by Bob Mayer
Mitchell looked at Riley. He was lying on his right side; Hoffman was holding bandages over the wounds, and putting pressure on the sucking chest wound to help close it off. Mitchell didn't know what to do. So close. They'd made it too far to lose someone now.
3:58 a.m. Local
Ehrlich anxiously gripped the edges of his chair as he watched the blip representing 579 crawl toward the coast. Not much farther to go. The radar operator turned and looked at him.
"Sir, we've got two North Korean MiG-21s moving in at Mach 1.5 from the southwest. Direct for 579."
"Goddamn!" Ehrlich cursed. The Blackhawk might still stay low enough to avoid the MiGs, but once it hit the coast there'd be no place to hide. The MiGs would have a turkey shoot — Ehrlich had no doubt that the North Koreans would shoot.
He looked over at the female technician who had jammed the radar of the Chinese jets. "Can you jam the MiGs and North Korean ground radar?"
The woman shook her head doubtfully. "I've got to find the frequencies first. The North Koreans are acting smarter than the Chinese. They're using their radar only in bursts."
4:06 a.m. Local
The coast was one minute ahead. Lassiter and Long scanned the night sky.
"There, at four o'clock." Lassiter looked where Long indicated. He could see the running lights of two jets flying along the coast at about three thousand feet. "Once we cross the beach and hit the water, they're going to be on us."
Long shrugged. "You got any better ideas?"
"No."
"Then let's do it."
4:07 a.m. Local
The North Korean flight leader turned on his tracking radar. The blip representing the intruder appeared on the screen. Noting the location he quickly turned off the radar to prevent possible jamming. He didn't know who or what the intruder was, but his orders were to shoot it down. He looked out his left window and spotted it. An American-made helicopter!
"There's the intruder. Follow me." The flight leader banked his aircraft and started a run in toward the helicopter flitting across the wave tops. His eyes narrowed in anticipation as he placed his thumb over the trigger for his twin-barrel 23mm cannon. Another fifteen seconds and the helicopter would be history.
"Here they come." Lassiter started evasive maneuvers, turning and banking erratically.
The North Korean flight leader looked through his gun sight. The helicopter was bobbing in the cross hairs. Still, between the two of them, they ought to be able to get in some rounds. It would take only a few of the 23mm slugs to destroy the fragile helicopter.
He edged his finger over the trigger. Just another second. Suddenly a screeching tone sounded in his headset and a light on his console flashed red.
"Missile lock-on!" the flight leader screamed. He violently threw his MiG into evasive maneuvers. His wingman followed suit. The leader turned on his radar and stared at it. Where had the lock-on come from? There was nothing on his screen except the helicopter. It couldn't have come from there. The warning meant that an enemy fighter had locked its targeting radar on his aircraft.
The tone went off. He turned his aircraft back toward the helicopter. Suddenly the screeching tone sounded again. As he broke away, the flight leader saw the silhouette of an aircraft shadowing him and his wingman. He'd never seen anything like it before — it looked like something from outer space. The aircraft didn't appear to have a fuselage, just a short, squat flying wing.
Realizing he had to deal with this unknown threat first, the flight leader kicked in his afterburners and gained altitude in an attempt to loop back behind his pursuer. He still had nothing but the helicopter on his screen. As he rolled out, the target lock-on sounded again. Trying to break the lock-on, he caught another glimpse of the strange aircraft following tightly behind. There were two of them now.
The tone fell silent. Realization seeped through the North Korean pilot's brain. If the strange aircraft had wanted to shoot him down, it could have done so by now. Three lock-ons were more than enough. They were giving him a message: Stay away from the helicopter.
Even if he managed to get behind the enemy planes, the lack of a radar image would put him at a severe disadvantage. The pilot was caught between his sense of duty and his sense of self-preservation.
Then he had a new thought. Whatever was shadowing him had never been seen before by a North Korean pilot. He would be the first to report it. Perhaps that would help assuage his superiors. Having rationalized himself out of an untenable situation, the flight leader broke and ran for home, calling for his wingman to follow.
4:08 a.m. Local
"Where the hell did they go?" Jean Long was twisted in her seat, peering to the rear. She couldn't see the MiGs. The sky was clear.
"I don't know. And I don't care." Lassiter wasn't going to argue with their good fortune.
4:10 a.m. Local
Comsky finished checking Riley again. He'd given him a syringe of morphine. The medic reported back to Mitchell. "He's going into shock and is aspirating blood. I think his left lung may have been nicked too. If we don't get him to a hospital with suction soon to clear his lungs, he's going to drown in his own blood."
Mitchell acknowledged the information and keyed his headset. "Jean, Dave was wounded when we were picking him up. He's got a sucking chest wound. Comsky says if we don't get him to a hospital soon, he'll be dead."
"We're a little more than five hours out of Korea. That's the closest possibility. We refueled off the Rathburne coming in, and it's about three hours to the south. We can try that. I'm not even sure we're home free from the North Koreans yet. They can still catch us with their jets. I don't know why those two MiGs broke off, but there may be more on the way."
Lassiter broke in. "I don't think we have to worry about MiGs anymore. Take a look up at 2 o'clock." Long turned and looked where Lassiter was pointing. The moon shone off the wings of two F-16s passing by in escort.
22
"And therefore the victories won by a master of war
gain him neither reputation for wisdom
nor merit for valour."
Sun Tzu: The Art of War
Eighth Army Headquarters, Yongsan, Seoul, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 1915 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:15 a.m. Local
General Parker was emotionally exhausted. Listening in to Ehrlich on the AWACS for the past half hour had been nerve-racking. Against all odds, things appeared to have worked out. 579 was clear of the coast. Wildcard had scared off the MiGs. The F-16s were now on station escorting the helicopter back. Parker keyed his mike. "Colonel Ehrlich. What's the status of Wildcard?"
"I've got it located just off the coast, sir, in case the MiGs decide to give it another try. I know we've got the F-16s on station now, but I don't want to let anybody close to that helicopter. Wildcard worked better than we expected. Apparently even the tracking radar on the Korean MiGs couldn't pick it up. I'll keep Wildcard there for another twenty minutes and then send them home."
Parker was relieved. The first operational mission flown by the Stealth fighter had proven a success. The two Stealth fighters had been stationed in northern Japan the last three months conducting classified training flights near Russian airspace, testing the aircraft's capabilities against the radar array on the Soviets' east coast. The performance during this crisis had proven the plane's capabilities and worth. Of course, it had also disclosed the aircraft's operational existence to the North Koreans, but Parker felt that was a price worth paying. The Stealth fighter's existence would have come out in the next few months anyway.
Parker keyed the mike again. "Do you have any communications with the helicopter?"
"We haven't tried yet, sir. It doesn't have secure capability."
"Can you talk to it if you need to?"
"Yes, sir. We can broadcast on the guard net, and that will override whatever frequency they're on now."
"Get them on the radio and then patch me in," Parker ordered.
"Yes, sir. Wait one."
Parker hear
d Ehrlich make the call.
"Army helicopter 579. Army helicopter 579. This is Tango Station. Over."
There was a long pause, then a woman's voice came over the air. "Umm… Tango Station, this is 579. Over."
"579, this is Tango Station on an unsecure link. We're the people who have been looking after you the past half hour. We also control your escort. I have someone in your chain of command who wants to talk to you. Over."
"Roger, we're standing by. Over."
Ehrlich keyed in Parker. "Go ahead, sir. Your transmissions will be relayed through us to 579. Just key your mike when you're ready to talk to them. Let me know when you want me to shut them out. Over."
Parker keyed his mike. "579, this is…" he hesitated and looked at Major Thomas. "What's our call sign?"
"Papa Sierra Twelve, sir."
Parker thumbed the mike. "579, this is Papa Sierra Twelve. What is the status of the personnel you picked up? Over."
"Papa Sierra Twelve, this is 579. We've got four wounded, one critically. The medic says that if we don't soon get him to a hospital equipped with suction he won't make it. The others are all stable. Over."
Parker paused and looked at Thomas and Hossey. "Any ideas?"
Thomas shook his head. "There's nothing closer than here as far as hospitals go."
"They could land on the Rathburne again," Hossey suggested.
Parker contacted 579 again. "This is Papa Sierra Twelve. The only place we have that is closer than coming here is the same place you refueled. Over."
"This is 579. We understand. Heading for that location now. Could you check to see if that location has the facilities to handle our patient? Over."
USSRathburne, Sea of Japan Saturday, 10 June, 1920 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:20 a.m. Local
Commander Lemester couldn't believe it. "Say again. Over."
The speaker on the bridge crackled. "I say again. Reverse course and assume a heading of three-five-four degrees at maximum speed. You have an inbound helicopter with wounded on board. Over."
Lemester rubbed his forehead. He had a hell of a headache. The caller had identified himself with the classified call sign of the commander of the U.S. Eighth Army in Korea. Lemester wasn't sure if the commander of Eighth Army could order him around, not being in the direct chain of command of the Rathburne. On the other hand, that fellow was a four-star general. What the hell, Lemester decided. They were getting pretty good at picking up mysterious helicopters. One more wouldn't make much difference.
"Roger. We're coming about. Over."
"Do you have medical facilities to handle…," there was a pause, "a pneumothorax? Over."
"Wait one. Over." Lemester grabbed his intership phone and dialed the dispensary. "Doc, can you handle a pneumothorax?"
"Not really, sir. I don't have the right equipment. I could probably stabilize it."
Lemester keyed his mike. "That's a negative. Over."
Airspace, Sea of Japan Saturday, 10 June, 1925 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:25 a.m. Local
Riley was conscious now. At least his eyes were open. His overall situation was deteriorating. Comsky had redone the bandages and tried to fashion a valve to allow air to get out, but it wasn't working well. Riley's skin was turning blue and the veins in his neck were distended. Mitchell watched as Comsky forced his finger into the bullet hole to release some of the air that was building up between the outside of the lung and the chest cavity, desperately trying to prevent the lung from collapsing.
Jean gave them an estimated time of arrival at the Rathburne of 6:30 a.m. Another two hours.
The team's successful mission and exfiltration was now overshadowed. Mitchell shook his head. He wasn't sure what they had accomplished, and he certainly wasn't sure that the price they were paying was worth it. Blood was a valuable currency.
They'd gone this far and now everyone had run out of ideas. He gripped Riley's hand. "Come on. Don't quit now."
In the front, Jean Long had taken the controls from Lassiter. They were down at a hundred feet and she had the throttle wide open.
"579, this is Tango Station. Over."
Lassiter keyed the mike. "Tango Station, this is 579. Over."
"Your present destination doesn't have the facilities to handle your most serious casualty. Over."
Lassiter looked at Jean. "What now?"
Eighth Army Headquarters, Yongsan, Seoul, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 1926 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:26 a.m. Local
General Parker looked around the room. "Any bright ideas?"
Major Thomas was already dialing the phone. "Yes, sir. Tell the helicopter to keep on heading for the Rathburne. If I remember rightly we ought to be able to work something out."
Airspace, Sea of Japan Saturday, 10 June, 1927 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 4:27 a.m. Local
"579, this is Papa Sierra Twelve. Continue on course for refuel point.
We've come up with an alternate plan. Over."
Jean Long looked distrustfully at the radio. She called over the intercom to her husband. "What do you think, Mitch?" "Go for it. We don't have much choice." Jean keyed the mike. "This is 579. Roger. Over."
6:14 a.m. Local
Jean Long expertly flared the Blackhawk over the fantail of the Rathburne. She settled the bird down and slowed the engine to idle. Everyone sat still. In the dawn's dim light she could see some of the crew of the frigate staring at them from the edge of the large helipad. The chronometer on the instrument panel said 0614.
Two figures approached the helicopter. Mitchell slid open the right door and Sergeant Major Hooker and Chief Trapp climbed into the crowded back.
"Who was hit?" Trapp asked anxiously. Mitchell pointed at the body that Comsky was preparing for the move. The medic was tightening down the bandages, especially the ones across the chest. "A lot of people would have given up by now," Comsky whispered. Still, they knew that willpower could do only so much.
Trapp shook his head. What a screwed-up mission. Dave Riley dying would be a hell of a way to end it. Trapp looked out the open door as another helicopter roared in from the west with all its lights on and settled down twenty feet away from 579. Its side doors slid open and two men carrying a stretcher raced over. Comsky opened the door closest to the other aircraft and waved the men in. As he rapidly helped them strap Riley to the stretcher, he yelled in one of the men's ears, giving him Riley's status. As soon as they got him tied in, Comsky leapt out and helped them carry Riley to the other aircraft. He got in with the stretcher. Both aircraft lifted off and headed to the southwest.
Inside the other helicopter, Comsky stared in amazement as the medics got to work. He'd heard about the new UH-60 aerial medevac helicopters but had never seen one. The aircraft had more equipment than many emergency rooms. Already the onboard medics had rigged suction into Riley's lungs and had an IV going, trying to replace some of the lost blood. It was going to be touch and go, but Riley's odds had improved dramatically.
Osan Air Force Base, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 2330 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 8:30 a.m. Local
The medevac helicopter landed at the helipad of the base hospital. 579 was directed to land outside a hangar on the main airstrip. Jean Long protested that 579 should land at the hospital also, since she had other wounded on board. The request was denied. The airfield tower promised there would be ambulances waiting at the hangar.
As she hovered above the tarmac and brought the aircraft down slowly, the helicopter was surrounded by air force police cars with their lights flashing. The helicopter came to rest and she shut down the throttle. The doors to the hangar swung open and a ground guide gestured for her to roll in. As soon as the aircraft cleared the doors, they were shut.
When the blades halted, Mitchell opened the cargo door and stepped out. Two men in three-piece suits were waiting for him. Mitchell sighed. The spooks were here to take over. The one in apparent charge stepped forward. "I understand you've got some more wounded on board."
"Yeah, that's right. Three."
"The amb
ulances are right outside. I'll have them bring in the stretchers." The man gestured to his partner. "The rest of your people need to stay on board for a few minutes."
The unidentified man looked at Mitchell. "We need to keep things under wraps. I can't tell you all that has gone on, but suffice it to say that things are pretty screwed up. It's my job to do as much damage control as possible."
Mitchell didn't care. He walked away from the man and went around to the right side of the helicopter. He gave his wife a big hug and kiss as she stepped out of her door.
Fort Meade, Maryland Sunday, 11 June, 0130 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 8:30 p.m. Local
Wilson watched with sadness as the men in the suits escorted Meng out of the Tunnel. He shifted his attention as the man who had led the party into the Tunnel more than an hour ago stopped in front of him. "I don't need to tell you, but everything that has happened with Dragon Sim-13 is highly classified. You will discuss this with no one."
If you didn't need to tell me, then why did you? Wilson thought sardonically. But he dared not say it. These men were scary. "Right. Not a word."
As the door shut behind Meng, Wilson thought about how little he had known about the man other than his brilliance at programming.
Before the men came to take him away, Meng had revealed to Wilson the reasons he had sent the go code words. Wilson sympathized with Meng, although it didn't appear that all that effort and blood had achieved anything.
US-SOCOM Headquarters, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida Sunday, 11 June, 0200 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 9:00 p.m. Local
Colonel Moore was ordered not to brief even his own commander on the events of the past twelve hours. He hated the smug spook who relayed that information. This was an event that was going to be swept under the rug.
As Moore drove home, he wondered idly whether the team had really blown the pipeline.
Osan Air Force Base, Korea Sunday, 11 June, 2300 Zulu Monday, 12 June, 8:00 a.m. Local