“What the hell’s going on?!” Becket said through clenched teeth, instinctively moving sideways along the wall, getting farther away from the door. His eyes followed the sound above him. Then, at least two people were running down the hallway. Except for a door slamming, there was silence. A minute later, the racket started up again, only this time with a thumping on the stairs.
Becket couldn’t figure out what was making the sound. Then, footsteps again, hurrying past his cell. A door squeaked, then a thud. The sound of a body falling. A man groaned.
“Oh, no. Jesus! No!” Becket cried out. He rushed to the door, pounding on it with his fist. “You fuckin’ bastards!”
As his cell door started opening, he stepped farther away, going toward the back of the room.
Two men came in, both wearing Chinese Army uniforms. It was too dark to see their faces. They grabbed hold of him.
“Jake!” he shouted, as he struggled. But there wasn’t any response.
They tied his arms behind his back, tied a cloth around his mouth, then pulled him from the cell.
Holding his arms, his captors dragged him down the short hallway. He struggled, trying to pull away. A punch to his kidney almost brought him to his knees. They jerked him up and forced him up the stairs. At the landing two other men were waiting. One of them flung the outer door open, and Becket was pulled outside.
In the alley was a panel truck with the engine running, and headlights on. A man in uniform sat behind the steering wheel.
Becket was led around the back. Both panel doors were wide open. The soldiers backed him up against the truck. An overwhelming smell of gas fumes almost made him puke. Somebody poked him in the chest with a rifle until he finally fell back. They rolled his legs in. Trying to sit up, Becket finally saw Kidd, gagged, tied up, bruised, and unconscious.
He slid his foot against Kidd’s leg, trying to bring him around. One of the men crawled into the truck and slapped Becket on the side of his head, creating further pain.
The guard sat next to him, laying his rifle across his own legs. The second guard crawled in, pulled both doors shut, then positioned himself next to Kidd. The sound of the passenger side door closing coincided with the truck pulling away from Bridge House.
Becket leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to lessen the pain. If he could shift his concentration to sounds going on around him, it might help. And for the time being, maybe take his mind off his and Kidd’s precarious situation.
The Team adjusted their toggles, keeping their eyes on one another, keeping a safe distance apart, checking altimeters on top of their reserve chutes.
In the distance the lights of Shanghai flickered, but below them, the LZ remained in darkness, exactly what they expected.
Grant checked his GPS. Still in its infancy stage, the GPS had become an integral part of his gear.
Each man looked at his own altimeter. Less than a thousand feet until touchdown. At fifty feet they pulled down on both toggles, and the RAM airs began to stall. Putting their knees together, slightly bent, they pulled down on the toggles a little more. At ten feet, they pulled down hard on both toggles, finally touching earth, landing in close proximity to one another.
Grant finished figure-eighting the shroud lines, holding the black nylon RAM air chute in front of him as he walked. He got down on a knee, laying the chute on the ground.
Then he tucked a small earpiece in his right ear, adjusting it until it fit comfortably. Attached to his waistband was a small battery that had a dangling antenna. A wire ran from the battery to a throat mike and earpiece. Each time he wanted to communicate with the Team, he’d press and hold the PTT (push-to-talk) button then release it when he finished. Each man had exactly the same equipment, allowing them to hear all conversations.
It was time for everyone to check in. Grant pressed the PTT, saying softly into his throat mike, “A.T., report in.” (Alpha Tango)
“Five-Two,” Stalley answered.
“Six-Eight; boots wet,” James replied, trudging out of a rice paddy.
“Suck it up, Six-Eight,” Grant smiled, as he started getting out of his jump gear.
“Two-Seven,” Adler replied, while he was gathering up his chute.
“Four-One,” Slade answered.
“Three-Six,” Diaz responded.
“Seven-Three; affirm wet,” Novak said.
Grant just shook his head as he pulled his .45 from its holster then removed a silencer from his rucksack. Screwing on the silencer, he kept his eyes roaming his surroundings.
The rest of the men worked quickly, getting out of their jump gear, then putting on NVGs. Black camouflage paint already streaked their faces. Slade wore a watch cap, covering his shiny, bald head.
K-bars were strapped to their legs. Extra ammo for the .45s and penlights were stored in their utility vests. Inside each rucksack were pencil flares; H.E. (high explosive) hand grenades; MK3A2 waterproof concussion grenades; “flash-bang” grenades; extra clips of fifty rounds each for their Uzis; packs of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat), and a small survival kit. They attached canteens to their belts. The water they had wouldn’t be enough. The heat was oppressive during daytime hours. Even now, their clothes were already soaked with sweat.
They checked their weapons. Straps holding Uzis were slung over their heads. Each of them had a .45 with silencer in a side holster.
Novak was the only member without an Uzi. He carried an M21 semi-automatic sniper rifle with silencer. The muzzle velocity was twenty-eight hundred feet per second, with a range of nine hundred yards. A tripod, extra twenty round clips and two different scopes were in his rucksack. One high-powered scope, the AN/PVS high-powered scope (passive night vision) was specifically for night ops — a Starlighter. The second was an ART (adjustable ranging telescope) for daytime ops. Once they were at the surveillance building, he’d attached the PVS scope.
Squatting down, the men gathered around Grant. They finished synchronizing their watches, then Grant said quietly, “Okay. Our contact might park the vehicle out of range so be ready if he walks in. You all know what his challenge response should be.”
He swiveled his head, inspecting the surrounding area, then pointed where he wanted the men posted. “Mike, Ken, over there. DJ, Doc, Frank, there. Stay close. I don’t know which direction that guy’s coming from.”
Without any natural cover, they crouched low as they made their way to their assigned places, finally getting down on a knee. From that position it gave them the ability to move fast if they had to “beat feet.”
Adler scooted next to Grant. “You’re not getting one of your gut feelings about this guy, are you?”
“Trying not to.” Suddenly, in his earpiece he heard James: “Zero-Niner, Six-Eight.”
“Go ahead, Six-Eight.”
“Movement at my deuce.”
“Copy that,” Grant whispered.
Stalley and Diaz focused their NVGs to where James was kneeling, then aimed a weapon toward the approaching figure. Novak and Slade continued on watch.
A man was slowly making his way toward the men. When he was close, Yankee Five-Two (Stalley) said in a voice just loud enough, “Tingzhi!” (Halt)
Without waiting for his challenge question, the man raised his arms over his head and responded, “Shizi. Shizi.”
Grant lowered his weapon, as he said softly in his throat mike, “Hold positions.” He approached Kwan cautiously.