Dragon Sim-13
Page 13
These were last-resort weapons, carried more for survival use than anything else: Using the silenced .22 pistol, team members could kill small animals for food if they had to evade for an extended period. To use a .22 on a person required a high degree of accuracy and luck, because the small-caliber round could not be counted on to stop whatever it hit.
Every man also carried one thermite grenade and three small Ml8 high-explosive grenades, which had an effective bursting radius of five meters. A Claymore mine was packed in the top flap of each rucksack. The Claymore was a crescent-shaped mine full of small ball bearings. When fired, it exploded thousands of these balls on a wide front, out to a range of twenty meters. The effect was devastating on anyone caught inside that arc.
O'Shaugnesy and Devito each carried a Soviet-made RPG rocket launcher and five rounds, since they would be the security team on the service road during the actual target hit. The RPG could fire accurately out to five hundred meters and disable most vehicles. The shaped charge in the rocket warhead could even penetrate a tank if it hit in a vulnerable spot.
In addition to the demolitions, the team carried an assortment of special equipment. Every other man carried PVS-5 night-vision goggles. The men would work the goggles in pairs, switching off every hour. Extended wear of the goggles caused eye strain and diminished their usefulness.
O'Shaugnesy and Lalli each packed a PSC3 satellite communication radio, which weighed twenty-seven pounds when combined with its antenna and digital message device group sender (DMDG). This made their rucksacks significantly heavier than the rest of the team's. Once the men were on the ground, the SATCOM radios would be rigged with thermite grenades for emergency destruction. Four PRC68 FM radios were carried for internal communications among the team, if needed.
Two 120-foot ropes were carried. Riley had long ago discovered that he always found a lot of potential uses for a rope whenever he didn't bring one, so now Team 3 always carried two. Every other man also carried a small vial of CN powder, which was a condensed form of the powder used to generate tear gas. This powder could be sprinkled along a trail behind a person if dogs were tracking. A good whiff of CN and a dog would be done tracking for a long time.
The basic food load was five meals, each dehydrated and weighing less than a pound. Heat tabs were carried, which could be used to heat water in canteen cups. A Goretex poncho and bungee cords were taken for shelter if needed, and to sleep the men could crawl into a waterproof Goretex bivy sack.
Each man wore an internationally manufactured brown Goretex boot. Goretex gloves and black watchcaps completed their outfits.
Colonel Hossey had questioned the relatively large load each man was carrying for a three-day mission, but Mitchell and Riley had stood by their decision. Fully loaded, each man had an approximately forty-pound rucksack. Their combat vests weighed almost thirty pounds apiece when filled out with spare magazines, pistols, grenades, survival kit, butt pack, and two full one-quart canteens.
While heavy, the seventy pounds of total gear each team member carried was actually far lighter than the load carried on training exercises. Picking up his ruck with one hand, Comsky referred to it as a "nerf' ruck, it was so light compared to what he was used to. The team had once deployed for thirty days without resupply—just one meal a day added up to thirty pounds of food alone. Riley remembered an exercise they had conducted the previous winter in the mountains of Korea when the team had carried almost a hundred and thirty pounds of gear apiece.
Mitchell and Riley felt satisfied with the choice of weapons and equipment. They had prepared for the worst possible scenario, which they envisioned as making contact and/or having to escape and evade for several days before being picked up. Despite all the ammunition they carried, Riley hoped only three rounds would be fired—the three rounds needed to blind the surveillance cameras.
Riley checked his watch. Two hours until the Combat Talon took off. He considered doing one last verbal run-through of the mission but decided against it. He'd allow the men to spend this remaining time with their own thoughts.
Nothing is more difficult than the art of maneuver.
What is difficult about maneuver is to make
the devious route the most direct
and to turn misfortune to advantage."
Sun Tzu: The Art of War
8
FOB, Osan Air Force Base, Korea Tuesday, 6 June, 1200 Zulu Tuesday, 6 June, 9:00 p.m. Local
The members of Team 3 completed loading their rucksacks onto the floor of the Talon and seated themselves along the right side of the plane on the cargo webbing seats. Wearing black rubber dry suits, with hoods and camouflage face paint, the men looked like seals out of water. The one-piece black dry suits, manufactured by the Viking Company of Norway, covered the entire body except hands and face. It was entered through a zipper in the back; latex seals around the wrists and neck kept out water. Theoretically the person inside would remain completely dry, although Riley had gotten soaked more than once inside a leaky suit. They had triple-checked these suits, and all seemed to be functioning properly. To keep their hands warm in the chilly water, each man wore diving gloves. A dive compass on one wrist would help in navigation once they were in the water. A dive knife was strapped to each soldier's right calf.
Riley had coordinated six checkpoints en route to the drop zone. The loadmaster in the back of the aircraft would relay the checkpoint number from the navigator to Mitchell as they crossed each checkpoint, keeping the team oriented as to where they were on the route. At checkpoint 1, where the aircraft dropped altitude and headed north, Riley would have the team start their inflight rig; at the last checkpoint, six minutes from the drop zone, Riley would start his jump commands.
Every team member felt a surge of adrenaline as the loud whine of the four powerful turboprop engines filled the air. It was a sound that any person who was ever on airborne status would never forget. It meant you were going: no weather delays, no broken airplane, no last-minute cancelation. You were taking off, and the only way you could land was with the parachute on your back.
Fort Meade, Maryland Tuesday, 6 June, 1220 Zulu Tuesday, 6 June, 7:20 a.m. Local
Meng could sense a slight increase in tension in Tunnel 3. For the members of the SFOB, the simulation was about to start. For Meng, something much more vital was beginning. He had linked up the main console with his office terminal. The link with the FOB no longer existed here in Tunnel 3 because the computer simulation was taking over, but Meng's reprogramming the previous night had kept open the line from his personal program to the FOB. If the real FOB made a call to the SFOB, the message would be routed to Meng's office terminal and stored in a locked data file that only Meng could open. His plan was to monitor his office terminal and answer the FOB using a reverse of the simulation.
In other words, Meng had set up a double simulation. He was running the expected Dragon Sim-13 for members of the SFOB here in the Tunnel. That in itself should not be a major problem. The difficult part for Meng would be keeping up the pretense to the FOB in Korea. He felt that he had worked out most of the bugs the previous night. Both jobs consisted exclusively of monitoring and replying to message traffic.
Meng scanned his locked data file. No messages from the FOB since they had rogered receipt of the go authorization. Meng really didn't expect any traffic from the FOB until infiltration was accomplished.
He settled into his chair at the master console. It was going to be a long day.
FOB, Osan Air Force Base, Korea Tuesday, 6 June, 1237 Zulu Tuesday, 6 June, 9:37 p.m. Local
Riley checked his watch. Right on time. The wheels of the MC-130 lifted off the tarmac and the plane roared into the night sky, exactly at 1237 Zulu. The plane, listed by Korean aviation authorities as a normal U.S. Air Force run to Misawa Air Force Base in Japan, powered its way up to five thousand feet.
Devito, the senior medic, started passing out motion-sickness pills to those who wanted them. All the men had experienced rides on Combat Talons
before and knew that once the plane penetrated the shoreline, the terrain-following flight would cause extreme discomfort. Motion sickness was an integral part of any Talon flight.
Riley smiled as he glanced down the side of the plane. Comsky was already asleep with his head against the cargo netting and his mouth wide open. Riley couldn't hear the snoring over the roar of the engines, but he had no doubt that it was loud. Comsky could sleep through anything. The other members of the team tried to get as comfortable as their bulky equipment and dry suit would allow. For the next three and a half hours it was the air force's show.
9:46 p.m. Local
Hossey had watched the Talon drill a hole into the eastern night sky until it was no longer visible. Then he had slowly driven back to the operations center. After writing a message to the SFOB detailing the successful departure of the aircraft, he settled in to wait. The next communication he should receive from the team—barring any last-minute problems en route—would be their ANGLER report after they were on the ground in China. Hossey could make contact with the Talon, but he would do so only in an emergency. Even though the odds of the aircraft's SATCOM being picked up were very low, it was still considered poor procedure to make any sort of broadcast. Besides, Hossey reflected, he had nothing to say to the team or the aircraft now. They were on their way. All he could do was sit here and wish them well.
Fort Meade, Maryland Tuesday, 6 June, 1340 Zulu Tuesday, 6 June, 8:40 a.m. Local
The staff of the SFOB was tracking the simulated progress of the Talon on the electronic map. The aircraft was just about at checkpoint 1. Meng had computed in no problems with the infiltration simulation. The less fuss, the better, as far as he was concerned. He accessed his locked message file for the FOB. Still nothing. No news was good news, as the Americans were fond of saying.
Checkpoint 1, Sea of Japan Tuesday, 6 June, 1343 Zulu Tuesday, 6 June, 10:43 p.m. Local
Riley felt the aircraft bank and the air pressure change slightly as the plane rapidly descended. He unbuckled his seat belt and staggered down the center of the plane. Leaning over Mitchell, he signaled and then yelled in the officer's ear. "Time to rig."
Mitchell started rousing the team members. Riley and the loadmaster moved to the back of the plane and undid the cargo straps holding down the parachutes and rucksacks. They passed out the chutes, a main and reserve to each man.
Riley and Mitchell buddy-rigged each other. Riley went first, slipping the harness of the main chute over his shoulders and settling it on his back. Mitchell helped him fasten the leg straps and attach the reserve to the front of the rig. The SVD sniper rifle was cinched down over Riley's left shoulder using the rifle's sling and cord. The rucksack was added last, hooked on with quick release straps below the reserve in the front.
Finished, Mitchell tapped Riley on the rear and gave him a thumbs-up, signaling he was good to go. Riley then helped Mitchell rig and
"jumpmaster-inspected" his team leader. When he was done with Mitchell, Riley moved on to the other team members, making sure all were properly jumpmaster inspected.
All the team members' weapons had been waterproofed and tied off. Swim fins were stuck in the waistband of each parachute and attached to the jumper with cord. After thirty minutes of checking, Riley was satisfied. They were ready to jump.
In the front half of the cargo bay, Major Kent was watching his screens diligently. He was catching reflections of some shore-based radar up in Vladivostok, but he knew that the Talon was too low to be picked up by that. He ran through the various wave bands, searching for any invisible groping finger that might pinpoint them.
Checkpoint 2, Sea of Japan Tuesday, 6 June, 1420 Zulu Tuesday, 6 June, 11:20 p.m. Local
The loadmaster leaned over to Captain Mitchell. "The navigator wants to talk to you," he screamed above the plane's roar and passed his headset to the captain.
"Hey, Captain, we're picking up radar echoes along the flight route, up by Vladivostok. We think it might be a Soviet warship. We don't want to take any chances. We're switching on the spiderweb to another leg. The new route comes pretty close to going straight from checkpoint 2 to checkpoint 5. We'll pass almost right over the North Korean-Soviet border now. The EW officer isn't picking up too much radar activity there and he thinks it's safe. We'll be going over the shore in about fourteen minutes. We want to get lost in among the mountains there, so this ship won't pick us up. This is going to cut off some time. I figure on getting to the drop zone about ten minutes early, give or take a minute or two."
Mitchell acknowledged and turned to Riley to pass the word along. This often happened on a Talon flight. The crew planned not one route, but an entire spiderweb of routes. That gave them options, depending on the enemy threat. If Team 3 got to the drop zone a few minutes earlier, that was fine with Riley. The more minutes of darkness they had, the better.
Everyone was awake now and fidgeting. No matter how much they had trained, it couldn't prepare them for the fear and uncertainty of the real thing. They were only a few minutes from the shoreline. Once they hit that, the ride would get extremely bumpy as the pilots used their sophisticated electronics to keep the aircraft down in the radar cluster of the terrain. The tension in the aircraft was palpable.
Riley was sweating under his dry suit. He hated waiting, and he hated having his destiny in someone else's hands. He'd feel a lot better once they were on the ground.
FOB, Osan Air Force Base, Korea Tuesday, 6 June, 1540 Zulu Wednesday, 7 June, 12:40 a.m. Local
Hossey was trying to work a crossword puzzle but couldn't help glancing at the clock every few minutes. The team was twenty minutes out. He knew what it must feel like in the back of that Talon. The team members would all be rigged, ready to go. At this point, Hossey knew, all they wanted to do was get out of the aircraft and start the operation.
He looked up at Sergeant Major Hooker, who was pacing nervously around the room. Hooker didn't like sitting on his butt in an FOB. The sergeant major was a person who'd rather be at the doing end.
Hooker stamped out his cigarette, then went over to the commo terminal and looked restlessly through the message logs. He frowned. "Didn't you get a roger on the departure message?"
The commo man shook his head. "Negative, Sergeant Major. I haven't heard anything from the SFOB in more than four hours."
Hooker knew that wasn't unusual—the FOB and SFOB really had nothing to say to each other at this point. Everything was in the team's hands right now. Still, though, there should have been an acknowledgment of their last message saying that the Talon had departed for infiltration.
"Send a message to the SFOB and ask them for acknowledgment of," Hooker looked through the out log, "message number forty-three."
"Yes, Sergeant Major."
Hooker lit another cigarette as he waited, then took another stroll around the room, ending back where he had started from. "Well?"
The communications man shook his head. "I'm not getting anything from the SFOB."
Hooker frowned. "Go to backup."
He waited while the man switched to the backup terminal and sent the message. "Nothing, Sergeant Major. It's like they're not even on the air. I'm getting good bounce-backs off the satellite, so I know it's not on this end."
"Colonel," Hooker called out. "You'd better be aware of this. We've got no commo with the SFOB."
Hossey got out of his chair and hurried over. "What about backup?"
"We've tried it. Nothing. It's not this end. Our stuff is working."
Hossey bit his lip. What the hell was going on? "When was the last time you heard from the SFOB?"
"There's been nothing for more than four hours." Hooker showed him the log. "They didn't acknowledge our message that the Talon had departed."
Hossey looked at the clock. Fifteen minutes out. His gut feeling told him something was wrong. "Go clear voice to the SFOB. Maybe their decrypter is down."
He waited impatiently as the comm man called the SFOB in the clear. Still no
answer. He looked at Hooker. "What do you think?"
Hooker shook his head worriedly. "Something's wrong. If they didn't acknowledge that departure message, it means they might not even know the team is on the way."
"They would have gotten ahold of us by now if their SATCOM was down, don't you think?"
Hooker shrugged. "I don't know, sir. You know how difficult it is getting through from the States to here on the phone lines."
"Shit!" Hossey exclaimed. Loss of communications with the SFOB didn't mean they had to abort, but it made him suspicious. This whole mission was flaky. He didn't like the idea of his team going into China.
Hossey grabbed the phone. He'd try the emergency phone number they'd been given for the SFOB at Fort Meade.
Fort Meade, Maryland Tuesday, 6 June, 1544 Zulu Tuesday, 6 June, 10:44 a.m. Local
Meng looked up as a warning light flashed on his console. Someone was trying to get through from the FOB on the phone line. His initial reaction was relief that he had programmed the comm system to switch all such calls over to his computer—then he began to worry. Why would someone from the FOB try calling on the emergency number when they could use the SATCOM? There hadn't been a message from the FOB over the SATCOM for more than four hours, according to Meng's restricted message file.
A possible reason occurred to Meng in a moment of sickening realization. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he checked. The answer popped onto his screen. Someone here had shut down his SATCOM link with the FOB. Meng's mind rewound. He remembered telling Wilson that he had switched over the program. He pictured Wilson leaving. Damn! Meng thought. Wilson had stopped by the comm desk prior to leaving. Meng had seen him do it. The idiot had probably told Tresome to cut the link.