Don't be sittin' there starin' at me."

  Wease Elkins fondled the heavy gold medallion hanging from his neck as he spoke with his customary whine. "They got a bad rep and got connections with the Chink heavies out west, Cage. They real bad, man. We might oughts talk to 'em. Check 'em out, y'know. See what they gonna offer, Jimmy the Spoon nodded in agreement. "I been checkin', Cage. They been puttin' pressure on all the players and got most to work for 'em. They organized, man. Real connected.

  The Chinks been movin' in to New York, Philly, Boston, Baltimore, Miami, and here, man. They hired them Jamokes and some no-fuckin'-around Latinos who carry some heavy shit. You bes' talk to them Jamokes, 'cause they got big-time friends."

  Cage shook his head in disbelief. "No Gook, or Chink, or Latino, or jive nigger muthafucker takes my territory. Wease, hire some help for your territory. Spoon, you do the same.

  Give 'em our good shit. The mac-tens and all the ammo they can carry. We'll see who da fuck is bad."

  B-Ball looked down at his size 14 Air Jordan. "Whatcha' want me ta say ta them Jamokes waitin' downstairs?"

  Cage leaned back in his chair. "Tell 'em ta get flicked. We ain't dealin'."

  .

  0355 Hours, Northern Burma.

  Josh stopped and looked up a nearby slope feeling sick to his stomach. Once blanketed by towering pine trees, the hill where he and Stephen had hunted gyi and hares was now covered with jagged black stumps. Horseman Lante had been right-greed had prevailed. The Shan had slashed and burned their land to plant poppies.

  Crow nudged Josh's shoulder. "It's gonna be light in a couple of hours. Are we gonna take a break or go all the way in?"

  Josh knew they were only a little more than a kilometer from the river, but they could use an hour of rest before moving into position. The last kilometer would be the most dangerous part of the move, and they needed to be 100 percent alert. He spoke in a low whisper. "We'd better take a break.

  There's a trail just ahead on the right leading up to a ridge. We'll climb up there and find a spot to hole up for a while. From there we'll follow the ridge all the way down to the recon position by the river."

  Vee stepped closer. "Do you smell something?" he whispered.

  Josh nodded in the darkness. "I've been smelling it for thirty minutes. It's the chemicals they use for processing. I'll explain it when we get to the hide position."

  Thirty minutes later the three-man team had cleared themselves a space in the middle of a stand of four-foot-high ferns. Josh leaned over to Vee and whispered, "As a kid I ran across a couple of small mom-and-pop opium huts, but I didn't know what they were then. When Hondo and I were assigned to the embassy back in the eighties, we took a little trip up here to check out the action. We linked up with a couple of rebel leaders, and one of them showed us how they made their money. They had an opium production refinery.

  What we're smelling is what Hondo and I smelled back then when we visited their crude refinery."

  Hondo leaned over and whispered, "Man, I forgot about this stink once I left Zuland. Hey, based on what we're smellin', looks like we're gonna get what the spooks wanted, huh?'

  Josh nodded in silence as he listened to the morning sounds of the awakening forest. The smell of the chemicals meant they'd found the evidence, but it also meant the people he loved had given in to greed. The wind was bringing the smell from where the facility was located alongside the river, and just past the plant, three hundred yards up the ridge, was the village of Shaduzup.

  .

  4:10 A. M., India Staging Base.

  The moon's glow reflected off large American helicopters, newly painted white, and two C-130E Combat Talon refuelers, all of which had NASA stenciled in blue on their sides. The white birds were parked beside a dirt runway surrounded by two miles of chain link fence. Combined Indian and American guards patrolled outside the fence of the old air base, while inside, marine guards dressed in civilian clothes made their assigned rounds in Jeeps to check the fence and stationary guard posts. There were only four permanent buildings. One was an old tin hangar, two were small mud huts for flight and maintenance crews, and the last, and largest, was the flight operations building. The old terminal was made of mud and straw but had a substantial tin roof and observation tower that now held antennas and satellite dishes.

  The once sleepy, almost deserted Indian outpost had been transformed-tents had been erected beside the hangar, and floodlights turned the once dark buildings and runway into what one flight mechanic called "Las Vegas East."

  Buck McCoy sat in the flight operations building with his operations officer and four radiomen who were monitoring a bank of radios. Behind the table was a work area with a large map of Burma posted on the wall. A tall, stately man entered the room, having been wakened minutes before by a radioman sent by McCoy. The new arrival was the Agency's chief of station for India, the senior representative in the Area of Responsibility, or AOR. By virtue of his rank, the COS had overall responsibility for the mission from the time the task force had arrived, days before. McCoy was in charge of the actual mission, but he was subordinate to the chief of station, who would make the nonoperational decisions and report to and confer with Washington.

  McCoy set down his coffee cup and walked to the wall map. "Sony to have to wake you, sir, but something is going on." He motioned to the map, where five red markers were placed representing the five teams' locations. "Sir, a few minutes ago teams one and three reported that they had moved within a few klicks of their recon targets. They both reported hearing gunfire and explosions coming from the direction of their target locations. While John was getting you, team four called in and reported the same thing."

  The chief's eyes widened. "Are they sure it's gunfire?"

  "They're posit-"

  "Sir, team two reports gunfire!" a radioman said loudly.

  McCoy shook his head in frustration, motioning toward the red stickers. "The teams are separated by over forty klicks, so they're not hearing the same action
. It's got to be a simultaneous attack of some kind on the production facilities."

  "But who is doing the attacking?" the COS asked, stepping closer.

  "Hell if I know, maybe rebels?" McCoy offered.

  "They're not organized or sophisticated enough to hit four locations at once," the COS said with a frown. "Damn! I'll call it in and see what Langley makes of it. Jesus, this changes everything. Can any of the teams move in and see what the hell is going on?"

  McCoy wrinkled his brow. "That's why I called you here, sir. That decision is above my pay grade. I wanted your approval to proceed. It could be very dangerous. I suggest we tell the teams to move in closer but take no risk of being compromised. They sure as hell aren't armed with enough to disengage from a firefight."