by Bob Mayer
Meng looked up briefly from his work. "No. Once the team gives its briefback, we go to the computer exclusively. The offset didn't work well in the Bear Sim with Special Forces. The computer can do a much better job than the offset. Besides, we're not testing the team. We're testing the people in Tunnel 3." Meng turned back to his work.
The setup was complicated and Wilson didn't appreciate having inadequate time to get everything going. He glanced at Meng hunched over his tables. Wilson considered Meng a weird genius. There was no doubting the man's ability at programming. He could accurately portray a mission from start to finish to the strategic mission commander and staff in the Tunnel, using the oplans, simulated mission, and feedback from the employed element. But the man had the personality of a rock. He wasn't friendly with anyone on the staff and usually ran the actual Strams exercise by himself once it started, sleeping in his office in the Tunnel for the duration of the mission. It irritated Wilson to have Meng hanging around looking over his shoulder during his shift. Meng slept less than four hours out of every twenty-four, which meant that he was constantly around. Wilson wasn't sure whether it was because Meng didn't trust anyone or simply because he had nothing else to do. An aging photo of a young Chinese woman and a small boy sat on Meng's desk, but Wilson had never heard him make any reference to a family. He wished that the old man had someone waiting at home.
Wilson gathered up the mass of papers and stuffed them into his carrying case to lock in the safe. He didn't have any more time to ponder the idiosyncrasies of Doctor Meng. He wanted to go home and relax for a little while before having to start split shift again.
Yongsan, Seoul, Republic of Korea Thursday, 1 June, 2230 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 7:30 a.m. Local
Captain Mitchell slammed down the phone. "Goddamn support pukes." Sergeant Major Hooker looked up from his desk. "What's the matter, sir?"
Mitchell pointed at the phone. "I hate those damn things. All I ever get is bad news over them. First the helicopter pilots decide not to fly, and now the transportation battalion tells me that the backup truck didn't go out to the ground pickup point this morning. The driver didn't get up on time."
The sergeant major picked up his phone. "Let me handle this, sir." He punched in a few numbers and waited while the traditionally faulty phone service tried to figure out where the connection was to be made. Mitchell got up from his desk and wandered over to the sergeant major's to listen in. Mitchell enjoyed watching Hooker in action.
Hooker stood only five feet two inches tall. Mitchell had always meant to look in the regulations to see if Special Forces had a height requirement, but he had never gotten around to it. Hooker was well known throughout the Pacific special operations community. When Mitchell first arrived in this assignment more than eighteen months ago, he had been told many stories about the diminutive DET-K sergeant major. Since moving up to the headquarters shed to be the DET-K operations officer, Mitchell had grown to really enjoy working with Hooker. He'd also started to believe many of the stories he'd been told about the man.
Hooker didn't tell war stories like a lot of the older NCOs did. When the sergeant major talked about his experiences, it was usually for the purpose of making a point or educating those around him. He had a lot of stories. Hooker had been around Special Forces for twenty-eight years, twenty-three of them in the Far East.
Mitchell was a contrast physically to the squat sergeant major. Eight inches taller and fair haired, Mitchell had the build of a lean, longdistance runner. This was his first tour of duty in this part of the world. He had nine years in the army, the first three with the 1st Infantry Division at Fort Riley, Kansas. Mitchell had then volunteered for Special Forces training. He'd wanted more challenge than riding around in the back of an armored personnel carrier through the Kansas countryside. Special Forces had given him that. The six-month Special Forces Qualification Course (Q course) had introduced him to a new type of warfare and a new type of soldier. The NCOs who taught the Q course had impressed Mitchell from the start with their overall professionalism and depth of expertise in unconventional warfare. The tactics taught at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare School made a lot more sense to Mitchell than those he'd learned at the infantry school at Fort Benning.
The course at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, had also introduced him to something more than a new part of the army. He'd met his wife there.
During a practical exercise in rescuing downed pilots and moving them through a resistance network, Mitchell's student team had picked up a female helicopter pilot. Mitchell's first impression of the slender, five-foot-six, dark-haired pilot was not favorable. He was the serious type; she, on the other hand, made a joke of everything. At first he took her jabs personally. After being forced to stay together in a safe house for almost thirty-six hours, however, his opinion of Capt. Jean Long had slowly undergone a transformation. He realized that her teasing wasn't meant to belittle him. It was simply her way of dealing with the world. She laughed at the stupidity built into the exercise and at the other ridiculous things life brought her way, and she didn't really care if other people disapproved of her attitude.
By the time he was ready to pass her on to the next link of the escape network, they had formed the basis of a friendship. Four months later they were married. Mitchell had never thought he'd tie the knot that quickly, but he had never regretted it. Life had certainly been an adventure since he'd met Jean Long.
Mitchell's musings were interrupted by Hooker's roar into the phone. "Sergeant, this is Sergeant Major Hooker. You got ten minutes to kick that driver in the ass and get him over here to my compound. I want to look into his beady little eyeballs before he goes to pick up my people. I got troops standing ass deep in a shit-filled rice paddy waiting on that yo-yo. You read me loud and clear, Sergeant?"
Hooker slammed down the phone without waiting for an answer. He smiled at Mitchell. "Sir, you just have to know how to talk to these people. NCOs don't understand all those fine manners and etiquette they taught you at West Point. You have to master the firm but gentle art of persuasion in a manner similar to mine."
Mitchell laughed. Hooker was a master of persuasion, but he didn't know much about being gentle. "Hey, Sergeant Major, tell the colonel I'm out with the deuce and a half. I'll go with the driver to make sure he gets to the right spot."
Hooker nodded. "All right. Better you than me facing down Dave Riley anyway. He's going to want an explanation for both the helicopter's no-show and the truck being late. Since your wife is one of them-there whirlybird drivers, you might be able to explain it better than me. By the way, are you going up or is she coming down here this weekend?"
Mitchell replied while grabbing his map and beret. "I'm going to take the train up there. Already got tickets on the 4:20. When I talked to her last night on the phone she said she's got to work again tomorrow. Got two birds she has to test-fly. If she finishes them today she might have the afternoon off tomorrow. We should have all day Sunday together."
Hooker shook his head. "Man, they're working her to death. When's the last time she had a weekend off?"
Mitchell had to think about that. "Probably about two months ago. When we went to Soraksan National Park for the weekend."
"Need a ride over to Chongyangni Station?"
"I'd appreciate it, but I can take the subway."
"No trouble, sir. We'll leave here at 1545."
Mitchell paused as a thought occurred to him. "You don't suppose we're going on alert because of all this stuff going down in China, do you, Sergeant Major?"
Hooker considered that. "I doubt it, sir. Everything seems to be pretty static."
Mitchell shook his head. "I don't know. On the news there was a story that they tried sending troops into Beijing and the troops didn't buy off on it."
Hooker shrugged. "Who knows what the hell is going on over there. I sure haven't been able to figure out this part of the world, and I've spent quite a few years running around here. China has always been the great enigma." Hooker smiled pr
oudly. "Hey, you like that fancy word I used?"
Mitchell gave the sergeant major his thanks for the ride offer and went outside to wait by the gate of the small compound that housed DET-K. The compound consisted of six buildings, one for the headquarters and one for each of the five A teams that made up the unit. It was located on the south post portion of Yongsan Army Military Base, nestled in the heart of Seoul. On a day when the winds blew away the cloud of pollution that usually covered the city, you could see the Seoul Tower on a hilltop rising above the city to the north, and the tall 63-Building to the south on the other side of the Han-Gang River. Today wasn't one of those days—a foreboding gray cloud hovered above the city.
Mitchell saw a deuce-and-a-half truck swing around the corner, roar past the softball field, and come toward him. He knew that if he didn't go with the truck, there were better than even odds that the driver wouldn't make it out of the city. Seoul had not been designed with cars in mind. In fact, it hadn't even been designed at all; it had just grown. There was a definite shortage of road signs, although a big improvement had been made during the buildup for the Olympics. Mitchell could read
Korean characters and make out most signs, although he was a long way from being fluent in the language.
The driver pulled the truck up and got out. "Sir, I'm supposed to report to a Sergeant Major Hooker."
Mitchell decided to have mercy on the young man. "Private, you don't want to talk to the sergeant major. He hasn't had his breakfast yet and he might make you the first course." He clambered up the passenger side. "Let's roll."
Pickup Point, 42 Kilometers Southeast of Seoul Friday, 2 June, 0012 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 9:12 a.m. Local
It was a long and tiring fifteen-kilometer walk back to the pickup point. Riley enforced strict tactical discipline the entire way. As he continued to control the operation, he could sense the captain getting irritated with him. That was all right with Riley. They could hash things out after they got back to the team room.
Riley drove himself and his team hard, because he'd seen the results of half-assed efforts. In the peacetime army it was hard to keep the motivation level up. Occasionally, Riley just got tired of pushing. His soldiers sometimes resented his pickiness, what he called "attention to detail." But it was attention to detail that determined whether a soldier lived or died. Still, he tried to be fair, and his men respected him for that. Riley had two passions: his team and his martial arts training. Unlike many other soldiers serving a tour in Korea, Riley didn't have a mistress off post. Nor did he frequent the GI bars every evening. Riley dedicated himself to taking care of his team. The ten members of Team 3, Special Forces Detachment-Korea, were his family.
On the way to the pickup point, they reached a bridge spanning a small but deep stream. Riley stopped the team and signaled for Hoffman and Sfc. Lech Olinski, the team's intelligence sergeant, to come forward. Riley instructed them to emplace a one-rope bridge downstream from the road bridge for the team to cross on.
Hoffman stared at Riley for a second, then realized the futility of complaining. It would be much easier to go nontactical at this point and walk across the road bridge. But Riley didn't know the meaning of the word nontactical.
As the two moved off to the riverbank and broke out a 120-foot rope,
Riley heard Hoffman mutter to Olinski. "Guess the man figures we need a bath, hey, Ski?"
Olinski grunted in reply. Riley smiled to himself. Olinski was not exactly verbose. As intelligence sergeant, he was the second-highest-ranking noncommissioned officer on the team, and Riley knew that he could count on Olinski's support for his strict training habits. Olinski had the same outlook Riley did.
Olinski was one of those people with a varied background that Special Forces seemed to attract. His parents were Polish and he himself had lived in Poland until he was eleven, when the family had escaped to West Germany. Olinski had spent three years there, then came to the United States to live with an uncle. At seventeen he enlisted in the army and joined the Rangers, where he rose to the rank of staff sergeant. When someone at the Department of the Army happened to see that Olinski spoke fluent Polish, German, and Russian, Olinski was asked to volunteer for Special Forces. After finishing his training, Olinski had spent several years in the 10th Special Forces Group, which had Europe as its area of orientation. When DET-K had picked up some responsibility for eastern Russia, Olinski had been sent to Korea for a one-year short tour.
Since his arrival, Olinski had maintained a reputation as a quiet but extremely competent intelligence sergeant. His knowledge of Soviet and Warsaw Pact armies and security forces came from more than just books. He also had his personal childhood experiences to draw on.
Olinski looked his name, with a broad Slavic face and tall lanky body. Besides the usual Polish jokes, Olinski was often the butt of other younger, and less experienced, team members' jibes for his willingness to be miserable when there might be an easier way out. In the Rangers, Olinski had learned to ignore the pain and discomfort that hard, realistic training entailed. This hard-core quality endeared the man to Riley, who was fond of saying that pain was weakness leaving the body.
Riley watched as Olinski lowered his body into the chilly mountain stream. This was the price one had to pay to be good, Riley thought. The easy way got you killed. With the rope tied around his waist, and his M16A2 held overhead, Olinski sidestroked to the far bank, being careful not to swallow water. Any water in the Korean countryside was extremely suspect: pollution and the Korean way of fertilizing fields with human waste ensured that. In his dripping uniform Olinski anchored the rope around a tree, then turned to provide far bank security.
Hoffman enlisted the aid of three other team members and they anchored the near end of the rope on a tree, then tightened it down as much as possible. Hoffman hooked Olinski's and his own rucksack onto the rope with snap links and started across. The natural stretch of the rope made the center section of the bridge sag so that Hoffman's head went underwater briefly, but he pulled himself over quickly. One by one, the rest of the team followed.
Sending his ruck over with Devito, Riley remained until last. He untied the near bank rope and swam it over. On the far bank, he coiled the rope and hung it on the outside of his ruck as the team moved out to cover the last kilometer back to their pickup point. When they reached the road junction where the truck was supposed to be, Riley sighed as he saw nothing there. He was too tired to get angry. Typical, he thought. He knew it would show up sooner or later. Between Hooker and Mitchell at the Operations Shop, one of the two would get things rolling.
Riley missed Mitchell. The captain had been Riley's team leader for sixteen months before moving up to the DET-K S-3 slot. Riley had enjoyed working with someone who was competent and also willing to learn. During those sixteen months, Riley had imparted as much knowledge as he could to Mitchell, and at the same time learned a few things himself. They had split the chore of running the team in an efficient manner.
The two had formed an extremely close professional and personal bond during their time together. Because of that bond, Team 3 had become what all Special Forces teams should be but few achieve: twelve individuals welded into an effective, cohesive fighting force. The team worked and played together. The Mobile Training Team (MTT) mission to Australia, six months ago, culminating in a successful joint training mission with the Australian Special Air Services (SAS), had put a fine edge on Team 3—an edge that Riley saw the new team leader threatening.
Besides the professional aspect, Riley enjoyed Mitchell's company and had even learned to like the captain's wife, although Riley questioned the idea of women in the army. He also didn't understand why she had kept her own last name, but he figured that was none of his business, and he knew that if he mentioned it, Captain Long would make that very clear to him. She was one of the most stubborn and self-reliant persons Riley had ever met. Riley and Jean Long had a mutual but wary respect for each other that was beginning to become a friendship.
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Riley steeled himself as Captain Peterson came over and sat down next to him. Riley was tired, hungry, and wet. Add the lack of transportation, and he was in no mood to deal with a petulant captain.
Peterson wasted no time on small talk. "Sergeant Riley, I did not appreciate the way you talked to me at the cache site."
Riley stood and gestured for the officer to follow him. He wasn't about to argue in front of the rest of the team. Riley led the captain to the other side of the road.
"Yes, sir. I can understand that. But to be honest I don't appreciate the way you've been treating me this past week. You haven't listened to my advice nor have you tried to seek it out. If we're going to work together, then you have to work with me. I'm willing to work with you."
Peterson didn't seem to be buying it. "I'm the commander of this team. If you can't go along with that, then I'm going to have to do something about it and go to the colonel."
Riley shook his head in wonderment at the captain's lack of common sense. "Sir, there's no need to get Colonel Hossey involved. I think you might find that's not so smart. He's not going to move people around just because they don't get along. I realize I can be kind of mule headed sometimes, but you need to realize where the expertise on this team lies. I've got ten years of Special Forces experience. There's a bunch more experience sitting across the road in the heads of the other enlisted people on this team." Riley turned and looked the young captain in the eyes. "You have six months of schooling and two weeks in country."
Peterson looked at Riley steadily for a few seconds, then walked away. Riley rubbed his eyes; he was getting a headache. He looked up as he heard the roar of a truck headed their way.
A U.S. Army two-and-a-half-ton truck rolled down the one-lane dirt farm road toward them. Riley stepped out in the road as the truck pulled over. He hid his smile as Captain Mitchell got out of the passenger side of the cab. "Where was our helicopter? And why the hell is the truck late?"
