by Bob Mayer
Mitchell flicked a half salute toward Riley. "Nice to see you too, Sergeant First Class Riley." Mitchell looked up at the sky. He pointed at a wisp of a cloud floating above the jagged peaks of the ridgeline to the south. "See that cloud? That's why the helicopter didn't fly. As far as the truck goes, I decided to do some sight-seeing on the way down. Took some beautiful pictures of a rice paddy."
"Keep it up, asshole," Riley grumbled as he signaled for the team to load their rucks on the truck. "The chutes are about fifteen k's that-a-way, right off the DZ. Hopefully some Korean farmer hasn't found them by now and used them to make four thousand new shirts."
Mitchell turned as Peterson came up. "Got room in the cab for me?"
Mitchell hesitated, looking briefly at Riley, then back at his fellow officer. "How about you navigate the driver up to where the chutes are cached and I'll ride in the back? We'll go to the target and recover the demo after we get the chutes." Peterson nodded and walked to the front of the truck.
"Looks like you two are getting along great," Mitchell whispered to Riley as they headed to the rear to join the rest of the team.
"He'd better pull his head out of his butt, Mitch," Riley muttered. Then, out of earshot of the team, he turned to Mitchell. "You believe the little shit actually has threatened to go to Colonel Hossey and complain about me?"
Mitchell could see that Riley was upset, so he answered seriously. "Yeah, well, if he does that, the Old Man will smoke him like a cheap cigar."
Riley shook his head, not so sure. "I'm getting tired of dealing with you officers. He's even dumber than you were," Riley said, smiling to show that he was getting over his anger. "Maybe it's easier to join than fight, and I'll go get my warrant after all."
Mitchell laughed. "You'd be part of the enemy then." He grabbed Olinski's outstretched hand, pulling him up into the truck. Looking at the familiar faces of Team 3, he felt a wave of sadness that he was no longer part of the team.
Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 2 June, 0400 Zulu Thursday, 1 June, 11:00 p.m. Local
Meng put aside his work every half hour to listen to the latest CNN report regarding the situation in Tiananmen Square. He wasn't sure what to make of the unsubstantiated reports of fighting between elements of the 38th Army and the 27th Army on the outskirts of Beijing. He could well believe that the 38th had turned back, refusing to enter the city to crush the students. The majority of the conscripts in the 38th were from the Beijing area and were probably sympathetic to the students.
Meng looked through one of the classified Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) reports on the makeup of the Chinese Army. He could see why the 27th Army had been brought in. It was from the Nei Monggol Military District, which meant that the soldiers in that army would have little in common with the students in the square.
Meng sensed that the tinder and firewood were all piled up in Tiananmen Square waiting for the match. It was just a matter of time before it was ignited. He said a silent prayer before turning back to his work.
Chongyangni Train Station, Seoul, Korea Friday, 2 June, 0720 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 4:20 p.m. Local
Mitchell scrunched up in his seat as the old Korean lady sat down next to him and jammed her large bundle between them. Mitchell smiled at her. She looked back passively for a moment, then turned her attention elsewhere.
It was a two-hour train ride from Seoul to ChunChon, where Mitchell's wife was stationed. They had come to Korea about eighteen months ago on a joint assignment. Korea was normally a short tour of one year for soldiers because it was unaccompanied, meaning that families and spouses stayed behind in the States. When Jean had gotten orders for an unaccompanied tour to Korea, Mitchell had volunteered to go over also so they could be together. In exchange, the army, which didn't know the meaning of the words good deal, lengthened their respective tours to two years.
As Mitchell reflected on it, he thought they might have been better off with Jean going on the short tour and him staying back in the States. For the first sixteen months in country Mitchell had been commander of Team 3; Jean had worked in the 17th Aviation Brigade headquarters at Yongsan. During that time, despite being stationed at the same post, they had seen little of each other. Mitchell had been gone more than 50 percent of the time on field training exercises and deployments around the Orient. Then, just two months ago, when he had finally moved up to staff, which meant he would have less field time, his wife had been offered command of an aviation company. Only it was in the 309th Aviation Battalion of the 17th Aviation Regiment, stationed up in ChunChon about ninety kilometers northeast of Seoul.
Jean had needed a command in an aviation unit and this was the only one available in her specialty, which was aircraft maintenance. She'd had little choice but to accept the job. Although the position was professionally rewarding for her, the separation made both of them miserable. She worked almost every weekend to keep up with the demands of being a company commander, on top of her duties as maintenance test pilot. Since she had taken the command, they had gotten to see each other for only about half of any weekend.
As the train pulled out of Chongyangni Station, Mitchell was contemplating the prospect of another eleven years in the army under such intolerable conditions. He already had nine years in, but somehow, ever since he and Jean had gotten married, an army career just didn't seem that bright any more. He knew that as they both reached higher rank, the number of jobs would become more limited. Therefore, opportunities for them to be assigned together would also be more difficult to find. It was a trade-off he wasn't sure he wanted to make.
Mitchell decided to squelch his negative thoughts and occupy himself more productively. A Korean girl of about three or four was peering at him over the seatback. Mitchell knew that his short blond hair and occidental facial features made him stand out to the Koreans. He stuck out his tongue and she promptly grabbed her mother and pointed at him, yelling excitedly, "Mi-Guk, Mi-Guk"—American.
Mitchell feigned surprise and pointed back at the little girl, saying, "Han-Guk, Han-Guk"—Korean. The girl squealed and stuck out her tongue at Mitchell. The old lady, next to Mitchell, smiled and said something to the mother. The mother passed the girl back to the old lady, who perched the child on top of her bundle on the seat. The rest of Mitchell's train ride was spent entertaining the young girl with a variety of facial distortions and pidgin Korean.
Camp Page, ChunChon, Korea Friday, 2 June, 0800 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 5:00 p.m. Local
Captain Jean Long was presently six thousand feet above ChunChon conducting a test flight of an OH-58 helicopter. The aircraft had just finished phase maintenance, and it was important to make sure that everything had been put back together correctly.
She sat in the right-hand seat, and a young lieutenant, new to the battalion, sat in the left. Jean liked taking up new lieutenants fresh out of flight school for test flights. It opened their eyes to what was required to check out a helicopter before it could be flown on missions. Sometimes line pilots treated their helicopters like toys, with little consideration for the amount of maintenance needed to keep them flying.
She was getting ready to do one of the more interesting tests. Slowly rolling off the throttle, she watched her N-l indicator until the engine clutch disengaged. The rotor blades, no longer powered by the engine, began to autorotate. That meant the blades were turning free, slowing the aircraft's descent as it plummeted without power. This was an emergency procedure normally used in case of engine failure. Jean knew that the young pilot next to her had done maybe three or four autorotations during flight school. As a maintenance test pilot, she did them almost every day.
She watched as the altimeter unwound, briefly checking the lieutenant out of the corner of her eye. She could tell that he wanted to grab the controls and get the aircraft back under power. She waited until she was sure that the helicopter was working satisfactorily, then slowly increased throttle, slowing the descent. Bringing the aircraft to a hover, she then began the approach to the airstrip at
Camp Page. Carefully maneuvering the helicopter down the flight line, she slipped in between two parked Blackhawk helicopters and touched the skids lightly to the ground.
As the blades slowed she turned to the lieutenant. "What do you think? You want to go to maintenance school and become a test pilot?"
The young man shook his head. "Ma'am, it's all yours. I'd rather be in the line unit. We get to fly the real missions."
Yeah, right, Jean thought. What do you think we just did? That's why your knuckles were white from grabbing the side of your seat when I autorotated, she smiled to herself. Another manly man who wanted to do manly things. Thinking about men, her mind turned to her husband, who should be on his way right now. She looked at her watch and shook her head. She had so much paperwork left to do in her office that she doubted she'd be done by the time he arrived.
"Set the troops to their tasks without imparting
your designs: use them to gain advantage without
revealing the dangers involved."
Sun Tzu: The Art of War
3
Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 2 June, 1110 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 6:10 a.m. Local
Brigadier General Sutton looked over the group of men arrayed in front of him. USSOCOM hadn't brought very many people to run this exercise, he thought to himself. During some joint exercises, Tunnel 3 had been packed with up to forty various commanders and staff personnel, all of them tripping over each other. For Dragon Sim-13, the Tunnel looked almost empty, with just five people from the command at MacDill Air Force Base seated in front of him. The man in overall charge was the deputy commander for USSOCOM, Major General Olson. It was to him that Sutton addressed his inbriefing. "Good morning, General. Welcome to Dragon Sim-13. Before we get started with the briefing that describes what you will be doing over the course of the next week, I'd like to introduce the members of my staff."
Sutton pointed out his people as they were introduced. "Although I'm the head of Strams, as we call the project here, the real brain behind this setup is Doctor Meng. He is also the program chief of the first shift." Meng inclined his head at the guests. "The man in charge of handling all your communications and message traffic is Major Tresome. He's also the second-shift communications chief. Our second-shift program chief is Doctor Wilson. The first-shift communications chief is Master Sergeant Burns.
"As you can tell, very few people are involved in the running of this exercise. There are two major reasons for this." Sutton gestured at the electronic billboard behind him and then at the computer consoles. "The first is that the majority of the exercise is automated and we simply don't need that many people. The second is due to the fact that we are using real war-plan oplans—every mission is highly classified. The fewer people involved the better."
Sutton looked down and slid his notes for the formal inbriefing to the top of the podium. "Gentlemen, you all have copies of USSOCOM contingency oplan Typhoon 17-A. That is the oplan we will be using for Dragon Sim-13."
Sutton looked up at General Olson. "Sir, perhaps you could explain to us, so we're all on the same sheet of music, the significance behind this operational plan and why your staff developed it."
General Olson was a heavyset air force general with a ruddy complexion. He shifted in his seat as he handed off the question. "I'd like my operations man here to answer that. Colonel Moore?"
An army colonel with a Special Forces combat patch on his right shoulder fielded the inquiry. "I'm the assistant operations officer at USSOCOM. Our Typhoon series oplans are contingency and wartime missions for our Special Operations Forces in the Pacific targeted against China. Every special ops unit in the Pacific has various wartime missions allocated to them. The alpha at the end of this oplan signifies that the unit is army. The seventeen means that it is the seventeenth mission assigned to army special operations in the Pacific."
They all watched as Moore got up, walked over to the electronic map, and pointed. "We have a limited number of Special Operations Forces permanently stationed in the Pacific. The air force has the 1st Special Operations Squadron at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, which consists of four MC-130 Combat Talon aircraft.
"As far as navy goes, they have a Special Warfare Group of SEALs dedicated to the theater. The army has the 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group headquartered in Okinawa and the Special Forces Detachment-Korea, also known as DET-K, up here in Seoul.
"This mission, 17-A, is for a unit from DET-K. It was initially designed as a team's wartime mission in the event of all-out war between the United States and China. The way we come up with these missions is to give general taskings to the subordinate units and then ask them to develop missions they feel are within their capabilities. In this instance the general guidance was to inflict damage on the Chinese war-fighting ability by attacking their petroleum industry."
Moore seemed ready to continue, but Sutton held up a hand. "I think that's all we need for now. In this scenario, we're using the wartime mission as a Command Authority surgical strike to retaliate against the Chinese government. The political reasons for such a strike are not important, since we are merely testing the ability to command and control such a mission. In doing so we will also get a good idea of the feasibility of the mission. That data will be in our files. In case there is ever a need to consider any of these missions, the data will be available for study."
Sutton consulted his notes again. "I want to run through the tentative schedule and rules for the exercise so we can get started on time. The evaluated exercise formally begins today at 1200 Zulu. By the way, all times from here on will be in Zulu, or Greenwich mean time. That will help prevent any confusion with the various time zones we'll be working with. All your message traffic will go through the computer. The blank square in the lower right corner of the electronic map is where all the traffic going in and out will be displayed."
Sutton paused as Olson raised a hand. "You mean there's no way we can talk directly to the units?"
Sutton shook his head. "Not verbally. There are two reasons we run it this way. First, it is more secure because we are able to automatically encrypt and decrypt the message traffic. You will find, if you ever operate out of the Pentagon's Emergency Operations Center, that it works in the same way. There is the capability to talk voice in an emergency, but almost all traffic is handled through the keyboard.
"The second reason is that the computer in some cases will be making the responses for your subordinate and higher elements. For example, you will be receiving some input from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as your link to the National Command Authority. Naturally, we don't have the chairman standing by. The computer will simulate his responses and input along with that of other people and units."
Sutton turned to the map board. "In addition to the . . ."
In the back of the room, Meng tuned out the droning of Sutton's voice. He'd heard it all before. Grown men playing games. He looked at his watch. Almost 7:30. He slipped out of Tunnel 3 to catch the latest news on the TV.
Camp Page, ChunChon, Korea Friday, 2 June, 1145 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 8:45 p.m. Local
About ten soldiers were scattered about talking quietly in the bar area of the Page II All-Ranks Club. Mitchell looked around as he grabbed a bar stool. It was early yet for a Friday night. Mitchell knew most GIs went downtown to one of the five Korean clubs clustered around the post's main gate; these places offered bar girls and livelier entertainment.
He looked with irritation at his watch. Jean was really late tonight. He'd gone over to the hangar to see her as soon as he'd arrived at seven. She'd still been in her office, working on paperwork that she hadn't been able to get to in a day full of flying. She promised him she'd make it to the club by eight. Mitchell had dumped his overnight bag in the small room on the end of a Korean war-vintage Quonset hut that served as Jean's quarters and then come over to the club to wait for her.
He nodded as a warrant officer from his wife's unit came in and took the stool ne
xt to him. Chief Warrant Officer Third Class Colin Lassiter was his wife's main assistant in making sure the flow of aircraft went smoothly. Her company, D Company, 309th Aviation, was responsible for fixing all the helicopters in the battalion—a total of almost fifty aircraft.
Lassiter shook his head at Mitchell. "Captain Long working late again, sir?"
Mitchell nodded glumly. "She was supposed to be here at eight."
Lassiter ordered them both a beer. "I'm sure glad she's in command here. Things have gotten a lot better since she took over. We used to be totally screwed up. Now we're only half screwed up."
Mitchell was relieved to see Jean walk into the bar, still in uniform. She smiled as she saw him and strode over. "Hey, babe. Sorry I'm late."
He was still irritated. "Yeah, sure. Want a beer?"
She looked at her watch. "No, I've got to fly tomorrow morning." She turned to the warrant officer. "Keeping my husband out of trouble, Colin?"
"Yes, ma'am. You know me."
She laughed. "Yeah, I do. That's why I asked." She turned back to her husband. "I'm starved. Let's eat."
Mitchell slid off his bar stool and, saying good night to Lassiter, followed his wife to the other end of the club where the dining room was located. It was five minutes before the kitchen closed but the Korean waitress was more than happy to persuade the cook to scrape together something for her favorite captain and her husband. Mitchell was always impressed by how his wife could make people like her. A sense of humor was a valuable tool, he knew, but one he didn't have a good handle on. His wife was usually smiling and could laugh at anything. In the army this sometimes irritated people, who thought she might be laughing at them. It was the same mistake he had made when he'd first met her at Fort Bragg.
As they waited for the meal, they filled each other in on events of the past week. Mitchell let his wife do most of the talking, because he could sense she was upset about something. It took her a few minutes, but she finally got around to it. She reached into one of the numerous pockets on her flight suit, pulled out a photograph, and passed it across the table. "Someone in my company found that posted on the bulletin board at flight operations."
