Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  “Now, Captain Ward,” the voice on the other end said, the mock seriousness obvious in the low bear-like growl. “Is that any way to greet a senior officer?”

  Ward had an instant mental picture of his old mentor, Admiral Tom Donnegan, reared back in the beat-up old leather chair that seemed to follow him around the world, his desk piled high with the clutter of a thousand reports. He probably had a heavy china coffee cup in one hand, and certainly the remnants of a well-chewed cigar jutting out of one corner of his mouth.

  “Sorry, Admiral. I assumed you were…” but a yawn claimed the rest. The admiral took advantage of the pause.

  “No problem. We just received a message from our friend across the water,” Donnegan plowed in. “I’m sending it out to you on the Special Intel channel. Your boys in the command center should have it decrypted by the time you get your pants on. You’ll be wanting to hustle back up the hill.”

  “Good morning to you too, Admiral,” Ward replied. Tom Donnegan had a reputation for cutting straight to the chase without any banter.

  “This is hot, Jon. And it ain’t good. Get Beaman and tell him to saddle up his boys. The packages are on the move and I don’t like contemplating what this all means. I’ll tell you more when you get on the secure line in the command center.” There was a pause and the clink of a coffee cup dropping none too delicately onto a desktop. “And, by the way, it’s yesterday afternoon here.”

  Ward stared at the dead phone for a second. Donnegan’s curt instructions could only mean one thing. General Kim Dai-jang’s nuclear weapons were out of North Korea and headed somewhere. But where? Had the crazy old communist sold them to the highest bidder, or did he have some other use for them. Hopefully their spy in his command post would have the answer for them. Even if he didn’t, they certainly couldn’t afford to wait for something to make one hellish boom to see where the damned things would end up.

  Ward jumped into his uniform, grabbed his garrison cap and rushed out the door. A half-minute later, he was banging on Bill Beaman’s door, rousing the big SEAL, and relaying the heart of the admiral’s message before dashing down the hallway and out the door.

  Ward had just stepped out into the damp, sticky Yokosuka night when the phone on his belt jangled again. He decided to ignore it. He was rapidly striding up the walk at HQ when the caller hung up. He no longer felt the humidity or smelled the oleander.

  Captain Mick Donohue slammed down the phone so hard that objects on the desk danced around. There were times when he hated his job. This was one of them. It was never a pleasant task to deliver the kind of news he was trying to convey. The fact that the receiver of the bad news was an old friend made it even harder.

  “Anything new from Higgins?” he shouted across the operations center, knowing already what the answer would be. He just felt the need to ask.

  The duty radioman looked up from his computer screen, gazed over the tops of his rimless glasses, and shook his head.

  “No, sir. Their helo is on deck for refueling and a crew change. They’ve searched all of the submarine’s op area and report no contact.”

  Donohue smashed his fist on the desk in frustration. A nuclear submarine just couldn’t damn disappear. Not when it couldn’t even dive. Where the hell was the Corpus Christi?

  This wasn’t a case of a bad radio anymore. Or of a skipper stretching the limits of his check-in window. This had all the signs of a disaster, and right now, whether he wanted the honor or not, he was at the center of it.

  It was time to muster everything he could and call in the big guns. Maybe Pearl or the Pentagon could pull some magical technological rabbit out of their hat and tell him where to look for his lost submarine.

  The watch officer stepped up in front of Donohue’s desk and snapped to attention. Even though her uniform was sweat stained under her arms and the tight bun that held her blonde hair was coming unraveled, the young lieutenant was still trying to do her best to maintain military discipline.

  “Captain, ASW Command Pacific reports that they have vectored two P-3s down from Okinawa to help with the search. They will report on station at first light.”

  Donohue nodded as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was about time he got some help, but he needed a lot more than two ancient propeller-driven P-3s. Those things were ancient when he was still a wet-behind-the-ears midshipman. Where were the satellites and the high flying recon birds, the J-STARS and the Global Hawks? All the high-tech gewgaws the generous taxpayers of the United States had bought for its navy?

  “Tell Higgins that he has on-scene command and OPCOM for those birds.”

  “Yes, sir. And the Nimitz battle group is making an emergency sortie out of their Perth port call. They are making best speed to get up here. Nimitz should be able to have birds over the area tomorrow morning.”

  Donohue nodded, pursed his lips, and then reached for the phone. It was time to make one more try to reach Jon Ward. He would never forgive himself if Jon got slapped with the bad news over CNN. And he had no doubt that in the next few hours, the story would be headlines all over the world.

  Ward sat at his desk and read the message one more time. The red-and-white-striped folder, stamped “TOP SECRET, UMBRA,” slipped from his numb fingers and fell to the desk. What it said was simply unbelievable.

  The North Koreans had been gambling, playing a deadly game on a global scale, for years. Up until now it had been mostly bluff. Sure, Kim Jae-uk would rattle his saber every once-in-a-while, showing off a new ballistic missile or revealing a secret weapons development program anytime anyone questioned the way he ran his little workers’ paradise. He would show just enough to get some attention, just enough to extort more concessions from the frightened, politically correct sheep who ran the United Nations. But he always played the game with just enough caution so he never put any of the great powers of the world in a position where they had no choice but to act. He was a dangerous despot, but not a suicidal idiot.

  That appeared to have just changed.

  Ward looked up as Beaman strode in, looking neither fresh nor wide-awake, as if he had not seen a bed in days. The SEAL dropped into an old wooden armchair, rubbing his eyes with his fists like a sleepy baby.

  “Damn sure wish Donnegan would take my circadian rhythms into consideration when he makes his little middle-of-the-night courtesy calls,” he groused.

  With a stony face, Ward tossed the message folder over to Beaman.

  “You’ll like this even less,” he said dryly. He went back to scribbling cryptic notes on a sheet of paper.

  Beaman opened the folder and began to read, his lips moving slightly and his eyes growing wider as they scanned the page.

  TOP SECRET UMBRA

  Special Sensitive Sources Involved

  Fm: COMNAVINTEL

  To: CTG 763.1

  Subj:

  BT

  Special intel sources within DPRK report movement of weapons subject of unsuccessful CTG763.1 mission. Weapons judged nuclear, verified by special intel source observation. Weapons sighted being loaded on Motor Vessel Dawn Princess and Motor Vessel Evening Pleasure at Najin Naval Base, DPRK.

  Motor Vessel Dawn Princess reported enroute Jiddah with port call in Singapore. Departed Singapore four days ago. ETA Jiddah in one week. Motor Vessel Evening Pleasure reported enroute Mumbai, currently inport Jakarta. ETA Mumbai one week.

  Unable to determine ultimate destination of weapons. Best available analysis is sale to unknown terrorist group. Most urgent and vital that transfer be stopped and weapons recovered.

  CTG763.1 is directed to use whatever means necessary to intercept and stop both vessels. Utilization of any US asset deemed necessary by CTG763.1 is authorized. Use of deadly force is authorized.

  BT

  “Donnegan’s not wasting any words, is he?” Beaman commented. “But why would they risk two different ships to two different ports? Doesn’t make sense. That’s double the logistics.”

  Ward looked up from h
is notes.

  “Don’t know,” he said flatly. “Maybe spread the risk. You know, if one gets snagged, the other might get through. Something like that. Or maybe they have two targets. Double the pleasure, double the fun.” He glanced at the big world map on the far wall. “But Saudi and India, that is a strange pair. No love lost between those two. I might buy Dubai or Karachi, or even somewhere in Africa if we were looking at a terrorist buy.”

  Beaman scratched his short stubbly hair and followed Ward’s gaze on the colorful map.

  “Maybe they’re going into one of those Islamic shit holes in Central Asia. Seems to be the latest vacation spot for the guys who like to wear bathrobes and send dumb-ass kids off to paradise.”

  “No, that doesn’t follow, either,” Ward replied. “India would be a long shot for that, and Saudi wouldn’t make sense. Something here we ain’t seeing.”

  “Any clue from Donnegan and his ‘special intel source?’” Beaman asked. Both men had been in the game long enough to know that this was a euphemism for “spy,” and evidently a very highly placed one that Donnegan trusted.

  “Nope. Not a thing,” Ward shot back. “Just that he wants us to pull out all the stops to make real damn sure we get our hands on those things before the rag heads do.”

  Beaman jumped up and took two long steps to stand next to his friend in front of the map. He grabbed a couple of red stickpins, jamming one in the speck of ink that represented King Abdul Aziz Port in Damman, Saudi Arabia, and the other in Bombay, on India’s west coast, facing the Arabian Sea. The two pins were separated by almost 1,500 miles of pale, blue ocean.

  “One thing is real clear,” the SEAL growled. “This is gonna take two teams if we’re gonna surprise these bastards. I got enough men for two takedown teams, but Brian Walker and I are the only team leaders within a dozen time zones. I don’t care if Tom Donnegan thinks I’m too damn old and crickety to lead a take down, I’m going to have to go on this mission.”

  Ward half smiled and finally nodded.

  “That’s just about what Admiral Donnegan figured you would say. He’s cleared you on the condition you pack a week’s supply of Geritol. Get Walker up here so we can map out this plan.”

  Beaman grinned like a sailor heading out on his first shore leave in a year. All signs of fatigue were instantly washed off his face. He reached across the desk for the phone. As he punched in the numbers, he said, “I’ll have Johnston get the team saddled up. Think you can get some transport laid on?”

  Ward tried to suppress a grin as he watched his friend transform effortlessly into a warhorse, chomping at the bit to get into action again.

  “Pair of choppers are warming up down on the helo pad. They’ll ferry you snake eaters up to Yakota. Pair of C-17s standing by to move you to southwest Asia somewhere so we can get you to wherever those nukes are headed about the same time they get there. We’ll worry about a cover operation, landing clearances, and formal notifications while you’re airborne. Luckily, with everything else we have going on in that part of the world, I don’t think anybody’s going to think too much of a couple of SEAL teams dropping in for a visit.”

  As Beaman punched in the phone number to Lieutenant Walker’s BOQ room, the command center’s chief yeoman stuck his head in the door.

  “Excuse me, Commodore,” he said to Ward. “I have Captain Donohue from Singapore on the secure phone. He say’s it’s urgent that he speak with you immediately.”

  Now what? Ward thought. He almost told the yeoman to take a number but Mick Donohue was an old friend.

  With a long sigh, he reached to pick up the phone.

  29

  The EH-101 chopper came in low, fast and mean. Its bulk barely cleared the rocky ridge and then slammed down heavily onto the tiny helo-pad. The giant transport seemed to completely fill the miniscule piece of real estate. Its rotor blades barely cleared the trees. The tires had hardly touched the ground before the Thai troops poured out of both sides of the big bird, running toward the house, one hundred meters off to the left, just as they had been trained to do.

  Tom Kincaid and Benito Luna were the last two out of the chopper and on the ground. Kincaid ran low, his 9mm Berretta held at the ready. He wished he had time to stop and look around. The scenery appeared to be spectacular.

  They were high in the rugged, isolated mountains separating Thailand from southern China, miles from the nearest village. He had seen nothing but rock and jungle for the last hour of the flight in. But improbably, in front of and above him stretched a huge stone building that seemed to have grown geologically out of the granite mountain. Kincaid thought it most resembled the Osaka Imperial Palace but on steroids. It was truly an amazing structure, made even more so by its isolation and natural surroundings.

  But there was no opportunity to admire the setting. The staccato rip of automatic weapons fire tore through the clatter of the helicopter’s engine. It was coming from the direction of the castle. Two big Mercedes heavy-lift trucks were parked beside a door at the base of the building. Sam Liu Chi’s troops were now flopped down, forming a perimeter around one side of the car park. They were swapping ordnance with people who were hidden behind the trucks and inside the shadows of the castle’s main door.

  A decent firefight was underway. The rip of M-16 fire was interspersed with the low rumble from several AK-47s. They all but drowned out the occasional firecracker popping of pistol fire.

  Whoever was behind the trucks was putting up a determined defense. So far, they were fighting the Thai troops to a standstill. First one, then another of Sam Liu Chi’s men screamed and rolled over, hit by the accurate fire from near the castle. Kincaid knew this was a losing proposition if the fight continued much longer. The defenders would have all the men and ammo they needed and a strong, defensible position, while his little team had to depend on what they lugged in.

  Kincaid was about to pull back to the helicopter when a streak of light shot from high up on the castle’s stone wall. The flash headed straight for the EH-101. The shoulder-fired SAM, probably a Russian AS-7, nosed into the chopper at the base of its middle turbine and erupted in an instant flash of white fire. The big bird burst into flames. Her two pilots barely cleared the wreckage before the fuel tanks went up with a giant earth-scorching whoosh.

  Their ride out of these mountains had been turned into a blazing pile of junk.

  Kincaid barely turned his head back to the fight when a pair of AT-4 anti-tank missiles arched across from a knot of Sam Liu Chi’s troops. The weapons crashed hard into the vehicles. A third AT-4 disappeared into the castle door like a Roman candle and exploded instantly. The blasts seemed to have stunned the defenders. The Thai troops took advantage of the moment’s pause in return fire and dashed across the narrow strip of open ground under the cover of the rocket explosions.

  Just that quickly, the fight at the wall was over.

  Several of the men at the castle dropped their weapons and held up their hands. The Thais dispatched the others who still wanted to fight. Sam Liu Chi and the rest of his troopers ran through the shattered door and up the narrow stone steps to the castle above.

  Tom Kincaid glanced into the back of one of the burning trucks. It was almost full of rectangular bricks, neatly wrapped in black plastic. Some had burst in the explosion. A fine white powder coated everything inside the truck bed.

  Kincaid didn’t need to run a chemical analysis to know that this was to have been a major heroin shipment.

  Sporadic firing from higher up in the castle and the occasional bang from a grenade told him there was more resistance inside. Whoever held this place, they weren’t giving up without a fight. Kincaid glanced at Benito Luna, who was reloading his own Berretta.

  “Come on! Let’s get up there and help,” he yelled.

  Luna winked as the pair dove through the doorway and ran up the staircase inside. After a climb, they stepped through a doorway and came out onto a stone patio overlooking the mountains, with a walkway leading to the ma
in part of the castle. There was still no time to admire the view. Bullets pinged off the exotic patterned flagstones, sending chips of granite flying. Just ahead, a massive wooden door, blacked obviously from a very recent explosion, hung from one hinge. The doorway led into the darkened interior of the house.

  Luna was the first to dive through the door, rolling across the shiny stone surface, coming up in a low crouch, the snout of his pistol dancing around, searching for a target. But it was Sam Liu Chi who walked out of an inner room, a smile on his broad, sweating face, his empty hands held out from his sides.

  “Don’t shoot, my friend. In the finest traditions of the Philippine NBI, you have arrived just as the fighting has been completed.”

  Luna allowed the good-natured jibe to pass.

  One of the Thai fighters stepped from a small side door, pushing in front of him a bent, shriveled old man. Despite his obvious age and frailty, the gray-bearded old man seemed to still be full of fight. He was spitting mad and still shoving back at the much larger, heavier trooper. He suddenly lunged for Luna’s throat, his hands coiled like talons. If the trooper hadn’t clipped him hard in the side of his head the butt of his M-16 and knocked the old man to the floor, there was no doubt that Luna would have had his hands full.

  The man looked up from where he had landed on his knees.

  “Dogs! Your sons will curse the day you chose to attack Sui Kia Shun! He will burn your houses to the fourth generation.”

  Tom Kincaid shook his head slowly side to side.

  “I’d always heard that Tai Chui Lim was a hard bastard. Now I know first-hand. Any sign of Sui Kia Shun?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “No, not yet. We’ll turn the place upside down looking. He has to be somewhere around here.”

  Kincaid looked around uneasily. It still wouldn’t be easy. They had clearly surprised Sui and his men but not getting him in the initial attack endangered the whole operation. Many had tried to bring Sui down before. Here, in this place, in these mountains, the old warlord held a sizeable advantage as long as he was breathing.