C.J. leapt back in as Yost lifted the bird. With the blades still turning, it had been impossible for C.J. to see if they were notched or damaged. The outside external fuel tank on the right side pylon had some scratches on it, but that was all he could see in the dark. What C.J. hadn't noticed was the slight split in the seam of the outside right tank. Drop by drop, JP4 fuel was leaking out, dripping to the ground.
C.J. took the controls from Yost and did a quick scan of the area as he turned east. "We got company," he said, as the navigational lights of the MI-4 rose from the vicinity of the fire, two kilometers away.
C.J. knew that the Chinese helicopter couldn't have seen him yet. The Blackhawk was blacked out and Chinese pilots didn't have goggles. He wasn't about to give the aircraft a chance to find him. C.J. knew that the MI-4 Hound had a maximum speed of 155 miles an hour. C.J. chuckled—that was in the bright sunshine with the wind at its back.
"Come on, asshole. Let's race." Yost glanced over at the man talking to himself and shook his head.
C.J. opened up the throttle and pushed the cyclic forward. The Blackhawk shot forward past the startled Hawkins, who immediately followed.
Thursday, 8 June, 2007 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 4:07 a.m. Local
Lu could see a fire in the tree line at the edge of the small open field, but no sign of helicopters. Flying at night by searchlight was a risky proposition at best. The pilot was afraid to move too far away from the navigational security of the pipeline or the river.
Lu cursed. If only he had been quicker in reacting to the lost pressure on the pipeline. He'd never thought it could actually be a terrorist action. Now he knew that it was too late to catch whoever had done it. And too late for him. He picked up the radio microphone and called headquarters.
Airspace, China
Thursday, 8 June, 2045 Zulu
Friday, 9 June, 4:45 a.m. Local
Riley was still a little surprised. He'd mentally prepared himself for the exfiltration to be screwed up. But things had worked out. They were actually on board a helicopter and heading for home. The target hit had been a success. Team 3 had two injured, but both would recover. He knew it was premature, but Riley began to allow himself to feel good.
In the front of the helicopter, C.J. had opposite feelings. He started sensing a slightly abnormal vibration in the controls. Yost felt it, too. They exchanged worried looks.
Don't do this to me, C.J. thought savagely. We finally won one. Come on baby, hang in there. If there was a way to will a helicopter to stay in the air, C.J. was going to do it.
The seam on number 4 external tank also reacted to the strange vibration. Instead of just a drip, a trickle of highly flammable fuel was now leaking out.
118th Division Headquarters, Harbin, China Thursday, 8 June, 2053 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 4:53 a.m. Local
Once the division commander, General Haotian, was awakened, the Chinese reaction speeded up dramatically. It had been almost three hours since the explosion. In that time only one MI-4 helicopter and the pump station platoon had been dispatched to investigate.
With Lu's report of apparent sabotage, General Haotian contacted the 3d Aviation Regiment in Shenyang and asked for help. In response to the request, six Z-9 gunship helicopters lifted out of Shenyang and headed north. Haotian realized, based on Lu's report and the distances involved, that they were probably too late, but he wanted nothing left to chance. When he had to explain to his superior, he wanted to be able to say he had done everything possible.
If only that idiot Lu had moved quicker, Haotian thought. By now, the terrorists were probably out of the area he controlled with his division. Haotian reluctantly called his higher headquarters—Shenyang Military
Region headquarters located in the city of Shenyang to the southwest. They'd find out what was happening anyway when the 3d Aviation Regiment reported its search mission.
Airspace, China
Thursday, 8 June, 2100 Zulu
Friday, 9 June, 5:00 a.m. Local
The vibration hadn't gotten any worse. It was so slight that C.J. could almost fool himself into believing it wasn't there. But he knew it was. Hang in there, C.J. prayed. Another hour and a half to the coast.
In the trailing helicopter, Devito had whole blood flowing into O'Shaugnesy. The sense of security inside the aircraft was comforting. The high of the target hit and exfiltration was wearing off, and everyone slumped wearily against the back and doors of the cargo compartments.
In the lead aircraft, Riley sat with his back against the pilot's seat, surveying the five other members of his team. Comsky, as expected, appeared to be sleeping, although Riley suspected it might be an act. Mitchell was sitting with his back against the copilot's seat with his eyes closed. Probably thinking about the FOB debrief. Olinski, Chong, and Hoffman were peering out the windows at the terrain flashing by.
They ought to market this as a ride at an amusement park, Riley thought as he glanced out the side window. They were flying barely twenty feet above the surface of a large lake. Riley had flown in numerous helicopters and he felt a grudging admiration for the man flying this one. The pilot was good, whoever he was. Occasionally, as they turned to follow the bend of the lake, Riley could catch glimpses of the second aircraft following a hundred meters behind.
Riley felt good. All in all, a successful mission. What had happened with O'Shaugnesy was unfortunate, but you couldn't plan for everything on a mission.
Riley wasn't sure what they had accomplished by blowing up the pipe. Sent a message to the Chinese government that the U.S. meant business, Riley supposed, but the whole thing still didn't make sense. Sometimes the way countries interacted seemed like such a game. Like two kids in the alley, shoving each other back and forth, trying to see who was the toughest. Riley closed his eyes. Now wasn't the time to ask those questions. Now was the time to be happy to be alive. To be going home.
Thursday, 8 June, 2130 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 5:30 a.m. Local
The six Z-9s flew over the destroyed pipe, then broke into two sets of three. The first set spread and flew due east. The second set fanned out and flew to the south. They could fly those azimuths for only another twenty minutes before they would have to return to Shenyang to refuel. The spiderweb had been spun too late. The fly was gone.
Thursday, 8 June, 2155 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 5:55 a.m. Local
C.J. carefully climbed the helicopter farther up the streambed into the Changbai Mountains. He could see the ridgeline just ahead. In a few minutes they'd be across it and heading down. Just another fifty minutes and they'd be over the ocean. The Blackhawk was still holding together. Just another hour and thirty-five minutes and they'd be at the Rathburne.
C.J. was startled by a blazing flash of light to his right.
5:56 a.m. Local
C.J.'s helicopter exploded right in front of Hawkins. Before his goggles shut down, Hawkins thought he saw the entire aircraft disintegrate. In the two seconds it took his goggles to recover, he was past the explosion. There was no sign of the other aircraft.
In the cargo compartment, Trapp leapt to the door and peered out the window into the darkness below. A ball of fire settled into the trees as they flew by. It looked like part of a helicopter.
"Goddamn, Goddamn," Trapp muttered in shock. "We were almost there. We almost had it made." He didn't know what had caused the helicopter to explode, but the effect had obviously been catastrophic. He looked at the others' shocked faces.
As his goggles cleared and he could see again, Hawkins swung around and headed back to where C.J.'s bird had disappeared. Cruising just above the trees, he couldn't see the other helicopter. There was a fire burning in the trees below but nothing else. Considering the amount of fuel the aircraft had been carrying, Hawkins knew that was understandable. There was also no place nearby to land.
Looking at his fuel gauge, Hawkins turned and started heading east again. He climbed and crossed the crest of the Changbai Mountains. Those on board the lone helicopter could see the first gr
ay light of dawn tingeing the ocean off in the distance.
Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move." Sun Tzu: The Art of War
13
USS Rathburne, Tatar Strait Friday, 9 June, 0003 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 9:03 a.m. Local
Commander Lemester watched the lone Blackhawk waver above the fantail of his ship and then slam down on it.
Son of a bitch almost crashed into my ship, he thought angrily as he strode forward to confront the pilot. He stopped in amazement as the cargo doors slid open and five dirty men, dressed in black and carrying weapons, hopped off. Four of them reached back in and started pulling out a man wrapped in a poncho. The fifth man ran over to Lemester.
"We need a stretcher up here right now to take this man to your infirmary."
"Who the hell are you?" Lemester shouted over the whine of the helicopter engine shutting down.
"Listen, we've got a wounded American here. Just get the damn stretcher!" the tall, powerful-looking man yelled back.
Lemester had had enough of taking orders on board his own ship. "First, I want to know who you people are."
Trapp glared at the officer standing in front of him in his clean white uniform. He grabbed his M79 grenade launcher from his vest and pointed the gaping 40mm muzzle at the navy man's face. "You've got ten seconds to get me a stretcher and get that man to your infirmary."
Behind Trapp, the four other members of Team 3, standing under the slowing rotor blades, brought their weapons to the ready.
Lemester was a by-the-book man, but he wasn't stupid. His curiosity was rapidly diminishing. These men didn't look like they were bluffing. He ordered the stretcher brought up, then confronted the tall man. "What about the other helicopter? When is it going to be here? My orders are to wait for it, then I can get out of here."
"There isn't going to be another helicopter."
9:23 a.m. Local
Trapp cornered Hawkins in the small stateroom that Lemester had provided the team. They waited there while O'Shaugnesy was being worked on in the infirmary. Devito was also down in the infirmary to make sure that the wounded man didn't say anything about the mission while the navy doctor was treating him.
"What the hell happened to the other bird, and where are we going now? I thought you were supposed to fly us back to Osan from here."
"We are supposed to fly you there, but neither me nor my copilot are up to it right now. I've got to wait until my nerve comes back. Give us an hour or so, then we'll take off again.
"Also, I figured you'd want to get your man into the infirmary here rather than let him wait another four hours in the air. C.J.—he's the guy who was piloting the other bird—and I, before we left Japan, decided that if we had any wounded, we'd drop them off here. That isn't what our captain told us to do, but screw that jerk. I'm not going to fly wounded men four extra hours when they can get taken care of sooner."
Trapp agreed with Hawkins' logic, and his respect for the pilot rose another notch. That had been some damn fine flying back there. The pilot's reasoning concerning O'Shaugnesy had mirrored his. If Hawkins hadn't shut down once he landed, Trapp had been prepared to do some weapon pointing at him also, so they could offload O'Shaugnesy and get him some proper care as soon as possible.
"Yeah, OK. What about the other bird though? What the hell happened to it? I didn't see any ground fire. How come you didn't hang around longer searching?"
Hawkins sighed. Since the explosion he'd thought about the same thing, replaying the scene in his mind innumerable times. He hadn't seen any fire from the ground either. C.J.'s bird had just exploded. He gave Trapp the only explanation that fit. "Going in we damn near ran into a Soviet patrol boat. As a matter of fact, the other bird did run into it. It looked to me like it hit the ship's mast. Any number of things could have been damaged that would lead to an explosion.
"I figure it was one of two things. They probably had a blade strike, which means that the transmission might have momentarily seized up, causing some damage to the gears. That damage could have become catastrophic and the transmission finally seized up for good, causing the rotor blades to stop immediately. Centrifugal force would have caused the transmission to separate from the aircraft, and the shrapnel would have punctured the external fuel tanks, causing the explosion we saw."
Hawkins considered what he had just proposed and ran the explosion through his mind one more time. Somehow that explanation still didn't feel right. "I'm not sure if that would have caused the type of explosion we saw, though. Another, more likely, possibility is that one of the external fuel tanks or lines might have been damaged in the collision and developed a small leak. The reason it took so long to blow is that the fuel probably got ignited by static electricity."
Trapp didn't believe it. "You're telling me they flew for almost six hours with a fuel leak and it took that long to explode?"
Hawkins tried to explain. "Static electricity builds on a helicopter as it flies. Sometimes it discharges into the atmosphere. Sometimes into the helicopter itself. That may have happened this time. With all the fuel we were carrying, both aircraft were an explosion waiting to happen. I don't think we'll ever know what really occurred.
"I didn't have the fuel to hang around searching. All I could see was a fire under the trees. There wasn't enough left of the other bird to search for. That thing disintegrated in midair. Plus, there was no place to land around the crash site."
Trapp had to accept the inevitable—the explanation didn't really matter. The bottom line was that the other aircraft hadn't made it out. He grabbed Lalli and the two of them went out to the fantail where the helicopter was sitting. While Lalli set up the SATCOM, Trapp wrote out the hardest message he ever had to write.
FOB, Osan Air Force Base, Korea Friday, 9 June, 0102 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 10:02 p.m. Local
The brief, coded message had come in from the team two minutes ago. Hossey reread it and felt the chill settle deeper into his gut.
ZEROFI
LOSTON
TLOSTO
TDEGRE
TWODEG
LPRESU
RTZERO
VEEXFI
WAYOUT
NWAYOU
ESTWOT
REESTH
MEDKIL
TWOONE
LONTIM
XXREPE
TVICLO
HREEMI
REEZER
LEDXXR
FIVEZU
EONEAI
ATONEA
NGONET
NUTESL
OMINUT
EFUELI
LUXXXX
RCRAFT
IRCRAF
WOEIGH
ATFOUR
ESXXAL
NGDEPA
Hossey's trained eye broke out the message from the six-letter groups. MESSAGE: NUMBER 05. Exfil on time, one aircraft lost on way out, repeat, one aircraft lost on way out, vicinity longitude 128 degrees 23 minutes, latitude 42 degrees 30 minutes. All presumed killed. Refueling, depart 0215 Zulu.
One aircraft, Hossey thought. Half the team and two pilots dead. Eight men. Hossey listlessly handed the message to Hooker, then sat down at his desk. He knew he should immediately forward the information to the SFOB, but he needed a few moments to let the reality of the loss sink in. They wouldn't find out who had been killed until the survivors landed here in three and a half hours.
Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 9 June, 0200 Zulu Thursday, 8 June, 9:00 p.m. Local
Down the corridor in Tunnel 3, General Olson and his staff were celebrating the successful exfiltration of the Special Forces team and the completion of their exercise. All had gone well in the simulation; the mission had been a success.
In Meng's office, the emotions were much different. Meng looked at the message about the lost aircraft another time. This was real. Eight men were dead because of his manipulations. He wasn't sure what to do. It was only a matter of time before the curtain of his deception wa
s torn asunder. Questions would be asked. Meng thought he could control the FOB relatively well for a while yet. The surviving Blackhawk would drop the rest of the team at Osan and then, after a debrief and some rest, fly back to Misawa and down to Okinawa. Meng wondered how well the cover stories would work that had been concocted in the oplan against the possible loss of a helicopter. Would they work against the people who had written them?
Meng considered the situation. The aviation detachment commander from the 1 st Special Forces Group was supposed to report the aircraft lost at sea during classified training. The FOB commander was supposed to back him up on that. The problem would come when someone at USSOCOM put two and two together and came up with five. Meng ran the scenario through his computer. The answer was that he had anywhere from thirty-six to seventy-two hours, with a statistical mean of forty-eight, before someone started asking questions.
Meng rubbed his eyes wearily. He had that much time before the walls came crumbling down. He prayed the attack had moved the Old Men, even if just a little.
USS Rathbume, Tatar Strait Friday, 9 June, 0200 Zulu Friday, 9 June, 11:00 a.m. Local
The ship's doctor finished examining and cleaning the wounds. He'd never seen anything like them. The tall, silent man who'd accompanied the patient into the infirmary had been uncommunicative so far.
"What the hell happened to you?" the doctor asked as the patient finally came out of his drug-induced unconsciousness.
Despite being fuzzy headed from the morphine and loss of blood, O'Shaugnesy managed a weak smile. "I tripped over my rucksack."
Devito smiled and turned to the doctor. "He got mauled by a bear. I've got him on morphine, last injection was one hour ago. He's been taking whole blood for the last two hours. We need you to finish rebandaging him and give him some more antibiotics. We're taking off in a little while to take him to Korea and get him into a regular hospital."
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