Dragon Sim-13 (6 page)

Since his arrival, Olinski had maintained a reputation as a quiet but extremely competent intelligence sergeant. His knowledge of Soviet and Warsaw Pact armies and security forces came from more than just books. He also had his personal childhood experiences to draw on.

Olinski looked his name, with a broad Slavic face and tall lanky body. Besides the usual Polish jokes, Olinski was often the butt of other younger, and less experienced, team members' jibes for his willingness to be miserable when there might be an easier way out. In the Rangers, Olinski had learned to ignore the pain and discomfort that hard, realistic training entailed. This hard-core quality endeared the man to Riley, who was fond of saying that pain was weakness leaving the body.

Riley watched as Olinski lowered his body into the chilly mountain stream. This was the price one had to pay to be good, Riley thought. The easy way got you killed. With the rope tied around his waist, and his M16A2 held overhead, Olinski sidestroked to the far bank, being careful not to swallow water. Any water in the Korean countryside was extremely suspect: pollution and the Korean way of fertilizing fields with human waste ensured that. In his dripping uniform Olinski anchored the rope around a tree, then turned to provide far bank security.

Hoffman enlisted the aid of three other team members and they anchored the near end of the rope on a tree, then tightened it down as much as possible. Hoffman hooked Olinski's and his own rucksack onto the rope with snap links and started across. The natural stretch of the rope made the center section of the bridge sag so that Hoffman's head went underwater briefly, but he pulled himself over quickly. One by one, the rest of the team followed.

Sending his ruck over with Devito, Riley remained until last. He untied the near bank rope and swam it over. On the far bank, he coiled the rope and hung it on the outside of his ruck as the team moved out to cover the last kilometer back to their pickup point. When they reached the road junction where the truck was supposed to be, Riley sighed as he saw nothing there. He was too tired to get angry. Typical, he thought. He knew it would show up sooner or later. Between Hooker and Mitchell at the Operations Shop, one of the two would get things rolling.

Riley missed Mitchell. The captain had been Riley's team leader for sixteen months before moving up to the DET-K S-3 slot. Riley had enjoyed working with someone who was competent and also willing to learn. During those sixteen months, Riley had imparted as much knowledge as he could to Mitchell, and at the same time learned a few things himself. They had split the chore of running the team in an efficient manner.

The two had formed an extremely close professional and personal bond during their time together. Because of that bond, Team 3 had become what all Special Forces teams should be but few achieve: twelve individuals welded into an effective, cohesive fighting force. The team worked and played together. The Mobile Training Team (MTT) mission to Australia, six months ago, culminating in a successful joint training mission with the Australian Special Air Services (SAS), had put a fine edge on Team 3—an edge that Riley saw the new team leader threatening.

Besides the professional aspect, Riley enjoyed Mitchell's company and had even learned to like the captain's wife, although Riley questioned the idea of women in the army. He also didn't understand why she had kept her own last name, but he figured that was none of his business, and he knew that if he mentioned it, Captain Long would make that very clear to him. She was one of the most stubborn and self-reliant persons Riley had ever met. Riley and Jean Long had a mutual but wary respect for each other that was beginning to become a friendship.

Riley steeled himself as Captain Peterson came over and sat down next to him. Riley was tired, hungry, and wet. Add the lack of transportation, and he was in no mood to deal with a petulant captain.

Peterson wasted no time on small talk. "Sergeant Riley, I did not appreciate the way you talked to me at the cache site."

Riley stood and gestured for the officer to follow him. He wasn't about to argue in front of the rest of the team. Riley led the captain to the other side of the road.

"Yes, sir. I can understand that. But to be honest I don't appreciate the way you've been treating me this past week. You haven't listened to my advice nor have you tried to seek it out. If we're going to work together, then you have to work with me. I'm willing to work with you."

Peterson didn't seem to be buying it. "I'm the commander of this team. If you can't go along with that, then I'm going to have to do something about it and go to the colonel."

Riley shook his head in wonderment at the captain's lack of common sense. "Sir, there's no need to get Colonel Hossey involved. I think you might find that's not so smart. He's not going to move people around just because they don't get along. I realize I can be kind of mule headed sometimes, but you need to realize where the expertise on this team lies. I've got ten years of Special Forces experience. There's a bunch more experience sitting across the road in the heads of the other enlisted people on this team." Riley turned and looked the young captain in the eyes. "You have six months of schooling and two weeks in country."

Peterson looked at Riley steadily for a few seconds, then walked away. Riley rubbed his eyes; he was getting a headache. He looked up as he heard the roar of a truck headed their way.

A U.S. Army two-and-a-half-ton truck rolled down the one-lane dirt farm road toward them. Riley stepped out in the road as the truck pulled over. He hid his smile as Captain Mitchell got out of the passenger side of the cab. "Where was our helicopter? And why the hell is the truck late?"

Mitchell flicked a half salute toward Riley. "Nice to see you too, Sergeant First Class Riley." Mitchell looked up at the sky. He pointed at a wisp of a cloud floating above the jagged peaks of the ridgeline to the south. "See that cloud? That's why the helicopter didn't fly. As far as the truck goes, I decided to do some sight-seeing on the way down. Took some beautiful pictures of a rice paddy."

"Keep it up, asshole," Riley grumbled as he signaled for the team to load their rucks on the truck. "The chutes are about fifteen k's that-a-way, right off the DZ. Hopefully some Korean farmer hasn't found them by now and used them to make four thousand new shirts."

Mitchell turned as Peterson came up. "Got room in the cab for me?"

Mitchell hesitated, looking briefly at Riley, then back at his fellow officer. "How about you navigate the driver up to where the chutes are cached and I'll ride in the back? We'll go to the target and recover the demo after we get the chutes." Peterson nodded and walked to the front of the truck.

"Looks like you two are getting along great," Mitchell whispered to Riley as they headed to the rear to join the rest of the team.

"He'd better pull his head out of his butt, Mitch," Riley muttered. Then, out of earshot of the team, he turned to Mitchell. "You believe the little shit actually has threatened to go to Colonel Hossey and complain about me?"

Mitchell could see that Riley was upset, so he answered seriously. "Yeah, well, if he does that, the Old Man will smoke him like a cheap cigar."

Riley shook his head, not so sure. "I'm getting tired of dealing with you officers. He's even dumber than you were," Riley said, smiling to show that he was getting over his anger. "Maybe it's easier to join than fight, and I'll go get my warrant after all."

Mitchell laughed. "You'd be part of the enemy then." He grabbed Olinski's outstretched hand, pulling him up into the truck. Looking at the familiar faces of Team 3, he felt a wave of sadness that he was no longer part of the team.

Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 2 June, 0400 Zulu Thursday, 1 June, 11:00 p.m. Local

Meng put aside his work every half hour to listen to the latest CNN report regarding the situation in Tiananmen Square. He wasn't sure what to make of the unsubstantiated reports of fighting between elements of the 38th Army and the 27th Army on the outskirts of Beijing. He could well believe that the 38th had turned back, refusing to enter the city to crush the students. The majority of the conscripts in the 38th were from the Beijing area and were probably sympathetic to the students.

Meng looked through one of the classified Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) reports on the makeup of the Chinese Army. He could see why the 27th Army had been brought in. It was from the Nei Monggol Military District, which meant that the soldiers in that army would have little in common with the students in the square.

Meng sensed that the tinder and firewood were all piled up in Tiananmen Square waiting for the match. It was just a matter of time before it was ignited. He said a silent prayer before turning back to his work.

Chongyangni Train Station, Seoul, Korea Friday, 2 June, 0720 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 4:20 p.m. Local

Mitchell scrunched up in his seat as the old Korean lady sat down next to him and jammed her large bundle between them. Mitchell smiled at her. She looked back passively for a moment, then turned her attention elsewhere.

It was a two-hour train ride from Seoul to ChunChon, where Mitchell's wife was stationed. They had come to Korea about eighteen months ago on a joint assignment. Korea was normally a short tour of one year for soldiers because it was unaccompanied, meaning that families and spouses stayed behind in the States. When Jean had gotten orders for an unaccompanied tour to Korea, Mitchell had volunteered to go over also so they could be together. In exchange, the army, which didn't know the meaning of the words good deal, lengthened their respective tours to two years.

As Mitchell reflected on it, he thought they might have been better off with Jean going on the short tour and him staying back in the States. For the first sixteen months in country Mitchell had been commander of Team 3; Jean had worked in the 17th Aviation Brigade headquarters at Yongsan. During that time, despite being stationed at the same post, they had seen little of each other. Mitchell had been gone more than 50 percent of the time on field training exercises and deployments around the Orient. Then, just two months ago, when he had finally moved up to staff, which meant he would have less field time, his wife had been offered command of an aviation company. Only it was in the 309th Aviation Battalion of the 17th Aviation Regiment, stationed up in ChunChon about ninety kilometers northeast of Seoul.

Jean had needed a command in an aviation unit and this was the only one available in her specialty, which was aircraft maintenance. She'd had little choice but to accept the job. Although the position was professionally rewarding for her, the separation made both of them miserable. She worked almost every weekend to keep up with the demands of being a company commander, on top of her duties as maintenance test pilot. Since she had taken the command, they had gotten to see each other for only about half of any weekend.

As the train pulled out of Chongyangni Station, Mitchell was contemplating the prospect of another eleven years in the army under such intolerable conditions. He already had nine years in, but somehow, ever since he and Jean had gotten married, an army career just didn't seem that bright any more. He knew that as they both reached higher rank, the number of jobs would become more limited. Therefore, opportunities for them to be assigned together would also be more difficult to find. It was a trade-off he wasn't sure he wanted to make.

Mitchell decided to squelch his negative thoughts and occupy himself more productively. A Korean girl of about three or four was peering at him over the seatback. Mitchell knew that his short blond hair and occidental facial features made him stand out to the Koreans. He stuck out his tongue and she promptly grabbed her mother and pointed at him, yelling excitedly, "Mi-Guk, Mi-Guk"—American.

Mitchell feigned surprise and pointed back at the little girl, saying, "Han-Guk, Han-Guk"—Korean. The girl squealed and stuck out her tongue at Mitchell. The old lady, next to Mitchell, smiled and said something to the mother. The mother passed the girl back to the old lady, who perched the child on top of her bundle on the seat. The rest of Mitchell's train ride was spent entertaining the young girl with a variety of facial distortions and pidgin Korean.

Camp Page, ChunChon, Korea Friday, 2 June, 0800 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 5:00 p.m. Local

Captain Jean Long was presently six thousand feet above ChunChon conducting a test flight of an OH-58 helicopter. The aircraft had just finished phase maintenance, and it was important to make sure that everything had been put back together correctly.

She sat in the right-hand seat, and a young lieutenant, new to the battalion, sat in the left. Jean liked taking up new lieutenants fresh out of flight school for test flights. It opened their eyes to what was required to check out a helicopter before it could be flown on missions. Sometimes line pilots treated their helicopters like toys, with little consideration for the amount of maintenance needed to keep them flying.

She was getting ready to do one of the more interesting tests. Slowly rolling off the throttle, she watched her N-l indicator until the engine clutch disengaged. The rotor blades, no longer powered by the engine, began to autorotate. That meant the blades were turning free, slowing the aircraft's descent as it plummeted without power. This was an emergency procedure normally used in case of engine failure. Jean knew that the young pilot next to her had done maybe three or four autorotations during flight school. As a maintenance test pilot, she did them almost every day.

She watched as the altimeter unwound, briefly checking the lieutenant out of the corner of her eye. She could tell that he wanted to grab the controls and get the aircraft back under power. She waited until she was sure that the helicopter was working satisfactorily, then slowly increased throttle, slowing the descent. Bringing the aircraft to a hover, she then began the approach to the airstrip at Camp Page. Carefully maneuvering the helicopter down the flight line, she slipped in between two parked Blackhawk helicopters and touched the skids lightly to the ground.