CADs get inserted into the rear of the rocket and rub against a metal fin inside the pod. When the pilot fires a rocket, electric current travels from the aircraft to the pod and sends a current into the fin. Then, the fin electrically charges the CAD, which explodes and causes a combustible propellant within the rocket tube to burn, launching the rocket into flight.
The pods were stacked in another part of the build-up area. Penton reached for a phone attached to the stanchion that housed the light switch. He called the ordnance shop and instructed them to get a truck and head out to meet him.
Then he turned toward the private. “Come with me,” Penton said. “We’re going to bring the pods up here so they’re ready to load when they get here.”
“Can’t we load them where they are?” the private griped. “It would take the same amount of time.”
Penton wanted to punch him. “You’re a Marine!” He shook his head. “Now, get moving. We don’t have a second to spare.”
They headed out into the rain and the growing darkness and double-timed over to the storage area where the LAU-68 rocket pods were located. The pods were stacked on rows of lumber to keep them off the ground, but nothing else protected them from the elements. Rain cascaded over the pods and harsh winds bandied them.
“I’ll take the front and you grab the rear,” Penton said.
“Sure thing.” The private moved into position without further comment.
Penton figured he’d make it easier on the kid. Each pod was shaped into a cylinder about five feet long, with a honeycomb opening at the front where seven rockets could slide inside. Two rockets on top, three in the middle, and two more fit into the bottom.
Penton placed his back against a pod on the top of the pile and slid his hands behind him, grabbing hold of the top shafts with his fingers. An awkward position. The private stood on the other side and easily grabbed hold of his end.
They trudged uphill, straining to carry the pod. But they reached the covered area quickly.
Setting the pod down, Penton trotted back to the pile with the private in tow. They repeated the maneuver nine more times, getting drenched in the process. When they’d hauled the last rocket pod up to the concrete pad, the private was worn out. His shoulders drooped, and he dragged his boots on the ground.
Penton had to pull him along and the kid stumbled a couple of times.
As they set the pod down, a truck rumbled into the build-up area. Penton directed it under the protected covering. The truck pulled alongside the pods and warheads, and then four Marines piled out from the cab.
Penton pointed to the crates and the rocket pods. “These need to get loaded ASAP,” he said.
Fresh from the barracks, they moved into action without saying a word. The truck bed stood four feet above the ground. The private stepped over to help but had difficulty lifting the pods into the back. Penton helped him get them over the threshold.
A Marine climbed up and slid the LAU-68 rocket pods toward the cab. They all worked together to load each crate. It took four of them to lift each one onto the truck. But they had the truck loaded in no time.
Then a Marine turned toward Penton. “What’s next?”
Penton tossed him the keys to his Jeep. “We’ll get the rest of it,” he said, climbing into the cab of a truck. “You take my Jeep back to the hangar.”
Eleven
Maki stood frozen and watched as the tidal wave crashed onto city streets. Pouring a flood of water, the wave disbursed everywhere in torrents.
People turned and fled. Water streamed down streets and sidewalks. It spilled down stairwells leading to the subway. Her family had planned to take the tube back to their apartment. Now, the transit system was not an option.
Fireworks showered the sky and boomed from the nearby harbor. Maki couldn’t understand why anyone would celebrate in such a disastrous storm. The sounds grew in intensity until the noise resembled explosions.
The storm caused a tsunami and damaged buildings by the harbor, she thought. Maki figured everything would settle down, and then work crews would come out like any storm and fix everything. Except the roar and the large silhouette had her on edge.
She couldn’t fully comprehend the situation. Maki shivered.
Her father stood beside Maki’s mother, glancing back and forth. He seemed confused. Water undulated toward them.
“We need to go!” Maki cried.
“The subway is dangerous,” her father said.
“Momma, let’s run like the others.”
But her mother remained silent, deferring to Father like always in a technical situation. Mother didn’t bow down to him in the home, and often stood her ground, moving against tradition. When circumstances such as this occurred, her mother relied upon his engineering and problem-solving skills to get them out of a situation.
He studied the approaching water carefully, then grabbed his wife’s arm and hurried toward a narrow alley.
Maki trailed behind them. Her mother grasped her little hand so tightly it hurt. Dread grew in the pit of her stomach. The alley seemed like the wrong choice. Everyone else ran down the main street, fleeing for their lives.
Reaching the end of the alley, her father stopped and turned. He pointed toward where they had come from. A surge of water coursed down the main street. People screamed for help, and then the cries became muffled, eventually fading out.
“We would have been killed,” her father asserted.
Her mother nodded in agreement.
Maki felt for the people who didn’t make it. “Maybe they can hold their breath and swim,” she offered.
Her father shook his head; a realist, he wouldn’t let her cling to false notions.
Water bashed off the corner of the building near the mouth of the alley. A stream poured into the corridor. The water pressed towards them, running over the concrete and creeping to four feet deep out near the street.
Her father scanned the back of the alley. A narrow passageway led to a door. He looked at the approaching flood and back at the passageway. “No good,” he said, shaking his head. “We could get trapped down there.”
“What do we do?” Mother sounded frantic.
“Check the doors,” father insisted.
Mother let go of Maki’s hand. She rattled doors on one side of the alley, and Father tried some on the other side. A trickle of water sloshed around Maki’s rain boots. Only a few inches deep, but it crept higher and higher the longer she stood there. Within a moment, the water had risen to a foot deep.
“Here!” her father said, cracking a door.
“Oh, my!” Mother stepped over to help him.
Father struggled with the door, unable to pry it completely open.
Maki trundled in the water toward her parents, ready to slip through the doorway when she was told.
Her mother grabbed onto the door, and both of her parents pulled and strained to open it. Father placed a foot on the wall for leverage. Still, the door didn’t budge.
The current pulled at Maki’s rain boots. She felt as though the flooding might topple her. Looking back toward the main street, she noticed water coming into the alley had risen to six feet at the corner of the building.
Her heart raced in panic. The water would quickly submerge her entire family, unless they could get the door open. They cracked the door ajar.
“Maki!” her father yelled. “Get inside.”
She scooted beneath their arms and slipped past Father’s leg. Maki shimmied into the doorway, feeling the door and the weight of all the water pressing against her. Maki’s forward progress became impeded when she got partially inside the building.
The door pushed against her so hard that she couldn’t move ahead. Her lungs felt compressed. She had difficulty breathing.
“You go,” he said to her mother.
Mother dipped a shoulder into the opening and brushed against Maki. Then, a force jolted Maki inside the building. Maki landed on the floor of a storage room. Water
trickled into the room, puddling on the concrete around her.
Her mother squeezed partway inside. The door pressed her violently into the jamb, as though life might compress out of her at any moment.
A shoulder collided into mother’s side and tossed her forward.
She toppled to the floor. And the metal door slammed shut with a clang. Then her mother screamed in agony.
Twelve
Hardy jostled in the front seat of the troop transport as it bounced over a desolate road. Each jolt sent pain shooting through his chest. Reaching into a cargo pocket, he grabbed two pain capsules, downing them without any water.
They closed in on the target area fast, and were just minutes away. Hardy checked over his weapons, getting ready for a fight.
Stiles looked at him. “How do you want to handle this?”
“Running it through my mind,” Hardy said, grinning.
“Figured you’d say something like that.”
Hardy shrugged, and then returned his attention to his weapons check.
“Well, we’re almost there…”
“Understood.”
Hardy glanced out the windshield.
Stiles turned his attention back to the road. He clearly had concerns about the way the mission had unraveled. Hardy wondered if getting seen in the woods had been a boot mistake, rather than a chance stroke of luck for the enemy.
A long, wooded drive led off the main road. The North Koreans occupied a warehouse at the end of the dirt driveway, situated about a quarter mile away. Options were to stop the truck and approach quietly by foot, or roll right up and charge in. Both plans had advantages. He just wasn’t sure what exactly the North Koreans knew.
“Have it figured out yet?” Stiles said.
“Yup,” Hardy replied, straightening up. He felt an adrenaline rush kick into gear. The strategy was the best option given the circumstances.
Stiles shook his head upon hearing the plan.
A moment later, Stiles eased up the driveway and brought the truck to a stop. The two SEALs climbed down from the cab and walked toward the warehouse. Their target was less than five meters away, and no doubt anyone inside the building heard the truck. Probably heard the firefight down the road, too.
The building had two large sliding doors, which rolled on tracks like a barn. A wooden door was cut into one of the sliding doors. Hardy approached the small door and checked the rusty knob. Locked.
He rapped on the door, and then stepped to the side.
Each SEAL held a concussion grenade.
A soldier opened the door and peered outside. He looked directly ahead toward the truck, and apparently didn’t see them tucked to the side. A perplexed look crossed his face, turning to shock when Hardy stepped forward with a SOG SEAL fighting knife in hand.
Hardy lunged forward and pulled the soldier outside. Wrapping a hand around the man’s mouth, he cut the soldier’s throat with the razor-sharp knife. He waited a moment and eased the dead man to the earth. Blood gushed out the slit in his throat, and gurgling emanated from the open wound.
The SEALs entered the building single file. A large land-launched missile sat on a trailer in the middle of the room. Hardy tossed a grenade into the back right-hand corner of the warehouse, and Stiles lobbed his partway down the left side of the building.
A few soldiers stood around the missile holding AK-47s. Catwalks ran along each side of the vaulted ceiling, suspended by cables attached to support beams. The guards shouldered their weapons.
The grenades exploded, knocking a few of the soldiers to the deck, while others stumbled off-balance. Hardy trained his MP-5 on a soldier perched on the catwalk to the right.
Hardy fired his rifle.
A bullet smacked the sentry’s forehead.
The soldier teetered off the catwalk.
He dropped to the concrete floor with a heavy thud, and then machinegun fire erupted from the middle of the room.
Stiles stood oblique to Hardy’s left, a partial wedge-shaped formation. A blast flared from his rifle barrel; multiple shots ripped into a soldier standing by the missile.
Hardy shot two men on the other catwalk, and then pressed forward into the center of the room. Automatic weapons erupted from the rear of the trailer. Hardy rolled underneath the trailer and popped up on the other side.
He took aim, squeezed the trigger, and capped one of them in the cheek.
The soldier spun around in a death dance, while squeezing his trigger. Stiles fired at the other soldier, and hit the man only after his comrade riddled him with bullets.
Hardy moved around the rear of the trailer. Two men lay on the floor from the concussion grenades. One of them writhed in agony, riddled with shrapnel. The other scrambled for his rifle.
He shot the one reaching for a weapon. Two bullets rang out of the MP-5, striking the soldier in the chest and head.
Stiles checked the other fallen soldier for weapons.
And Hardy swept through the rest of the warehouse, clearing the expansive room. He didn’t encounter any other enemy soldiers.
Nothing.
He shook his head, thinking it was too easy.
All casualties totaled only eight, which was in line with the information he’d been given by Navy Intelligence, but it seemed light for such an important detail.
“I’m going to check out back,” Hardy said, jogging toward the rear doors.
“Sure.” Stiles crouched by a wounded soldier.
“Be extra careful with him,” Hardy warned.
“Yeah, wouldn’t surprise me if he’s willing to die.”
“He’s as good as dead for blowing this assignment,” Hardy replied, stepping out a back door. He scanned the area. An open gravel driveway circled to the back, so vehicles could pull through the warehouse.
Hardy looked beyond the parking area into the woods.
No sign of troop activity.
If any North Koreans heard the gunfire, they’d hightail it toward the warehouse. Hardy searched the wood line more carefully. Still, no sign of movement anywhere.
He scanned back and forth with the same result.
“Headed around front,” he spoke into the communications link.
“Roger, let me know the result.”
Sweeping around front, Hardy hugged close to the building. He performed a hasty scan near the building, and then scouted the area in front of the truck. Nothing.
Hardy trod away from the building and approached the transport. He walked along the driver’s side, keeping close to the massive wheels. Then, he knelt and peeked underneath. No soldiers hid beneath the truck.
He stood up and walked around back. Nobody lingered behind the truck, and the transport was empty. Hardy peeked around the other side of the truck but didn’t find anyone there. Shaking his head, he wondered how the North Korean’s managed to leave the area unsecure. He remembered the military convoy from earlier in the day.
Listening intently, he tried to hear any commotion from the road. Everything remained still, until the unmistakable sound of a diesel engine echoed through the countryside, along with tracks grinding into pavement.
Armored infantry swiftly approached the warehouse.
Thirteen
Penton rode shotgun out to the magazines where ordnance was stored in bunkers. An afternoon grey sky began slipping into dusk. He alighted from the truck and walked up to a guard shack. Rain pelted his poncho and danced off the macadam. Two young Marines watched him closely. A guard walked from the hut into the storm and slowly approached the gate.
“What can we do for you?” the guard barked.
“Open the gate, now!” Penton pulled back the hood on his poncho.
“Sorry, Master Gunnery Sergeant… didn’t know it was you.”
“Let’s just get a move on it.”
Penton crossed his arms, while the young Marine fiddled with the lock. He pondered whether security measures were lackadaisical. Anyone could slip onto the base in a secluded area, hotwire a t
ruck, then roll in and cap the guards and abscond with ordnance. Sentries didn’t take threats seriously.
He shook his head thinking about it. When the lock popped open, he didn’t wait for the guard to remove the chain. Penton grabbed a few links and yanked it through, handing the chain over to the young Marine.
Then, he shoved the gates open and waved to the driver of the truck. Windshield wipers flapping back and forth obscured the driver from view. Penton couldn’t tell if the Marine got his signal. Then the truck grumbled and lunged forward, and Penton climbed inside.
He directed the driver toward the Magazine Area where a road wound past bunkers with armor-plated doors. Short driveways led up to each magazine, which housed bombs, missiles, and rocket motors.
Penton scanned the area and pointed to a magazine near the end of the line. The driver backed the truck up to the doors and cut the engine. Everyone hopped out and headed toward the ordnance dump. Penton unlocked the doors and swung them wide-open.
He stepped inside and flipped on a light. Stacks of thick wooden crates were piled in neat rows on top of pallets. All the boxes were four feet long and a foot wide. Each box was a foot deep, and ropes protruded from both ends, serving as handles to carry them.
“We need seventy MK-40 rocket motors,” Penton said to the Marines.
“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.
“Don’t call me, sir,” Penton said. “I work for a living.”
A few of them smirked at the comment, and then went full-steam into loading the truck with enough boxes to handle the payload. Marine recruits are trained to call their drill instructors ‘sir.’ But when they get into the fleet, only officers are afforded that title. Sometimes when pressure mounts, young Marines fall back on calling their seniors ‘sir.’
They finished the task and climbed back into the truck, while Penton closed the magazine doors. He locked them and clambered into the truck.
The driver turned to him: “What’s next?”
Pacific Rising Page 8
