Meng scanned his locked data file. No messages from the FOB since they had rogered receipt of the go authorization. Meng really didn't expect any traffic from the FOB until infiltration was accomplished.
He settled into his chair at the master console. It was going to be a long day.
Riley checked his watch. Right on time. The wheels of the MC-130 lifted off the tarmac and the plane roared into the night sky, exactly at 1237 Zulu. The plane, listed by Korean aviation authorities as a normal U.S. Air Force run to Misawa Air Force Base in Japan, powered its way up to five thousand feet.
Devito, the senior medic, started passing out motion-sickness pills to those who wanted them. All the men had experienced rides on Combat Talons before and knew that once the plane penetrated the shoreline, the terrain-following flight would cause extreme discomfort. Motion sickness was an integral part of any Talon flight.
Riley smiled as he glanced down the side of the plane. Comsky was already asleep with his head against the cargo netting and his mouth wide open. Riley couldn't hear the snoring over the roar of the engines, but he had no doubt that it was loud. Comsky could sleep through anything. The other members of the team tried to get as comfortable as their bulky equipment and dry suit would allow. For the next three and a half hours it was the air force's show.
Hossey had watched the Talon drill a hole into the eastern night sky until it was no longer visible. Then he had slowly driven back to the operations center. After writing a message to the SFOB detailing the successful departure of the aircraft, he settled in to wait. The next communication he should receive from the team — barring any last-minute problems en route — would be their ANGLER report after they were on the ground in China. Hossey could make contact with the Talon, but he would do so only in an emergency. Even though the odds of the aircraft's SATCOM being picked up were very low, it was still considered poor procedure to make any sort of broadcast. Besides, Hossey reflected, he had nothing to say to the team or the aircraft now. They were on their way. All he could do was sit here and wish them well.
The staff of the SFOB was tracking the simulated progress of the Talon on the electronic map. The aircraft was just about at checkpoint 1. Meng had computed in no problems with the infiltration simulation. The less fuss, the better, as far as he was concerned. He accessed his locked message file for the FOB. Still nothing. No news was good news, as the Americans were fond of saying.
Riley felt the aircraft bank and the air pressure change slightly as the plane rapidly descended. He unbuckled his seat belt and staggered down the center of the plane. Leaning over Mitchell, he signaled and then yelled in the officer's ear. "Time to rig."
Mitchell started rousing the team members. Riley and the loadmaster moved to the back of the plane and undid the cargo straps holding down the parachutes and rucksacks. They passed out the chutes, a main and reserve to each man.
Riley and Mitchell buddy-rigged each other. Riley went first, slipping the harness of the main chute over his shoulders and settling it on his back. Mitchell helped him fasten the leg straps and attach the reserve to the front of the rig. The SVD sniper rifle was cinched down over Riley's left shoulder using the rifle's sling and cord. The rucksack was added last, hooked on with quick release straps below the reserve in the front.
Finished, Mitchell tapped Riley on the rear and gave him a thumbs-up, signaling he was good to go. Riley then helped Mitchell rig and
"jumpmaster-inspected" his team leader. When he was done with Mitchell, Riley moved on to the other team members, making sure all were properly jumpmaster inspected.
All the team members' weapons had been waterproofed and tied off. Swim fins were stuck in the waistband of each parachute and attached to the jumper with cord. After thirty minutes of checking, Riley was satisfied. They were ready to jump.
In the front half of the cargo bay, Major Kent was watching his screens diligently. He was catching reflections of some shore-based radar up in Vladivostok, but he knew that the Talon was too low to be picked up by that. He ran through the various wave bands, searching for any invisible groping finger that might pinpoint them.
The loadmaster leaned over to Captain Mitchell. "The navigator wants to talk to you," he screamed above the plane's roar and passed his headset to the captain.
"Hey, Captain, we're picking up radar echoes along the flight route, up by Vladivostok. We think it might be a Soviet warship. We don't want to take any chances. We're switching on the spiderweb to another leg. The new route comes pretty close to going straight from checkpoint 2 to checkpoint 5. We'll pass almost right over the North Korean-Soviet border now. The EW officer isn't picking up too much radar activity there and he thinks it's safe. We'll be going over the shore in about fourteen minutes. We want to get lost in among the mountains there, so this ship won't pick us up. This is going to cut off some time. I figure on getting to the drop zone about ten minutes early, give or take a minute or two."
Mitchell acknowledged and turned to Riley to pass the word along. This often happened on a Talon flight. The crew planned not one route, but an entire spiderweb of routes. That gave them options, depending on the enemy threat. If Team 3 got to the drop zone a few minutes earlier, that was fine with Riley. The more minutes of darkness they had, the better.
Everyone was awake now and fidgeting. No matter how much they had trained, it couldn't prepare them for the fear and uncertainty of the real thing. They were only a few minutes from the shoreline. Once they hit that, the ride would get extremely bumpy as the pilots used their sophisticated electronics to keep the aircraft down in the radar cluster of the terrain. The tension in the aircraft was palpable.
Riley was sweating under his dry suit. He hated waiting, and he hated having his destiny in someone else's hands. He'd feel a lot better once they were on the ground.
Hossey was trying to work a crossword puzzle but couldn't help glancing at the clock every few minutes. The team was twenty minutes out. He knew what it must feel like in the back of that Talon. The team members would all be rigged, ready to go. At this point, Hossey knew, all they wanted to do was get out of the aircraft and start the operation.
He looked up at Sergeant Major Hooker, who was pacing nervously around the room. Hooker didn't like sitting on his butt in an FOB. The sergeant major was a person who'd rather be at the doing end.
Hooker stamped out his cigarette, then went over to the commo terminal and looked restlessly through the message logs. He frowned. "Didn't you get a roger on the departure message?"
The commo man shook his head. "Negative, Sergeant Major. I haven't heard anything from the SFOB in more than four hours."
Hooker knew that wasn't unusual — the FOB and SFOB really had nothing to say to each other at this point. Everything was in the team's hands right now. Still, though, there should have been an acknowledgment of their last message saying that the Talon had departed for infiltration.