by Bob Mayer
Riley immediately understood what Hoffman meant. He woke up Mitchell and told him the plan. After a few minutes of preparation, Riley, accompanied by Hoffman and Chong, left the little camp under the pine tree. Comsky stayed behind to take care of the wounded. Riley took Mitchell's MP5 silenced submachine gun, just in case.
3:45 a.m. Local
It took the three of them thirty minutes, in the dark, to reach the small dirt road. Bending down and running his numbed fingers over the surface, Chong could feel recent tire tracks. They followed them, and five minutes later the dim lights of a shack came into view. A pickup-style truck was parked outside. Riley halted them briefly while he considered the setup. There was one shuttered window in the front, to the right of the door. A rutted road ran to the right of the shack. Probably heads toward a mine in the valley wall, he figured.
Riley whispered the improvised plan to Hoffman and Chong. Together, they crept up to the derelict truck. Riley crawled to a position from which he could cover the front, while Chong slipped around back. Hoffman slid up to the old truck. Riley angled the submachine gun at the door while Hoffman carefully opened the hood. The old metal obliged grudgingly. Riley tightened his grip on the gun. He didn't want to kill a civilian if he could help it, but they couldn't risk being discovered.
Hoffman was messing around in the engine. Come on, come on, Riley urged silently. Hoffman finally pulled out the battery and slowly lowered the hood. Riley couldn't believe the people inside didn't hear the creaking of metal. Hoffman laid the hood as far closed as it would go without slamming it, then turned and hurried back into the trees.
Chong appeared from behind the house and joined him. Once the two were out of sight, Riley backed off and joined them. They retraced their steps back to the rest of the team.
Comsky softly challenged them as they loomed up in the dark. Giving their mission code names, the three men crawled in under the tree.
"Go ahead and set that thing up, Dan," Riley indicated to Hoffman.
As the engineer busied himself arranging the transmitter and wires,
Riley spoke to the rest of the team in a low voice. "Anyone have any idea what frequency to send on and who to send this message to?" He turned to C.J. "Is there some sort of international distress band that's always monitored on high frequency?"
C.J. considered this. "Yeah, there is, but the Chinese and Russians monitor it, too. Unless you want them to hear the message, you probably don't want to use that."
Mitchell stirred. "Hey, you're forgetting something you taught me, Dave. You must be getting senile in your old age. Let's stick with the plan and use the guard net frequency we agreed on with Hossey."
Riley shook his head. "They won't be monitoring that, sir. Trapp will have told the Old Man that we torched the 70. They think we're all dead."
"That may be so," Mitchell agreed, "but we're still going to stick with the plan. It's as good as anything else."
Riley looked at Mitchell and decided. "Yes, sir. Let's go for it. I'll use a DET-K3 in the clear to start it and then put the rest in code."
Riley pulled out the small New Testament he carried, and began leafing through the pages. Chong held a red-lens flashlight so he could see. Riley wasn't carrying the Bible because he was particularly religious; this Bible was the key to their coding. He'd write out the message, then transcribe it using a trigraph and the letters on a designated page of the Bible. A trigraph was simply a listing of three-letter groups. Riley would take the first letter from the message he wrote in clear text, the second letter from the page in the Bible, and, finding the three-letter combination on the trigraph, write the third into the message. Using the same Bible page and trigraph, Hossey would be able to decode the message by reversing the process.
It was a long shot but better than nothing. Shakily, blowing on his hands every few seconds to get some warmth back in them, Riley wrote the message and transcribed it. Hoffman finished his final adjustments with the transmitter and strung an antenna wire between two trees.
Riley looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was almost five forty-five in the morning in Korea. If someone was monitoring, he hoped that person was awake.
"Ready?" Riley asked.
Hoffman nodded and hooked the twelve-volt battery into the transmitter. Riley slowly read the letters to Hoffman, who tapped out the message using two wires. They made it through the message.
"Again," said Riley.
Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 9 June, 2055 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 3:55 p.m. Local
Meng's spirits sank as he looked at the day's headline from the New York Times:
CHINA'S PREMIER APPEARS;
ARMY SEEMS TO TIGHTEN GRIP;
BUSH BARS NORMAL TIES NOW
BEIJING IS WARNED PRAISE FOR TROOPS
PRESIDENT SAYS RELATIONS PROTESTERS ARE CALLED ON
DEPEND ON ITS STANCE TO SURRENDER OR FACE
TOWARD STUDENTS HEAVY PUNISHMENT
It is too late, Mister President Bush, Meng thought. Soon the word will be out on the attack on the pipeline. What will you do then? Meng looked at the paper again. Between the two columns was a large picture of Prime Minister Li Peng. Meng stared at it with undisguised hatred. What will you do then, Mister Premier?
Changbai Mountains, China Friday, 9 June, 2105 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 5:05 a.m. Local
Hoffman was in the middle of his fourth repeat of the message when the transmitter started to smoke and sparks flew. He quickly disconnected the battery. Opening up the transmitter, he peered inside with the red-lens flashlight.
"It's fried," he announced mournfully.
"By terrain I mean distances, whether the ground is
traversed with ease or difficulty, whether it is open
or constricted, and the chances of life or death."
Sun Tzu: The Art of War
16
Yongsan Army Base, Seoul, Korea Friday, 9 June, 2100 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 6:00 a.m. Local
Colonel Hossey cracked an eye as the pounding on his BOQ door intruded on his sleep. "Who's there?"
"It's me, sir—Chief Trapp."
Hossey threw on a bathrobe and opened the door. The blood in his head was pounding against his skull. He'd stayed much too long at the club last night with the remaining members of Team 3, drowning his sorrows.
"You're a little early, Chief."
Trapp slumped into an armchair as he waited for Hossey to get dressed. "We're going to have a hell of a time getting through traffic, sir. I thought we'd leave a little earlier than planned."
Hossey threw on his fatigue shirt. "You going to drive?"
Trapp shook his head. "The sergeant major is. He dropped me off here and went to the compound to check on something. He should be back in a few minutes."
Hossey quickly buzzed his face with an electric razor, then grabbed his beret. "All right, let's go."
Hossey could think of a lot of things he'd rather be doing today than going to Camp Page to tell Jean Long her husband was dead. Even the timing of the notification of death was governed by the oplan, Hossey mused bitterly. He had wanted to tell her last night, but the cover story required that they wait until this morning, when the air force and navy would call off the search for the missing helicopter and declare the helicopter officially lost.
Carrying their overnight bags, the two men clattered down the stairs and went out front. In less than a minute they spotted Sergeant Major Hooker's old battered Mustang pulling up in front of the BOQ. The two men hopped in, Hossey in the back, Trapp up front with Hooker. The sergeant major pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward south post.
Trapp was confused. "Where you going?"
Hooker glanced over at Trapp and shook his head. "I don't know what the fuck is going on, Jim. I did what you asked me to do and had one of the commo dinks up all night monitoring that frequency you gave me. I just went and checked on that idiot."
He threw a piece of paper into the shocked warrant officer's lap. "Maybe you o
r the colonel can break that out." Trapp picked it up and looked at it.
DETKTH
EHRTTY
QMSTPF
EHSMIT
ERDCBJ
AHEYCN
SNEHTY
HFGDSA
GHFJDK
EHWUCQ
NABXGH
REEDET
RHTKYL
QCHTYU
ENDHTI
POWSVY
WHJLTY
QKDKDJ
PTOYIW
TYRUEI
OYTLFD
EHRYTT
KTHREE
RHTNWM
ADGJLO
EHRMCN
WHEKRL
EHTUEO
YMEJTU
ZHEYRI
VBCNXM
EHDNUE
WHEUTR
AKEOWK
QZMLGF
WCXZGH
QNWHDS
THENAO
QHWYES
LEJFUR
FHRYEK
EHDUTP
NDKWSL
HEYSNN
WJRLTP
QJWEJE
POERLK
SETHYU
RHRYIO
WHTIRJ
MZNXBC
AGEJYO
XCVBNM
LSMWKE
TJRUWE
"I don't believe it! When did you get this?"
"The commo man picked it up just before I checked in on him. In fact, he was on the phone trying to call me when I walked in. He said it was sent four times manual. About midway through the fourth time it disappeared. The kid also said it sounded like somebody who wasn't a commo man was sending, because it was real slow—about seven words a minute."
Trapp handed the sheet of paper to the colonel. Hossey's hand was shaking as he took it. He looked at Trapp. "So somebody's alive."
"How the hell did they transmit without a radio?" Hooker asked.
Trapp shrugged. "Obviously they got a radio somehow. We're talking about some pretty smart fellows. You got the Bible, sir?"
Hossey dug into his overnight bag and pulled out the tattered New Testament. Turning to the agreed-upon page, he started transcribing the message.
Hooker glanced at the backseat. "You didn't tell me you had worked out a backup commo system with the team, sir."
"Riley thought it up," Hossey mumbled as he concentrated on the letters. "You must have been out when we talked about it."
Hossey worked slowly through the groups, using the Bible and his trigraph. "It's a Flight report. Damn. Jim, you got a message format book?"
"Sir, I've been doing this stuff for twenty years. I've got that Flight report memorized. You just break it out and I'll tell you what it all means."
When Hossey was done he handed the decoded message to Trapp. He hadn't even tried to read the six-letter groups. He was afraid of what they would say. Trapp took the sheet and studied it.
DETKTH
APAPAL
EEXXXP
ETHREE
ROONEU
ONEUNT
TROBEX
TZEROX
ENAMES
NEMYTO
NDEDMU
REEXXD
IMAONE
APALIM
BBBTEN
NTILZE
ILZERO
XIRSTR
XXSIXT
FFFCRA
MORROW
STGETO
ETKTHR
SIXEIG
AONESI
JUNEXX
ROFIVE
FIVELO
OBEEEE
YTWOPO
SHSITE
GGGONE
UTTOMO
EEXXFL
HTTWOF
XEIGHT
XTENJU
LOCALX
CALCCC
SIXTYT
INTZER
FOUNDE
DEADTH
RROWNI
IGHTAA
IVETHR
TWOFIV
NEXXZE
XXZERO
DDDIRS
WOPOIN
OXXCOD
XPECTE
REEWOU
GHTXXX
"All right, sir. We got a Flight, which is an exfiltration pickup zone report. AAA is location. PAPA LIMA 168253—that's the grid. BBB is time of pickup. Says 10 June, 0100 local until 0500. CCC is heading of exfiltration aircraft. There's nothing there, so they mustn't have had one.
"DDD is markings on the pickup zone—infrared strobe," he continued. "EEE is radio frequency and call signs. We got sixty-two hundred on FM for frequency and to use team code names for authentication. FFF is the enemy situation. Says crash site was found. Expect more enemy activity tomorrow. I guess that means today."
"GGG is remarks. Shit. It says one dead and three wounded. It ends with 'Must get out tomorrow night.' Damn, that means tonight, if we go by the 10 June pickup date." Trapp slumped back in the passenger seat and stared at the message. One dead.
Hooker turned into the DET-K compound. "That's why I'm bringing you here. We need to see what we can figure out." Hooker pulled the car up in front of the headquarters building.
They hurried into the Quonset hut that housed the operations offices for the unit. Hooker beckoned them into an empty office, closing the door tightly behind him. "What now, sir? According to the message, we've got to get them out tonight."
Hossey considered their options out loud. "I don't have the assets to run the exfiltration. I can't exactly go to the commander of the Eighth Army here in Korea and ask him to run it. I'd get laughed out of the office. By the time we get through to US-SOCOM and get them to authorize the mission, it will probably be too late. We don't have the time to mess around. That bird has got to lift this evening." He turned to Hooker. "What about the Blackhawk from 1st Group that made it out on the first exfil?"
Hooker shook his head. "It's already back down in Okinawa."
Hossey made his decision. "I'm going to get ahold of US-SOCOM and see what they can do. Hell, they started this damn thing, they can finish it. Maybe they can get that bird sent back up or task Eighth Army to shit us one."
Changbai Mountains, China Friday, 9 June, 2300 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 7:00 a.m. Local
The survivors watched the ball of fire rise slowly out of the east. Cold didn't accurately describe how they felt. Neither did frozen, but it was closer. Riley knew that they had to get moving in order to warm everyone up. Since the transmitter had burned up at one in the morning, they had spent a long, restless night, shivering, looking at the hands on the watch, willing them to go by faster so dawn would come.
Most of the men were already awake. Comsky nudged the captain, who was huddled at his side. "Hey, sir. Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
Mitchell smiled. "I've had better, but, considering the circumstances, you'll do. Just don't tell my wife when we get back, OK? I'm not sure she'd understand."
Comsky chuckled as he left to check Olinski and C.J. He then reported back to Riley and the captain. "They're both getting worse. We'll start seeing some infection in the pilot's arm today. Without my medical kit, I've got only what I carry on my vest, and that isn't enough to deal with all this. Olinski's insisting he wants to try to walk. He wants me to make him a crutch. He's been feeling bad about us having to carry him. I told him if he got up I'd break his other leg. I think that worked."
Mitchell walked over to Olinski and knelt beside him. "Hey, wild man." Olinski looked over at the captain. "You and I both know you aren't walking anywhere. Right?"
Olinski looked away. "I know that, sir. But I feel like I'm dragging the team down. You guys would be twice as far if you hadn't been carrying me. I feel so useless."
"I know that. I feel useless, too, with my side the way it is. I can't help the others carry you. But suppose somebody else was hurt. You'd be the first person in line to carry them. We're a team, remember? We're going to finish this as a team. We're in no big rush anyway
. The pickup zone is only about ten klicks away and we've got all day to make it. OK?"
Olinski nodded.
Mitchell went over to the pilot. "How you doing?"
"Sir, did you go to West Point?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I thought so. They must teach people to ask dumb questions there. How the hell do you think I'm doing? My arm hurts like a son of a bitch. I'm freezing my butt off. I'm hungry. I didn't sleep more than five minutes last night. I'm in the middle of China. My helicopter crashed yesterday and I lost my copilot. Anything I forgot?"
Mitchell smiled. "Yeah. I think Comsky needs to check your bandages again. Hey, Comsky!"
C.J. held up his good hand. "I was only joking. Things are going great. Never felt better. Just can't wait for us to get moving. No need for Comsky to waste his time."
Mitchell nodded. "Much better. See how different things can appear, depending on your perspective? You're part of Team 3 now. That's quite an honor to have bestowed on you."
C.J. gestured at his traveling companions. "Does every prospective member have to go through this same initiation?"
"No, only the ones we really like."
Now that it was light enough to see the way, Riley got them moving. They moved slowly, like old men. Riley directed the team's course along the northern edge of a draw heading east. The vegetation was thick enough now to hide them from the helicopter overflights that Riley expected to start proliferating today. What worried him more was ground troops. Carrying Olinski, they wouldn't be able to outrun anybody.
As they moved along, Riley felt his stiff muscles loosening up and his limbs grow warm. He hadn't heard anyone complain yet. They had to make the pickup zone tonight, by midnight at the latest. Everyone was moving slower than yesterday, but they should still make it to the site in time.
If they weren't picked up by dawn tomorrow, they had only one choice. Keep moving, get across the border somehow, then make it to the coast. Once they got there, they'd do whatever they had to. Steal a radio. Find a boat and kill the crew. Whatever was necessary to get home.
