“I know! I know! And I have pushed the issue higher up. I’m waiting.”
“If and when you do get that name, let me fill you in on our LZ,” Grant said. “We decided on Dianshan Lake.” He lifted a piece of paper from his pocket. “The coordinates are 31°8' 40.83, 121°0' 52.94.”
“Got it.”
Grant put the paper back in his pocket. “Now, go ahead and tell me what’s behind door number two.”
“Some new information has just been passed down to us. It seems one of Zhu’s former subordinates had attempted an escape to the U.S.”
“Attempted?”
“He never made it.”
“We’re not supposed to find him too, are we?” Grant looked at his watch. He was getting anxious. Time wasn’t on his side when it came to the upcoming mission.
Mullins sidestepped the question. “The Agency learned about this guy from their operative. He originally requested the SEALs take him along with Zhu. The Agency denied the request, but at the time it didn’t know what he had in his possession--two Russian-made canisters of plutonium, stolen from the nuclear sub shipyard.”
“Oh, Jesus!”
“We understand. . .”
“Hold on a minute, Scott. Are you saying the Agency held back information again?”
“I was hoping you missed that, but it seems to be the case. They didn’t give any importance to helping this other guy escape. Once they found out about the plutonium, it was too late.”
Grant remained quiet, as he started pacing in front of the desk, trying to get himself under control. This kind of Agency shit had happened way too often while he was in the Navy, and it was picking up right where it left off.
Mullins continued. “From what the operative was able to find out, each container was the size of a cat food can. The inner container was sealed with a bolt and gasket to prevent motion during handling, then the outer container was welded. As a precaution, the process was repeated, encasing the plutonium twice, which was supposed to keep it more stabilized during movement, as well aslimit the possibility of leakage.”
Grant finally commented. “I don’t understand why the hell we didn’t pick up any transmissions from the ChiComs.”
“I could give you all kinds of assumptions, Grant. Losing plutonium isn’t something any country would want to admit. Initially, there were a couple of spurt transmissions, then everything stopped. Everyone’s opinion is the ChiComs started passing information and details via couriers. They were on the hunt for that guy.”
“Listen, Scott. Our mission is to go in and get our men, not hunt down two cans of plutonium. Shouldn’t that be the ChiCom’s problem anyway?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. And it still is. But the Agency and NSA seem to think this guy’s in hiding and. . .”
Grant interrupted. “With the plutonium?”
“Nobody’s certain.”
“I don’t know why the hell I even asked because it doesn’t matter what the answer is. We can’t do it. Do you know what it’s gonna take just for us to get in then get out? And what if our guys aren’t where they’re supposed to be, Scott? There’s no way in hell I’m not gonna track them down and find them. To hell with the Chinaman! Let the Agency’s man deal with it!”
On one hand, Mullins was surprised by Grant’s outburst. On the other, he expected it. There’s no way in hell Grant Stevens would leave China without those SEALs.
Grant took a deep breath, trying to slow down his heart rate. “Is this by order of the President?”
“Nothing official yet; just your need to know for now.”
In this brief span of time, during this conversation, Grant had already started to plan what he’d do should an executive decision come down.
Chapter 6
With its four turboprop engines revving, the C-130 began its takeoff roll. The pilot advanced the throttles close to fifty percent. As the Hercules rumbled down the main runway at Atsugi NAF, the co-pilot kept an eye on the V1 (velocity/speed). If there were any major problems, such as engine failure or fire, they’d have to abort takeoff before reaching V1. But once past that speed, takeoff was the only option, no matter what happened after.
When the engines stabilized at forty-five percent, the pilot accelerated them to takeoff thrust. Reaching Vr (rotation speed), he raised the nose gear off the runway. Current wind conditions dictated the aircraft would come to heading 258.8° W, putting it on course for the DZ, nine hundred miles away.
Once at cruising altitude, the pilot pushed the aircraft close to its top speed of three hundred sixty-six mph. Even at that, it would take almost three hours before Team Alpha Tango would make its jump.
In the fifteen foot wide cargo bay, sitting on orange nylon web jump seats, the men loosened their seat belts. Under their jump gear they were outfitted the same--dressed in black from head to toe.
Quietly, they each began checking their own weapons, equipment, chutes, testing O2 bottles. Everything would be checked, rechecked.
Doc Stalley had one extra piece of gear to check, even though it was for the second time. He unzipped his medical backpack. With supplies, it weighed twenty pounds. He quickly eyed the contents of the main compartment and pockets: battle dressings; saline solution; IV fluid kit; sutures; syringes; morphine, and everything else needed for battlefield care. It was his own portable “clinic.”
Grant reached into his rucksack, taking out the satellite photos. Those were the only pieces of intel he brought. The folder and its contents were no longer needed, but left on the Gulfstream, secure with Matt Garrett. Everything had been put to memory by each man. They couldn’t risk having any information on them should the worst happen. The photos would be destroyed before they made the jump. What each man did have was some “haul ass” money, Chinese currency called “renminbi.” The primary unit of renminbi is the “yuan” which means “people’s currency.”
During the flight from D.C., the Team examined all photos. They decided the LZ would be the northeast side of Dianshan Lake. There were some rice fields but mostly grassy areas. It appeared to be far enough away from civilians. With the Team’s expected time of “arrival” it was unlikely anyone would be in the fields, except maybe for grazing water buffalo.
The LZ would put them west of their destination, Bridge House, situated on the outskirts of downtown Shanghai.
Adler turned slightly on the jump seat, hooking his fingers in the back webbing. He debated whether he should bring up the subject. “Are you okay?” he asked Grant with a worried expression.
“With what?”
“You know. It hasn’t been that long since. . .since you were in the hands of those East German bastards.”
Grant slowly took a deep breath. “Listen, Joe. I’m fine. East Germany’s in the past. What I’m concerned about are those two men.”
He laid the photos on the seat, then stood as he adjusted the earplug in his right ear. Slight turbulence made him rest a leg next to the seat’s aluminum support bar. He was worried, but mostly he was pissed. . .again. Goddamn Agency, he thought. Mullins still hadn’t gotten the name of the CIA operative.
There wasn’t any way in hell for him to change the LZ at this point. Trying to get to Bridge House would take too much time without the transportation he requested from the operative. But even if they had to walk--come hell or high water--they would find those two SEALs.
“You’re pissed, aren’t you?” Adler asked, interrupting Grant’s thoughts.
Grant gave somewhat of a nod, and sat down. “That obvious, huh?”
“Listen, one of these days those pearly whites are gonna be nothing but nubs from all the grinding you do with ’em.”
Grant held his chin, moving his lower jaw back and forth. “You’re right. . .on both counts.”
“The ‘Cowboys'?”
“Yeah.”
The other men were watching Grant and Adler, when Grant motioned them closer. “Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got two and a half hour
s until our jump. Since it doesn’t look like we’re gonna have any help from the Agency, we need to come up with some alternatives.” He handed out the photos, then pointed toward them as he said, “You’ve memorized those. I’m open to any suggestions.”
Suddenly, the flight engineer came rushing through the cabin. He stopped in front of Grant. Putting a hand over his mouthpiece, he spoke loudly over the engine noise. “Sir, you’ve got a call!”
Grant hurried with him to the cockpit. The engineer handed him a set of “Mickey Mouse” ears. Grant adjusted them on his head, fingered the mouthpiece and answered loudly, “Stevens!”
“Grant! I got it!”
Grant’s shoulders went slack. “I’m listening.”
A few minutes later, Grant walked into the cargo bay. All six men were standing, watching him, hoping for good news. He gave them a thumb’s up.
“What happened, Boss?” Novak asked anxiously, as he unscrewed the top on a small bottle of orange juice.
Grant sat down and leaned back. “According to Scott, my request went all the way to the President. It didn’t take long after that for Scott to get the name.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. As he spoke, his eyes went from man to man. “We’re to meet up with Dao Kwan, code name ‘Shizi.’ Translated it means ‘lion.’ I didn’t get background information on him, only a description: thirty-five years old; about 5’7”; black hair; dark brown eyes; scar on left shoulder blade.”
“Do we have to ask him to show us his scar?” Slade asked with a raised eyebrow, as he ripped the paper from a Hershey’s chocolate bar.
“We’ll have Doc look for it!” Diaz laughed, as he pointed to the young corpsman.
“You can decide when the time comes, guys,” Adler said, bringing the conversation back on track.
Grant continued. “We’re to meet him at the LZ. He’s supposed to verify our men were still being held inside Bridge House. He’ll be driving us to an old factory within a block or two of the building. As long as Kwan is on time, I would think we’ll have enough time to do some surveillance before we make the rescue.”
Adler and Grant had worked together long enough to know basically what the other was thinking.
“This one won’t be like ’75, Skipper,” Adler said.
“I hear you, Joe. But the VC were able to relocate our guys without us knowing about it. It’s possible it could happen now.”
“But what about our contact?” Diaz asked with surprise. “Shouldn’t he have up to the minute info?”
“That’s who we’ve got to count on, Frank.” Grant leaned back. “Why don’t you all chow down on some of those sandwiches, and make sure you get enough fluid. We’re looking at some hot, humid weather ahead of us.”
*
Chief Don Risoli, Loadmaster, tapped Grant on the shoulder. “Fifteen minutes to jump, sir!”
Grant gave a thumb’s up. The men knew it was time to go through final checks. The whole process would be repeated again, ensuring the integrity of fasteners on the RAM air chutes. After checking the reserve chute, they gave the crotch straps one more tug, then checked the O2 in the tanks. They’d be breathing oxygen from a belt tank flowing into aviator-style masks and continue using it until they reached a breathable air level.
Risoli signaled he was about to lower the ramp. Instinctively, the men put on their masks, tightened the straps, then cranked open their O2 bottles.
Standing close to the bulkhead, Risoli adjusted his mask with built-in mike, and continued talking with the flight deck crew. Interior lights went out. Small red lights were all that glowed.
The sound of the engines changed, as the plane started decelerating. The Loadmaster hit the switch. A motor began whining, and the ramp started lowering. A tremendous rush of noise swept through the cargo bay. Once the ramp was fully lowered, Risoli scooted toward the edge, got on a knee, and made a visual inspection of both sides of the ramp and locking mechanisms. Satisfied, he moved back toward the control panel, pressed a hand against his mask, then alerted the flight crew.
Now the men of Alpha Tango kept their eyes on the Loadmaster, who glanced at his watch then held up two fingers. Two minutes to jump. The Team attached their rucksacks to the D-ring on the reserve chutes. Walking closer to the ramp, they spread out, leaving some space between one another.
The lights of South Korea and Japan faded in the distance. Below them now was nothing but blackness. Nearly twenty-six thousand feet under them was the East China Sea.
Risoli held up a fist. Thirty seconds until jump. The Team moved more forward. Then, getting final confirmation from the flight deck, Risoli folded his right arm across his chest, and in one swift motion, swung his arm out to the side, pointing to the exit, the signal for the Team to jump.
With adrenaline surging, they dove head first within seconds of one another, falling into the dark emptiness, with a tremendous blast of cold air pressing against their bodies. Ten seconds later they each pulled the ring, releasing their black RAM air chutes. The sudden force of the chutes opening jerked their bodies. Crotch straps dug in.
Then, silence surrounded them as they swayed in their harnesses. Their breathing became steady and controlled. Total concentration took hold, as their heartbeats returned to normal.
Loadmaster Risoli knelt on the ramp, watching with NVGs, seeing all chutes had opened. He stepped back and confirmed with the flight crew it was a good jump. Then he hit the switch, and the ramp started raising. The C-130 began accelerating, making a slow wide turn, setting its course back to Atsugi.
Chapter 7
Bridge House
John Becket sat on the floor of his cell, licking away blood oozing from a cut on his lip. He swiped at it with a knuckle, then drew his knees toward him. His left eye was nearly swollen shut. His head throbbed incessantly. Nothing helped relieve the pain, even when he rested his forehead against his knees.
He leaned sideways just enough to get his legs under him before pushing himself up, sliding his back on the wall for support. He felt dizzy, unsteady. Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he finally regained his balance. He had to stop a moment to lean his head back, resting it against the wall until his vision cleared. He tried taking a few short steps, but he stayed close to the wall just in case.
Right now he was more concerned about Jake. He’d lost track of time since the bastards had dragged Jake from his cell. Words echoed in his mind, the words he shouted at the young petty officer: “Hang tough, Jake! You’re stronger than those fuckers!”
A loud noise overhead made him flinch, but he was certain Jake wasn’t in the room above. A fight. There was definitely a fight going on. By the sounds, there had to be more than two men involved. Loud thuds meant bodies were being slammed on the floor. Furniture crashed. A man yelped in pain. Then a moment of silence before he heard footsteps hurrying around in the room.
“What the hell’s going on?!” Becket said through clenched teeth, instinctively moving sideways along the wall, getting farther away from the door. His eyes followed the sound above him. Then, at least two people were running down the hallway. Except for a door slamming, there was silence. A minute later, the racket started up again, only this time with a thumping on the stairs.
Becket couldn’t figure out what was making the sound. Then, footsteps again, hurrying past his cell. A door squeaked, then a thud. The sound of a body falling. A man groaned.
“Oh, no. Jesus! No!” Becket cried out. He rushed to the door, pounding on it with his fist. “You fuckin’ bastards!”
As his cell door started opening, he stepped farther away, going toward the back of the room.
Two men came in, both wearing Chinese Army uniforms. It was too dark to see their faces. They grabbed hold of him.
“Jake!” he shouted, as he struggled. But there wasn’t any response.
They tied his arms behind his back, tied a cloth around his mouth, then pulled him from the cell.
Holding his arms, his captors dragged him down the
short hallway. He struggled, trying to pull away. A punch to his kidney almost brought him to his knees. They jerked him up and forced him up the stairs. At the landing two other men were waiting. One of them flung the outer door open, and Becket was pulled outside.
In the alley was a panel truck with the engine running, and headlights on. A man in uniform sat behind the steering wheel.
Becket was led around the back. Both panel doors were wide open. The soldiers backed him up against the truck. An overwhelming smell of gas fumes almost made him puke. Somebody poked him in the chest with a rifle until he finally fell back. They rolled his legs in. Trying to sit up, Becket finally saw Kidd, gagged, tied up, bruised, and unconscious.
He slid his foot against Kidd’s leg, trying to bring him around. One of the men crawled into the truck and slapped Becket on the side of his head, creating further pain.
The guard sat next to him, laying his rifle across his own legs. The second guard crawled in, pulled both doors shut, then positioned himself next to Kidd. The sound of the passenger side door closing coincided with the truck pulling away from Bridge House.
Becket leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to lessen the pain. If he could shift his concentration to sounds going on around him, it might help. And for the time being, maybe take his mind off his and Kidd’s precarious situation.
*
LZ
Dianshan Lake
The Team adjusted their toggles, keeping their eyes on one another, keeping a safe distance apart, checking altimeters on top of their reserve chutes.
In the distance the lights of Shanghai flickered, but below them, the LZ remained in darkness, exactly what they expected.
Grant checked his GPS. Still in its infancy stage, the GPS had become an integral part of his gear.
Each man looked at his own altimeter. Less than a thousand feet until touchdown. At fifty feet they pulled down on both toggles, and the RAM airs began to stall. Putting their knees together, slightly bent, they pulled down on the toggles a little more. At ten feet, they pulled down hard on both toggles, finally touching earth, landing in close proximity to one another.
Shanghai Mission Page 5