With those extra tanks they must be flying an awfully long way, Lemester conjectured. That made him feel even more uneasy. The only countries in two directions were Russia and North Korea. And those birds had come from the third direction: west. He didn't think the navy would go to all the trouble of moving his ship up here to refuel two helicopters if the aircraft were just going to turn around and go back.
Lemester watched warily as the pilot got out of the first chopper and walked over to him.
"Evening, sir. We'd appreciate it if your men could top off our birds and if you could find the four of us a quiet place to get some rest for a few hours. We're not leaving again until about a quarter after midnight local time. We'd also sure appreciate it if you could detail a couple of marines to keep people away from the inside of the birds. We've got a lot of classified gear on board."
Lemester designated one of his ensigns to escort the pilots to a stateroom. The short conversation with the pilot had done little to ease his disquiet. Lemester was also annoyed. First of all, the pilot hadn't introduced himself. Second, he wasn't wearing any identifying insignia, just a plain flight suit. Third, the man obviously felt that the captain of this ship didn't have a need to know what the hell was going on. Fourth, one of the pilots was setting up what looked to be a portable
SATCOM radio and sending a message right from the flight deck— without even asking. Lemester didn't fancy being treated as a floating gas station and hotel.
The pilot could have acted more friendly, Lemester fumed. He might have asked if Lemester had any pertinent information for them. For instance, it might be helpful to know about the radar along the Soviet coast off to the west. But if the pilot was too important and high speed to ask, then the hell with him. The captain turned and went back to his bridge.
The buzzer on the computer woke Meng out of a fitful nap. He accessed the file and perused the message from the FOB.
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
TO: CDR USSOCOM/ SFOB FM/ MSG 56
FROM: FOB Kl
TEAM CONFIRMS PZ/ SAME PLACE/ SAME TIME/
READY FOR MISSION/ AWAIT FINAL GO/
DENSER STABLE/
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
Things sounded as though they were finally starting to go right. Meng had already received a message that the helicopters had arrived at the Rathburne almost twenty minutes ago. He typed in the confirmation of the PZ and transmitted it to the launch site in Misawa to be forwarded to the aircraft.
Olinski led Reese out into the open field. They left O'Shaugnesy back at the tree line in a morphine-induced unconsciousness. Despite the
best efforts of Comsky, blood was still seeping through the bandages covering O'Shaugnesy's stomach.
Using knives and a small folding saw, they began cutting down all the small trees and bushes more than a foot high. After an hour's work they had succeeded in clearing an area large enough for one helicopter to land safely. They gathered all the loose debris from the field and disposed of it twenty-five meters into the tree line, so it wouldn't be blown about when the helicopter landed.
Olinski then checked the wind direction. Out of the west. Using his knife he dug four small holes in the ground in the shape of an inverted y, with the stem pointing into the wind. There was a hole at the end of each stem and at the joint. A half hour prior to the scheduled exfiltration, Olinski would stake down an infrared chem light in each hole to mark the landing zone.
The team had an FM frequency and call signs for the aircraft, but they would be used only if absolutely necessary. Hopefully, the pilots would be able to find this small open area. Olinski didn't have much confidence in the navigational abilities of pilots, however. He'd have the PRC68 radio hooked to his vest, ready just in case he had to guide the aircraft.
Meng knew he must send the final authorization code. Everything and everyone involved was committed. To back out at this point would simply result in his disgrace and punishment without any result. Looking at the headline on the front page of today's New York Times strengthened his resolve: "ARTILLERY FIRING IN SUBURBS ADDS TO TENSION IN BEIJING; MYSTERY ON LEADERS GROWS. ARMY CLASH DENIED." Meng scanned the article for the twentieth time, focusing on what he felt to be the critical parts.
The evening news program denounced as "purely rumor" the reports of fighting between military units near the military airport in southern Beijing. It also offered an unusual denial of a report that Deng Xiaoping, China's senior leader, had died.
"That's a sheer fabrication intended to poison people's minds," the newscaster said, without shedding any light on Mr. Deng's situation or whereabouts.
Not since the end of the Maoist period more than a dozen years ago has there been such confusion about the situation in the world's most populous nation. Today, even the most basic information— such as whether anyone at all is running China, or whether Mr. Deng is alive — is contested. None of China's leaders have been seen for 12 days or more, and there have been rumors of coups or assassination attempts against both Mr. Deng and Prime Minister Li Peng.
Meng put down the paper. The Old Men were teetering — he could feel it. Maybe all that was needed was a final push. Meng sat down at his computer keyboard and typed in the final authorization code word to the FOB.
Right on schedule the two Blackhawks crawled into the sky, laboring under the load of more than sixteen hundred gallons of fuel. C.J.'s right hand was wrapped around the cyclic, which poked upright between his legs from the floor. With his left hand he held the collective, a lever set into the floor on the left side of his seat. Pulling up on the collective basically increased power, making the helicopter climb. Dropping it decreased power, making the helicopter descend. The cyclic controlled the attitude of the blades and was used for maneuvering. To add to the fun there were pedals (one for each foot) controlling the rear vertical rotor blades, which kept the aircraft in trim and flying straight, along with a throttle, which adjusted the fuel rate. Juggling cyclic, collective, pedals, and throttle made the helicopter perform. Each affected the others, which was why a helicopter was much more difficult to fly than a plane. Let go of the controls of an airplane and the plane will glide along, held aloft by the lift of its wings. A helicopter's wings are its rotor blades; let go of the controls and the helicopter tries to turn upside down and beat itself to death.
C.J. banked his aircraft smoothly to the northwest and headed for the shore. He adjusted the throttle for maximum fuel conservation, and they were on their way, skimming along at 130 knots fifty feet above the waves. One hundred and twenty kilometers of ocean and then the real fun would begin.
ZEROFO URROGE RZEROF OURXXG OXXXGO
XXXGOX XXGOXX CMOPPE RSENRO UTEXXX
CMOPPE RSENRO UTEXXB ESTWIS MESAND
GOODLU CKDRAT TSXXXX
Riley read the message and smiled. They had the final go and the birds were coming. Outstanding, Riley thought. He had been afraid of a last-minute cancellation.
Everybody was in place. Devito and Lalli, armed with their RPGs, were positioned where the compound service road ran into the pipeline's service road. Chong and Trapp were along the tree line, off to the west. Trapp, with his SVD, would shoot out the southwest camera; Chong would provide local security for Trapp.