Dragon Sim-13

14

The explosion of the number 4 external fuel tank blew the flaming pod away from the helicopter and sprayed the entire top right side of the aircraft with pieces of metal. The shrapnel tore through the turbine engines, simultaneously causing both engines to fail.

C.J. felt a total loss of power as he was trying to regain control of the wildly careening helicopter. He had three seconds from the initial explosion before the Blackhawk hit the trees, and he utilized that scant time as best he could. Automatically he brought the cyclic all the way up to its stops while pushing the cyclic forward to level the aircraft. With the loss of hydraulics, the stick responded sluggishly. The Blackhawk hit the trees nose down and rolled to the left. Bones cracked in C.J.'s right hand as he made a final desperate effort to keep the aircraft from flipping over before impact.

The aircraft tore through the thick tree cover and came to a halt on the ground. The combination of the original forward speed of ninety knots and the sudden drop in altitude produced a collision that crumpled the left front of the helicopter. Shattered glass, twisted metal, and foliage filled the cockpit.

On impact all the occupants of the cargo bay were thrown forward in a pile. Buried under the bodies of the rest of the team, Riley lay still until the helicopter came to a rest. He could feel the others stirring as they tried to get up. He heard someone in the front screaming in pain, but his first priority was to get himself untangled, then get a door opened and his people out before the helicopter exploded. Riley could smell jet fuel leaking. As soon as that fuel touched part of the hot engine, the helicopter would burst into flames.

In the confused darkness, it was Comsky who got the right cargo door open. Using all the strength in his short, powerful body, he wrenched the door off its rollers and shoved it aside. Then he proceeded to get people out by the expedient method of picking them up and throwing them through the open door. Olinski, Hoffman, and Chong were propelled out the door. He looked next at Riley, who signaled that he was all right.

Riley turned to help Mitchell, who was trying to tear through the wreckage and free the copilot. The pilot, in the right front seat, was trying to unbuckle his copilot but was able to use only one arm. The copilot was in bad shape. The whole left front of the helicopter was pressed against his seat. Blood was splattered about — a darker color than the flat gray of the interior paint.

As he leaned over the copilot's seat and tried to unfasten his seat belt, Riley saw something that turned his stomach. The front instrument console had been twisted back by the impact and had torn into the copilot's legs. Jagged metal had cut his thighs to the bone, pinning him to his armored seat. Riley could see the white bone against the console's edge.

Riley slid back and grabbed Mitchell by the shoulders. He pointed at the copilot's legs and then at the flowing fuel. He shouted at both Mitchell and the pilot. "Get out! He's a goner. We can't get him out in time before it blows. GO! GO!"

Riley shoved Mitchell toward the open cargo door, where Comsky waited patiently. With one large paw, Comsky grabbed Mitchell and hauled the team leader out. Riley saw that Hoffman had climbed back into the helicopter during all this and was hammering away at something in the rear of the cargo compartment.

"Get out!" Riley yelled at Hoffman. He didn't know what Hoffman was doing, but he didn't have time to find out. Fuel finally reached the hot engine exhausts and burst into flames. Instantly, the entire left side of the helicopter became an inferno. Riley clambered away from the flames as the copilot screamed in agony. The pilot paused in his door on the way out. Looking back at Riley, he pointed with his right hand. Riley quickly understood and nodded. The pilot rolled free out of the right front door.

Riley held himself steady in the right cargo door, ignoring the flames licking at his feet. He drew his 9mm pistol, aimed quickly, and fired twice. Then he jumped out, closely followed by Hoffman, who was cradling something in his arms.

Comsky, Chong, and Mitchell were dragging Olinski away from the burning helicopter as Riley and Hoffman caught up with them. The pilot was fleeing off to their left. They were thirty meters away when the helicopter exploded.

The impact threw them all to the ground, and Mitchell screamed in agony. Riley picked himself up and ran over to his team leader. The captain's entire right side was covered with blood where a fragment of the exploding helicopter had laid it open.

An hour later Riley took stock of the situation in the growing daylight. They were still only thirty meters away from where the helicopter had crashed, but there was little to indicate that a helicopter had impacted on that spot. The explosion had scattered pieces in a hundred-meter circle and had scorched the forest.

Comsky finished sewing up the captain as best he could. Earlier, the medic had set Olinski's broken leg and arm. These two men had sustained the only serious injuries from the accident. The other team members were banged up but functional. Somehow, training and instinct had held fast and everyone had their weapons in hand. Those, in combination with the ammunition and grenades on their vests, meant that the beat-up outfit still had some bite left.

Riley walked over to Hoffman, who had been working with the insides of the black box for which he had risked his life. "What do you think? You gonna be able to do anything with that?"

Hoffman squinted up at Riley from behind his slightly bent glasses. "Hmm. I think so. Olinski still had the PRC68 on his vest, so I've cannibalized some stuff off that. There'll be two main problems. The biggest is that we don't have a power source. It takes a lot of juice to transmit high-frequency radio. The battery from the 68 won't even warm the wires of this thing. The second problem is we'll only be able to send, even if it does work. We won't be able to receive. I'll send using two wires as a kind of telegraph key. It's rigged to go now, if we only had a power source. I don't think it will be good for much beyond one shot."

Riley nodded. "That was real good thinking, Dan."

Hoffman was pleased with the compliment and the unexpected use of his first name. Riley really meant it. In the excitement of the crash, Hoffman had had the presence of mind to leap back into the helicopter and tear the aircraft's high-frequency transmitter out of the right rear panel of the cargo compartment. Using the transmitter, in combination with the small FM radio that Olinski had kept, Hoffman had jury-rigged something they could possibly use to send out a message. Where they'd send, and to whom, and on what frequency, Riley wasn't quite sure yet. He'd worry about that when they found a power source.

Riley turned his attention to the wounded. He walked over to the tree stump where Comsky was now setting the broken right arm and hand of the pilot. All the bones in that hand were fractured from the tremendous force C.J. had tried to exert on the cyclic during the crash. The arm had snapped during the helicopter's impact with the ground.

The pilot extended his left hand to Riley. "We haven't had the opportunity. I'm C.J. Mclntire. You all can call me C.J." He looked at the lean sergeant. "I appreciate what you did back in the bird. I'd have done it myself but with this arm I couldn't get at my holster."

Riley accepted the hand and the thanks. Shooting the copilot had been an act of mercy. Burning alive wasn't a fate Riley would wish on anyone. There was no body to recover and bury. The fire and explosion had taken care of that. "I'm Dave Riley. That's Comsky who's doing the honors on you. The man messing with the radio is Dan Hoffman. Tom Chong is up there on that outcropping keeping an eye out for visitors. The man with the splints on his leg and arm next to you is Lech Olinski. And this over here is our team leader, Captain Mitchell." Mitchell painfully raised himself slightly on one arm and nodded.

C.J. returned the nod. "Well, Captain, what now?"

Mitchell gingerly sat up. He was pale from loss of blood. A twelve-inch gash ran from just under his right arm to above his hip. Although not deep, it was painful, and the sutures Comsky had put in threatened to tear open with any movement, starting the bleeding again.

"I thought you might be able to tell us what we'd do next. Were you able to get anything out over the radio before we crashed?"

"Hell, sir, I had about three seconds before impact, and my time was kind of full, what with keeping us from inverting and landing on the blades. If we'd turned over, none of us would be alive now."

Riley persisted for Mitchell. "What was the backup plan? The other bird saw us go down. What was the plan for a downed aircraft? They going to send another bird in here to the crash site?"

C.J. sighed. "There isn't a plan. There is no backup. We're on our own, unless we can get ahold of somebody. The way that fuel tank exploded, they probably think we're all dead. We should be, too. We're just lucky it blew away and didn't ignite all the rest of the fuel." C.J. shot the problem back to the team leader. "What was your backup plan for this?"

Mitchell shrugged. "We had a lot of contingency plans. Unfortunately, we didn't have one for the helicopter crashing on the way out. Since we didn't know what your flight route was going to be, and didn't even get a chance to talk to you all during isolation, it was kind of hard to plan."

The words sank in to everyone in the clearing.

Riley broke the silence. "We need to think this through. The Chinese definitely have a reaction force moving by this time. Now that it's daylight we can expect to see choppers pretty soon. It might take them awhile to work this far to the southeast, but they will eventually."

He reached into his pants cargo pocket and pulled out his 1:250,000 large-scale map of Manchuria. He unfolded the map and handed it to C.J. "Show me where you think we are."

C.J. studied the map, then pointed. "We're right here. We were flying up this draw."

Riley looked around. The terrain fit in with the location that C.J. had pointed out. "OK, this means we're about three kilometers west of the crest of the Changbai Mountain Range. We've got it downhill all the way, once we make it over the top. That's the good news. The bad news is that once we get over the top we'll still have a hundred and fifty kilometers to the coast."

He checked with Mitchell. "Can you walk?"

"Hell, yeah. It only hurts when I laugh or Comsky touches it. As long as we don't try to move too fast, I think I can make it."

Riley looked at Olinski. "We'll have to carry you, Ski. We need to get out of here. We've already been here too long. Let's sterilize the area. Maybe the Chinese will think everyone died in the crash when they find it, but we can't count on it. Comsky, make a litter for Olinski. You and I will start out carrying it and rotate with Chong and Hoffman. It's 0700 now. I want to put as much mileage between us and this spot as we can before we start spotting Chinese helicopters. Let's go!"

Carrying Olinski, they moved very slowly up the mountainside. Comsky had made a stretcher out of two long branches and a poncho he always carried in his vest butt pack.

Chong scouted ahead to make sure the way was clear. Riley didn't like moving in daylight, but he knew they needed to get away from the crash site. He also knew that carrying Olinski at night, over rough terrain, would be a tricky proposition at best.

It took more than four hours, scrambling over the rocks and keeping under the cover of trees as much as possible, to make it to the crest. As they crossed over the top, Riley took a last look back to the west. He still couldn't see any sign of a search in that direction.

He led the team a kilometer down the eastern slope, then stopped under a thick stand of pine for a rest. Moving downhill was a bit easier; it had taken them a little less than an hour to do the last kilometer.

General Yang carefully examined the information available on the Daqing pipeline explosion. The most glaring fact was that General Haotian's duty officer had bungled things, but that would be dealt with later. The more immediate and pressing problem was tracking down the terrorists who had done this.

The evidence was disturbing. The most intriguing piece was Captain Lu's report of hearing helicopters off to the north of the explosion area. If there were helicopters involved, that meant somebody with more resources than a group of dissidents was involved. Yang had initially suspected the students or their supporters had been behind the explosion. The helicopter report changed that suspicion. Now, much as Yang disliked considering it, the most likely culprits were revolting Chinese soldiers. Ever since the killings in Tiananmen Square, the entire country had been in a state of flux. In this region, Yang had had no killings like they had in Beijing. The students had marched in Harbin, but it had been peaceful. Yang had already dispatched three of his divisions to Beijing at the request of the Communist party secretary, Zhao Ziyang, to aid in control there.

Yang was frankly more worried about that situation than this pipeline problem. With the dispatch of those troops, he had extended his hand into the power play going on in Beijing. The whole situation down there was very murky. He didn't need trouble in his own region.

Yang evaluated the likely possibilities and figured that the troops who had done the deed were probably trying to escape. He briefly considered the possibility that foreigners were involved. He doubted it, but had to admit there was a slight chance. Either the Russians, Americans, or Japanese. He very much doubted the Japanese. They used some of the oil from the pipe. He didn't think the Americans had the guts. They were making a lot of noise about the events in Tiananmen Square, but they would never back up their words. But the Russians were another story, Yang knew from past experience along the border. He wouldn't put it past them to have done this.

Yang looked at his map. The fool Haotian had limited his search to the immediate area of the explosion. With the larger assets of the entire Shenyang Military Region at his command, Yang had the men and vehicles to correct that.

Yang swiveled his chair around to face his staff and subordinate commanders, who had been waiting quietly while he thought. "I want all aviation assets to be used in the search. Ground forces of a regiment from each division will also be used to patrol all roads. You will look in this area." He outlined an area on the map on his desk. His finger ran from Qiqihar to the Russian border in the north, down that border to North Korea in the east, and then along the North Korean border back to their present location in Shenyang.

"Somewhere in there you will find the terrorists if they are still in the country. I want the majority of forces concentrated to the east along the border with Russia."

Yang looked over his staff. "I also want the political officers of every unit to question each helicopter pilot and account for every one of our helicopters during the time of the attack. I want to know whether one of our own did this. Check with the neighboring military districts also. I will be immediately notified of any information or new development." Yang indicated they were dismissed.

Commander Lemester had been very happy to see the helicopter disappear off to the west. He was glad to be done with the whole operation. Hopefully things would get back to normal now. The only thing he didn't like was that his orders specified staying until 1500 Zulu on the tenth. He had to sit here another thirty-four hours. Lemester decided not to waste his crew's time. They could get in a lot of training before heading off to the southwest to rejoin the battle group.

The going was easier downhill, but not much. Olinski's 175 pounds were beginning to wear down the four healthy team members. Mitchell was in obvious pain. Comsky had tied the captain's right arm to his side to keep the sutures from tearing. The pilot, C.J., wasn't complaining, but the jarring downhill scramble was sending jolts of pain up his smashed right hand and arm.

Despite this, Riley pushed them unmercifully. They had to get out of the less thickly vegetated high ground as soon as possible. Having crossed the top of the mountain range at almost nine thousand feet, they slowly but steadily were dropping in altitude on their way to the North Korean border.

Riley's mind was working as they walked, trying to develop a plan. If they could find a power source for the transmitter Hoffman had rigged, Riley had to figure out what message to send. They had never considered this occurrence in their escape and evasion plan. The eastern escape route would have taken the team to the north of this part of the mountain range, up near the Russian border; that meant Riley couldn't use any of the pickup zones along the E & E eastern route.

On the ten-minute rest halts he allowed every hour, Riley pored over the map and searched the terrain ahead. He used a small monocular, which Olinski always carried in the butt pack of his combat vest, to check out the lay of the land below. While not as good as binoculars, the instrument allowed him to gain a perspective on what lay ahead.

From the map, Riley chose a tentative pickup zone twenty kilometers east of the crest they had crossed. He had to pick a terrain feature that would be relatively easy for pilots to find at night. His choice was a clearing about five hundred meters northwest of the intersection of an unnamed river, which would cut across their path, and what looked on the map to be an unimproved dirt road. With luck, a scarce commodity on this mission so far, Riley estimated they could make it there by the next night.

Riley shook his head as he considered the bigger picture. Getting to the new PZ would help them only if they could find a power source to send out the information. If the transmitter worked. And if they could come up with a frequency to send on. And if someone happened to be listening. And if that someone could get the information to the proper people in time. And if the proper people decided to mount a rescue attempt. And if the rescue attempt made it to the pickup zone. Riley tried to keep down a rising tide of despair. He'd been in bad situations before, but none had seemed as hopeless as this one.

He didn't think they could make it across the border into North Korea and then to the coast. Not in the shape they were in. Not with the wounded. They had no food, no shelter, and no warm clothes — only what was on their backs and in their vests. Riley was furious with himself for having destroyed the rucksacks. That had been a stupid mistake and was going to prove costly. Most particularly galling was having destroyed the PRC70 high-frequency radio. If there was one thing they should have taken, it was the radio. If the other helicopter had made it out — and there was no reason to think it didn't — then Trapp would have told Hossey they had destroyed the 70 on the pickup zone. Which meant the colonel would most likely not go with the backup plan to monitor the HF net.

Riley thought about that. Maybe the colonel would monitor the radio. Or if he didn't, maybe Trapp or someone else from the team would.

A tenet he and Mitchell had hammered into everyone on Team 3 was to always stick with a plan, even though the situation might appear hopeless. It was a slim chance at best.

By three in the afternoon they had progressed five kilometers from the crest and dropped almost two thousand feet in altitude. Riley called a halt and gratefully put down Olinski's makeshift stretcher. Riley knew that if he was this tired, everyone must be. He walked over to Mitchell, who was slumped against a rock. "How's it going, Mitch?"

Mitchell grinned weakly at Riley. "I could lie to you and say great, but I won't. Is good OK?"

Riley hated to see his team leader and the other members hurting so bad. He felt responsible.

Mitchell stirred. "Hey, I've been thinking. If we can get that transmitter working, you got any idea what to send?"

"Based on a map recon, I've tentatively picked an exfiltration pickup zone. It's about fifteen klicks ahead of us. As far as the radio goes, I'm not sure yet what frequency to send on."

Mitchell considered that. "If the other bird made it, Hossey'll know we burned the 70. There's no reason for him to get someone to monitor the guard net."

"I know," Riley responded. "I guess there's some sort of international distress band the pilot may know. Of course, the Chinese, North Koreans, and Russians will probably monitor that, too."

Mitchell looked his team sergeant in the eye. "Things aren't too positive, are they, Dave? I mean, I know you don't want to say it, but the rest of us aren't stupid. The transmitter is a hell of a long shot. Without any gear, we're going to be getting kind of hungry soon, to put it mildly, and cold. I definitely screwed up when I let us destroy all that equipment on the pickup zone. We should have taken some of it, particularly the 70, with us. That was a bad mistake. I let the team down."

Obviously, Mitchell had been thinking along the same lines as Riley. The team leader gingerly picked himself up and forced a grin. "Crying about it isn't going to do us any good, I guess." Mitchell looked at the other men sprawled around the halt area. "Hey, Comsky. I got first rights on cuddling up with you tonight when it gets chillish. I've always had a thing for short, ugly guys with real hairy bodies. Let's go, folks, time's a wasting."

Mitchell led the way as the rest of the team picked themselves off the ground and moved out. Mitchell's example shook Riley out of his apathy. He'd been getting too down. As long as they were alive, they had a chance.

Senior Lieutenant Wei was having fun. Any time he was allowed to fly, he had fun. At the moment, he was flying at sixty knots airspeed above the terrain. He kept his Z-9 at two hundred feet above ground level as he climbed into the mountains.

The air was thinner up here, and Wei had to apply extra power to keep his helicopter airborne. The Z-9 was the only rotary-wing aircraft the Chinese Air Force possessed other than the S-70s that could fly up here like he was doing. The French certainly knew how to build, he marveled. This helicopter was as good as anything the Russians had. Wei's ship was one of the thirty-five Z-9s the Chinese government had bought from Aerospatiale. The six in Wei's squadron had been modified into gunships with the addition of 7.62mm miniguns on either side.

Chinese Air Force pilots normally didn't get to fly often. Fuel and repair parts cost money. Wei knew that the recent American embargo on military equipment would eventually cause all the S-70s to be grounded for lack of repair parts. The French hadn't announced an embargo yet. Wei swooped down into a draw. He'd worry about that when it happened.

He wasn't sure what had caused the alert today, putting all the fly-able helicopters in the air. They'd just been told to look for an armed band of dissidents. The whole thing was very unusual. Especially the questioning by the political officer prior to takeoff. Wei and his fellow pilots had been forced to account for their whereabouts the previous evening. Wei didn't care what this was all about, as long as he got to put in more flying hours.

Wei's sector of search was this part of the mountain range southwest of Yanji. His unit of six helicopters from the 3d Aviation Regiment was working out of a forward base in Yanji. He had flown up the river out of Yanji and around the highest part of the mountains; now he would fly over the crest of the Changbai Mountains on his way back.

It was one of the more difficult sectors. Many of his fellow pilots didn't like flying the mountains. The winds were sometimes perilous. Wei enjoyed the challenge.

Another three or four kilometers and he would be over the crest, heading for home. It would be dark soon anyway. At this rate he'd make it back to base just as it got completely black. He was looking forward to a nice hot meal tonight.

Then he saw the burned area.

They were switching off carrying Olinski every twenty minutes now. Chong was scouting about fifty meters ahead, picking the easiest path for the team. The vegetation was growing thicker as they descended, but they still had to cross occasional open spots.

The men had just started across one of these spots when they heard the sound they'd been dreading — the beat of helicopter blades in the air. Riley tried to figure out what direction the sound was coming from, as he gestured for everyone to move faster.

They were halfway across. Hoffman and Comsky were walking as fast as they could with Olinski. Another seventy-five meters and they'd be under the cover of a stand of trees.

Riley had been peering downhill looking for the helicopter when it occurred to him to check behind. As he turned, he saw the Z-9 coming swiftly down the mountainside about three kilometers back.

An aircraft had gone down back there. Whatever it was had crashed and exploded, scorching the earth for more than a hundred meters in every direction. Wei had spent about five minutes flying over the site. There had been no place close by to land and investigate, so he turned and headed for the crest. Once he was over the top, he'd be able to radio in his report without the mountains in the way.

The engines were straining as the Z-9 crested the ridge. Wei slid over the top and, as he rapidly descended, keyed his radio.

"Let's go!" Riley yelled. Hoffman and Comsky started running awkwardly with the stretcher. Riley reached over and grabbed the pole nearest Comsky while Mitchell grabbed the other side. Together the four of them sprinted toward the tree line, followed closely by the pilot.

Chong had already reached the tree line. Resting the muzzle of his SAW on a tree branch, he started to take aim at the point where the helicopter should appear over the far tree line. It was getting closer.

They were ten meters from the tree line when C.J. lost his balance and fell. With his right arm in a sling, he'd had trouble running, and now he couldn't break his fall. He landed heavily on his broken arm.

The Z-9 came over the far tree line, flying only fifty feet above the ground. Chong sighted in on the cockpit and began applying pressure to the trigger.

Wei thought he saw something as he flew over the small open area. He keyed the intercom and asked his copilot and the crew chief in the back if they had seen anything. They replied negatively. Wei considered going back for a look, but the impending darkness and low fuel supply prompted him to continue on home.

The pain in his shattered arm was so intense that it caused C.J. to vomit. Riley and Comsky ran out and dragged him back into the tree line. Chong waited a second, then joined the rest of the team.

If the helicopter had made the slightest hostile move, Chong had been prepared to fire. He had spotted the miniguns hung on either side of the bird. Chong hadn't fired because he thought there was a chance that C.J. might not have been seen, and firing definitely would have given away their location. That decision appeared to be vindicated as the sound of the Chinese helicopter faded into the distance.

Riley had to look away as Comsky tore the splint off C.J.'s arm. The fall had turned the simple fracture into a compound one. Pieces of white bone stuck out of the skin in two places.

Comsky took off his jacket and wrapped it around the pilot. Then he tenderly started re wrapping the man's arm, using the last of his sterile bandages. C.J. screamed from the pain.

What the hell else is going to happen? Riley wondered.

Jean Long was eating her dinner in the dining room of the Page II Club when the news of the lost helicopter in the Sea of Japan was announced by the Armed Forces Korean Network (AFKN) news show. She watched the brief story on the large-screen TV in the corner of the dining room. The report didn't indicate what unit the aircraft was from, only that eight soldiers were known to be on board.

Jean shook her head. Wherever her husband was, she hoped he didn't see the report; he'd be sure to get on her case about how dangerous flying was. Over the past nine years, several of Jean's aviation acquaintances had been killed in various accidents. Every time a helicopter went down, it struck close to home.

Mitch had never asked her not to fly, probably because he knew how important it was to her. Thinking about her husband made her wonder where he was. It had been a week since he'd left and she hadn't heard a word. She knew better than to try to call Yongsan. If Mitch hadn't called her, that meant he was doing something classified.

As she finished her meal, Jean said a silent prayer for whoever had been in that aircraft. She hoped the pilots were no one she knew.

Hossey put on his beret and left his office. He had done all he could today in wrapping up loose ends from the mission. The hard part would come tomorrow. He got in his car and drove to the officers' club.

Walking into the pub, he spotted Jim Trapp and the other four healthy members of Team 3 sitting at a table in the corner. Dressed in clean uniforms they looked better than they had getting off the helicopter this morning, but as he drew close, Hossey noticed that their eyes were shadowed from fatigue and their faces were tight with anger and grief.

As Hossey approached their table he was intercepted by the club manager. "Sir, I see you're wearing the same patch as those men. Are they yours?"

"Yeah. Why?" Hossey bristled.

"Sir, some of them aren't officers, so we can't allow them in here. I asked them to leave, but they've ignored me. Perhaps you could tell them to leave."

Hossey glared at the civilian in front of him. "They can drink any goddamn place they want. If they choose to drink here then I think I'll join them. You going to kick me out, too?"

The manager backed away from the angry colonel, deciding he could overlook the isolated table in the corner. "No, sir."

"Thanks," Hossey said dryly. He walked over to his men. "Mind if I sit down?"

"All yours, sir." Jim Trapp pulled over another chair. The tabletop was littered with empty beer cans and shot glasses.

That's one way to deal with it, Hossey thought. Seems like a good one, too, right now. "How's O'Shaugnesy?"

Devito glanced up from his mug. "He's doing fine. Going to have some pretty ugly scars, though. They've got the infection under control. Should be able to fly him back to the States in about a week for recuperation."

Hossey looked at Lalli. "How's the leg, Paul?"

"A little stiff, sir, but other than that, it's OK."

He turned to Trapp next, who was obviously well on his way to a major drunk. "You going to be all right to travel with me tomorrow?"

Trapp glared at the colonel with bleary eyes. "Sure, sir. Just celebrating our successful mission, is all."

Hossey glanced around at the rest of the room. Nobody was paying them any attention. "I'm awfully sorry about those guys. If there was anything that could have been done to prevent it, or anything we could do now, you know I'd do it."

Trapp nodded slowly. His glare had been directed at the situation, not at the colonel. "I know that, sir. It's just that I've been doing this shit for more than twenty years now. I just don't know what the purpose is anymore. We lost some good men back there. Dave Riley was the best damn team sergeant I ever worked with. I don't know what he died for."

Hossey had to agree. "I don't know what he, or the rest of them, died for either. But I tell you one thing we can do. We can have a toast."

He raised his shot glass. The survivors of Team 3 all raised theirs.

Hossey said it for all of them: "To those we left behind."

The team's junior engineer, Smitty, looked up angrily. "Bullshit," he slurred. "Why are we kissing those guys off? We don't know for sure they're dead. Remember what top and the captain always said? Never quit on a plan. Always follow through, even though it looks like a waste of time. The plan, if someone wasn't exfilled, was to monitor the high frequency. How come we aren't doing it?"

Hossey felt tired. "Mister Trapp and I saw the imagery of the crash site. There was nothing in one piece on the ground. The helicopter must have disintegrated in midair. No one could have survived the explosion."

"Besides," Lalli added, "we torched the PRC70 on the pickup zone, Smitty. You know that. How the hell are they going to come up high frequency if they don't have an HF radio?"

Smith sank sullenly back in his chair.

Trapp stood up abruptly. "If you gentlemen would excuse me, I need to rack out to be prepared for the fun and games tomorrow." They watched as Trapp walked unsteadily out into the dark night.

The chilly night air slapped Trapp in the face as he scrunched his beret down on his head. He thought about what had been said inside. He turned and looked at the stars.

To those we left behind, Trapp thought. I agree with Smitty. Bullshit.

General Yang was upset. It had taken the idiots in the 3d Aviation Regiment five hours to get the information concerning the crash site to his office. He turned to his chief of staff, Colonel Tugur, who had just had the unfortunate responsibility of relaying the late information. "Obviously, the fool in command of that unit needs help. This information should have been here hours ago. First thing tomorrow we must search the wreckage. Maybe we will find the bodies of our so-called terrorists. But maybe some of those terrorists survived the crash and are even now still in the area."

Yang looked at the dark features of the Mongol officer. It was difficult for someone of Tugur's ethnic background to make such a high rank as colonel in the Chinese Army. But Yang appreciated and rewarded ruthless efficiency and competence. Tugur excelled in both areas. He was the right man for this job.

"You will fly out tomorrow morning to personally supervise the search down there. Arrange for your plane to depart at first light."