Shanghai Mission

by Jamie Fredric

  Carr was silent for a moment, as he stared at the general. He finally said, “Please tell me they aren’t dead, Trevor.”

  “No, sir. Not dead. Captured.”

  Carr was relieved on one hand, but troubled when hearing the men were now prisoners. This was the second time during his Presidency when he’d have to deal with captured Americans.

  “All right, Trevor, Hank. Both of you give me what you have, and from the beginning.”

  The NSA Director deferred to Bancroft to begin. Bancroft adjusted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, then opened a black leather-bound notebook. “Mr. President, our listening post in Manila started picking up a lot of ‘chatter’ not long after Zhu escaped.”

  Carr asked, “Did you pick up anything prior to the escape indicating the Chinese were aware this was going to go down?”

  Bancroft shook his head. “No, sir. All was quiet except for the usual chatter. Let me rephrase that. A couple of days before Zhu arrived in Shanghai there were conversations concerning his visit, but nothing to indicate they had any inkling he was preparing to escape.”

  Carr reached for a glass of water. “Then what alerted them, Hank? How’d they find out?”

  “Well, Mr. President, it was timing, unfortunately.”

  “Timing?”

  “Yes, sir. We started picking up a flurry of transmissions from the site where Zhu reported for his temporary assignment. It’s an army garrison, as you know. Because he was a high-ranking officer, we can only assume the officials wanted to make an impression on him. Preparations were being made for a ceremony. But the evening it was to have taken place, Zhu was nowhere to be found.”

  “They went on alert,” the President commented.

  “Yes, sir. An officer who’s part of security at a nuclear sub shipyard doesn’t just disappear, Mr. President. They panicked.”

  Prescott opened the folder and took over the conversation. “They combed the area, then scrambled a couple of jets out of Shanghai Dachang Airbase. Those pilots were given orders to intimidate only. The pilots transmitted back saying they sighted an American helicopter just beyond their waters. That’s when they apparently put two and two together.

  “A gunboat was ordered to investigate and search. It radioed back a rubber boat was spotted heading for international waters. Their orders were to take prisoners, Mr. President.”

  President Carr mumbled softly. “Prisoners. Propaganda.” He rolled his chair back, stood, then went to the window, staring out across the White House grounds. He rested a hand against the window frame and asked, “Do you know where they’re being held?”

  “They were taken to a place in. . .” Bancroft flipped a page over, reviewing his notes. “It’s in Shanghai, located onNorth Szechuen Road. It’s called the ‘Bridge House.’”

  Prescott interrupted. “I know that place. It was used as a Japanese POW camp during World War II.”

  Carr swung around, and asked with surprise, “A POW camp?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “‘Bridge House,’” Carr repeated.

  “Yes, sir. It was an apartment house before the JapaneseKempeitai took it over after the Battle of Shanghai. The Kempeitai were Japan’s military police who were labeled the Japanese ‘Gestapo.’

  “They used the building as one of their headquarters and interrogation centers. That was where Jimmy Doolittle and some of his airmen were held. The Chinese let it go downhill except for a few of the prisoners’ cells.”

  “Oh my God! We can’t lose track of those men.”

  “We won’t, sir,” Bancroft answered.

  General Prescott tried to reassure Carr. “Mr. President, besides our listening sites, our Rhyolites are ‘primed and ready,’” he said with a slight smile, as he pointed overhead.

  The Rhyolites are a series of spy satellites, SIGINT (signals intelligence). They’re divided into three sub-fields: communications intelligence (COMINT, the interception of messages), electronics intelligence (ELINT, the gathering of information about radar, radar jammers, and the like), and telemetry intelligence (TELINT). The primary mission of the Rhyolites is collection of TELINT and COMINT. In order to pick up transmissions continuously, they’re each “parked” in a geosynchronous orbit, approximately twenty-two thousand miles above Earth. Even at that height, the satellites can pick up walkie-talkie transmissions.

  Carr looked at Bancroft, asking with concern, “Hank, do you know if your operative is safe?”

  “Yes, he is. We received a transmission from him not long after Zhu was extracted.”

  “Any plans to pull him out?”

  “There hasn’t been any indication his cover’s been blown.”

  Carr nodded, “Good. Good.” He came back to his desk, sat down, and rolled his chair closer. “Okay. Now, can either of you add anything else?”

  “As of right this minute, no,” Bancroft replied. “Everyone at Langley knows this is top priority, Mr. President.”

  “Same at the NSA,” Prescott said.

  Carr rested his elbows on the desk, and intertwined his fingers. He tapped his hands lightly against his mouth, before saying, “I think it’s time to bring in the Alpha Tango boys, gentlemen.”

  “You want to use them, instead of another SEAL team?” Prescott said, as he put the folder back in his briefcase.

  Carr gave somewhat of a smile. “They are SEALs, Trevor.”

  “They were SEALs, Mr. President.”

  Carr was surprised by the response. “General, you were brought on board from the beginning. You knew we’d call on those men when incidents ruled out using our military. That team exists specifically for times like this. And in case you’ve forgotten, I know Grant Stevens and Joe Adler personally. If you have any doubts as to their abilities, I’ll vouch for both of them. We will use Alpha Tango, General.”

  “I apologize, Mr. President. I didn’t mean for my comment to come across the wrong way. Those men are some of the best this country has to offer.” Prescott let a few silent seconds pass before he asked, “Will you order the whole team to go on the mission, sir?”

  Carr breathed a sigh. “It’ll be left up to Captain Stevens to make that call.” He stood and extended a hand to each man. “All right. You gentlemen get back to your offices, and keep me posted no matter what time it is.”

  As soon as the two men left the office, Carr reached for the phone. His next conversation would be with Colonel James Maclin at State.

  Chapter 3

  Bridge House

  Shanghai

  By fifteen hundred hours the temperature was quickly approaching ninety-three degrees. In the lower level of Bridge House, it had already risen to one hundred two. Windows, ventilation, fresh air were non-existent.

  All that remained on this level--and barely intact--were three cells. Each was eight by eight, had a wooden door with a latch and lock on the outside only. On the lower edge, a half-moon shape had been carved out, big enough for bowls to be passed through, bowls of rice for World War II POWs. The insides of these cells were completely bare. A single light bulb hung from above, but electricity no longer flowed through the wires.

  Sitting on the filthy, rough concrete floor, leaning against a wall, Navy SEAL Lieutenant John Becket used the back of his hands to wipe sweat from his eyes. He smoothed back strands of brown hair from his forehead. Losing so much water had him worried. He--and probably Kidd--hadn’t had a drop to drink since they were captured. The temperature in the room was rising, as was his body temperature.

  Weapons were taken when they were hauled into the Chinese boat. They’d been brought into this building blindfolded. Before the blindfolds were removed, they were stripped of wetsuits, watches, K-bars. Everything. Then they were thrown in these dank rooms. . .cells of some type.

  He’d looked around this room several times, but there wasn’t anything to see. Not a bunk, or blanket, not even a bucket to piss in.

  He took a deep breath, then began crawling across the
floor, getting close to the door. He waited and listened, making sure it was quiet in the passageway. He leaned closer to the bottom of the door. “Jake!” he called in a loud whisper. “Jake!”

  “Here, LT,” P.O. First Class Jake Kidd responded, as he stretched out on his belly, bringing his head close to the opening. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’m good, Jake. How’s your arm?”

  Kidd bent his elbow, sliding his arm across the concrete, trying to see his forearm in the darkness. He ran a finger over the wound, feeling caked blood stuck in blond hair. “Bleeding’s stopped,” he answered as he rested his chin on his fist. “Bullet just grazed me.”

  Hearing noises overhead, their eyes focused on the ceiling. When it was quiet again, Jake asked, “Where the hell do you think we are, LT?”

  “From the sound of traffic on the way here, I think we might be in Shanghai. I’d guesstimate we’re less than ten miles from the water.”

  “Yeah, but I mean here. . .this building.”

  Becket looked around the nearly pitch dark room. “Don’t know, Jake.”

  “Do you think they’re looking for us, sir?”

  “You can bet your ass they are!”

  Becket assumed the question would eventually come up. Both of them had never been prisoners before, except during their SERE training (Survival, Escape, Resistance, Evasion). SERE was the high level course of the Code of Conduct.

  Special Forces men were required to take SERE-C training, the “High-Risk” course. Navy SERE training was held in the mountains of Maine and NAS North Island, CA. Trainees learned what to do when things went from bad to worse.

  Becket knew that if the CIA and NSA “boys” had done their jobs, the U.S. probably knew he and Kidd were being held here. But he also realized the ChiComs (Chinese Communists) could move the two of them to another location at any time. The odds of him finding out ahead of time where they’d be taken were astronomical. But if he could leave a note, or something to show they had been here. . .

  “Jake!” he whispered.

  “Yeah, LT.”

  “Jake, see if you can find anything to write with, to scratch a message in the wall or floor. . .anything, Jake!”

  Becket and Kidd started crawling around their cells, feeling with their fingers, rubbing with their palms, touching every square inch, trying to find something.

  Becket crawled back to the door. “Any luck, Jake?”

  “Negative, sir. Now what?”

  Becket lowered his head, rubbing his fingers in small circles on his temples. “I’m thinking, Jake. I’m thinking.”

  Chapter 4

  State Department

  Office of Scott Mullins

  0345 Hours

  A bolt of lightning flashed across the early morning sky, followed by a deep, long rumble of thunder that rattled windows. The quick-moving storm was passing directly over D.C.

  Rain pelted the black Corvette’s windshield as Grant wove the vehicle in and out of light traffic along Virginia Avenue. An hour and a half earlier his beeper woke him out of a sound sleep. The lighted display revealed a sequence of numbers from Scott Mullins: State ASAP.

  Grant was worried. Something “heavy” was going down. He immediately phoned Adler. Men, weapons, equipment, aircrafts were to be made ready for a mission yet to be named.

  Every team member lived within five miles of one another and within forty-five minutes of the house in Virginia. Extra sets of clothing, for any kind of weather, were stored in bedroom closets. When a call came for a mission, there’d be no need to respond. As Team members they were on alert 24/7/365. They’d automatically make the drive to their “home base.”

  The rain was getting heavier as Grant approached 23rd Street. Traffic was still light. Brake lights from a bus, taxis, and a few cars flashed on and off as vehicles slowed. He turned onto 23rd.

  The Harry S. Truman Building--the Department of State--was ahead on the left. He made a left onto D Street. With his parking permit in full view, he turned up the concrete ramp to the parking garage.

  Following the ramp leading to the second level, he drove the Vette down the first aisle, then turned into the second aisle, parking in an end space. Very few vehicles were in the garage. His was the only one parked on this level.

  After locking the car, he jogged to the elevator. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the open space. He snapped his security badge on his windbreaker as the elevator doors closed. Normally, getting security clearances reinstated can take about two months. But once Grant and the team accepted their new “job” offering, the President exercised his powers and had the process completed in a few days. All the men had Top Secret, White House clearances.

  Scott Mullins was standing outside his office, leaning against the doorframe, looking down the hallway. He gave a slight wave as Grant came around a corner. Then he went back into his office, leaving the door open.

  Grant walked into the room, removing his baseball cap. He closed the door. “Mornin’, Scott.” He reached across the desk, grabbing Mullins’ hand firmly, as he caught a glimpse of a color photo on the credenza of Scott and his brother, Tony.

  Mullins asked, “Can I get you some coffee?”

  Grant unzipped his windbreaker. “Sure could use some. Thanks.”

  Mullins came around the desk and went to a small, three-tiered cart. A coffee pot was plugged into the wall. He poured the coffee into a mug. “Black, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Grant responded. As Mullins handed him the mug, Grant asked, “Got anything to go along with this?”

  “Might have a box of donuts in the lounge.”

  “I was thinking of something stronger,” he winked. “Just kidding. Thanks anyway.”

  Mullins motioned to a wooden chair. “Have a seat.”

  Grant turned the chair around. He straddled it then sat. As he sipped on the coffee, he noticed Mullins’ rumpled white shirt and red eyes. “You look like shit. Been here long?”

  Mullins nodded and yawned. “You could say that,” he answered, rubbing a hand across his chin. “I wish I could have brought you in sooner, Grant, but we needed to get all the facts straight before I did.”

  “Talk to me,” Grant said as he rested his arms on top of the backrest.

  Mullins flipped open a folder on his desk. He turned one paper over before he looked up, seeing intense brown eyes staring back at him. “This is gonna be a tough one, Grant. China.”

  Grant blew out a breath through tight lips, as he ran his hand along the side of his head. “ChiComs.”

  Mullins nodded then started relaying the story from the time the SEALs left the carrier. He occasionally glanced at pieces of paper in the folder, referring to names, places, times.

  Grant’s brain was trying to process every bit of information coming out of Mullins’ mouth.

  Then Mullins hesitated before saying, “The two SEALs went into the water, trying to give the others time to make it to the chopper. They managed to slow down the gunboat. Shots were fired, and. . .”

  “What happened to them, Scott?” He reached toward the desk, putting the coffee mug on it.

  “Last report was they were taken prisoners.”

  “Oh, Christ!” While Grant didn’t personally know the two SEALs, they were all brothers in arms. “What about the rest of that Team? Are they still aboard the carrier or on their way back to Coronado? Maybe you can ‘hook’ me up with that senior chief.”

  “Now?” Mullins asked with surprise.

  Grant shook his head. “Think you could patch the call through to me at the house in Virginia?”

  Mullins picked up a pencil and made a note. “I’ll see what I can do. But as far as them still being aboard ship, the last I heard they were waiting for a COD flight to take them back.” A COD (Carrier Onboard Delivery) was a Grumman C-2 Greyhound, a twin-engine, high-wing cargo aircraft designed to carry passengers, supplies and mail to and from aircraft carriers.

  “Do you have a map so I can see exactly
where we’re heading?”

  “Sure.” Mullins spun his chair around toward a credenza. He pulled out a wide center drawer. Thumbing through a stack of maps arranged in alphabetical order, he removed one. He turned around and laid it across his desk.

  Grant stood. He picked up the mug, took another sip of coffee, then leaned over the desk, perusing the great expanse of China.

  Mullins unlocked another desk drawer. He took out two photos, then slid them across the map. “Here are the latest satellite photos. The building circled is where we believe they’re being held. The other is of Shanghai.”

  With a coffee mug in one hand, Grant picked up one of the black and white photos, studied it, then put it down. Lifting the second one, he focused on a particular area, then held it closer to Mullins. “Anything you can tell me about this building?”

  “Before the Japanese took it over during World War II, it was an apartment. It’s called ‘Bridge House.’ We think those men are being held in the lower level where they kept the POWs.”

  “A goddamn POW camp?” Mullins nodded slowly. Grant was silent while he studied the photograph, trying to imagine what the camp looked like. Then he finally asked, “Any more to go on? I mean, are they in cells? Is there any sort of fortification?”

  “Not sure. CIA’s trying to find out.”

  “I’m guessing the Agency’s got somebody on the ‘inside,’” Grant said, hoping for some positive feedback. Mullins didn’t respond.

  Grant put the mug down, and dropped the photo. Resting his fists on the desk, he leaned closer to Mullins. “C’mon, Scott! I’ve gotta put a plan together, and that plan may include inside help. In fact, it may be the only way to get those guys out. We’ll be going into unchartered territory. I need up-to-date intel.”

  “I know you do, Grant, but I can’t make that decision.”

  Grant clenched his jaw while keeping his eyes fixed on Mullins. “You sure as hell can ask.”

  Mullins rocked back and forth in the chair, returning Grant’s stare. “I’ll make the call when we’re through here.”