by Rob Wood
“More?”
“Your next assignment.”
“Yes?”
“You two are to find Lily Zhang. Note her whereabouts. In fact, log her goddamn coordinates—which we will forward on to Langley.”
“With what end in mind?”
“I don’t know.” Partridge, rubbed his forehead in frustration. “But I’d feel like an asshole if I kept my suspicion from you.”
“And that is?”
“Ms. Zhang will be on the receiving end of a smart hell-fire missile. She will be, in the jargon of my era, ‘terminated with extreme prejudice.’”
“We’re going to kill her?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
28
A REASONABLE ALTERNATIVE
The plan was to fly Purdy to the Army’s forward base in Bagram, Afghanistan, then insert him into Pakistan at the Khunjerab Pass. It would be a covert insertion. He would get there via a high-altitude, high-opening parachute jump.
He had already begun pre-flight review onboard the Vinson. So, he was suited up in a high-altitude suit and doing a gear check when Cochrane found him.
“Purdy,” she said, coming right to the point. “I’m talking to Partridge about getting geeked up and trained for this high-altitude insertion thing.”
“Don’t do it, Cody,” he said. “There’s no point. You can’t change anything. And it’s dangerous.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “Hobbyists are now making these jumps, for crying out loud!”
“Really!” Purdy said sarcastically. “Don’t kid yourself, Cody. It’s tough. And it’s not like you can get a coverage rider on your accidental death and dismemberment policy.”
Cochrane crossed her arms over her chest and fixed Purdy with a fierce stare. But strangely, her voice quavered. “Okay. It’s tough, I grant you. But you can’t scare me off. You know from personal experience that there’s no challenge I won’t tackle.”
“I know,” said Purdy. “It’s one of the things I like about you. But why take the risk—an unnecessary risk?”
“Because it’s not a one-person mission, Jim. What if you broke your leg on that jump . . . or got frostbite . . . or shot?”
“They could assign a ranger to go with me.”
“There is no one who is as well qualified as yours truly,” Cochrane insisted. “I’ve been trained in field med. You know from experience that I can shoot.”
“So can the average G.I.”
“No average G.I has my ability with Eurasian languages. Or customs. Nobody else knows the target—Lily Zhang—as well as I do. And no one else has my kind of rapport with her. Probably no one else can even get close to her.”
Purdy looked up from tying a pack down. “Sounds like a very well-rehearsed speech, Cody.”
“It’s the brief I argued with Partridge.
“What did he say?”
“He said he wouldn’t formally assign me. In other words, he wouldn’t order me. But I could volunteer, provided it was alright with you.”
“Well, it’s not.” Purdy cinched the pack with a resounding snap.
“Purdy, you’re not being reasonable.” For a moment Cochrane searched his face, trying to get a read on him. “Jim—turn off the macho black ops instinct of yours and look at the facts. I’m the best partner you could possibly have—despite the fact that I’m a woman!”
“It’s not just because you are a woman, Cody,” he said slowly, his eyes meeting hers. “It’s because you’re a woman I care about.”
There was a moment of silence. Just a heartbeat’s worth, but long enough for Cochrane to begin to tear up.
“Do you remember,” asked Purdy, “the elaborate radio receiver units in the communications pod on the fishing trawler?”
“Christ, Purdy!” Cochrane ran the back of her hand across her eyes. “You have a gift for ruining the moment.”
“No. Listen,” he said. “Do you remember the trawler communications center?”
“Sure I do. It looked like Christmastime for the Geek Squad.”
“Well, I think they have the technology to monitor a listening device—a bug—planted here on the Vinson.”
“Come on, Purdy! Even I know that trawler’s too far away. You yourself always said the problem was range.”
“But that’s just one trawler,” he said evenly. “Every day we come across these big-league fishing boats, hanging around the Vinson like pilot fish on a shark.
“So? That would be a pretty big fleet that Zhang’s dedicated just to us.”
“All it would take is one or two listeners mixed in with the other commercial stuff out there. Maybe it’s been her habit to monitor lots of shipping—not just us.”
“Even so,” Cochrane began doubtfully, “the investment required!”
“Who would be more likely than Lily Zhang to have the necessary resources and means?” Purdy asked. “Think back to when that fake doctor came out to eyeball the dead Korean and steal his finger. He landed in a brand new Colibri helicopter. Remember it was freshly painted and decaled, and so new even the exhaust ports were clean! Anyone who can order up a new Colibri on the spur of the moment can certainly put transceivers on a bunch of fishing boats!”
“So, what’s your point?”
“The point is this: They know we’re coming. There are always tactical decisions where the odds argue against the risk. This is one of those times, Cody. And I can’t allow you to go.”
There was a long silence in the room. Cochrane could hear her pulse pounding in her temples. “Jim, you didn’t speak of this when we were debriefed by Partridge. No mention of bugs, transceivers, or monitoring.”
“No,” he said quietly.
“That means that whatever bugs were in place . . . They remained in place.”
“Probably.”
“Not probably. They answer is, ‘Yes, they did!’” Cochrane’s voiced edged up in anger. Her eyes blazed. “You compromised the mission.”
“I go where they send me. I do what they tell me!” said Purdy.
“Oh, you really screwed the pooch on this one, sailor. You made sure Lily Zhang knew you were coming. All she had to do was listen!”
“It was the way I wanted it.”
“What does that mean?” Cochrane asked, genuinely mystified. “Have you got a thing for Lily Zhang? Or a death wish?”
“There are worse things.”
“Yeah. How about charges of treason . . . aiding and abetting the enemy . . . conspiring against national interest?”
Purdy studied his hands, clasped in his lap, like he was in church.
“You know, Purdy, the Navy could do some pretty bad things to us. Maybe lots worse than being killed in action.”
“Us?” He looked up at her.
“I knew the same things you did,” she said.
“But you didn’t!” he protested.
“I do now. Actually, I’m prepared to make a full accounting to Partridge, and get this off my chest. When I’m through recanting, we’ll be in jail, and the mission will be scuttled—or put in the hands of who knows? CIA hires?”
“Don’t do this, Cody. Your life would be ruined!”
“Well, I suppose there’s another alternative . . .”
“Which is?”
“You reconsider our partnership on the high-altitude insertion.”
29
INSERTION
XO Brian Partridge swept into the room like he was the West Wind, and just as grim and cold. Purdy and Cochrane jumped to their feet.
“As you were, people. I will be lead on this mission while you’re on the Vinson. You’ll be assigned a jump master once you’re on base in Afghanistan. You have the green light. Your mission is 1) to locate Lily Zhang, 2) identify her position, 3) radio back.
“Eyes in the sky satellite confirmation will be Langley’s responsibility. Any subsequent action taken—or not taken—will be Langley. All Langley, all the time—is that understood?”
They nodded.
“The Karakoram mountains will be arid, cold, rocky and, hopefully, lonely. Anyone or anything worth knowing can be found at the Khunjerab Pass. You will memorize your air ingress and ground egress routes. Once Langley has the target data, the need for stealth ends. At that point we don’t mind making a helluva lot of noise to come and get you. We’ll send choppers in and be prepared to suppress enemy air defenses—should there be any.
“All team members must know winds aloft, jet stream direction and velocity, and the turbulence you may encounter in the mountains. Each of you will calibrate altimeters so that the instruments read like distances above ground. Ditto true north on your compasses. Clear the drop zone as rapidly as possible and move to the assembly area to conceal and cache the parachutes, then ready equipment for movement to the objective area.”
“You will carry only mission-critical equipment. That means weapons, communications, ammunition. You will do your pre-infiltration prep onboard the Vinson. You will brief-up air crews a second time at the airfield in Afghanistan. You will review en route to release point. You will hit the drop zone, move to objective, and then commence exfiltration, working from primary to contingency pick-up points.”
“If you don’t make the pick-up points you will be presumed dead. We will disavow any knowledge of the circumstances. However, we expect to see you home safely. I know you’ll make us proud of you. And to ensure your safety, you’re going with the best tech we can give you. Cochrane—you draw a 5-pound submachine gun, based on a Heckler and Koch—lots of ammo, because it’s light. Purdy, you draw an M-24 sniper rifle. So, the two of you function as Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside.”
Partridge hesitated a moment. “I’m also sending a friend of mine.”
Purdy and Cochrane exchanged glances that said, “WTF?”
“Meet the tactical ops robot who may save your lives.” Partridge tapped a hand-held console the size of an open billfold, summoning a squat steel chassis that looked like an unfinished garden tractor. The beast was running on micro tank treads and supported a carriage that swiveled in every direction—as if greeting and assessing the crowd. That carriage bristled with lenses, sensors, aerials, and weapons. One was a stubby black barrel that was obviously small bore, but next to it, its big brother was a formidable six-barrel rotating grenade launcher with continuous feed.
“I think my sister made one of these with her Erector set,” said Cochrane.
“It transmits what it sees in color, black and white, infrared or night vision,” noted Partridge. “It has chemical, gas, temperature and radiation sensors. It can run for seven days without recharging. It can run through water or climb stairs. It can hear and obey you as long as your radio or infrared link is in range.”
“Well, it can do anything then,” said Purdy, impressed.
“What do you call it?” asked Cochrane. “Dream date?”
“The techies call it Lazyboy,” said Partridge. “I like that name, because my hope is it will have absolutely nothing to do.” With that, he handed each of them a thick mission binder, and abruptly left.
Purdy turned to Cochrane. “There’s a lot Partridge didn’t say. We’ll be executing a high altitude, high-opening jump. You see, there’s a noticeable ‘pop’ when the chute opens, and we don’t want to be so close to the ground that when the chutes deploy, we attract the attention of wary shepherds—wary shepherds with Soviet AK-47s.”
“I understand,” nodded Cochrane.
“That entry means we will be high in the cold thin air, on oxygen, navigating under canopy, driving that Ram-Air Parachute System for a very long time.”
“Purdy, I’m ready,” she assured him. He seemed to need that assurance.
“The first risk is hypoxia—altitude sickness. That’s bad enough. But we will be at our most vulnerable descending to the drop zone, retrieving and burying the gear, and getting weapons ready. Thereafter, I’m confident we can hold our own against anything other than armor or overwhelming opposition.”
“What constitutes overwhelming opposition, when there’s just the two of us?” Cochrane wondered. But she kept that thought to herself. Instead, she asked him, “You’ve done this before?”
“Oh, yeah. But I’m betting maybe you haven’t?”
She shook her head. “I’ve jumped, but not at 32,000 feet!”
“Here are the big differences,” said Purdy. “Number one: it’s about 30 degrees below zero on exit. You’ll thank God for your thermals and your oxygen supply. High altitude diving is a little bit like scuba. The nitrogen can release from your blood stream, causing embolisms in the brain or lungs or other vital organs. So, the goal is to purge nitrogen and saturate with oxygen. We’ll do special breathing exercises.
“Since we’re deploying west of the target area,” he continued, much of your descent time—and it’s a long descent—will be devoted to taking compass bearings, picking out landmarks, and steering the chute.”
“I’ve done this,” said Cochrane.
“At night? This is a clandestine insertion.”
“No. There’s a lot I haven’t done, Purdy. But stop trying to frighten me off! I said I was going to do this, and I meant it. End of story. And you ought to be grateful. I am as fit and savvy a partner as you could find—hooah!”
Purdy hesitated a moment, then turned away, wiping something out of his eyes. “Roger that, partner,” he said.
There was yet another OPNAV backgrounder to wade through. This one focused on drug routes from Tajikistan, Afghanistan, and Pakistan through the Chinese border post of Hongqilapu astride the Khunjerab Pass.
At roughly 15,400 feet, this was the highest paved international border in the world. It was closed during the bitter winter months, packed thick with ice and snow. In the spring and summer, it was just as inhospitable, though for different reasons. Khunjerab is a combination of the words “Khun” and “Jerab,” meaning River of Blood. It was so named because of the numbers of people who had died here in this wild, hostile, often disputed tribal territory.
As early as 2009, “frontier defense experts” in China had written: “Drug-smuggling rings outside our borders are plotting to open-up drug routes to enter China, and the border crossing at Khunjerab in particular.” At roughly the same time, police intercepted the largest shipment to date of high-purity heroin—17.39 kilograms—hidden in the air conditioning system of a car registered to a Pakistani.
Railway routes were also being watched and trains routinely searched. OPNAV noted a paper drafted at China’s Railway College that argued that “trains carry densely concentrated groups of passengers, and are therefore ideal for smuggling operations.”
“Altogether,” said the briefing paper, “Chinese law enforcement officials now see drug trafficking from the production centers of Asia’s Golden Crescent into western China’s Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region (XUAR) as a growing threat to Chinese society.”
According to statistics cited by the Chinese, Afghanistan’s annual opium production alone had surged from 3,000 metric tons in the mid ‘90s to about 7,000 metric tons in 2008 and still growing. Neighboring countries added more to the total. In the magazine “Legal System and Society,” author Du Wei wrote that this is “the most serious, ferocious drug production and shipping record on earth.”
The OPNAV briefing included copies of a Chinese map showing drug movements from Southeast Asia through Khunjerab, to Urumqi, and eastward to Beijing, Shanghai and Guangdong.
“Drugs move on a world market,” it said. “A marked increase in Asian supply and distribution will inevitably affect the United States, bringing additional pressure on our own interdiction efforts.
“To date, Chinese analysts blame the rise in Golden Crescent drug smuggling on the increase of foreign supply, rather than Chinese demand. These analysts tend to underestimate the role of Chinese domestic problems, such as police corruption, ethnic tensions, and rising internal demand. Analysts in the West take a different view. Like obesity and h
igh-blood pressure, drug use comes first with an increase in prosperity and a class of leisure elites able to afford the habit. Moreover, corruption is believed to be widespread in China, and it is naïve to think that police officials there are immune. Finally, drugs are likely to be both a ready source of cash as well as the new inter-tribal means of exchange in the Gilgit-Baltistan-Kashmir regions.”
“The Chinese materials reviewed by American experts indicate that China has serious weaknesses in its counter-narcotics intelligence capabilities and is anxious to overcome them. Problems include meager intelligence on Asian drug networks, weak data on trafficking by ethnic separatists, and poor intelligence networking and sharing across jurisdictions.”
And this was just one packet of briefing materials. Others were devoted to survival techniques, tribal identification, available water, and “abort mission criteria.”
The days flew by with onboard prep, air prep, the rendezvous in Afghanistan and the review on route to the DZ, or drop zone.
And then suddenly there was just this big gaping hole where the aircraft door should have been. Cochrane was feeling the cold air rush up against her. She was peering down at black, white, and ghostly gray patches beneath her—with no suggestion of dimension to them—just as if she were about to jump into some crazy Rorschach ink blot.
Which she did.
30
MENODARWAR
The campfire crackled in the night, rocketing embers up to an apogee of about three feet, where they lost energy and fluttered down—stars in a Milky Way of fragrant smoke.
Lit by the dancing flames, the faces around the fire flared briefly into focus, then lapsed into shadow. There were at least a dozen men in the fire’s circle. Most were a mix of local tribes—some Kashgaris and Yashkuns, but the majority were Gilgits. Older men wore belted blankets. Young men were in worn denim jeans and dark, tight shirts, covered with sheepskin coats. Almost all wore the skullcap of Muslim men.
Lily sat with one leg curled under her, the other up, with the knee supporting the small cup of tea she held in her left hand. With her right hand, she tossed a stone into the fire, prompting a fusillade of sparks.