Dancing with the Dragon

Chapter 18

Hartwell Prost was waiting when Jackie and Scott were ushered into a private dining room. He rose to greet them and then seated Jackie. "I thought we might like some privacy."

Scott unfolded his napkin. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Only a couple of minutes," Prost said, reaching for his coffee.

They ordered breakfast and coffee, and then Hartwell gave them a brief update on the clashes in Panama and in the Yellow Sea. He also told them about the de Havilland RC-7 reconnaissance plane that was shot down.

Hartwell looked at Jackie. "She managed to ditch the airplane without injuring any of her crew. A helicopter from the Washington battle group picked them up and flew them to the carrier. They'll be going to the Pentagon for a debriefing."

"What's the situation in the Korean standoff?" Scott asked.

"Not good. We're going to move two more AG130 Spectre gunships to South Korea, and we have eleven B-52s and a squadron of F-15E Strike Eagles getting ready to deploy to Asia. Fourteen F-15Cs from the 3d Fighter Wing at Elmendorf will also join the buildup."

The conversation continued in the same vein for another couple of minutes before Scott turned to Prost. "We've decided to give your plan a try, but we have some questions."

Hartwell's face reflected his relief. "Good — that's great. First, let me tell you what I know as of fifteen minutes ago. The Chen Ziyang changed course about three hours after the other ship went to the bottom. From what we can tell, and it's an educated guess, the ship is returning to Chinese waters — probably to its home port."

Jackie and Scott didn't reveal how surprised they were. The cargo ship's change in course negated their original plan of action.

"Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of time to set this up — to keep you and the operation in a cocoon."

"We're going to have to use the navy," Scott surmised.

"That's right. I think the best way to do this is to use Stennis as the staging point, but that's up to you."

After a brief glance at each other, Scott and Jackie nodded in agreement.

"That sounds like a good platform to operate from," Dalton said. "It gives us lots of options and support."

Hartwell's enthusiasm was growing. "As soon as I pass the word to the president that you're on board, Stennis will make a slight course change to close on the Chinese ship."

"We can use the COD to get out to the carrier," Jackie suggested, referring to the twin turboprop Grumman C-2A Greyhound. The "carrier onboard delivery" aircraft was a mainstay for carrier operations.

Scott was thinking ahead. "Since the COD's ramp can be opened in flight, we can also use it to make the drop."

"That's perfect," Jackie said. "And we can use one of the carrier's Seahawks to pick you up after the operation."

"I've already made the arrangements," Hartwell said, pleased with his plan. "The COD is being fitted with a ferry tank."

"You're way ahead of us," Scott said. "What about a cover?"

"Standard boiler plate. Jackie will be on the manifest as a navy lieutenant commander — you as a Marine major. Your uniforms will be ready by late this afternoon."

Hartwell unfolded his napkin on his lap. "The crew of the COD will be thoroughly briefed before you leave the carrier. They won't know why you're jumping out in the middle of the night in the middle of the Pacific, and they'll be told to forget any questions they might have."

"And me?" Jackie asked feeling left out of the equation. "Is there anything I can do after we get to the carrier?"

"Besides flying jets, you also fly helicopters, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever flown a Seahawk?"

"No, sir."

"Well, this morning is probably a good time to get checked out as a copilot. I'll set it up and you can fly all day if you want to. You can get copilot qualified and be aboard the extraction helicopter."

"Sounds great."

"Both of you think about it. If you have any other ideas, let me know."

"When do we go to the carrier?" Scott asked.

"Tomorrow morning, oh-two-hundred. The COD will have enough fuel to reach the carrier or divert to Hawaii if the plane has a problem or can't land on the ship for some reason."

"Ah, there's just one small hitch," Scott said.

Hartwell's smile disappeared. "And what would that be?"

"My custom-built chutes, wet suit, and other items are in our spare bedroom at home."

"Not a problem," Prost said with a smile. "I'll have one of the guys at the Agency let himself into your place, and then I'll have it all flown out to you by this evening. Okay?"

"Let's do it," Scott said, and then chuckled. "No doubt about it, you have the magic touch."

"Call me, the sooner the better, when you work out the logistics. I want whatever you need flown out to the carrier, then we'll get you out there as soon as we can."

Scott was already reformulating his plan to parachute onto the deck of Chen Ziyang. "We'll call you on your way back to Washington."

"I look forward to it," Hartwell said, falling silent when their breakfast was brought into the room. He waited until they were alone, then looked at Scott. "The president will be very appreciative."

"Let's just hope we can pull this off."

Scott was mentally rehearsing the drop. He was carefully analyzing all the possible problems that might arise when a loud knock on the door startled him. He checked his watch and walked to the door. He was surprised to see that it was almost 1900.

Scott was greeted by a straight-faced second lieutenant of Marines who had two huge nylon bags containing everything that had been in Dalton's spare bedroom. Everything, that is, except the furniture.

"Thanks, Lieutenant," Scott said, taking custody of the heavy, bulky green bags.

"You're welcome, sir," the squared-away officer replied, and returned to his car.

Scott was in the process of sorting through the second bag when Jackie showed up with her SH-60F Seahawk flight instructor, navy lieutenant David Finchly. They were still in their flight suits.

The muscular lieutenant commander — select was a rugged-looking former college wrestler. Introductions were made while Scott worked on his gear and invited everyone to have a seat.

"Dave is going with us," Jackie said. "He'll be piloting the Sea-hawk."

"Welcome aboard, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dave's a NATOPS check pilot, and he has two carrier cruises under his belt, so we're in good shape."

"We can use all of the experience we can get," Scott said, tossing one of his parachutes on the couch. "Is Hartwell in the loop on this?"

"Sure, he's the one who arranged it."

"Good." Scott turned to Finchly. "Dave, how much do you know about this operation?"

"Only that Jackie and I will be plucking you from the water at night. Other than that I don't care to know anything else."

"That's a good answer. Have the two of you had dinner?"

"We had a snack," Jackie said. "We're going to get in some night flying, then pack our gear. We'll see you around one-thirty."

"I'll be there."

"Would you like to ride along this evening?" Finchly politely asked.

"I'd like to," Scott said, and motioned toward his parachutes and assorted gear, "but I'm going to have to sort through some things."

Finchly could tell by the parachutes, small portable oxygen tanks and masks, wet suits, and assorted gear that Scott and Jackie were involved in some type of covert special-operations mission.

"Okay, we'll see you later."

After Jackie and Dave left, Scott inspected his custom-designed black parachute. The special rectangular ramair canopy allowed him to maintain a high degree of control and accuracy after a precision free fall.

When he had everything neatly organized, Scott placed the rest of his equipment and various other items in one of the nylon bags. He would leave it in the Learjet that was being guarded by the navy SEALs. Satisfied that he was prepared for the difficult operation, he went to the officers' club for dinner and a cold beer.

After a short delay for a mechanical problem to be corrected, the C-2A Greyhound lifted off the runway at 0226 and banked toward the Pacific Ocean. The VRC-30 Provider's logistics support COD contained a ferry fuel tank, miscellaneous aircraft parts, snail mail, and six passengers, including Jackie, Scott, David Finchly, two sailors, and a navy commander.

Wearing the uniform of a navy lieutenant commander, Jackie made herself as comfortable as possible and closed her eyes. Exhausted after flying most of the day and part of the night, she quickly fell into a deep sleep. The sailors opened a worn deck of cards and the commander relaxed with a paperback.

Scott turned to Dave Finchly. "How did you get involved in aviation?"

"I didn't have an option." He chuckled. "Our family has had avgas or jet fuel in our veins since my great-grandfather on my mother's side flew Pan Am flying boats — Clippers — around the Pacific back in the 1930s."

"No kidding?"

"It's true. He was a captain, but they didn't go by that rank. They were Masters of Ocean Flying Boats — the Skygods. Our family has run the gamut from barnstormers to navy carrier pilots to crop dusters to airline pilots."

Scott leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "The depth of our family's aviation history dates back only to Vietnam. My dad was a Marine fighter pilot who got shot down once, but he lived through two tours and retired a number of years ago."

"Jackie told me that you flew in the Marines."

"That's right — Harriers."

A few minutes later Dave and Scott joined Jackie in a peaceful sleep as the Greyhound leveled off for the long flight to the USS Stennis.

The sunlight awakened Scott when the COD began its gentle descent to rendezvous with the carrier battle group. Dave Finchly was already awake and Jackie was stretching her arms over her head. The rest of the passengers were still asleep.

"How'd you sleep?" Scott asked Jackie.

"Like I was comatose."

"Same here — it must be the stress."

"Stress — what stress?" She quietly chuckled.

The Greyhound pilots had been given a "Charlie" on arrival (permission to land) and were making a long straight-in approach to Stennis. Shortly after the wing flaps and landing gear were lowered, the aircraft commander called the ball — the Fresnel optical landing system that displays visual glide slope information to the pilot — and began the final descent to the flight deck. The C-2A landed with a resounding thud and came to a very sudden stop. The COD would remain on board the carrier for Scott's mission.

After Jackie, Scott, and Dave deplaned, two young officers helped the trio carry their bags to their private staterooms. They stowed their luggage and the threesome went to the wardroom to have breakfast. Later Scott met with the COD pilots to go over every aspect of the hazardous night drop.

When he was finished, Scott joined Dave and Jackie to brief the helicopter extraction. They went over every detail and every contingency, playing devil's advocate about timing, fuel limits, radio calls, and emergencies. Afterward they had a late lunch and retired to their quarters to get some much-needed sleep.

Scott turned off the lights and sprawled on his back. Staring into the darkness, he replayed every move and every second of the jump and the extraction, at least the way it was supposed to happen. The part that bothered him the most was the unknown factor between the jump and the helicopter pickup. He knew that period in time would be a crapshoot.

Surrounded by her escort ships, the supercarrier steamed smoothly on the pleasantly calm ocean. Overhead a pale moon cast a faint shadow of light over the flight deck of Stennis. The Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate USS Ford had been dispatched earlier to cruise closer to the Chinese cargo ship Chen Ziyang. One of the frigate's two SH-60B Seahawks had been flown to the carrier to make room for Lieutenant Finchly's rescue helicopter if it ran low on fuel or had other problems.

At precisely 0100 Finchly lifted the HH-60H Seahawk from the dark flight deck of the carrier and headed southwest toward the Chen Ziyang. The H version of the Seahawk is the navy's combatsearch-and-rescue (CSAR) helicopter assigned to carriers.

In the left seat of the HS-8 Eightballers helicopter, copilot Jackie Sullivan worked the radios and kept a running plot on the Chinese cargo ship. Information about the exact location of the Chen Ziyang was continuously updated from spacecraft and reconnaissance aircraft and passed to the Seahawk, call sign Black Shadow Six.

In the back of the helicopter the rescue swimmer and the other crewman looked at each other with blank stares. They had never met the mysterious pilots before. According to the aviators they were on a mission to pick up a man who had fallen off a cruise ship.

Both aircrewmen were handpicked senior petty officers. They were seasoned enough to know something strange was going on but smart enough not to ask any questions.

Ten minutes after the Seahawk took off, the C-2A Greyhound taxied to the port bow catapult. Strapped into his rear-facing seat, Scott Dalton braced himself when the twin turboprops came up to full power. The entire aircraft shook, rumbled, and vibrated for what seemed like an eternity, then kaab000m, the airplane blasted down the catapult track.

Hanging in his straps, Scott felt the familiar deceleration when the COD went off the bow and began climbing. The landing gear was raised and the flaps were retracted. The boxy Greyhound accelerated and began climbing on a southwesterly course to the jump altitude of twenty-eight thousand feet.

Scott slipped out of his Marine uniform and began getting dressed for his jump. He donned a black wet suit, extra-thick neoprene booties, an assault knife on his lower left leg, and tucked his 9mm Sig Sauer into a compact nylon holster strapped to his right thigh.

Next came two small waterproof cameras in a special pouch attached to his left thigh and two radios in a container on his lower right leg. Finally, Scott wriggled into his black custom-made parachute and black reserve chute. Last came the multigrip gloves, a black helmet, a wristwatch-sized altimeter, and a small oxygen tank and mask. Due to the buoyancy of the wet suit and the salt water, he wouldn't need a life preserver or life raft.

Scott waddled to the cockpit and conferred with the pilots. Both aviators were friendly, quiet, and nonchalant about the mission, knowing this was a hush-hush operation. The pilots were getting continuous updates on the target's position. The wind was light and they were going to try to be in a position two miles in front of the cargo ship when they gave Scott the signal to jump.

The cargo ship cruised slowly in smooth waters three hundred miles north of Honolulu, Hawaii. Two crewmen stood on the main deck amidships and lighted American-made cigarettes. The balmy sea breeze reminded them of port calls in Hawaii, especially the visits to Zhang Wen-cheng's house and her young, nubile Chinese girls.

Basic seamen in a crew of officers, scientists, and engineers, the two deckhands performed manual duties and stood watches with the armed guards. At thirty-minute intervals, one of the men would walk around the outside of the ship while the other sailor patrolled the interior spaces and cargo areas.

After twenty-five minutes, the two would gather at the same spot on the main deck and have another cigarette break. Like a broken record, they continued their ongoing complaints about their bosses, their meager salaries, and their working conditions. It was their way of life, no different at sea than in port.

Three minutes before his jump, Scott made his way to the back of the Greyhound and sat down near the loading ramp. The pilots turned off the interior and exterior lights, and then concentrated on following the GPS readouts as precisely as they could. Between the spacecraft and the recon planes, the exact location of Chen Ziyang was known within six to nine feet of her actual position.

After Scott and the flight crew went on oxygen, the pilots depressurized the cabin and lowered the cargo ramp. With one minute to go, Scott carefully walked to the open ramp. He pulled his clear goggles down and rechecked all of his parachute fittings. A crewman tapped him on the shoulder, signaling that they had reached the jump coordinates.

Scott bent forward and took two long strides, plummeting from twenty-eight thousand feet into the dark night sky. He could barely discern where the sky met the coal-black water. Once he was stabilized in a facedown, spread-eagle position, he began searching for the running lights of the Chen Ziyang. Knowing the basic design of the ship, Scott wanted to land near the open fantail of the bulk cargo carrier. Landing on the bow of the vessel would expose him to the crewmen manning the bridge.

From the information Hartwell Prost had given him, he knew the bridge was slightly aft of midship and that the vessel had two aft holds and two forward holds intended for general cargo. Twin risers resembling king posts served as stacks. The ship had a variety of standard booms and two high-capacity booms, one forward and the other aft.

On board the Chen Ziyang, the sailor walking around the exterior of the ship never heard the C-2A Greyhound. He walked slowly, listening to the sounds of the ocean and stopped to look at the luminescent bow wave. Although he and his shipmates constantly complained about their lives at sea, he loved being on the ocean and smelling the fresh breeze.

Passing twelve thousand feet, Scott still hadn't located the running lights of the Chen Ziyang. It was an uncomfortable, anxious feeling. He was beginning to think the information the pilots had received was wrong. He took off his oxygen mask and tossed it and the portable bottle into the black night.

Where is it? Scott thought as he fell through nine thousand feet. The altimeter was unwinding at an alarming rate and he had to make a decision. If he couldn't locate the ship by five thousand feet, he needed to pop his chute to give himself more time to search for the vessel. Concentrate. Don't screw this up.

Eight thousand feet.

Where is it?

Seven thousand feet.

"Son of a bitch."

Six thousand feet.

Scott gripped the rip cord and started to yank at the same instant he saw a ship. He hesitated, thinking it was a cruise liner. No, a cruise ship wouldn't be three hundred miles north of Hawaii.

Five thousand feet.

Scott waited, but there wasn't much time.

Four thousand feet.

It has to be the cargo ship. He spotted a wake and then running lights. Ah, twin risers — got it.

Three thousand.

Slightly ahead and to the left of Chen Ziyang, Scott waited a moment and then pulled the rip cord. The chute opened with a soft report and he began his approach to the fantail. Dalton could clearly see the name of the ship. He let out a sigh of relief. I'm almost there.

The sailor standing on the starboard side of the bow was startled by the soft, muffled sound. He looked around and didn't see anything suspicious. More curious than alarmed, he began walking toward the stern of the ship. The man wondered if he'd really heard something or whether his imagination was getting the best of him. He grinned, thinking about his shipmates. They constantly kidded him about being hard of hearing whenever there was work to be done.

Playing it cautiously, Scott approached the ship with plenty of altitude. The last thing he wanted to do was come up short and land in the water aft of the cargo vessel. At four hundred feet he could see the details of the deck reasonably well. He approached from amidships and made a very tight 180-degree turn high and close to the fantail. If he overshot, he could bleed off altitude quickly and hit the deck from an almost vertical position.

Scott completed his turn at a hundred fifty feet and focused on the spot where he intended to land. He had a nice approach going, controlling his descent with judicious use of his parachute risers. At seventy feet, Scott was about to begin his flare when he saw a sailor walking onto the fantail. Stunned, he made a split-second decision.

Keeping up his speed, he brought his knees up and steered straight at the unsuspecting crewman. As silent as a whisper, Scott extended his legs in front of him and slammed into the sailor with the force of four men. The blow knocked the wind out of the crewman and literally lifted him off his feet. He staggered backward and fell over the side of the ship, landing in the churning wake.

Feeling the effects of the collision, Scott quickly got to his feet and slipped out of his parachute. He threw it and the reserve chute overboard along with his helmet and goggles.

He did a quick check to make sure the cameras and the radios were okay. Scott then began looking for a passageway leading to the cargo holds. On his third try, he found a ladder leading to the aft cargo holds. To his surprise he could see, although the light was dim, that the holds contained nothing more than general cargo and some containers of oil.

Scott retraced his path and went up to the main deck. Quietly and cautiously, he worked his way toward the bow and found another ladder, leading to the forward cargo holds. As soon as he saw the giant laser and associated equipment, Scott knew he had hit pay dirt.

He took a moment to study the sophisticated equipment. The two brightly lighted cargo holds had been revamped to allow the laser-based weapon and the attached holographic image-projection apparatus to be hydraulically raised to the main deck.

The complex mechanism, along with the enclosed control console, was well built and mounted to a thick steel plate with six hydraulic arms. It reminded him of the platforms used for flight simulators.

Scott quickly removed one of his waterproof cameras from the pouch and began snapping pictures. He moved rapidly, photographing everything in the combined holds, including the laser with a warning sign in the background. The sign was in Chinese, as were the warning plaques on the control console and on the door.

Dalton was in the process of using the second camera when a sailor walked out of a passageway and almost stumbled into him. The Chinese crewman was thunderstruck. Panic flashed across his face.