On the southeastern route there was always the possibility of getting helicopters to pick them up along the way, if they were still in communication with the FOB. They'd listed several potential pickup points in the escape and evasion packet. Every step they took toward the southeast would make the flight shorter.
If they didn't get picked up by helicopter en route and had to walk the whole way to the coast, then the plan was either to coordinate getting picked up by a submarine or ship, or to steal a boat. The southeastern route was more viable than up north in the restricted Tatar Strait because they would be closer to Japan and more open water. Unfortunately, this direction would be most closely watched if the Chinese suspected American involvement. Riley believed firmly in the military tenet that the direct route was always the most dangerous.
Heading west wasn't feasible. Not unless they wanted to spend the rest of their lives strolling across the expanse of China, Mongolia, and then Russia proper.
The last option they had considered was heading southwest, following the pipe to its southern terminal and the coast seven hundred kilometers away on the Yellow Sea. That way was ranked last in choice for two reasons. First, the population increased as you went south, and the chance of being spotted increased correspondingly. The second problem was that the Yellow Sea terminated in the north in either Korea Bay or the Gulf of Chihli. Both bodies of water were surrounded on three sides by either China or North Korea. It was an area that the U.S. Navy and Air Force avoided. The Sea of Japan might be dangerous, but at least it led somewhere other than a dead end. If Team 3 went southwest, the odds of getting picked up were greatly diminished. Any foreign intrusion into the sea or airspace would almost certainly be detected.
Riley and Mitchell ran all these options through their minds, weighing them against the current team situation. After a few minutes Mitchell expressed his thoughts. "The first thing we have to consider is that O'Shaugnesy is hurt. Unless we want to carry him a long way, I think we have only two options. One is to go northeast using the river. We can put O'Shaugnesy in a dry suit and float him along with us without too much trouble. We'd never make it out if we went southeast or southwest, trying to walk and carry him.
"The only other option that seems feasible is staying in place for a while until things cool down and see if the FOB will retry the original PZ. Hunker down for a couple of weeks in the area." Mitchell held up his hand as Riley started to protest.
"Yeah, Dave, I know that doesn't seem too smart. The Chinese are going to be over this place like stink on shit after we blow the pipe. But if we escape their initial sweep, I don't think they would figure that whoever did it would stay in the area."
Riley considered that. He could easily imagine how the Chinese would search the area. Their army certainly had the manpower to do it thoroughly. They would bring in large numbers of troops and make a long search line. Everything and everybody in its path would be found. Riley didn't fancy the idea of trying to evade one of those sweeps. Maybe they could put on their dry suits and hide in the swamp, but he still didn't think they'd escape detection.
Floating down the river didn't appeal to him either, though. True, it would get them out of the immediate area quickly. And it was the one way they could move O'Shaugnesy without having to carry him. But they would be heading in the wrong direction. The team was already on the outer fringes of the range for exfiltration helicopters from Japan. If they went northeast it would further diminish that possibility. Trying to steal a boat or make a water pickup way up there wasn't too likely either. Low probability of success, Riley calculated.
"Yeah, you're right. With O'Shaugnesy hurt we don't have many choices. If the birds don't come tonight, what do you say we head southeast as far as we can carry O'Shaugnesy in the dark, then hole up. See what the FOB has to say about reflying the exfiltration later on."
The unspoken option—one that Riley and Mitchell would not even consider—was leaving O'Shaugnesy. During training exercises, Riley had evaluated teams during their mission planning, and he had actually seen a few teams talk about leaving a wounded man behind if taking him meant the rest of the team wouldn't make exfiltration. That Special Forces soldiers would even discuss such a thing made Riley's blood boil. His early indoctrination into Special Forces had impressed one rule upon him above all: Never leave anyone behind. A team was just that—a team. It should live or die as a team.
The argument Riley heard from those who talked of leaving a wounded man behind was that it was practical. Why trade eleven lives for one? Riley's counterpoint to this kind of reasoning was to ask each person that one important question: "How would you feel if you were the one they were going to leave behind? Think about it real hard before you answer. How would you feel if you were the one who was going to be abandoned?"
Beyond the moral considerations, Riley felt there was also a practical aspect. If a soldier knew that he might be left behind if he was wounded, he'd be much less willing to take chances—potentially to the detriment of the mission.
On Team 3, Riley and Mitchell emphasized teamwork in everything they did. During physical training runs, Team 3 always finished as an intact group. If someone fell behind, the rest would go back and get him. Riley was proud that no one on this team had even brought up the possibility of leaving a team member—not in planning, or even now, when faced with the grim reality of the situation. That might change if the birds didn't show, but Riley doubted it.
Checkpoint 2, USS Rathburne Thursday, 8 June, 0943 Zulu Thursday, 8 June, 6:43 p.m. Local
Captain Lemester squinted into the wind as the second helicopter settled down on the helipad located on the fantail of the ship. He waited until the blades on both birds stopped turning, then walked out to the lead one. He was already disquieted by the fact that the helicopters bore no marking. He recognized the type: Sikorsky UH-60. But he'd never seen a UH-60 Blackhawk with a flat black paint job and extra fuel tanks hung on the small wings above the cargo bay.
With those extra tanks they must be flying an awfully long way, Lemester conjectured. That made him feel even more uneasy. The only countries in two directions were Russia and North Korea. And those birds had come from the third direction: west. He didn't think the navy would go to all the trouble of moving his ship up here to refuel two helicopters if the aircraft were just going to turn around and go back.
Lemester watched warily as the pilot got out of the first chopper and walked over to him.
"Evening, sir. We'd appreciate it if your men could top off our birds and if you could find the four of us a quiet place to get some rest for a few hours. We're not leaving again until about a quarter after midnight local time. We'd also sure appreciate it if you could detail a couple of marines to keep people away from the inside of the birds. We've got a lot of classified gear on board."
Lemester designated one of his ensigns to escort the pilots to a stateroom. The short conversation with the pilot had done little to ease his disquiet. Lemester was also annoyed. First of all, the pilot hadn't introduced himself. Second, he wasn't wearing any identifying insignia, just a plain flight suit. Third, the man obviously felt that the captain of this ship didn't have a need to know what the hell was going on. Fourth, one of the pilots was setting up what looked to be a portable
SATCOM radio and sending a message right from the flight deck— without even asking. Lemester didn't fancy being treated as a floating gas station and hotel.
The pilot could have acted more friendly, Lemester fumed. He might have asked if Lemester had any pertinent information for them. For instance, it might be helpful to know about the radar along the Soviet coast off to the west. But if the pilot was too important and high speed to ask, then the hell with him. The captain turned and went back to his bridge.
Fort Meade, Maryland Thursday, 8 June, 1000 Zulu Thursday, 8 June, 5:00 a.m. Local
The buzzer on the computer woke Meng out of a fitful nap. He accessed the file and perused the message from the FOB.
CLAS
SIFICATION: TOP SECRET
TO: CDR USSOCOM/ SFOB FM/ MSG 56
FROM: FOB Kl
TEAM CONFIRMS PZ/ SAME PLACE/ SAME TIME/
READY FOR MISSION/ AWAIT FINAL GO/
DENSER STABLE/
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
Things sounded as though they were finally starting to go right. Meng had already received a message that the helicopters had arrived at the Rathburne almost twenty minutes ago. He typed in the confirmation of the PZ and transmitted it to the launch site in Misawa to be forwarded to the aircraft.
PZ Drable, Operational Area Dustey, China Thursday, 8 June, 1100 Zulu Thursday, 8 June, 7:00 p.m. Local
Olinski led Reese out into the open field. They left O'Shaugnesy back at the tree line in a morphine-induced unconsciousness. Despite the
best efforts of Comsky, blood was still seeping through the bandages covering O'Shaugnesy's stomach.
Using knives and a small folding saw, they began cutting down all the small trees and bushes more than a foot high. After an hour's work they had succeeded in clearing an area large enough for one helicopter to land safely. They gathered all the loose debris from the field and disposed of it twenty-five meters into the tree line, so it wouldn't be blown about when the helicopter landed.
Olinski then checked the wind direction. Out of the west. Using his knife he dug four small holes in the ground in the shape of an inverted y, with the stem pointing into the wind. There was a hole at the end of each stem and at the joint. A half hour prior to the scheduled exfiltration, Olinski would stake down an infrared chem light in each hole to mark the landing zone.
The team had an FM frequency and call signs for the aircraft, but they would be used only if absolutely necessary. Hopefully, the pilots would be able to find this small open area. Olinski didn't have much confidence in the navigational abilities of pilots, however. He'd have the PRC68 radio hooked to his vest, ready just in case he had to guide the aircraft.
Fort Meade, Maryland Thursday, 8 June, 1520 Zulu Thursday, 8 June, 10:20 a.m. Local
Meng knew he must send the final authorization code. Everything and everyone involved was committed. To back out at this point would simply result in his disgrace and punishment without any result. Looking at the headline on the front page of today's New York Times strengthened his resolve: "ARTILLERY FIRING IN SUBURBS ADDS TO TENSION IN BEIJING; MYSTERY ON LEADERS GROWS. ARMY CLASH DENIED." Meng scanned the article for the twentieth time, focusing on what he felt to be the critical parts.
The evening news program denounced as "purely rumor" the reports of fighting between military units near the military airport in southern Beijing. It also offered an unusual denial of a report that Deng Xiaoping, China's senior leader, had died.
"That's a sheer fabrication intended to poison people's minds," the newscaster said, without shedding any light on Mr. Deng's situation or whereabouts.
Not since the end of the Maoist period more than a dozen years ago has there been such confusion about the situation in the world's most populous nation. Today, even the most basic information— such as whether anyone at all is running China, or whether Mr. Deng is alive—is contested. None of China's leaders have been seen for 12 days or more, and there have been rumors of coups or assassination attempts against both Mr. Deng and Prime Minister Li Peng.
Meng put down the paper. The Old Men were teetering—he could feel it. Maybe all that was needed was a final push. Meng sat down at his computer keyboard and typed in the final authorization code word to the FOB.
Checkpoint 2, USS Rathburne Thursday, 8 June, 1530 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 12:30 a.m. Local
Right on schedule the two Blackhawks crawled into the sky, laboring under the load of more than sixteen hundred gallons of fuel. C.J.'s right hand was wrapped around the cyclic, which poked upright between his legs from the floor. With his left hand he held the collective, a lever set into the floor on the left side of his seat. Pulling up on the collective basically increased power, making the helicopter climb. Dropping it decreased power, making the helicopter descend. The cyclic controlled the attitude of the blades and was used for maneuvering. To add to the fun there were pedals (one for each foot) controlling the rear vertical rotor blades, which kept the aircraft in trim and flying straight, along with a throttle, which adjusted the fuel rate. Juggling cyclic, collective, pedals, and throttle made the helicopter perform. Each affected the others, which was why a helicopter was much more difficult to fly than a plane. Let go of the controls of an airplane and the plane will glide along, held aloft by the lift of its wings. A helicopter's wings are its rotor blades; let go of the controls and the helicopter tries to turn upside down and beat itself to death.
C.J. banked his aircraft smoothly to the northwest and headed for the shore. He adjusted the throttle for maximum fuel conservation, and they were on their way, skimming along at 130 knots fifty feet above the waves. One hundred and twenty kilometers of ocean and then the real fun would begin.
Surveillance, Target Dagger, Operational Area Dustey Thursday, 8 June, 1600 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 12:00 p.m. Local
ZEROFO URROGE RZEROF OURXXG OXXXGO
XXXGOX XXGOXX CMOPPE RSENRO UTEXXX
CMOPPE RSENRO UTEXXB ESTWIS MESAND
GOODLU CKDRAT TSXXXX
Riley read the message and smiled. They had the final go and the birds were coming. Outstanding, Riley thought. He had been afraid of a last-minute cancellation.
Everybody was in place. Devito and Lalli, armed with their RPGs, were positioned where the compound service road ran into the pipeline's service road. Chong and Trapp were along the tree line, off to the west. Trapp, with his SVD, would shoot out the southwest camera; Chong would provide local security for Trapp.
Riley, Comsky, and Mitchell would stay here at the surveillance point— Riley to shoot out the berm camera and Comsky to shoot out the southeast one. Hoffman and Smith were waiting with them, prepared to hit the target as soon as the snipers finished firing.
In the glow of the security lights from the compound, Riley could see the gleam of anticipation in the others' eyes. He was nervous but wouldn't show it in front of the team. He knew that everyone was nervous—and scared. Once they hit the target, the clock started. The hunt would be on. And Team 3 would be the hunted.
Natyn, Peter the Great Bay Thursday, 8 June, 1605 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 1:05 a.m. Local
Junior Lieutenant Omsk took his duties as watch officer very seriously. Senior Lieutenant Chelyabinsk had impressed upon him the importance
of maintaining a vigilant watch, since the American ship was circling farther out to sea.
"You never know. The Americans may attack you!" Chelyabinsk had told Omsk, laughing, before he retired to his captain's quarters for the night, leaving strict orders not to be disturbed.
Omsk didn't think it was amusing. He was a commissioned officer in the navy of the Soviet Socialist Republic. Enemies of the state were only one hundred kilometers away. Certainly that was nothing to laugh at.
Omsk had grown even more serious a minute ago, when the radar operator reported picking up two low-flying objects moving directly toward the Naryn. Objects coming from the direction of the American ship. The two blips would be flying by in only a few seconds. Omsk glanced down quickly at the 25mm-gun crew. He yelled at them to be prepared. They stared back at him stupidly.
As Omsk was debating about waking up Chelyabinsk, the first helicopter flew by only fifty meters off the port bow. Omsk didn't know what to do. He hadn't recognized the outline of the helicopter and didn't know if it was friendly or not. Then they saw the second helicopter.
Exfiltration Aircraft, Peter the Great Bay Thursday, 8 June, 1606 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 1:06 a.m. Local
Hawkins didn't even see the patrol boat as he flew by it. Flying lead for this leg, he was concentrating on trying to make out the shoreline through his goggles. His instruments told him that the coast should be coming up any second. The two helicopters had been switching off lead every thirty minu
tes to reduce fatigue.
He saw the ship only when its searchlight came on and probed the sky. The flare of the light exploded in his computer-enhanced goggles, causing them to shut down momentarily to prevent overload. At first, Hawkins thought he was being fired at. His helicopter dropped toward the surface of the ocean before he regained control. He turned slightly left to see what was going on, then saw the ship and the searchlight.
Jesus Christ! Hawkins thought. What the hell was a patrol boat doing here? Hawkins hit his right pedal, swung the tail of his aircraft toward the ship, and opened his throttle all the way, heading for the safety of the shore.
C.J., piloting the trail bird, had also been blinded. He'd seen the patrol boat in his goggles just a second before they blacked out. His first thought concerning the flash of light was missile launch!
C.J. immediately took the proper evasive action, diving down and toward the direction of the missile. This pointed his helicopter directly at the ship. The purposes of this maneuver were to turn the hot exhaust of the helicopter away from a heat-seeking missile, to present a smaller target, and to give the missile less time to react.
In the two seconds it took to tear off his goggles, he'd closed the two hundred meters between his aircraft and the ship. Looming in front of him were the searchlight and mast of the ship. C.J. frantically hauled back on his collective and jerked the cyclic to the right. He felt, rather than saw, his aircraft hit something. It shuddered momentarily, then the power was back and he was gone, slowly gaining altitude. He yelled at Yost to take the controls so he could put his goggles back on.
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