by L. J. Martin
“Put it down — north of them should be clear,” he says, but she’s already lining up, and in two minutes she’s settling with her skids in the deep grass.
Pax moves to the rear, opens the slider, spots Mike, and is surprised when he doesn’t run for the chopper but rather runs to Jin, and together, they close on the chopper.
He helps them both aboard, slams the slider, and Ji Su doesn’t wait; the chopper leaps into the air.
Jin, who’s flat on his back on the chopper deck, hands his GPS to Mike. “No man left behind.”
Mike leans forward and hands the GPS unit to Pax, who says, “That was too frigging easy-smeasy.”
“We’re not home yet, Pax-man. We got another passenger at that waypoint.”
“Who?’ Ji Su asks.
“Gun.”
“I thought Gun was dead!” she says as she takes a bearing back to Black Gold and the thirty clicks to get the hell out of North Korea.
“Gun is dead. But we don’t leave our dead if there’s any way….”
“So, we know he’s at this spot.”
Pax leans back and eyes me. “You sure?”
“I’m not even sure the frigging world is round. But we gotta try.”
“And Butch?” Ji Su asks.
“We have no idea his twenty, but we know where we left Gun, so let’s get him home.”
Ji Su says nothing, but the bird swings back to the northwest, and she’s at two hundred knots in a few heartbeats.
“An LZ,” she asks no one in particular.
“Exactly that spot,” I reply. “A railroad track. No wires that I remember — ”
“That you remember?” she asks, obviously concerned.
“From a hundred feet,” I suggest, “hit your landing lights, and we’ll look for poles.”
“Comforting,” she says and adds, “usually a pole line along a railroad” but keeps the ship heading for the waypoint.
I suggest, “This is North Korea, and I’m sure they don’t worry about right-of-ways. Anywhere Dear Leader or his pricks want a line to go, it goes.”
And we’re nearing the waypoint in eight minutes, and she flares and loses altitude.
“All eyes,” she yells; I look to the rear, and she and Pax look forward and to their respective sides. She hits her landing lights.
“All clear,” I yell.
“Clear,” Pax follows.
She settles on the tracks, her skids far longer than the width of the rails, and I pop the sliding door and hit the ground between them, with Pax close behind. Out, down the rocky escarpment that’s the rail bed, and under the bridge.
I’m a little surprised to find Gun, still under the brush — cold and about the color of an aging side of beef — but there. Pax and I wrestle him out and down to the little creek, twenty feet upstream, and we haul him up out of the streambed, hoisting him into the back of the bird — and then we’re flooded with light.
“Patrol boat, on the river,” I yell to Ji Su.
“Mount up,” she replies, but, as we do, tracers light the night and are only a few feet above our rotor. I have no idea if they’re shooting at us or just putting a warning shot over our bow. I’m sure they’re unsure about this strange helicopter, a model never seen in North Korea.
With my feet still on a skid and Pax hanging onto my arm, Ji Su lifts off. She’s already facing the river, but the patrol boat is quartering down stream from us, and I expect her to swerve right and away from the threat. To my surprise, as Pax hauls me aboard, she turns directly at the patrol boat, and it’s our turn to light the night.
The six-barrel 20mm Vulcan shakes the chopper as it spits six thousand rounds a minute, and she applies the weapon for only a few seconds. Some NK crewmembers have about five seconds to rue the fact they started a fight with an innocent-looking helicopter with no weapons apparent. The forty-foot boat with the bow-mounted machinegun looks as if it’s parting at the seams. Then it explodes as one of the Vulcan’s tracer rounds hits what’s obviously a gasoline tank.
The acceleration of the X3 pins me back as she flies overhead the blazing boat and into a cloud of flying debris. There’s a hell of a whack, and I think we’ve taken a cannon round as the chopper jerks right forty-five degrees, shudders, and heels over to the starboard side. Our rotors can’t be more than ten feet from the water, and if they hit water, they’ll become a hundred flying scimitars, and we’ll become a submarine in short order. I can see Ji Su fighting the controls. Bending over, I grab one of Jin’s legs, as he’s not strapped in, and as the bird ducks even closer, I’m sure we’re going into the river.
But the lady on the cyclic has no give-up in her, and the craft levels and begins gaining altitude.
“That was fun,” Pax says.
You don’t see the whites of Pax-Man’s eyes often, but this one got his attention. He guffaws as we clear the trees on the far side of the river and turn downstream. Thirty clicks and we’re out of NK, presuming a MIG doesn’t put a rocket up our butt before we’re in South Korean air space…and maybe even after.
We’re all dead silent as Ji Su puts the pedal to the metal, not bothering to gain a lot of altitude, but soon moving at nearly three hundred knots in a direct line to Black Gold.
If you’ve never had an aircraft buzz by you at Mach one or above, you have yet to be thrilled. Not only one, but one on each side.
Now I know we’re about to be toast.
“Whoopee,” Ji Su shouts, and I’m wondering if she’s lost it. Then she turns and yells to us in the back, “F-16s, friendlies.”
“Are we in friendly territory?” I ask.
“A half-click,” she says, and then, almost as quickly, “home free. Now if we can just land this dude….”
“Pardon me,” I can’t help but say.
“Whatever we hit took the starboard skid.”
38
Ji Su immediately gets on the radio to Black Gold. “We’ve got a mayday here. Need your EMT standing by with a stretcher for one wounded. Need a body bag. Need you to survey damage to our ride.”
“Roger that,” the Black Gold radio operator comes right back. “ETA?” he asks.
“Before you can get topside,” Ji Su says. I look out the windscreen and see the lights of the ship ahead.
Pax turns back to me. “There’s a hundred feet of half-inch behind your seat. If worse comes to worse, we can lower Jin and Gun’s body.”
“And you and I?” I ask. As we normally do when we’re in bad trouble, we laugh. As does Pax.
“We can take a swim,” Pax says, “if sweet Su will get us down to the ten-meter-dive high.”
“And me?” she asks, but she’s smiling, too.
“Auto pilot. You jump and take a swim with us. Miss X3 heads out to sea. Then the MIGs can have her.”
“I think I’d just as soon put her on the landing pad. I just had my hair done before this op.”
“Oh, what the hell, then we’ll ride in with you.”
I slap Pax on the shoulder. “Five to one on a ten spot we live.”
“Right, and how are you gonna pay up if we don’t?”
“Technicality.”
Ji Su slows the X3 to a hover over the landing pad as a half-dozen, including Commander Scroder, gather below. She remains in place for most of a minute when the radio crackles, and it’s Scroder on a hand-held.
“We’re setting a fifty-gallon drum on its side. If you come in so it’s aligned with where your skid was located, it should catch what’s left of the struts and keep you damn near level.”
Ji Su shakes her head. “You know what will happen if we dip thirty-seven degrees to either side.”
“Shit hits fan,” Scroder says.
“Yes, sir,” Ji Su answers. “Suggest you clear the pad.”
“Give us five,” Scroder comes back.
Ji Su pulls the craft back to keep the downwash off those working below, and, in moments, the radio lights up again. “Sorry we won’t be here to help you dismount, ma’am,�
�� Scroder says.
“No problem, Commander. I can handle it.”
“Break a leg,” Scroder says, joking, but you could hear the worry in his voice. “The pad’s yours,” he says, and from fifty yards north of the ship, we can see them clearing off the pad.
Ji Su slips it in like she was parking a Volkswagen in an empty three-car garage, but when she’s only five or six feet off the deck, the radio crackles. “Pull up, pull up. The damn drum moved. Give us another five.”
She moves the X3 forward, makes a complete circle of the ship, and lines up for another approach. This time, she drags the trailing edge of the left skid across the deck until the drum is just ahead, lifts the craft no more than a foot, and drops it onto the drum. It collapses, folding in the middle about three inches and taking about three years off all our lives, but it holds.
She immediately winds it down.
None of us say a word as the rotor slows. Jin, still flat on his back on the deck, speaks up. “Any chance one of you honyocks might get me a beer and a shot of morphine?”
We all laugh, as the crew pours out up onto the pad.
Then I get serious again. “What’s up with Bo and Butch?”
Bo is sure the two NK hobos will say nothing. They, too, can look forward to many years in a re-education camp or to a firing squad should they be caught, so he leaves them with two more energy bars, gives them a short bow, and excuses himself just before nine PM. As soon as he gets far enough away from the ramshackle metal building, he pulls the SATphone from the thigh pocket in his wetsuit, hits the “1,” and dials.
He’s surprised when a female voice answers. “TOC. Talk.”
“Where’s Chong?”
“Catching a few, just back with Chee and Jin, in case you might interfere with his sleep later.”
“He’s been in-country.”
“He’s ready to go again, soon as we ring him.”
“And Gun?”
“We’ll read you in when you’re back in the hutch.”
Gun is Bo’s good friend, and his stomach turns over with her hesitancy. But he has a mission to complete, so he doesn’t press it.
“Okay. I’m back on track and soon underway. Schedule still a go?”
“I know your twenty. I’m following you. We have a tracker on your target; he’s moving to rendezvous and will inform if not on schedule.”
“Please get Chong back in play, if you would.”
Connie Nordstrom was only slightly offended by Bo wanting Pax back in play, but she is used to it, as it seems to be endemic in the CIA, but more and more women are proving themselves to be as good as or better at spycraft than the men. So, she quickly agrees. “Ten-four. Stay safe.”
“Roger that.”
With his re-breather still functioning, Bo sinks to the SDV and checks the onboard air, figuring there’s still at least an hour for each of them. Butch left his Dräger on board when he boogied, but Bo knows it’s no longer viable. He checks the batteries on the SDV and figures them good to get upriver to the pickup spot, but he has no idea how long after that they’ll have power. They’ll be coming back with the current, but propulsion will be needed to keep them out of trouble.
He maneuvers the SDV out into the stream, turns her upriver, laughs at himself for risking his hide for someone he’s never laid eyes on, and sets a speed against the six MPH current that will get him to the Choyngu Bridge in two and a half hours.
39
Sumi and Pieter find they cannot sleep. So, they make love as those who think it may be the last time might; then they lie in each other’s arms for a while.
“You know,” Pieter says, “just in case MPS decides to pick me up tonight, let’s leave now.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Sumi says. “They like to come in the very early morning,” and she is dressed in five minutes.
As they open the door to leave, Pieter turns back and eyes the apartment. “You know, I loved much of my time here, because it was spent with you. And now I love it even more, knowing you want to risk leaving with me.’
“We will have a lot more time together…if we succeed. Please, let’s go.”
Both them are wearing jogging suits so they’ll have some excuse for being out this time of night. The backpacks will be suspicious, but they’ve packed them with a plastic container of kimchi, cheese, and crackers and a small bottle of Soju on top of their warm clothes. The scheme is to tell any inquisitors that they plan to have a romantic midnight snack overlooking the river.
If there is a busy roadway in Pyongyang, it’s the one crossing the Choyngu Bridge, but at this time of night, a vehicle every quarter-hour will be heavy traffic.
They’ve jogged only the first kilometer of three on the riverfront walkway when a police car with two officers shines a spotlight on them.
Pieter saw them coming, has turned, and is comically jogging backward alongside Sumi. As the car slows, he tells her, “Laugh. Laugh loud.” And both of them do.
“Move to the car,” a voice rings out on a bullhorn.
Smiling and laughing, they jog across a grass divider and over to the car.
“It is past curfew,” a small policeman accuses as he climbs from the passenger side. The taller driver, with furrowed brow, exits also and draws his sidearm, but stays on his side, leaning across the hood, his semi-auto casually in hand.
“Yes,” Sumi replies, digs in the pocket of her jogging suit, and pulls out a small leather folder, her MPS identification, and hands it to the officer.
The cop studies it in the car’s headlights and waves her over. He holds the ID up, and his vision goes from it to her and back again. Finally, seeming satisfied, he asks her, “Who is your direct superior?”
“Colonel Hoon Eun-Jung,” she says, without hesitation.
“And who is this foreigner?” he nods to Pieter.
“Professor Pieter De Vries, University of Science and Technology, here, teaching nuclear science, at the special invitation of Dear Leader.”
He nods, looks only slightly impressed, and then says, “Be careful. You know there has been a terrible accident up the river?”
“We heard something,” she says.
“If you see anything unusual, report it immediately.”
“Of course.”
He starts to return to the car. Then he turns back, and his tone is suspicious. “You jog with backpacks?”
“We plan a late snack, with the moon over the river. And this time of year, it’s wise to have warm clothes at hand, don’t you think?” She reaches out and takes Pieter’s hand and smiles lovingly at him.
It’s obvious the officer is offended by her affection for a Westerner, but he says nothing — only curls a lip and retakes his seat, as does the driver.
“Wait,” Pieter says in English, and Sumi repeats the request in Korean. He has her bend a little, and digs her pint of Soju from her pack. He steps over and hands it to the cop, who smiles.
Then facetiously, with a small smile, he says, “I must confiscate this. It is too late to be drinking on the road…even jogging.” He’s twisting off the cap as he speaks.
Pieter laughs. The officer smiles tightly, and they spin the wheels leaving. He turns back to Sumi. “Let’s walk a while. We will be more than an hour early, and it will look suspicious if we hang around waiting.”
“Fine,” she says, “but let’s hope he doesn’t call Colonel Hoon. They will be back if they do…and not to pick up another bottle of Soju.”
“Then maybe it would be wise to jog and find a place near the bridge to hide.”
“Go. I will keep up.”
I cannot sleep, even though I need to catch up. I’m totally exhausted — not so much from the physical exertion as from the many rushes of adrenalin.
But the job’s not over until we get the team home. I’m saddened to hear that we’re missing another man. I really liked and respected old Butch, a rasty old bastard who put his head down and tail up and would charge the fires of hell to
complete his mission. And did, as the satellite has taken many great pictures of a missing Pueblo from the Potong riverfront. And, although we yet have no way of knowing, his success has taken the heart out of Kim Jong-un’s nuclear program and maybe a good chunk out of Iran’s.
The first reports from Pyongyang are of a terrible accident involving a recreational facility…but then we knew the North Koreans would never hear the truth from Dear Leader. The fact is, even in NK, word of mouth is the best purveyor of news, and the whole country will know their prize, their example of American imperialism, is no longer available for gloating.
I can’t sleep. Pax has filled me in on Bo’s new mission, and I won’t be left out of it when it’s time to recover him and this asset the Company wants extricated. I wander up to the landing pad, where a team of welders is working on the X3.
And Black Gold likely has some of the world’s best welders on board.
Not only are they on the skid, but they’ve constructed a gantry, and the bird is in the air, hoisted off the deck with canvas slings holding her four feet off the pad while the welders work away.
I’m pleased to see a six-inch-wide by ten-foot-long heavy chunk of aluminum channel being refitted to where the skid ripped away. The fact we’re not feeding the catfish at the bottom of the Taedong River testifies to Ji Su’s ability at the cyclic. The fact is I hate choppers, but would climb in one with her at the controls anytime I’m called to defend God and country.
Ji Su, standing with arms folded, is watching the work, so I sidle up next to her. “Great job with the bird and the Vulcan, lady.”
“Thanks.” I get an appreciative glance. “A great bird. And those pricks…. No hill for a stepper.”
“And, as I understand, you’ve stepped around Iraq and Afghanistan?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she says, and laughs.
“A general question.”
“And a general answer. Yes. Apaches, mostly.”
I give her a coy grin. “Watch out for Pax. He’s got his beady little eyes on you, and he’s worse than any Afghan warlord when it comes to getting what he wants.”
