Grant finished figure-eighting the shroud lines, holding the black nylon RAM air chute in front of him as he walked. He got down on a knee, laying the chute on the ground.
Then he tucked a small earpiece in his right ear, adjusting it until it fit comfortably. Attached to his waistband was a small battery that had a dangling antenna. A wire ran from the battery to a throat mike and earpiece. Each time he wanted to communicate with the Team, he’d press and hold the PTT (push-to-talk) button then release it when he finished. Each man had exactly the same equipment, allowing them to hear all conversations.
It was time for everyone to check in. Grant pressed the PTT, saying softly into his throat mike, “A.T., report in.” (Alpha Tango)
“Five-Two,” Stalley answered.
“Six-Eight; boots wet,” James replied, trudging out of a rice paddy.
“Suck it up, Six-Eight,” Grant smiled, as he started getting out of his jump gear.
“Two-Seven,” Adler replied, while he was gathering up his chute.
“Four-One,” Slade answered.
“Three-Six,” Diaz responded.
“Seven-Three; affirm wet,” Novak said.
Grant just shook his head as he pulled his .45 from its holster then removed a silencer from his rucksack. Screwing on the silencer, he kept his eyes roaming his surroundings.
The rest of the men worked quickly, getting out of their jump gear, then putting on NVGs. Black camouflage paint already streaked their faces. Slade wore a watch cap, covering his shiny, bald head.
K-bars were strapped to their legs. Extra ammo for the .45s and penlights were stored in their utility vests. Inside each rucksack were pencil flares; H.E. (high explosive) hand grenades; MK3A2 waterproof concussion grenades; “flash-bang” grenades; extra clips of fifty rounds each for their Uzis; packs of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat), and a small survival kit. They attached canteens to their belts. The water they had wouldn’t be enough. The heat was oppressive during daytime hours. Even now, their clothes were already soaked with sweat.
They checked their weapons. Straps holding Uzis were slung over their heads. Each of them had a .45 with silencer in a side holster.
Novak was the only member without an Uzi. He carried an M21 semi-automatic sniper rifle with silencer. The muzzle velocity was twenty-eight hundred feet per second, with a range of nine hundred yards. A tripod, extra twenty round clips and two different scopes were in his rucksack. One high-powered scope, the AN/PVS high-powered scope (passive night vision) was specifically for night ops--a Starlighter. The second was an ART (adjustable ranging telescope) for daytime ops. Once they were at the surveillance building, he’d attached the PVS scope.
Squatting down, the men gathered around Grant. They finished synchronizing their watches, then Grant said quietly, “Okay. Our contact might park the vehicle out of range so be ready if he walks in. You all know what his challenge response should be.”
He swiveled his head, inspecting the surrounding area, then pointed where he wanted the men posted. “Mike, Ken, over there. DJ, Doc, Frank, there. Stay close. I don’t know which direction that guy’s coming from.”
Without any natural cover, they crouched low as they made their way to their assigned places, finally getting down on a knee. From that position it gave them the ability to move fast if they had to “beat feet.”
Adler scooted next to Grant. “You’re not getting one of your gut feelings about this guy, are you?”
“Trying not to.” Suddenly, in his earpiece he heard James: “Zero-Niner, Six-Eight.”
“Go ahead, Six-Eight.”
“Movement at my deuce.”
“Copy that,” Grant whispered.
Stalley and Diaz focused their NVGs to where James was kneeling, then aimed a weapon toward the approaching figure. Novak and Slade continued on watch.
A man was slowly making his way toward the men. When he was close, Yankee Five-Two (Stalley) said in a voice just loud enough, “Tingzhi!” (Halt)
Without waiting for his challenge question, the man raised his arms over his head and responded, “Shizi. Shizi.”
Grant lowered his weapon, as he said softly in his throat mike, “Hold positions.” He approached Kwan cautiously.
The man was wearing a typical military-style suit known as a zhifu, worn by men and women, similar to the outfits worn by Mao. In the dark it was hard to tell whether it was a black or blue color. The jacket was made in a single piece of cloth which symbolized China's unity and peace.
Grant was within an arm’s length of Kwan when he stopped, then tried to identify features he’d memorized. He holstered his weapon, and extended a hand. “I’m Grant Stevens.”
Kwan looked over Grant’s shoulder seeing several other men as he reached for Grant’s hand. “I think we should go,” he said softly. He started to walk away.
“Hold it!” Grant said in a loud whisper, as he grabbed Kwan’s arm. “Tell me about our men.”
“They were still being held in Bridge House as of this morning.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “This morning? That’s the last time you observed the building?”
“Yes. I’ve been preparing for your arrival,” he replied with annoyance in his voice.
Grant exhaled through tight lips before he asked, “What about a diagram of the interior? Do you have anything that’ll help us?”
“That building’s been closed, off limits since after the war. There were very unpleasant memories associated with it. It was an apartment building, but I don’t know what the Japanese did to the inside, if anything. We heard they devised cells of some type.”
“One more question,” Grant said. “Is the boat ready?”
“Yes.” Kwan went silent.
Grant just stared at him, then turning slightly, he pressed the PTT, bringing in the rest of the Team. “Let’s move.”
*
Kwan led the men through the field quietly and quickly, constantly swiveling his head. He wasn’t sure why things changed. He always worked alone--up until tonight.
They’d been walking for nearly fifteen minutes along rows of soybeans that were due for harvesting in October. Every man stayed on alert, stayed quiet, stayed focused. Every weapon was ready.
Kwan held up a hand, bringing everyone to a halt. He pointed ahead toward the dark shape of a vehicle parked about fifty yards directly ahead. He motioned everyone forward.
As they approached the vehicle, parked on a wide dirt path, they could finally see it was similar to a small, old dump truck. The main difference between this vehicle and other trucks was the engine was completely exposed. Most of the men were not surprised. They’d seen it before in Vietnam.
A canvas cover with grommets had been stretched over the top of the bed. Frayed rope held it down every three feet on both sides along the top row of horizontal slats. Inside the bed, stacked along the length of each side, were rows of open weave jute storage bags containing dried corn. The middle of the bed was empty.
The men took up positions, standing with their backs against the truck. Kwan stood next to the driver’s door. He turned to Grant. “You can all fit in the back, but it will be cramped. The drive will take longer than usual because I’m planning to use smaller roads into the city. You may not be too comfortable.”
Grant lifted his rucksack. “Don’t worry about us. You just get us where we need to go.” He headed toward the rear of the truck with the Team following. He looked around then motioned for them to climb in. Sliding his rucksack onto the bed, he climbed in and sat on the wooden floorboards.
Kwan came around and reached overhead for a dangling rope. Just before he pulled the flap down, he said, “There’s some water for you in that barrel.”
“Appreciate it,” Grant replied.
Kwan tied off the rope, then returned to the cab. Within a minute, the engine started, sputtering and backfiring, disturbing the quiet around them.
Grant gritted his teeth, as he looked at the men. They were all shaking their heads
.
James covered his ears and whispered, “So much for stealth!”
Chapter 8
Shanghai
2245 Hours
Local Time
A heavy downpour beat against the canvas hanging over Team Alpha Tango. Water fell through rips and holes, dripping on heads and gear. Then, just as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. It was the monsoon season for this region of China. Rain could start and stop at any given time.
Driving without headlights, Kwan drove slowly along a road parallel to N. Szechuen Road. Slowing down even more, he made a left turn into a dark alley, that only allowed five feet on each side of the vehicle. He drove in far enough to keep the vehicle hidden between two buildings.
Leaving the engine running, he got out and hurried to the back of the truck. Pulling the canvas flap to the side, he looked up at Grant and whispered, “The building for your surveillance is to the right of this one.” He indicated with a thumb over his shoulder. “Bridge House is on the opposite corner at your one o’clock. It’s a seven-story building.”
Grant jumped out of the truck, and slung his rucksack over his shoulder. The rest of the Team gathered their gear, then one by one got out of the truck, honing in on the conversation.
Kwan continued, “Once you’re inside, take the stairs directly in front of you, then at the third floor landing, go to the front. The room will be the fourth one down.”
“What about roof access,” Grant asked.
Kwan nodded. “Take those same stairs to the fourth floor. There’s a ladder at the back that leads to the roof. But I’d advise against surveillance from there because of the heavy downpours. They can sneak up on you.”
Grant readjusted the strap of his rucksack on his shoulder. “Where will you be?”
“I can’t stay here. First, I have to report in. Then I’ll have to begin making my regular deliveries in a few hours.”
Kwan started securing the flap, when Grant grabbed his arm. “What the fuck are you talking about? Make deliveries?!”
Kwan stepped closer. “You’ve got to understand. It’s part of my cover. If I don’t show up on schedule. . .”
“Jesus Christ,” Grant mumbled under his breath.
Adler stepped between the two, locking his eyes on Kwan. “How the hell are we supposed to contact you?”
“You won’t be making the rescue until tomorrow night. I’ll be here then.”
“What makes you think tomorrow night?” Grant asked with eyes narrowed. “We’ve still got plenty of time before daylight.”
“I. . .I must have misunderstood.”
It was Adler’s turn to be pissed. “You’re goddamn right you misunderstood! And what the hell happens to us if you’re not here as planned? What if the op goes ‘south’?”
Grant pulled Adler aside. “Tell me you’ve got a radio.” Kwan nodded. “Do you have it with you?”
“I can’t take the chance if I’m stopped.”
Grant just stared at him. “What the hell. . .?!” He turned to James. “DJ. Write down a frequency and give it to him.” He looked again at Kwan. “You do know how to set a frequency, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Kwan took the paper James handed him then put it in his jacket pocket.
Grant continued looking at the agent as he motioned with a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you all inside.” Each man gave Kwan a glaring, questioning look, before leaving.
When Grant was alone with Kwan, he leaned close and pointed a finger at him. “Listen to me. If anything goes wrong because of you, I swear to God, I’ll find you and rip off your goddamn head.”
Kwan backed away slowly. He disappeared around the side of the truck, then climbed into the cab. He was breathing heavy.
Up until now, his assignments had never been difficult. . .dangerous, of course, but not difficult. He had a lot going in his favor. He was an expert in the culture, the language. The country was the land of his ancestors. He worked alone. He did everything asked of him.
Now these men came into his territory, and he was told. . . No. Not told. He was ordered to work with them, these men of Alpha Tango.
He backed the truck out of the alley, then turned down a side road. The longer he drove, the more he thought. He had to be careful now, and more than ever. He couldn’t endanger himself or his assignment.
*
Grant’s temples pounded as he ran to the surveillance building. He reached for the door handle, then pressed the PTT. “Zero-Niner coming in.” He took a quick look around before going inside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he hurried to catch up to the Team.
Rounding the second floor landing, he chastised himself for assuming again. Head slap, Stevens! Never assume! Why’d he think the Agency would come through? This guy was supposed to be their way out of Shanghai. What the shit were they going to do if he didn’t show?
Hearing Grant coming down the hallway, Adler called softly, “Skipper! Over here.”
Grant walked to a dark corner where Adler, Stalley, and Diaz were sitting on the floor. James was standing to the side of a window, looking at their intended target--Bridge House.
Diaz patted the floor. “C’mon, Boss. Have a seat.”
Grant slid the rucksack off his shoulder and laid it near the wall. “You cooled off yet?” he asked Adler.
“Probably no more than you.”
Grant nodded then he looked for Novak and Slade. “Are Mike and Ken topside?”
Diaz opened an MRE, as he answered, “Yeah, they are.”
Grant reached into his rucksack, lifted out a folded map, then held it towards Adler. “Joe, take a look. See if you can find the shortest route to the river. If we don’t have transportation. . . You know what to look for. Use the coordinates for the boat location.” He looked up at the ceiling, then turned to leave. “I’ll be right back.”
Standing on the fourth floor landing, he called softly, “Ken, Mike.”
Ken Slade responded, “C’mon in, Boss.” He was sitting next to Novak, with a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. NVGs rested on top of his head. His watch cap was tucked in his waistband.
Mike Novak sat on the floor by a window. His sniper rifle was attached to a tripod. He acknowledged Grant, “Boss.” His attention didn’t waver from continuing to look through the AN/PVS scope.
Grant crouched low as he made his way closer to the two men, then he squatted down. “Anything going on over there?”
Without taking his eye from the scope, Novak answered, “Quiet.”
“Seen any guards?”
“Negative.”
Grant’s brow furrowed. “Not a good sign.” He extended a hand toward Slade and took the binoculars. Scooting toward the side of a window, he got down on a knee before raising the binoculars. He leaned toward the window, doing a quick sweep of the building.
The Art Deco-designed building was situated on a corner. It had a curved front, with double entry doors made of glass, encased in tarnished brass. Grant counted seven-stories, without the basement.
“What do you think, Boss?”
“Don’t know, Mike. Without any visible guards, it’s possible there’s somebody hiding, waiting for us.”
“Always possible. He or they could be anywhere, though, and not just across the street,” Novak replied matter-of-factly. He continued looking through the scope, more carefully now, going from window to window, then rooftops and alleys.
“We need to get our asses over there,” Grant said through clench teeth. “Something’s not right.” He handed the glasses back to Slade. “What about lights? Seen any?”
“Nada,” Slade answered. “But if there’s a basement, it’s not likely we’ll see any. If anybody’s on a higher floor, they could be at the back.”
Grant scooted away from the window. “Did either of you eat anything yet?”
“Negative,” Slade answered.
“Both of you eat now. We can’t waste any time. Ken, when you’re done, meet me downstairs. Yo
u and DJ are gonna do a recon.”
Chapter 9
Daytime temperatures had reached a sweltering ninety-eight degrees. By the time the Team reached Shanghai, those numbers fell by only ten degrees, with the humidity remaining just as high, hovering around ninety percent.
Inside the surveillance building it was stifling, muggy, without any air circulation. The little traffic there was on this stretch of road had all but stopped. Only four vehicles had passed since the men set up surveillance. And that was four too many.
Grant rested a hand on his holstered .45 as he stood on the third floor landing, waiting for Slade and James. Finally, he heard in his earpiece, “Four-One comin’ in.”
Hearing the two men coming up the stairs, he went back into the room and waited.
“What’d you find?” he asked as they walked in.
Slade put his .45 into the holster, then grabbed his canteen from his belt. “Found one other door around back. There aren’t any lights along either the side street or back.” He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig of water. “Jesus! It’s miserable out there!”
Grant immediately asked, “Did you see any sign of guards?”
Slade took another quick drink, then shook his head. “Negative. We didn’t check side alleys, only the one running behind Bridge House.”
“And the back entrance door was locked,” James reported, as he reattached his canteen to his belt.
“I guess you didn’t see Kwan?” Grant asked almost knowing the answer.
“No sign of him or his vehicle, Boss,” James reported.
Grant bent down and picked up his Uzi, slinging the strap over his head. “Sonofabitch!”
“What the fuck do we do now, Skipper?” Adler asked as he was adjusting the earpiece.
Shanghai Mission Page 6