Threat Level Black (12 page)

The MC-130 banked hard to the right, its wingtips coming within a few meters of the hillside. Turbulence off the rift in the earth pushed the aircraft downward, threatening disaster; the pilot had only a few feet to work with as he slipped the big four-engined craft through a hole in the North Korean air defenses. All the high-tech radar detectors and GPS locators in the world couldn’t overcome the basic laws of gravity and motion, and as the Hercules came through the narrow mountain pass the success of the mission and the lives of two dozen passengers and crew came down to the reflexes of the man at the helm, a veteran Air Force pilot who had passed up a parcel of supposedly better assignments to stay with the Herky birds and the Special Operations soldiers who relied on them.

Back in the cargo hold of the plane, Tyler waited with his team members as the plane stuttered over the terrain. He checked his watch. They had about ten more minutes of flying time before they would reach the drop zone. He knew from experience those would be among the longest minutes of his life.

And the shortest.

He’d been right to insist on the assignment, and lucky to get it.

Of course, if they augered in right now, he’d be neither. The plane’s nose bucked downward and the entire craft seemed to shift to the right, leaving Tyler temporarily hovering in space. His momentum caught up with that of the plane’s a second later, and he felt his boots slap against the metal decking. His stomach sloshed up somewhere around his gallbladder, then pressed against his lungs.

He’d made the right choice. Definitely.

“Almost there!” he shouted confidently to the rest of the team. “Almost there.”

The canopy exploded above him, its cells ripped open by the rushing wind. Tyler fought not so much to control the parachute but to control himself: He had a tendency to pull too sharply on the steering togs.

He could see the others nearby. Good chutes.

He wanted the ground but couldn’t see it. He waited, the hardest thing.

Where the hell was it?

The plane had to crisscross back overhead, flying an extremely narrow corridor where the North Koreans couldn’t find it on radar. A mile either way and not only would it be shot down but Duke and the twenty-two people who’d come out with him would be hung out to dry.

So where the hell was the ground already?

Tyler saw shadows and braced himself, trying simultaneously to relax and brace for the landing at the same time.

It didn’t come. It wouldn’t.

Too fucking long. A lot of guys wanted the jump to go on forever, or so they said; he was always anxious for it to end.

He was off balance now, unsure what the hell was going on.

More shadows. He braced again.

Nothing.

And then the ruck thumped behind him. His right leg touched down a millisecond before the left; he screwed it up, lost his balance, fell to the right instead of walking off like a champ. If this were a training film he’d be the shitful example, tumbling onto the ground, the idiot who did everything wrong, got his head messed up, doubted the equipment, dragged along on the ground as the chute inflated with the wind.

His fingers fumbled against the restraint snaps.

He was eating dirt. His face bashed against the rocks.

Three months in Washington and I’m this far out of it?

Tyler ignored the bumps and bruises, rolling up his chute and trying to hide the damage to his ego.

The team leaders quickly gathered their men together. Besides eighteen Army Special Forces soldiers—one and a half A teams—they’d taken along two Air Force air commandos with special training so they could refuel the aircraft if necessary. They also had two CIA people with them, a female officer and a native Korean agent, who could provide assistance as well. The agent had some familiarity with the terrain and would be useful in case things went very wrong; had the CIA version of the plan been approved, they’d have been here alone.

Tyler wasn’t the only one who had trouble landing. One of the soldiers had broken his arm but insisted he could travel. Tyler’s first call was whether to let him or not.

An easy call: The man could still walk.

“You’re with us,” said the major. “All right, let’s move out.”

He checked his AK-47. The team had been equipped with Korean weapons and uniforms; most of the men had Asian backgrounds and they might be able to at least temporarily fool an enemy patrol.

Temporarily.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” repeated Tyler. “We have twenty miles to travel tonight.”

HELLO AMANDA

R
ECEIVED YOUR INSTRUCTIONS
. T
HANK YOU
! I
WILL GO TO THE AIRFIELD EVERY NIGHT STARTING TONIGHT
.

S
TILL NOT BEING GUARDED
.

I
HAVE PRAYED TO BE DELIVERED
. I
LONG TO LIVE IN FREEDOM
. G
OD BLESS YOU FOR YOUR HELP
.

---------------- Headers ---------------

Return-Path:

Received: from rly-xc04.mx.aol.com (rly-xc04.mail.
aol.com [172.20.105.137]) by air-xc02.mail.aol.com (v93.12) with ESMTP id MAILINXC23-3f873ec520
e528b; Wed, 19 March 2008 13:33:25-0400

Received: from mail.simon.com (mail.simon.com [66.43.82.172]) by rly-xc04.mx.aol.com (v93.12) with ESMTP id MAILRELAYINXC48-e43ec520cf1bf; March 2008 13:33:03 -0400

Received: from mdcms001.simon.com (ss-exch-smtp.simon. com [172.30.65.47])

by mail.simon.com (AIX4.3/8.9.3p2/8.9.3) with ESMTP id NAA96516

for ; March 2008 13:37:33 -0400 Received: by mdcms001.chuster.com with Internet Mail Service (5.5.2653.19)

id ; May 2008 13:33:03 -0400

Message-ID:

MIME-Version: 1.0

X-Mailer: Internet Mail Service (5.5.2653.19)

Content-Type: multipart/alternative;

boundary=”——

_=_NextPart_001_01C31BD1.3326EE10”

From the outside, the Berkut looked like a Sukhoi with its wings on backward.

From the inside, it felt like a splinter that could change directions in the wink of God’s eye.

The other man who had flown the plane compared it to a lighter, longer F/A-18; one of the engineers who’d been in the backseat thought it closer to an ancient F-104 Starfighter that could maneuver like an A-10A Warthog. Howe had flown the F/A-18 only once (it was a Navy plane) and had never sat in the cockpit of the Starfighter, which was retired long before he had joined the service. He’d also never flown an A-10A. His main comparison was therefore the heavily modified F-16 that he’d used to familiarize himself with the Berkut before strapping himself inside; the S-37/B was slightly faster and so twisty that it was easy for the plane to get ahead of the pilot during high-g maneuvers, becoming essentially uncontrollable. The nose of the plane had a tendency to shoot up during a hard turn, and despite all of the engineering it remained at least theoretically possible to jam the Berkut so tightly at high speed that the divergent forces of lift, gravity, and momentum would snap off the forward winglets.

Master those forces, however, and the plane form had a great deal of potential. The Russians were trying to sell their version, somewhat tamed down, as a multitasking fighter-bomber. As a ground-pounder the plane carried more armor—
a lot
more armor—which not only increased its survivability but took just enough of the maneuverability away to make it safer to fly.

Though much less fun.

Howe wasn’t particularly concerned with the fun factor or even his version’s ultramaneuverability as he took off from Misawa Air Base in northern Japan. As the crow flew, he was roughly eight hundred miles from his destination, but he wasn’t a crow and he wasn’t going in a straight line. After a refuel over the Sea of Japan and a rendezvous with a pair of flight groups providing cover in case anyone was tracking him, Howe would tuck toward the waves and begin his weave over the border of Russia and down into North Korea. His flight path led through a poorly covered defense zone, well north of a cluster of radar units that would be scanning for an American intrusion. Flying along the northern border of the country, he would have to watch for Chinese as well as Korean air patrols, but this ought to be relatively easy, as neither country was in the habit of flying many nighttime sorties in the vicinity. Once past the border town of Hyesan, he would cut southwest through Yanggang Province for about fifty miles before zagging through the hills and landing at the air base.

Ten minutes before he touched down, Howe would make a transmission in Russian indicating that he was experiencing engine problems. The SF team on the ground would hear the broadcast and relay a go/no-go via the satellite communications system to a mission coordinator orbiting far off the coast in an RC-135.

There were three options, the call to be made by the ground team, which by now should be ringing the airfield and observing the nearby camp where the scientist was staying.

The first plan, and the preferred option, had Howe landing and taxiing to the far end of the runway. The scientist would be waiting. Howe would help him aboard and then take off. They would fly out to the Sea of Japan, where he would meet a refueling jet. The Special Forces troops, meanwhile, would proceed back to a landing area near where they had parachuted; a pair of Ospreys would sneak through the radar-free corridor and pick them up two nights later. This was the preferred plan, and they would use it if the scientist left the camp where he was staying and went to the airport, as he had agreed to do via coded e-mail.

Option two called for the Special Forces unit to attack the camp, locate the scientist, and proceed with him to the airfield. Howe would take off with the scientist; the SF team would then either make their way to the place they’d been dropped or go via a second route to the coast.

Option three also called for an attack on the camp but involved a rescue package of MC-130s landing at the air base after Howe took off. In that case Howe would peel off west, covered by the escorts that came north with the cargo craft, and head to a South Korean base.

In the pilot’s opinion, the choice was only between one and three: Shoot up anything on the ground and there was no way they were going to sneak out of North Korea.

The Berkut would be visible on radar for about two minutes before he landed and after he took off, but in his opinion the real hassle was his fuel management, which was going to be tighter than tight. The refueling option at the base had been discarded because the scientist warned there was no source of jet fuel there.

Howe checked his fuel state against the matrix and notes he’d prepared on his flight board. He seemed to be doing slightly better than anticipated, consuming less fuel than he’d used getting across the United States. The specially built GE engines were considerably more efficient than the Russian Saturn Al-31Fs, standard equipment on the Su-27. (Contrary to published reports, the Sukhoi’s power plants were used rather than Aviadvigatel D30- F6s from the MiG-31 Foxhound.) Still, there was no confusing the Berkut with the F/A-22V, which could fly halfway around the world and back on a tank of gas. The plane’s thin wings might help maneuvering, but they left little space for jet fuel. The fuselage on the American plane was actually a little bigger than the Russian model and added a bit more capacity, but the plane’s ferry range only topped two thousand miles with a good tailwind. So refueling was a necessity.

Howe’s tanker was an ancient beast, a military version of Boeing’s venerable 707 that lumbered ahead, director lights glowing like the sign on a 7-Eleven as Howe ambled in for a Big Gulp. The Berkut’s fly-by-wire yoke—like the F-16 and F/A-22, it was a sidestick, mounted at the side of the pilot’s seat—sat easy in his hand as he moved into position behind the flying gas station. A pair of F-15s checked in over the horizon, playing their role in the elaborate game of cat and mouse concocted to keep Howe’s mission from being known.

“Ivan One, you read us?”

“Roger that, Rogue Flight.”

“Juice up and let’s have at it,” said the F-15 pilot.

Under other circumstances, the jocks might have exchanged some good-natured banter, but the normally loquacious Eagle pilots were under instructions to keep radio traffic to a minimum. The situation in Korea had the Eagles’ unit at its highest alert, and even though the men didn’t know what Howe’s mission was, they surely guessed at his destination.

Even with all that, the flight leader couldn’t resist a whistle when he spotted Howe’s plane in the last rays of sunlight as he climbed through thirty thousand feet.

“At you,” said Howe, initiating the mock encounter. He put the plane on its wing as the F-15s crisscrossed above him, one pursuing while the other orbited west. The brief tangle was over inside of two minutes—about as long as a real furball might have lasted. The two F-15s rocketed back and forth as Howe hit the deck outside of easy radar coverage. Within a few minutes they were headed toward Misawa Air Base. Their radio calls now referred to three flights, as would the landing instructions.

A flight of F/A-22s made a radio call to an AWACS. Orbiting to the south of Howe’s course about seventy-five miles from the Korean coast, the interceptors were both decoys and emergency guard dogs: They and an AWACS plane operating to the east would watch for North Korean fighter action and would sprint to Howe’s aid if necessary.

Howe, meanwhile, had nosed down below one hundred feet, clipping along close enough to sniff the foam from the waves. He checked his fuel—still doing good—checked the rest of his instruments, studied the radar warning receiver or RWR, reviewed his course. Everything was in the green.

Nothing to do now but fly into the gathering darkness. And so he did.

Thirty-two minutes later Howe slid over the Russian coast, ducking past the blunt fingers of an early-warning radar and pushing into North Korean territory. While most of the North Korean radar system was aimed at Seoul and the coast, there were radars and some SAMs here and they couldn’t be ignored. Howe’s course had been painstakingly worked out to run through the gaps, but he had to fly very low, hiding the sharp corners of his aircraft in the clutter of radar returns thrown off by the ground. While Howe’s plane carried electronic countermeasures that could confuse the radars, using the jammers would be like turning a flashlight on in a darkened room: The Koreans would know he was there. And so he threaded a crooked needle as he flew, staying low and near mountainsides. The need to follow a precise course and the danger that he was in were a blessing in a way: They focused his thoughts entirely on his ship and what was around him. While immensely fatiguing, in another way the sheer concentration and immersion in what he was doing relaxed him. His muscles moved in an unconscious way, his eyes gathering data without conscious thought, his body and soul funneled into the moment. Waypoint after waypoint, Howe moved inextricably toward his goal. Nothing outside of the tense cocoon of his plane and the surrounding defenses disturbed him; the world consisted only of the Berkut and the people who would destroy it if they could.

And then he was fifty miles from his destination, just under ten minutes from putting down.

Howe checked the radio unit and broadcast the Russian message, which had been prerecorded on a special CD. Then he turned up the volume and double-checked that the radio was locked into the command frequency, ready to receive the signal on what to do.