“And the third thing?”
“I want M433s for the launcher.”
“How the hell did you know we had those with us?”
“Bill had a look see in your stores when your back was turned.”
Hunter took a deep breath. “Okay, skip that. My next question is what do you need HEDP rounds for?”
“I want to be prepared just in case I have to punch holes in anything.”
“Like a submarine, perhaps?”
Sean gave Hunter a blank look and said nothing.
Hunter grunted. “Thought as much. All right Sean. You get your way. My boys are going to grumble, but you get your way.”
Sean nodded. “Good. When can I snag the kit?”
“Same time as everybody else.”
Sean made to leave, but Hunter stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Look, I’ll handle the briefing to my guys, but you had better go over this whole thing with your Russian friends. It’ll be pretty easy to lose touch in the first skirmish and, Sean, don’t piss off the good Captain.”
Sean shrugged. “I’ll cover it.”
Hunter watched Sean join Harris at the hanger door. Both men moved into the night without saying a word. “Just what did the Brit have up his sleeve?” Hunter wondered, and then he dismissed the thought just as fast. Sean was a big boy. He and Hunter had played the game in some of the worst places on earth. If he wanted the 203s just in case or to take out a Korean sub, who was he to stand in the man’s way? But a disturbing thought nagged at the back of his mind. Was Sean setting this mission up to be something else entirely?
FIFTEEN KILOMETERS SOUTH OF CHANJON
Smoke broke the surface, slow and cautious. No need to bring unwanted attention to a loud splash. The North Koreans could have their own divers in the water tonight. The last thing he needed was to get into a tangle with them.
A South Korean Special Forces Zodiac had put him and his equipment in the water just over the border. As the forward element of the SEAL team, his job was to secure the beach.
Chanjon sat on the other side of a dark peninsula that jutted out into the Sea of Japan like a broad spear point with a slight ridge in the middle. Satellite photographs had shown only the barest of tracks along a coast covered in sometimes dense vegetation. There was no evidence of habitation except in the city itself.
Smoke’s insertion point was a shallow bay on the south side of the peninsula. The apex of the bay was no more than three hundred meters from the trail that he needed to make sure was clear of any man made problems. The waterproofed night goggles that were draped over the front of his mask showed him the dim outline of the coast. Dim was a good thing. It meant that there was almost too little ambient light for the goggles to focus into a useful picture. An unaided eye would see nothing at all.
Smoke tread water with his feet. The underwater rifle held in his hands did not allow him the use of his hands and arms. Smoke had to give the Russians credit; they planned for almost any contingency. The rifle had arrived at Pusan with four others like it, and a GRU Colonel just after their C-17 had touched down. Enough ammunition had been sent for the things to kill an army of divers. The rifle was an odd-looking weapon. It had no stock; just a pistol grip at its butt end and a huge magazine that handled the fifteen 5.56mm darts it shot. The GRU Colonel had shown him how to use it told Smoke it could hit a target thirty meters away at a depth of five meters. He could spear somebody with the thing on land as well out to one hundred meters. Smoke hoped he didn’t need to go that far with the awkward weapon.
The SEAL kept his movements minimal. He needed enough time to make sure that his piece of the North Korean coastline was clear. A small light flared at the corner of his vision. Somebody had just lit a cigarette and not even tried to hide the flare of the match. Didn’t anybody ever learn? He fixed the location in his mind and slid beneath the surface of the water. If there was one person out there tonight, there were others. His orders were specific: do not engage unless it was absolutely unavoidable. A dead sentry on beach patrol could give the whole mission away. Smoke moved down to a depth of two meters. He was using a Dreager rebreather so he didn’t have to worry about bubbles giving him away. He would keep at this depth until he got to the bottom of the shoreline. Then, up to the surface again and see if he could spot his new smoking friend. The water was cool enough to remind him of the miserable days and nights spent plunging in and out of San Diego Bay during hell week at Coronado.
Water could slowly sap your strength if you failed to keep your wits sharp. The swim to the beach was a short one. Smoke brought his rifle to the ready and floated to the surface for the last time.
The beach was deserted. Hearing anything over the softly breaking surf was nearly impossible. There was no telltale glow of a cigarette’s coal from the trees at the edge of the beach. Smoke waited. Better to know where your enemy lay than to run the risk of stumbling over him in the dark. If that happened, things could turn to absolute shit in seconds.
Nothing. It had been over five minutes and there was no evidence the smoker on patrol was anywhere anymore. Smoke decided to risk it. He moved towards the shale beach until he was able to stand. Keeping his eyes on the trees and scrub, he removed each of his swim fins one at a time. His fins were made of heavy black rubber that did not float. The SEAL let them sink to the shallow bottom. Couldn’t have them getting in the way now. If things went well, he’d be flying out, not swimming. Socks, boots and his gear were in a torpedo-like sack towed behind his rebreather. The sack had a neutral buoyancy so it just went where it was pulled. Unless somebody grabbed it, there was enough line that if things got hot, it would not interfere with Smoke’s movement. Smoke pulled himself upright out of the shallow water.
It took him twenty painful minutes to get from the water’s edge to the tree line. Every movement calculated to blend in with the background. Because of the loose shale underfoot, a quick sprint to the trees would have been the equivalent of tying tin cans to your legs and shouting, “Shoot me! Shoot me!” The real trick had been maneuvering the bulky equipment bag under his left arm and still give himself the ability to fire his weapon if needed.
From the safety of cover, Smoke started to get into sneak and peek mode. First thing to go was the dry suit. Underneath, he wore a silent suit, a British-designed set of Gore-Tex long johns. The suit allowed his body to breathe moisture out while not letting moisture in. Smoke could lie in a water-filled ditch for a week and still be dry.
He pulled open the watertight sack and pulled out his jungle boots and fatigues he’d painted with broad splashes of black paint himself. Mosquito repellent was liberally applied to any exposed skin and rubbed over his fatigues. He was careful not to get the stuff on any of his kit. The repellent was noted as a terrific solvent and was hell on plastic. A few swipes of camo paint broke up the outline of his face. In the dark jungle, Smoke would be as close to invisible as possible. There were only three more things left in the sack: a small field pack with two days rations, extra ammo and, his pride and joy, an HK MSG90 rifle. He checked to see that the twelve power Starlight scope was all right. It was.
Smoke put the dry suit and the underwater rifle into the sack and pushed it under some brush, along with the rebreather. Unseen and unheard, he moved from the edge of the beach towards the trail.
THE STRIKE TEAM
Sean held on to the tether rope for balance. All four of their Zodiac inflatables were held together by the thin line. A member of the SEAL support team steered the lead boat. Once the team was on the beach, he would tow the rubber convoy back out to sea and meet the patrol boat that had dropped them in North Korean waters.