Dragon Sim-13

11

Chief Warrant Officer C. J. Mclntire pulled in collective with his left hand and felt the Blackhawk's wheels leave the ground. He climbed to five hundred feet and then waited until the other Blackhawk, with his friend Luke Hawkins at the controls, slid into place to his left rear.

While his copilot updated the Blackhawk's Doppler navigating device with their present location, C.J. pushed his cyclic control forward and turned on an azimuth of due west.

The Doppler is a navigating device that theoretically would allow them to find the Rathburne in the middle of the ocean. C.J. was worried because in his experience the Doppler was unreliable over water. He hoped that a combination of staying on the proper headings for the designated amounts of time, and interpreting what information the Doppler did give, would allow them to locate the ship. If absolutely necessary they could call the Rathburne and have it turn on an electronic beacon. They had already planned on doing that for the return trip, but C.J. preferred not to rely on that going in. The fewer electronic transmissions, the less the chance of alerting the North Koreans or Russians.

C.J. estimated a 3.7-hour flight to the Rathburne, arriving about 6:43 p.m. local time. That would give them a six-hour rest on board before having to fly the rest of the mission. Just as important, it allowed them to fly this leg in daylight, saving their goggle time for the actual penetration of the hostile airspace.

Once he was sure everything was working, C.J. let his copilot, Tim Yost, take the controls. C.J. leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He was trying to control his nervousness. Despite all his flight hours, this was the first time he was flying a mission like this — into hostile airspace with state-of-the-art detection devices. Between the Soviets, North Koreans, and Chinese, there was a pretty impressive array of air defense systems waiting up ahead.

Once they left the Rathburne and got down into the wave tops, C.J. felt confident they'd make the shoreline. From there to the pickup zone, it would be terrain flying under goggles. Terrain flying consisted of following the contour of the earth with a margin of safety of only twenty-five feet above the highest object. At that altitude they should avoid getting picked up on radar, yet be high enough to avoid crashing into an obstacle.

The trip out was going to be the hairy part, C.J. figured. It all depended on whether or not they were spotted. He didn't know what the people he was picking up were doing, but he had a feeling it was something that probably would upset the natives. C.J. shook his head — flying under goggles at any time was dangerous work. Those mountains were going to require some good flying tonight.

Senior Lieutenant Chelyabinsk peered at the green haze on his surface radar screen. There in the center sat the brightly glowing dot that indicated the American warship, more than one hundred kilometers to the east. The Komar-class missile boats had a curious radar setup: They could see farther on the surface of the ocean than they could into the sky. The ship was designed to attack surface ships, not air targets. According to the radar, the American ship had been steaming in a tight circle for the past hour. Chelyabinsk didn't know what it was doing out there and frankly he didn't care. It was a nice, clear, crisp day. As long as the ship didn't come any closer he was happy.

Chelyabinsk looked to the west at the shoreline. The Changbai Mountain Range loomed in the distance. It was at times like this that he was glad he had joined the navy and not the army. Imagine being out in those hills looking across the border at the Chinese or North Korean pigs, he thought. Much nicer here aboard ship, where a man could always get hot food and stay out of the rain and snow.

He glanced forward along the short deck of his ship. Seamen Second Class Aksha and Kachung were manning the forward, twin 25mm antiaircraft gun. Chelyabinsk looked at the two Mongolians with undisguised loathing. The riffraff he had to work with. Those two idiots hadn't even known what boots were until they'd been drafted into the navy to do their obligatory two years of service. Chelyabinsk wasn't even sure they knew how to fire the 25mm.

In his three months in command, the crew had never had an opportunity to conduct a live-fire exercise. The cost of ammunition was too high, they'd been told. Chelyabinsk could only assume that the two gunners had been taught how to shoot in their basic naval training, but he wasn't confident of that. The men spoke only the most basic Russian.

The shadows were lengthening. Riley glanced around — everyone had their gear packed. Lalli finished bursting out what would hopefully be their last send before the PONDER report and exfiltration. The message rogered the last FOB message and reconfirmed the location and time of the exfiltration.

Hoffman and Smith had finished priming the demolitions and placed them on top of their rucksacks. Everyone would move from the objective rally point to the target as soon as Trapp and Comsky rejoined them. Riley figured that the two would show up about 2030 local. Then a half hour up to the target, arriving about 2100. That would give them five hours prior to the actual hit.

It was going to be a cool, clear night, Riley observed. Should be good weather for the exfiltration. The ride home was the only thing that was out of their hands right now — they simply had to be in the right place at the right time.

Riley sat on his packed ruck next to the team leader. "Let's play what if, Mitch. What do you want to do if the birds don't show?"

There were several options in their escape and evasion packet. As long as they had a radio, they could keep communications with the base station and rearrange their exfiltration somewhere along the evasion route chosen.

The first option was northeast: Use the Sungari River itself. Wearing their dry suits and taking advantage of the river's fast current, they could float downriver each night and hole up on shore during the day. With the current at 2.2 meters a second, it would quickly get them out of the immediate area. There were two major problems with that plan. First, they would have to pass through the city of Harbin, where the odds of being spotted were very high. The second was that after 750 kilometers, and an estimated sixteen nights in the water, they would only get to the border with Russia and the Sungari's junction with the Amur River. If they stayed on the Amur, it was more than 1,000 kilometers to the Tatar Strait. There things would get even more difficult, and the options more vague. Perhaps getting picked up off the coast by submarine. Perhaps stealing a boat and making it into international waters. They'd known in isolation that the river option wasn't the greatest, but its one advantage was that it got them out of the target area relatively quickly and unobtrusively.

The second option was to evade to the southeast by foot and strike out directly for the coast. This would entail a land trip of almost 250 kilometers. If they had to walk the whole way, Riley conservatively estimated a minimum of thirty to forty days. Probably more, since the Changbai Mountain Range lay in the way, 150 kilometers from the coast. The mountains were a significant obstacle. At its highest, the range was close to sixteen thousand feet. The planned route called for them to skirt the highest part of the range by going around to the north and crossing the Russian rather than North Korean border.

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.

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.

The buzzer on the computer woke Meng out of a fitful nap. He accessed the file and perused the message from the FOB.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 minutes 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.

Omsk stared in amazement as the second helicopter flew off into the dark night. He would have sworn that the helicopter was going to crash into the ship after he turned on the searchlight. It had passed only ten feet above his head, striking the radar mast. Looking up, Omsk could see that the mast had been severed just below the tip. Who were those fools? he thought, just as Chelyabinsk staggered onto the deck.

"What the hell was that?" Chelyabinsk roared.

"A helicopter," Omsk replied.

"What helicopter? Whose helicopter? What hit us?" Chelyabinsk barked out questions.

"I don't know, sir. There were two of them. They had no lights on. The first one kept going. The second dove right at us when I turned on the searchlight. We'd picked them up only a minute ago, coming from the direction of the American ship."

Chelyabinsk stopped yelling at his junior lieutenant. It was obvious that the man was ignorant. He ordered the ship's searchlight turned off.

Back in his cabin, Chelyabinsk sat down and tried to figure out what he would report. How the hell can I put together a report when nobody seems to know what happened? Probably some army pilots out of Vladivostok in training — maybe buzzing the American ship. That fool Omsk must have blinded the pilot by turning on the searchlight. I'm surrounded by idiots. Well, Omsk would pay dearly for the damage to the ship. I'll file the report when we get back to port, Chelyabinsk thought. The captain turned off the light and went back to sleep.

"Fuck this shit. Let's go home."

C.J. turned his eyes momentarily from the mountains flashing by and glanced at his copilot through the goggles. He knew that the little wimp would chicken out when things got tough. He'd never liked flying with Yost and had complained to the captain several times, saying he didn't think Yost had the right stuff to make a flight like this.

"Listen, Yost, we're only three and a half hours out. Those guys will be waiting for us. We're going in."

"Bullshit, C.J. We had a blade strike at least. This thing could shake apart on us any minute. Plus somebody knows we're here now. We'll never get out. That ship will be waiting for us when we come back."

"So we come back south of there. No big deal."

"Come on, C.J. We'll never make it. Fuck those guys. Nobody will blame us for turning around. Not after hitting that ship."

As he flew, C.J. considered what Yost was saying. True, no one would blame them for turning around now. In training, a blade strike is considered an emergency that requires immediate landing, followed by replacement of the entire transmission of the helicopter, since a blade strike can cause damage to the gears. If the transmission seized up while they were flying, the UH-60 would have all the aerodynamics of a rock and would land accordingly.

If that ship reported them, the Soviets would be alerted, which meant they might have lost almost three hours in reaction time. C.J. figured that the Soviets must be on alert — hell, that asshole was missing part of his mast. If that was so, then they would just have to come out over North Korea.

C.J. carefully felt the controls, playing with them slightly. Everything felt normal — no unusual vibrations, just that brief loss of power

when they hit. At least they didn't shoot at us. Probably means they had no idea who we were, C.J. reasoned.

He really couldn't blame Yost for being scared. They all knew that the Blackhawks, loaded with more than sixteen hundred gallons of fuel, were an explosion waiting to happen. If they crashed or were shot down, they wouldn't have to worry about the Chinese finding any wreckage. There wouldn't be enough left of the aircraft to make an ashtray. Yost was probably envisioning that fate.

C.J. laughed to himself. I've never heard of a helicopter having a midair collision with a ship. That was a first. It'll make a great bar story when I get back. If I get back.

Ah, screw it, C.J. thought. He turned to his copilot. "OK, Bud. Let me put it to you in terms you can understand. I'm flying this bad boy and I'm taking it in. If you don't want to go, the door is to your right and you're welcome to leave at any time." The senior pilot brought the helicopter even closer to the earth, negotiating the mountain passes.