Colonel Grishanov had studied his profession for more than twenty years, had studied Luftwaffe documents not merely related to prisoner interrogation, but also classified studies of how the Kammhuber Line had been set up. This was incredible, almost enough to make him take a drink himself. But not quite, he told himself. This wasn't a briefing document in the making, wasn't a learned White Paper for delivery at the Voroshilov Academy. This was a learned book, highly classified, but a book: Origin and Evolution of American Bomber Doctrine. From such a book he could go on to marshal's stars, all because of his American friend.
"Let's all stay back here," Marty Young said. "They're shooting all live stuff."
"Makes sense to me," Dutch said. "I'm used to having things go off a couple hundred yards behind me."
"And four hundred knots of delta-V," Greer added for him.
"A lot safer that way, James," Maxwell pointed out.
They stood behind an earthen berm, the official military term for a pile of dirt, two hundred yards from the camp. It made watching difficult, but two of the five had aviator's eyes, and they knew where to look.
"How long have they been moving in?"
"About an hour. Any time now," Young breathed.
"I can't hear a thing," Admiral Maxwell whispered.
It was hard enough to see the site. The buildings were visible only because of their straight lines, something which nature abhors for one reason or another. Further concentration revealed the dark rectangles of windows. The guard towers, erected only that day, were hard to spot as well.
"There's a few tricks we play," Marty Young noted. "Everybody gets vitamin-A supplements for night vision. Maybe a few percentage points of improvement in night vision. You play every card in the deck, right?"
All they heard was the wind whispering through the treetops. There was a surreal element to being in the woods like this. Maxwell and Young were accustomed to the hum of an aircraft engine and the faint glow of instrument lights that their eyes scanned automatically between outward sweeps for hostile aircraft, and the gentle floating sensation of an aircraft moving through the night sky. Being rooted to the land gave the feeling of motion that didn't exist as they waited to see something they had never experienced.
"There!"
"Bad news if you saw him move," Maxwell observed.
"Sir, SENDER GREEN doesn't have a parking lot with white cars on it," the voice pointed out. The fleeting shadow had been silhouetted against it, and only Kelly had seen it in any case.
"I guess that's right, Mr. Clark."
The radio sitting on the berm had been transmitting only the noise of static. That changed now, with four long dashes. They were answered at intervals by one, then two, then three, then four dots.
"Teams in place," Kelly whispered. "Hold your ears. The senior grenadier takes the first shot when he's ready, and that's the kickoff."
"Shit," Greer sneered. He soon regretted it.
The first thing they heard was a distant mutter of twin-bladed helicopter rotors. Designed to make heads turn, and even though every man at the berm knew the plan in intimate detail, it still worked, which pleased Kelly no end. He'd drawn up much of the plan, after all. All heads turned but his.
Kelly thought he might have caught a glimpse of the tritium-painted M-79 sights of one grenadier, but it might as easily have been the blink of a lonely lightning bug. He saw the muted flash of a single launch, and not a second later the blinding white-red-black flash of a fragmentation grenade against the floor of one of the towers. The sudden, sharp bark made the men at his side jump, but Kelly wasn't paying attention to that. The tower where men and guns would have been disintegrated. The echo had not yet dispersed through the theater of pines when the other three were similarly destroyed. Five seconds later the gunships came skimming in over the treetops, not fifty feet separating their rotors as miniguns ripped into the barracks building, two long neon fingers reaching in. The grenadiers were already pumping white-phosphorus rounds into the windows, and any semblance of night vision was lost in an instant.
"Jesus!" The way that the spreading fountains of burning phosphorus were concealed inside the building made the spectacle only more horrid, while the miniguns concentrated on the exits.
"Yeah," Kelly said, loudly to make himself heard. "Anybody inside is a crispy critter. The smart ones who try to run come right into the mini fire. Slick."
The fire element of the Marine assault force continued to pour fire into the barracks and admin buildings while the snatch team raced to the prison block. Now the rescue choppers came in, behind the AH-1 Huey Cobras, landing noisily close to the main gate. The fire element split, with half deploying around the choppers while the other half continued to hose the barracks. One of the gunships began circling the area now, like an anxious sheepdog on the prowl for wolves.
The first Marines appeared, dragging the simulated prisoners in relays. Kelly could see Irvin checking and doing a count at the gate. There were shouts now, men calling off numbers and names, and the roar of the big Sikorsky choppers almost covered it all. The last Marines in were the fire-support teams, and then the rescue choppers increased power and lifted off into the darkness.
"That was fast," Ritter breathed as the sound faded. A moment later two fire engines appeared to extinguish the blazes left behind by the various explosive devices.
"That was fifteen seconds under nominal," Kelly said, holding up his watch.
"What if something goes wrong, Mr. Clark?" Ritter asked.
Kelly's face lit up in a wicked grin. "Some things did, sir. Four of the team were 'killed' coming in. I assume maybe a broke leg or two--"
"Wait a minute, you mean there's a chance--"
"Let me explain, sir?" Kelly said. "From the photos there is no reason to believe there are any people between the LZ and the objective. No farming on those hills, okay? For tonight's exercise, I eliminated four people at random. Call all of them broken legs. The people had to be carried into the objective and carried out, in case you didn't notice. Backups on everything. Sir, I expect a clean mission, but I messed it up some tonight just to check."
Ritter nodded, impressed. "I expected everything to be run by the book for this rehearsal."
"In combat things go wrong, sir. I allowed for that. Every man is cross-trained for at least one alternate job." Kelly rubbed his nose. He'd been nervous, too. "What you just saw was a successful simulated mission despite greater-than-expected complications. This one's going to work, sir."
"Mr. Clark, you sold me." The CIA field officer turned to the others. "What about medical support, that sort of thing?"
"When Ogden forms up with Task Force 77, we cross-deck medical personnel over to her," Maxwell said. "Cas is on his way there now to brief the people in. CTF-77 is one of my people, and he'll play ball. Ogden's a pretty large boat. We'll have everything we need to care for them, medics, intel guys to debrief, the works. She sails them right to Subic Bay. We hop them out of Clark ASAP. From the time the rescue choppers get off, we'll have them in California in ... four and a half days."
"Okay, this part of the mission looks fine. What about the rest?"
Maxwell handled the answer: "Constellation's whole air group will be in support. Enterprise will be farther up north working the Haiphong area. That should get the attention of their air-defense net and their high command. Newport News will be trolling the coast shooting up triple- A sites for the next few weeks. It's to be done randomly, and this area will be the fifth. She lays ten miles out and lobs in heavy fire. The big antiaircraft belt is within the range of her guns. Between the cruiser and the air group, we can blast a corridor for the helos to get in and out. Essentially we'll be doing so much that they oughtn't to notice this mission until it's already over."
Ritter nodded. He'd read through the plan, and had only wished to hear it from Maxwell--more to the point, to hear how he expressed himself. The Admiral was calm and confident, more so than Ritter had expected.
; "It's still very risky," he said after a moment.
"It is that," Marty Young agreed.
"What's the risk to our country if the people in that camp tell everything they know?" Maxwell asked.
Kelly wanted to step back from this part of the discussion. Danger to country was something beyond his purview. His reality was at the small-unit level--or, more recently, even lower than that--and though his country's health and welfare started at that lowest common denominator, the big stuff required a perspective he didn't have. But there was no gracious way for him to withdraw, and so he stayed and listened and learned.
"You want an honest answer?" Ritter asked. "I'll give you one--none."
Maxwell took it with surprising calm that concealed outrage. "Son, you want to explain that?"
"Admiral, it's a matter of perspective. The Russians want to know a lot about us. and we want to know a lot about them. Okay, so this Zachary guy can tell them about SAC War Plans, and the other notional people there can tell them other things. So--we change our plans. It's the strategic stuff you're worried about, right? First, those plans change on a monthly basis. Second, do you ever think we'll implement them?"
"We might have to someday."
Ritter fished out a cigarette. "Admiral, do you want us to implement those plans?"
Maxwell stood a little straighter. "Mr. Ritter, I flew my F6F over Nagasaki just after the war ended. I've seen what those things do, and that was just a little one." Which was all the answer anyone needed.
"And they feel the same way. How does that grab you, Admiral?" Ritter just shook his head. "They're not crazy either. They're even more afraid of us than we are of them. What they learn from those prisoners might scare them enough to sober them up, even. It works that way, believe it or not."
"Then why are you supporting--are you supporting us?"
"Of course I am." What a stupid question, his tone said, enraging Marty Young.
"But why then?" Maxwell asked.
"Those are our people. We sent them. We have to get them back. Isn't that reason enough? But don't tell me about vital national-security interests. You can sell that to the White House staff, even on The Hill, but not to me. Either you keep faith with your people or you don't," said the field spook who had risked his career to rescue a foreigner whom he hadn't even liked very much. "If you don't, if you fall into that habit, then you're not worth saving or protecting, and then people stop helping you, and then you're in real trouble."
"I'm not sure I approve of you, Mr. Ritter," General Young said.
"An operation like this one will have the effect of saving our people. The Russians will respect that. It shows them we're serious about things. That will make my job easier, running agents behind the curtain. That means we'll be able to recruit more agents and get more information. That way I gather information that you want, okay? The game goes on until someday we find a new game." That was all the agenda he needed. Ritter turned to Greer. "When do you want me to brief the White House?"
"I'll let you know. Bob, this is important--you are backing us?"
"Yes, sir," replied the Texan. For reasons that the others didn't understand, didn't trust, but had to accept.
"So? What's the beef?"
"Look, Eddie," Tony said patiently. "Our friend's got a problem. Somebody took down two of his people."
"Who?" Morello asked. He was not in a particularly good mood. He'd just learned, again, that he was not a candidate to be accepted as a full member of the outfit. After all he'd done. Morello felt betrayed. Incredibly, Tony was siding with a black man instead of blood--they were distant cousins after all--and now the bastard was coming to him for help, of course.
"We don't know. His contacts, my contacts, we got nothin'."
"Well, ain't that just too fuckin' bad?" Eddie segued into his own agenda. "Tony, he came to me, remember? Through Angelo, and maybe Angelo tried to set us up, and we took care of that, remember? You wouldn't have this setup except for me, so now what's happening? I get shut out and he gets closer in--so what gives, Tony, you gonna get him made?"
"Back off, Eddie."
"How come you didn't stand up for me?" Morello demanded.
"I can't make it happen, Eddie. I'm sorry, but I can't." Piaggi hadn't expected this conversation to go well, but neither had he expected it to go this badly, this quickly. Sure, Eddie was disappointed. Sure, he had expected to be taken in. But the dumb fuck was getting a good living out of it, and what was it about? Being inside or making a living? Henry could see that. Why couldn't Eddie? Then Eddie took it one step further.
"I set this deal up for you. Now, you got a little-bitty problem, and who you come to--me! You owe me, Tony." The implications of the words were clear for Piaggi. It was quite simple from Eddie's point of view. Tony's position in the outfit was growing in importance. With Henry as a potential--a very real--major supplier, Tony would have more than a position. He would have influence. He'd still have to show respect and obeisance to those over him, but the command structure of the outfit was admirably flexible, and Henry's double-blind methods meant that whoever was his pipeline into the outfit had real security. Security of place in his organization was a rare and treasured thing. Piaggi's mistake was in not taking the thought one step further. He looked inward instead of outward. All he saw was that Eddie could replace him, become the intermediary, and then become a made man, adding status to his comfortable living. All Piaggi had to do was die, obligingly, at the right time. Henry was a businessman. He'd make the accommodation. Piaggi knew that. So did Eddie.
"Don't you see what he's doing? He's using you, man." The odd part was that while Morello was beginning to understand that Tucker was manipulating both of them, Piaggi, the target of that manipulation, did not. As a result, Eddie's correct observation was singularly ill-timed.
"I've thought about that," Piaggi lied. "What's in it for him? A linkup with Philadelphia, New York?"
"Maybe. Maybe he thinks he can do it. Those people are getting awful big for their pants, man."
"We'll sweat that one out later, and I don't see him doing that. What we want to know is, who's taking his people down? You catch anything about somebody from out of town?" Put him on the spot, Piaggi thought. Make him commit. Tony's eyes bored in across the table at a man too angry to notice or care what the other man was thinking.
"I haven't heard shit about that."
"Put feelers out," Tony ordered, and it was an order. Morello had to follow it, had to check around.
"What if he was taking out some people from inside, reliability problems, like? You think he's loyal to anybody?"
"No. But I don't think he's offing his own people, either." Tony rose with a final order. "Check around."
"Sure," Eddie snorted, left alone at his table.
24
Hellos
"People, that went very well," Captain Albie announced, finishing his critique of the exercise. There had been various minor deficiencies on the approach march, but nothing serious, and even his sharp eye had failed to notice anything of consequence on the simulated assault phase. Marksmanship especially had been almost inhumanly accurate, and his men had sufficient confidence in one another that they were now running within mere feet of fire streams in order to get to their assigned places. The Cobra crews were in the back of the room, going over their own performance. The pilots and gunners were treated with great respect by the men they supported, as were the Navy flight crews of the rescue birds. The normal us-them antipathy found among disparate units was down to the level of friendly joshing, so closely had the men trained and dedicated themselves. That antipathy was about to disappear entirely.
"Gentlemen," Albie concluded, "you're about to learn what this little picnic outing is all about."
"Ten-hut!" Irvin called.
Vice Admiral Winslow Holland Maxwell walked up the center of the room, accompanied by Major General Martin Young. Both flag officers were in their best undress uniforms. Maxwell's whites positively gli
stened in the incandescent lights of the building, and Young's Marine khakis were starched so stiff that they might well have been made of plywood. A Marine lieutenant carried a briefing board that nearly dragged on the floor. This he set on an easel as Maxwell took his place behind the lectern. From his place on the corner of the stage, Master Gunnery Sergeant Irvin watched the young faces in the audience, reminding himself that he had to pretend surprise at the announcement.
"Take your seats, Marines," Maxwell began pleasantly, waiting for them to do so. "First of all, I want to tell you for myself how proud I am to be associated with you. We've watched your training closely. You came here without knowing why, and you've worked as hard as any people I have ever seen. Here's what it's all about." The Lieutenant flipped the cover off the briefing board, exposing an aerial photograph.
"Gentlemen, this mission is called BOXWOOD GREEN. Your objective is to rescue twenty men, fellow Americans who are now in the hands of the enemy."
John Kelly was standing next to Irvin, and he, too, was watching faces instead of the Admiral. Most were younger than his, but not by much. Their eyes were locked on the reconnaissance photographs--an exotic dancer would not have drawn the sort of focus that was aimed at the blowups from the Buffalo Hunter drone. The faces were initially devoid of emotion. They were like young, fit, handsome statues, scarcely breathing, sitting at attention while the Admiral spoke to them.
"This man here is Colonel Robin Zacharias, U.S. Air Force," Maxwell went on, using a yard-long wooden pointer. "You can see what the Vietnamese did to him just for looking at the asset that snapped the picture." The pointer traced over to the camp guard about to strike the American from behind. "Just for looking up."
Eyes narrowed at that, all of them, Kelly saw. It was a quiet, determined kind of anger, highly disciplined, but that was the deadliest kind of all, Kelly thought, suppressing a smile that only he would have understood. And so it was for the young Marines in the audience. It wasn't a time for smiles. Each of the people in the room knew about the dangers. Each had survived a minimum of thirteen months of combat operations. Each had seen friends die in the most terrible and noisy way that the blackest of nightmares could create. But there was more to life than fear. Perhaps it was a quest. A sense of duty that few could articulate but which all of them felt. A vision of the world that men shared without actually seeing. Every man in the room had seen death in all its dreadful majesty, knowing that all life came to an end. But all knew there was more to life than the avoidance of death. Life had to have a purpose, and one such purpose was the service of others. While no man in the room would willingly give his life away, every one of them would run the risk, trusting to God or luck or fate in the knowledge that each of the others would do the same. The men in these pictures were unknown to the Marines, but they were comrades--more than friends--to whom loyalty was owed. And so they would risk their lives for them.
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