Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury (6 page)

"There's bad news and good news. First, the bad, they have helicopter gunships ready to lift off at a moment's notice. Also, a couple of tracked APCs, Type 63s."

Guy whistled. "They used those APCs in Tiananmen Square to massacre their own people. I guess they have them ready to run down any unarmed Buddhist monks who attack them with prayer leaflets."

Brooks nodded. "The Type 63 carries a heavy machine gun, 12.7mm, so keep it in mind if you come across one. That's the bad news. The good news is I brought along some goodies. Heavier ordnance you may need if you run into any trouble."

Talley stared at him. "Trouble? This was supposed to be a fast raid, a single night."

He shrugged. "It is, but you never know when something unexpected may crop up. You'll be prepared for any contingency."

What contingency? What aren't you telling us, Admiral?

Brooks glanced in the direction of the wooden crates. "Four M136 AT4 LAWs, to deal with armor should you may encounter. You can hit helicopter gunships, too, if they're flying low and slow. To deal with any other airborne threat, there are two FIM-92 Stingers, and a couple of M32 Multiple Grenade Launchers to give you extra punch, a case of Claymores. You never know."

"It's a lot of gear to tote across country, Admiral."

More important is the why. It's not what you'd carry for a fast incursion, snatch the target, and get out before the enemy knows you're around.

"We've arranged a suitable vehicle to transport everything, so you'll be fine."

He gave the Admiral a skeptical glance. "It sounds like you're equipping us to fight a war."

He nodded. "I guess so, but it's just insurance. I'm not anticipating any real problems." He hesitated, as if considering something else, but then shook his head, "It'll be a cakewalk."

* * *

The aircraft droned on, and Talley worked through the possibilities in his mind.

One thing’s for sure; the
operation is much more
than we’ve been told
,
but what?

He looked, up as the co-pilot came through from the cockpit with an expression that foretold of a problem. He approached Admiral Brooks.

"Sir, Major Brent, the skipper, asked if you would join him on the flight deck. Something you need to hear."

"Anything wrong?"

"I'm not sure."

Brooks nodded to Talley. "You'd better come, too."

They entered the flight deck, and the co-pilot politely indicated his seat for Brooks to use. Talley stood behind him. The pilot handed them a headset apiece, and they listened in. It came after a few seconds.

"This is the Nepalese Army Air Service, calling unidentified military aircraft overflying Nepalese sovereign territory. Do not proceed any further into our airspace. You are ordered to land at Kathmandu International for visual inspection."

Brooks wrenched off the headset, his black face thunderous, and speared the pilot with a stare that was as sharp as a javelin's point.

"Mister, you'd better be able to tell me you filed a flight plan to cover us, and got permission to overfly Nepalese territory."

"Well, no. I mean, I was under orders to keep it quiet."

"Who gave you the order to invade Nepalese airspace?" The cockpit was cold, and Brooks' voice seemed to lower the temperature even more.

"The CIA, Sir. The Kabul Head of Station we met at Bagram, Ed Garrick. He said it was vital for mission security."

"And you went along with it?"

"He went to the base commander, and he's a USAF General. He made it an order. I had no choice."

"Stupid sonofabitch," Brooks murmured, mainly to himself, "Okay, son, it's not your fault. What kind of aircraft do they fly, these Nepalese Army Air Service people?"

"Helicopters and transports, that's about all."

"Any of them armed?"

"The Mil Mi-17 can carry a couple of door-mounted machine guns. That's about it. But they can't reach us, not at this height. What would have happened is air traffic control picked us up and asked them to go take a look."

"Understood. Stay on course and increase speed." He turned to Talley, "What's the maximum altitude you can jump from?"

"Sir, 11,000 meters is pretty high, and the outside temperature is likely to be minus fifty degrees."

"Got it. We'll jump from 12,000 meters, so you'd better prepare."

Talley thought he must have misheard.

We?

The pilot was still puzzled. "Sir, what's the big deal? We'll be a couple of hundred klicks ahead of that helo. There's no way he can catch us."

Brooks and Talley exchanged a glance, and then Brooks spelled it out for him.

"Because you failed to file a legitimate flight plan, that Nepalese helo just announced to the Chinese, as well as the rest of the world, that a spook flight is overflying their territory. They'll be suspicious as hell. An unidentified flight heading toward Tibet, what would you think if you were them? They'll have us on radar already. Shit, they regard Tibet as a part of China. Everyone knows they're mighty careful about who goes in and out of Tibet. Unless I miss my guess, they'll already be scrambling fighter jets to come take a look."

"But, this is Nepal. I mean; they can't overfly another country's sovereign territory without permission."

"No? He gave the flyer a skeptical look. "What are you doing, right now?"

The pilot didn't reply, just pushed the throttles forward and pulled back on the control column to bring the aircraft's nose up and start gaining more height.

"And Major..."

He turned around to glance at Brooks. "Sir?"

"You're looking for thick cloud, something around 11,000 meters. Find it, and get us inside it."

"Thick cloud? No problem, this is a mountainous region."

Brooks nodded to Talley, and they went to the rear of the flight deck.

"Change of plan, Commander. Now that CIA idiot has virtually posted our existence on the World Wide Web, we have to move fast. This aircraft will be under heavy scrutiny for every second we're in the air. I'm coming with you."

Talley stared at him. "Sir?"

"Think about it. If this aircraft lands at Kathmandu, and a NATO admiral climbs out of a military flight last seen heading for the Tibetan border, what are they going to think? Especially when they see these weapons in the cargo hold. You can be sure they'll know every last detail, even before we do. One thing about the Chinese, they're no slouches at the intelligence game." He paused, "Not like some people I could mention. I'll be having words with Garrick when we get back."

"But, Sir, you're not equipped for these conditions. You don't even have a suitable parachute for this kind of HAHO drop."

"Then we'll have to improvise. I'll tandem jump."

"Well, I don't think..."

"Listen, Talley. You just lost two men, killed. And Reynolds is recovering in the sick bay back at Bagram. I'll take over his place. You'll slot me into the team. What did he carry, the M249 SAW?"

"That's right, but I still don't like it. I mean, what about arctic camos? You don't have any."

"We'll manage. I'm wearing insulated gear for the flight. It'll have to be enough."

"Understood. What about the transport, Admiral, you're certain it'll be waiting for us?"

"There'll be no transport. Another change of plan, we're dropping straight into Tibet."

"Tibet! But the Chinese..."

"The Chinese already know about this flight, thanks to our CIA friend. They'll be watching it closely. And while their eyes are fixed on the aircraft, we'll quietly parachute into Tibet. It's a sleight of hand; while they're watching our right hand, the left hand will slip in the sucker punch. I know the risks, and it's not an ideal scenario, but we don't have a choice. We have to balance the risks, and this is the best way."

Talley wasn't convinced. "What about the missiles and heavy equipment? How can we transport it?"

"We'll have to manage without anything we can't carry. We need to move faster than we anticipated. Speed is even more important now. I've a backup LZ inside Tibet, just in case something went wrong. Well, it's gone wrong, so we'll use it. It's at Norbulingka. I'm rechecking the coordinates, and I'll let you have them in a few minutes. Don't worry; we'll ace this one, Talley. We've been through worse."

"Yes, Sir."

Except the Chinese already suspect something's up. The alarm bells sounded the moment the Nepalese military flight called us. Shit!

* * *

They stood at the head of the ramp. The jumpmaster had opened it several minutes before, allowing the icy Himalayan air to rush inside the cabin. It also allowed the roar of the four mighty turbojets to almost deafen them, together with the mighty winds that howled around the fuselage. The temperature measured sixty degrees below zero, and the wind strength was off the clock. They were all covered from head to toe in white camos, except Admiral Brooks, who wore a heavy, padded, olive green Air Force parka coat. He was strapped to the front of Heinrich Buchmann, on the basis that the German used a larger 'chute, and could utilize his enormous strength to bring the Admiral to a safe landing. One thing was certain; over the Himalayas it was going to be a hairy exit from the Globemaster, a white-knuckle ride down, and the landing was anyone's guess.

He glanced over at Grace Ferraro. Like the Echo Six team, she was covered in white camos. She'd insisted on carrying an assault rifle as well as a handgun, and in deference to her small size, he'd issued her with a Heckler and Koch MP5K, the tiny, snub-nose 9mm submachine gun. She also packed an HK P228, the compact version of the P226, in a leg holster. She looked warlike enough. Not at all like a Buddhist nun.

She caught him staring at her. "What?"

"I was wondering, are you okay with this? Well, it's not what you expected."

She gave him a rueful smile. "It's a bit late for second thoughts now."

"You don't have to do this."

Her stare hardened. "You don't get it, Abe. A good man's life depends on this, a Buddhist monk. I do have to do this."

He nodded. "As long as you're going to be safe."

"I did the free fall course."

"It's nothing like ordinary free fall. We'll be gliding in through possible gale force crosswinds at high altitude. Make sure you listen to my orders, and watch your wrist mount GPS like a hawk. If you don't, you'll die."

"Yes, Dad."

He laughed. "Okay, commo check everyone." He keyed his mic, "This is Echo One, how do you receive? By the numbers."

They called in. Guy Welland first, "Echo Two, receiving strength five."

"Echo Three, strength five." Domenico Rovere.

"Echo Four, strength five "

"Echo Five, strength five."

"Echo Six, strength five."

Echo Six was Admiral Brooks. He glanced at him. The guy was too old, much too old for this. And yet, he was the man in charge, and they were short handed.

The jumpmaster held up one finger.

One minute to eternity or a Chinese firing squad?

"Five, four, three, two, green light, go, go, go!"

They jumped into the unknown, the high altitude hell of the Himalayan night sky, and an unknown LZ in the heart of Communist Tibet.

"Tell me your name."

He opened his eyes and looked up at the rough wooden ceiling of a hut, a prison hut. It was cold, bitterly cold, which was unsurprising. He could see through a nearby window, and the ground was covered in ice and snow. Yet there was no heating in the hut, and when the man spoke, his breath condensed in the icy air. The man in front of him wore ragged, prison clothing. Yet his head was shaved, a monk, like himself.

"I am a monk, Tenzin Davaika," he replied.

I must never admit to my American name, David Campbell. No matter who this man is, not until I know who I can trust.

The man bowed his head in greeting. "I also am a monk. My name is Lobsang Cho."

Campbell struggled to return the bow. "Where am I?"

"You don't know? This is Prison Number 529, outside of Lhasa. Most of us here are political prisoners, which I'm sure you know is the label the Chinese give to Buddhists who go about their lawful business in Tibet. What did you do, what are they accusing you of?"

He thought rapidly. If the man was a fellow monk, there was no reason why he shouldn't tell the truth. Not all of it. That would be unforgivable. But he could tell him some of it. He knew any monk would go to his death before he revealed anything to the Chinese, but the Chinese employed a number of their own people to infiltrate the monasteries and impersonate monks.

"I… don't know. They accused me of being a spy, an American spy."

"And are you?"

"The accusation is false."

Technically, it was true. It was as far as he could go without lying. The other monk seemed to understand this and gave him a smile.

"I understand. You know this is a camp of hard regime? Shortly, they will call us outside to assemble on the parade ground. When they have counted us, they will march us to the project we are working on. Right now, we're breaking rocks to build a new road that will divert traffic to the South of Lhasa. I'm afraid you will find it hard. At least until you are used to it."

Campbell didn't reply for a few moments, and the man watched him carefully, his face creased with concern.

"You need not worry. Your fellow Buddhists will do their best to lighten your burden until you are used to the work."

"There is no time to get used to anything. I am under sentence of death; in a few days they will execute me."

"How many days do you have left?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know how long I was unconscious. Thirteen, I believe."

"Thirteen days can be a lifetime. And then you will pass into another lifetime."

"Thank you, Cho. I will endeavor to devote my last days in the service of Lord Buddha."

"Very wise. But you haven't experienced the work yet. You will need to be strong, very strong. In this place, even thirteen days can seem endless."

Later, he began to realize what Cho meant. The march was beyond anything he'd ever known. They were issued thin sandals with which to trudge through the snow, after standing on the camp square for an hour while the guards counted them. They had no breakfast. It was handed to them at the work site, only after they had completed their first quota. Most of the prisoners were wearing torn, thin garments, many of them made of cotton, yet they worked hard and without complaint.

His first task was carrying huge pieces of rock from a dump at the side of the new road. Each rock had to be placed in position, and then hammered down with a sledgehammer. When they didn't fit, they had to chip at them with pickaxes that continually shed shards of steel in the bitter cold, sending pieces of hard steel to slice into the skin of anyone unlucky enough to be in the way.

He had no idea of the time, but he estimated they'd been working for an hour and a half when the Chinese called a halt and handed out their food. He queued with the rest of them, and when he reached the cauldrons of thin soup, which were their breakfast, he held out the wooden bowl they'd given him.

The prisoner, a trustee, ladled in the thin gruel, and he walked away to find Cho and eat with him.

"Where are you going?"

He hung his head, not daring to look at the brutal Chinese Sergeant who was in charge of the work detail.

"To eat with my…"

The blow was stunning. His head rang, and he saw stars for a few moments. He went to look up, and another hard blow to his head threw him to the hard, rocky ground. The Chinese was screaming at him.

"Prisoners do not speak, unless the guard gives them permission to speak. Did you hear me say 'permission to speak'?"

He shook his head.

"No permission was given. You will be punished!"

The man started kicking him, and Campbell felt the heavy boots smashing into his ribs. He knew some of the ribs would be broken, and he'd feel intense pain. It would take time for them to heal, but it was not a problem. In thirteen days time, this life would be ended.

Finally, it stopped.

"Get out of my sight," the Sergeant hissed at him, "Remember the rule. No talking without permission to speak."

He managed to climb to his feet and looked around for his breakfast. He picked up the bowl, but the soup had spilled over the snow-covered ground. All that remained was a small depression where it had melted the top layer of snow. He limped away until he reached Cho. The monk was sitting with a half-dozen other men. Wordlessly, each man held their bowl toward him and emptied a portion of their soup into his bowl. He shook his head, knowing how vital the miserly nourishment was to these men. But Cho forced him to accept.

"Eat, my friend. You will need it later. Otherwise you will die."

He grimaced. "I will die anyway. It may as well be sooner rather than later."

"Don't give them the satisfaction of dying early. Who knows what will happen in thirteen days?"

He slurped the foul tasting soup from the bowl. It warmed him, and he was grateful. As he ate, Cho and the other monks were murmuring prayers, familiar prayers that he found himself repeating in his head.

You people don't understand. The Chinese have passed sentence of death. I cannot know what Buddha has planned for me, but I do know there will be much more suffering. The Chinese will have that carefully planned. It is their way. All I have left is the hope that my next life will be better than this one.

* * *

They stepped off the ramp in a tightknit group, as usual. The colossal slipstream of the aircraft, combined with the hurricane force winds over the mountains split them apart, so when they opened their chutes, they were already hundreds of meters apart. Except for Talley and Grace Ferraro.

He'd stayed behind the main group and indicated for her to go second to last.

"I'll follow you down, and make sure you listen to my instructions. This isn't a vacation jump over Southern California."

He'd expected her to make some snappy rejoinder, but she just nodded her understanding. When she turned to face him, he could see why. She was terrified.

It wasn't a bad sign. Provided she didn't panic, it would make her listen to orders. The last thing she needed was overconfidence, especially on this jump. The men in front jumped, Heinrich Buchmann with Admiral Carl Brooks strapped to his front, and then it was just the empty ramp with a hurricane swirling outside. She gave him another glance, and he nodded.

"Let's go."

Almost as if she'd flipped a switch, her expression changed, and she stepped out into space. He followed almost immediately and picked her up in the green glow of his NV goggles. Talley waited to get well clear of the aircraft turbulence, then keyed his mic.

"Grace, you're doing fine. You need to pull the cord and open the 'chute. We'll be gliding in, and you need your parachute open."

"I can't see anything," her panicked voice came back.

"You're in cloud. Just open your 'chute. I'll guide you down."

Through a break in the drifting cumulus, he saw her fumbling for the toggle, and then the dark material suddenly billowed out into the night air. At the same time, he pulled his own toggle and allowed his 'chute to deploy. He was dropping at a faster rate than her, probably due to her lighter weight, so he made some adjustments and slipped through the sky, beginning a series of figure of eight maneuvers to stay close to her. He checked his GPS.

"You're doing fine, Grace, but you need to vector to starboard. Pull on the right line, and check your wrist mounted GPS. You should be on a heading of twenty-eight degrees, with a glide slope of thirty degrees. Can you see the indicator?"

She struggled for a few moments, pulling on lines and hunting for her GPS. In the bitter chill and turbulent fury of a high altitude drop over mountains, there was a lot to deal with. Finally, she called.

"I've got it, but I'm not sure about the glide slope."

"That's okay. I'm one hundred meters above you and on your left. I'll make sure you're okay."

A pause. "Thanks, Dad."

Even confronted with a hundred different ways to suffer a nasty death, she’s able to make a joke, a good sign.

He stayed with her, keeping up the figure of eight pattern and monitoring his own GPS to make certain they were on course. Gradually, he managed to explain to her the intricacies of guiding a HAHO parachute system, and she became more confident. When they passed 5000 meters, she declared she'd got it.

"That's good news. I'll stay above you and keep off air unless you're in trouble."

She didn't reply, and he saw her working to keep her parachute at the right altitude and direction for the long, complicated glide. He rechecked his own GPS and saw they'd already crossed the border into Tibet. Enemy territory. There was no radio chatter from the others. They were confident in the familiar routine. Besides, even though their commo system was short range and encrypted, there was always the danger of an intercept.

He saw the ground coming nearer. "We're two thousand meters above ground, about two klicks from the LZ. Take it steady, and stay as you are. Keep on the exact glide path, and you'll hit the bull's-eye. Remember, bend your legs before you land."

"Got it."

No 'Dad' this time. She was nervous. He could see the first of his team already on the ground; the dim, dark green shapes moving as they ran around gathering up their 'chutes, and then the larger shape of Buchmann with his passenger, Admiral Brooks. He looked for Grace, and then he saw in front of them, a tall tower. Grace was heading straight for it. He punched the transmit button.

"Grace, hard left, hard left. There's a tower dead in front of you."

He saw her maneuver her parachute and bank hard to port. She missed the tower by less than a meter. He saw the ominous sight of another parachute hung up in the top of the tower. There was a body swinging below it.

Who the hell is it?
But he put it out of his mind.
First things first,
get her down on
the ground.

He glanced down again. Buchmann had already unsnapped his parachute. Without stopping to unstrap Brooks, he moved away from the LZ to make a wide-open patch of churned up snow for her to land on. She hit hard, yet her legs were bent enough and the snow soft, so in his judgment she'd be fine. He side slipped in and landed on his feet next to her. She jumped as she saw him touch down so close.

"I made it!" Her face was jubilant.

"Yeah, you made it. Gather up your 'chute. I have something to do." He looked around for his number two "Guy, did you see the tower, one of our men hanging there?"

Welland shook his head. "It must've happened after I landed. Let's go take a look."

It was some kind of religious structure, twenty meters high; a stone tower with images of Buddha carved into the face. Because it was covered in snow, it would have been almost invisible from a distance, merging with the landscape. They found the man still dangling from his shroud lines, his feet only a couple of meters above the ground, so near, and yet so far. Guy swarmed up the tower, cut the lines, and lowered him gently down.

"It's George Feuerbach," he called down softly, "Dead. I'd guess he died the moment he collided with the tower. His helmet split open. Christ, I can see his brains spilling out. He wouldn't have stood a chance, poor bastard. I'll bring down his 'chute, and we'll need somewhere to bury the body."

Talley grimaced. He knew they had to leave him. It was every man's wish for his mortal remains to come home for a decent burial, yet these men knew in their line of work, it may not be possible.

Two men lost in Kashmir during a screwed up operation, and now this. What's happening to this outfit? What can I do? Maybe nothing. This is war, and things go wrong. Men get killed.

They wrapped the 'chute around the body and carried it back to the LZ. The men clustered round, their faces expressionless, but they would have been quietly checking to see who was present. And who was missing.

"Feuerbach?" Rovere asked.

"Feuerbach, yeah."

The Italian shook his head. "For in that sleep of death what dreams may come."