Dragon Sim-13

by Bob Mayer

  "What the hell," he muttered as he punched in the home phone number for the major who had been on duty then. He waited and then heard the line picked up on the other end.

  A sleepy voice answered. "Major Mills."

  "Mills, this is Colonel Moore. What is this notation in your duty log about a phone call from a Colonel Hossey in Korea?"

  There was a brief pause. "Oh, yeah, sir. Some nutcake called and said that he was the commander of DET-K and that he had some men

  on the ground in China who needed to be exfiltrated. He said it was part of some mission he was running for us."

  Moore's mind raced as he considered this. "Did he say what kind of mission?"

  "No, sir. He did say that he had lost his commo with an SFOB we had set up at Fort Meade, so I figured this guy was one of those people you spent the week with up there at Meade, trying to test our security or something."

  "What did you tell this guy?"

  "I didn't tell him anything, sir. I hung up on him. He tried calling back a few times and I hung up on him every time. It was an unsecure line and I figured it was some sort of test."

  "All right." Moore hung up the phone. Maybe it was just a further test by the Strams people. The thing that bugged him, though, was that Colonel Hossey was the DET-K commander. And the phone call had come just after they shut down the simulation. In the simulation the team had exfiltrated successfully. Moore rubbed his eyes. This whole thing was very strange. He looked at the clocks on the wall. It was 2:30 in the morning over in Korea. Probably couldn't get ahold of Hossey right now. He decided to make some calls first thing Monday morning, though, and check this out.

  Korea

  Saturday, 10 June, 1330 Zulu

  Saturday, 10 June, 10:30 p.m. Local

  The disappearance of army aircraft 579 quickly gained notoriety. Sokch'o Control contacted Camp Page Control with the report. Camp Page Control alerted the battalion commander of the 309th Helicopter Battalion. When the battalion commander found out that no one had authorized the flight, and also that live Stinger missiles were on board, he quickly notified his higher headquarters at the 17th Aviation Brigade in Seoul.

  Following standard procedures, a nationwide alert was put out for the missing helicopter. All U.S. and Korean agencies were informed. A search was mounted off the coast in the vicinity of Sokch'o to look for helicopter wreckage. It didn't occur to anyone that the helicopter had not crashed.

  Changbai Mountains, China Saturday, 10 June, 1345 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 9:45 p.m. Local

  Mitchell led his men carefully through the dark. It was only seven hundred meters south to the streambed, but they were moving very slowly.

  The night was clear. The moon would be rising in another two hours. Until then, they had only the starlight to guide them. Mitchell was wearing the only set of night-vision goggles; the rest of the team stumbled along in the dark. Only four hundred meters to the east, they could see the fires of the Chinese picket line.

  Mitchell tried to force all thoughts out of his mind, except for those needed to make this move. He didn't want to think about the two men heading up the mountain. He didn't want to think about the slim chance that a helicopter would make it to the pickup zone tonight. He didn't want to think about what he would do when the helicopter didn't show. In spite of his efforts, these thoughts swirled around in his mind.

  He was walking slowly, to allow those behind him to keep up. Hoffman and Comsky carried the stretcher, watching each step to avoid dropping Olinski. Hoffman, at the lead end of the stretcher, was only two feet behind the captain, following two small pieces of luminous tape sewn into the back of the captain's black watch cap. Comsky held onto the trail edge of the stretcher and shuffled his feet along the ground to avoid tripping. C.J. brought up the tail, staying in contact by continuously reaching out and touching Comsky's back.

  After only a hundred meters, Mitchell realized that he was going to have to help carry Olinski. The man's weight was too much for Hoffman. Mitchell grabbed the lead end of the right stick with his left hand. His right arm was still tied against his side to prevent the sutures from pulling out, and his MP5 hung on its sling on his chest. The indomitable Comsky handled the tail end of the stretcher by himself.

  Mitchell led the way through the undergrowth. They were going downhill slightly, as the terrain sloped into the streambed. After forty minutes, they reached the edge of the thicker undergrowth along the bank. Mitchell cautiously guided them downstream. He wanted to get as close to the picket line as they could before the action started. Slowly he moved them another two hundred meters closer. He halted the team in an area of especially thick underbrush. Carefully, trying not to make any loud noises, they crawled under the bushes and sat down in a tight circle to wait. It was 10:45 p.m. Another hour and forty-five minutes until the shooting started.

  US-SOCOM Headquarters, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida

  Saturday, 10 June, 1552 Zulu

  Saturday, 10 June, 10:52 a.m. Local

  That phone call the previous night was bugging Moore. It was a loose end, and he didn't like loose ends. If the Strams people were still playing their game, he wanted to know about it. They had more important things to worry about here than some stupid simulation.

  Moore grabbed the file for the Dragon Sim-13 exercise from his safe and flipped through it until he found the administrative phone numbers for the Tunnel. He scanned the list until he spotted the office number for the man who had outbriefed them yesterday. Moore wasn't sure if anybody would be at work on a Saturday, but he wanted to try and clear up this thing. Moore punched in the number on his secure STU III phone. He waited as it buzzed on the other end. On the seventh buzz he was just about to hang up when it was picked up.

  Fort Meade, Maryland Saturday, 10 June, 1553 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 10:53 a.m. Local

  Wilson had barely heard the ringing of the secure phone on his desk. He was in Meng's office, where the two were going over the Medusa program. Wondering who could be calling on a Saturday, he jogged out and picked up the phone. "Doctor Wilson here."

  "Doctor, this is Colonel Moore. Could you please go secure?" I hope he isn't calling about the damn after-action report, Wilson thought as he turned the key that made the phone secure for classified conversations. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

  The voice at the other end sounded hesitant. "This is kind of strange, but I'd like to know whether you all are still running something with Dragon Sim-13."

  "What do you mean, Colonel, running something? We shut down yesterday right after you all left."

  "Well, my duty officer got a strange phone call last night from someone claiming to be the commander of DET-K, saying something about having troops on the ground in China that he had to get exfiltrated. I was wondering if it might have been someone from your Tunnel, checking up on us after the fact, so to speak."

  Wilson frowned. "No, sir. No one from here called as far as I know. Like I said, we shut down yesterday morning. Did you call Colonel Hossey in Korea to see if he really was the one calling?"

  "It's after midnight over there, and I doubt that anyone will be at the DET-K compound. I'd have to contact the Eighth Army duty officer to get ahold of Hossey. I really didn't want to go through all that hassle if someone was just pulling a prank. I am worried, though, because whoever was calling obviously had some classified information about the exercise."

  "Well, I can't help you on this end."

  "Thanks anyway. I'll try tracking down my people. Maybe it was one of them. Out here."

  Wilson put the phone down slowly. It was odd. He looked down Tunnel 2 at the door to Meng's office. It had been a strange morning ever since he had shown up, three hours ago. Meng had been acting very weird, even for him. As the two of them worked on the Medusa program, Meng had seemed to be trying to pass on to Wilson as much information about the program as he could—almost as if Meng felt he wasn't going to be around much longer.

  Something occurred to Wilson. He looked do
wn his phone number list taped to the top of the desk and punched in a four-digit number on the secure internal NSA phone. The phone was picked up on the first ring.

  "Imagery. Sandra."

  "Sandra, this is Ron Wilson from the Tunnel."

  "Yeah, Ron. What's up?"

  "Could you check on something for me?"

  "Sure. What do you need?"

  "My boss, Doctor Meng, had some pretty interesting imagery of a crash site that we were going to use. I was wondering if you could give me an idea of where and when that imagery was taken. Doctor

  Meng said something about you all pulling it from your files yesterday."

  "Wait a minute. Let me check the log." The minute stretched into two. Finally Sandra was back. "If you're talking about some photos we faxed down to you and over to Korea early yesterday morning, I've got it here. Let's see, it was 0614 Zulu on the ninth, and that was hot off the computer down link. Real-time stuff. I don't know why Meng thought it was coming out of the files. He asked for it specifically by location."

  Wilson looked toward Meng's door. "Could you tell me what area that imagery was covering?"

  "Let's see. Yeah. It's in China. Northeast. Manchuria. Real close to where the Chinese, Russian, and North Korean borders come together."

  Wilson felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach.

  "Hello? Ron, you there?"

  "Yeah. Thanks, Sandra." Wilson slowly lowered the phone. It couldn't be, but he knew it was. He switched over to his STU III.

  US-SOCOM Headquarters, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida Saturday, 10 June, 1556 Zulu Saturday, 10 June, 10:56 a.m. Local

  "Colonel Moore."

  "Sir, this is Doctor Wilson. Go secure, please."

  Moore still had his key turned. "I'm secure. What's up?"

  "I suggest you try to get ahold of Colonel Hossey as soon as you can."

  Moore frowned. "Why? What's going on?"

  "I'm not exactly sure, sir. I need to do some checking on this end. But there's something strange going on reference Dragon Sim-13. I'll get back to you as soon as I know more, but I think you need to talk to Hossey. That might really have been him on the phone."

  Moore rolled his eyes. What the hell were they trying to pull up there at Meade? "All right. I'll try and get through. Let me know what's going on as soon as you can."

  Moore slammed down the phone. He looked under his clear blotter at the organizational chart for US-SOCOM units, and decided to try the DET-K headquarters first on the off chance that someone might be there. He punched in the overseas access, then the DET-K commander's number.

  A busy signal. The frown lines on his face deepened. He sat there and began punching in the number every thirty seconds.

  Sea of Japan

  Saturday, 10 June, 1606 Zulu

  Sunday, 11 June, 1:06 a.m. Local

  Jean Long looked at the fuel gauges. The Blackhawk's thirsty turbines had sucked dry the third internal fuel bladder ten minutes ago. They were presently working off the fourth, and last, 285-gallon bladder. When that one was empty, they'd be left with the 362 gallons in the aircraft's regular fuel tank. What all that meant was that they had less than 430 kilometers of fuel left. They were presently located 50 meters above the Sea of Japan, 120 kilometers due south of Vladivostok. They had just enough fuel to make it safely back to Korea. They did not have enough fuel to make it the almost 300 kilometers to the exfiltration pickup zone and back. It was decision time.

  Jean glanced at the digital clock on the instrument panel. She checked the Doppler. They were in the right vicinity. She looked at Colin Lassiter, who was presently at the controls. "It's time to go up."

  "Roger that, ma'am." Colin pulled in collective, and 579, six thousand pounds lighter with the three empty bladders, shot up into the dark night sky. In another minute they'd know if the plan Trapp had come up with was going to work. As Lassiter brought them level at fifteen hundred feet, Jean reset the FM radio to a setting of 40.50. She turned the radio to its lowest power setting.

  Jean placed her left foot over the floor mike button. She hesitated for a second, glancing over her left shoulder at Trapp and Hooker huddled among the fuel bladders in the back. Hooker grinned wildly and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Trapp keyed the intercom on the headset he was wearing. "Time to do it. We're already in enough trouble. Doing this will only add another twenty years in Leavenworth to the five hundred they're going to sentence us to."

  Jean laughed. "Hell, we're already way past the point of no return. Here goes." She clicked down the transmit button with her foot. "Attention any listening station. This is U.S. Army helicopter 375. I have an electrical fire on board and am declaring an inflight emergency. Any station picking up this broadcast please acknowledge. I say again. This is U.S. Army helicopter 375. . . ." She released the mike key.

  The message went out, bouncing over the wave tops and dying out in a twenty-five-kilometer radius from the helicopter.

  Yongsan Army Base, Seoul, Korea Saturday, 10 June, 1608 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 1:08 a.m. Local

  Hossey had been searching deeper into his phone book, looking for someone who would believe him. All he had gotten so far were a few promises from people that they would check on things Monday morning. In reality, it didn't even matter at this point. The course of action was already committed.

  He hung up after his latest futile attempt and leaned back in his chair. Almost immediately the phone rang.

  "Hossey here."

  "This is Colonel Moore from US-SOCOM. Go secure."

  Hossey turned his key. Maybe finally he would get some action. "I'm secure."

  "What the hell is going on, Colonel?"

  Hossey wasn't sure where to begin, but he tried.

  Changbai Mountains, China Saturday, 10 June, 1610 Zulu Sunday, 11 June, 12:10 a.m. Local

  Riley shivered. It was more than the cold. In twenty minutes the killing would begin. He and Chong were positioned almost eighteen hundred meters away from the Chinese picket line. They weren't in the best position, but it would do. They were about two hundred meters higher than the picket line trace, crouched among jumbled rocks and stunted pines along the first crest of the ridge that marked the northern side of the draw. More than three thousand meters to the southeast of their position, the other members of Team 3 would be waiting along the streambed.

  Riley looked through the scope on the SVD. The rifle and scope were rated effective out to only twelve hundred-meters, but Riley felt confident that at this range he could hit some of the soldiers along the picket line. He counted fifteen of them silhouetted against the fires. There was no wind to correct for. The two-hundred-meter drop required some adjustment, but Riley had done enough long-range firing to be able to account for that.

  Thirty meters to Riley's left, Chong was hidden, with the SAW propped between two rocks. He would hold his fire until the Chinese started moving forward and got within a thousand meters. Both men could use their night-vision goggles to aim their weapons. It was awkward, but would allow them to fire more accurately, particularly once the fires were put out and the Chinese started advancing.

  Riley glanced at his watch again. Another fifteen minutes. He put down the rifle and tried to relax.

  Sea of Japan

  Saturday, 10 June, 1610 Zulu

  Sunday, 11 June, 1:10 a.m. Local

  "Army helicopter 375, this is the USS Rathburne. We have you on radar at approximately ten miles, on a heading of two one zero degrees. We are prepared to render assistance. Over."

  "Roger, USS Rathburne. We are turning on a heading of three zero degrees and heading your location. We have the fire under control. Do you have a helipad? Over."

  "Roger, army helicopter 375. We have a landing pad. It will be cleared for your arrival. We are turning our landing lights on now and will track you in on radar. Over."

  Lieutenant Peppers was the officer of the watch aboard the Rathburne when the distress call came in. What an army helicopter was doing in the midd
le of the Sea of Japan, he had no idea. With a female on board, yet. They hadn't even had the helicopter on radar until it suddenly rose onto the screen ten miles off their starboard bow. The Rathburne was an hour and ten minutes into its route south to rejoin the rest of the battle group off the coast of Korea. They hadn't been warned of any helicopters in the area.

  Peppers, a 1984 Naval Academy graduate, had acted promptly. He'd grabbed the microphone for the ship's FM radio and offered the use of the helipad. Once that was acknowledged, he sent a crewman to wake up the captain. He ordered the helipad prepared for an emergency landing. On the radar screen, he watched the glowing dot rapidly drawing near. It took the captain of the ship, Commander Lemester, two minutes to make it to the bridge. By then the helicopter was only thirty seconds out.

  Peppers quickly briefed Lemester as they watched the searchlight of the army helicopter appear in the night sky. On the fantail helipad an emergency crew waited with fire extinguishers. The helicopter slowly settled down and landed. The crewmen ran forward.

  Not only was there no sign of fire but, as the first crewman reached the opening doors to the cargo compartment, he was greeted by the muzzle of an AK-47 automatic rifle, wielded by an extremely short man. On the opposite side, another man carrying an AK-47 disembarked. The petty officer in charge of the emergency crew didn't know what to make of the situation. The two groups stared at each other as the whine of the helicopter died down and the blades slowed to a halt.

  Commander Lemester emerged from the hatch leading to the fantail and came upon this extraordinary scene—two men holding rifles on his crewmen. He stared in amazement for a few seconds, then bulled his way forward. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"