Warriors (48 page)

“Until noon tomorrow, Greenwich Mean Time. At which point I have to pick up the phone and call General Moon. I will have two choices: agree to dismantle America’s military might in the Pacific in order to avoid global nuclear holocaust, or tell him to go fuck himself. I prefer the latter. This guy is telling the world that the United States is in decline and it’s only a matter of time until our demise. We need to send this crazy bastard an unmistakable signal to back the fuck off, pardon my French.”

“I suppose in that case you’d better wish me luck, Mr. President.”

“Son, listen to me very carefully. Because this, and I mean right this minute, is a moment in time that will define history for the next two or three decades, perhaps centuries. Believe me when I tell you, our whole nation wishes you and your men Godspeed and good luck, Commander Hawke.”

C
H A P T E R
  6 6

H
awke got his first real glimpse of
Dumbo
at dawn.

He shook his head in wonder. The thing looked enormous on the tiny World War II airstrip. The matte-black camo paint of the after-fuselage and tail-planes was riddled with bullet and cannon shells, an aileron appeared to be shredded, the port outer engine was saturated in oil, and the cockpit Perspex was shattered and starred in a dozen places.

A week or so ago, he’d invited Froggy to join him for a couple of beers at the Sunset Beach Bar on Islamorada. Froggy would play an important role in the success of this mission and he liked to get a sense of his key guys. He’d asked him, “What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned about flying combat in all these years, Froggy?”

“Always make the number of safe landings equal the number of takeoffs,” the little French battle tank had responded with his big grin.

He smiled and climbed aboard the behemoth, the last man to do so.

“Everybody all strapped in?” the pilot, Froggy, said over the intercom.

“Aye-aye, Captain!” a couple of hard-asses in the rear responded. The hulking beast began to roll, slowly picking up speed. The intercom crackled again, the captain speaking.

“Folks, I know you have a choice in air carriers here on Xiachuan, and so, on behalf of myself and the entire crew, I’d like to thank you all for choosing Air Dumbo for your transportation needs today.”

It was a joke, a very old Thunder and Lightning joke, but it still made them all laugh.

“Good morning, ladies!” Froggy shouted.

“Good morning, sir!” everyone aboard shouted in unison. Just before the big black C-130 Hercules roared off down the crumbling, weed-infested runway, Froggy added, “Now drop your cocks and grab your socks and get ready for takeoff!”

The nose lifted, the big aircraft rotated. The thunder of the mighty turboprop engines was deafening as they clawed the air for altitude.

In the cockpit, Froggy was just getting warmed up. “Since our route of flight today will be taking us over water, federal regulations require me to inform you that, in the unlikely event of a water landing . . . the cheeks of your ass will act as a flotation device.”

More hilarity in the back of the bus.

Laughter was a rarity when it came to nut-cutting time in a high-risk mission like this one. But it was a damn fine way to start one, Hawke thought. Fitz McCoy was the one responsible for morale in this outfit, and he and Froggy did a hell of a job. Hawke looked at his watch and then at Stokely Jones. He smiled. Stoke was in his pregame warm-up mode, head back, eyes closed, the big bright red pair of Beats headphones Fancha had given him clamped on his head; he was more than likely listening to Marvin Gaye or Barry White.

Most of the men were seated in rows of canvas sling chairs that lined the cavernous fuselage interior. Some were spread out on great greasy pallets scattered about the steel floor, playing cards or reading dog-eared paperbacks by Cussler or Flynn or W.E.B. Griffin.

In the dim light of the cavelike C-130, the troops were mostly alone with their thoughts. The Big Dance, they were all thinking, because this one really was for all the marbles.

Just for fun Hawke turned to Harry Brock, who was sitting right next to him. Man with the thousand-yard stare, the one the Yank GIs had invented in what they called “The Shit,” also known as Vietnam. Brock was endlessly checking and rechecking his weapons, gear, and ammo.

“What are you thinking about, Harry?” Hawke asked a surprised Brock.

“Corvettes?”

Hawke had to laugh. Perfect.

“Really? Me, too,” Hawke said.

“Really?” Brock said, his face lighting up.

“No. Not really, Harry,” Hawke said. “Is that what you were really thinking about?”

“No, sir.”

“So? What?”

“I dunno. Look. I know you think I’m a fuckup. Hell, I guess I am. But what I was really thinking was that . . . in this world, you don’t get to live free for free . . . You don’t get that without working for it. Not just the things we do, insertions like this, but just find a way to work for it somehow, do something to keep the lantern lit. Know what I mean, sir? I mean, we’ve all got to earn it every single day. Right?”

“Right.”

Hawke looked at him a long time. This was not the Harry Brock he thought he knew so well.

“And . . . the way I figure, Commander, all this shit we’re in, guys like you and me? The truly deep shit, like this insertion, I mean. For me? It’s like this shit was always out there waiting for me. And I suppose I was always waiting for it. Like a, I dunno, a hill to climb every day, I guess. Other side? Like Syria? The North Koreans? They got no rules, but—somehow—we’ve managed to hold on to them. That make any sense, sir?”

“Yeah. It does, Harry. Makes a hell of a lot of sense. Now, you settle down. Get your head on straight. You hear me?”

“Getting it straight, sir.”

THEIR INSERTION INTO CHINA NAVAL
Base Xinbu had been methodically planned aboard the sub while en route to the air base at Xiachuan Island. They’d looked at CIA-generated thermals and sat images of the installation. They’d studied topography, the defenses, the guard changes, until they could no longer see straight. How the hell to get in and how the hell to get out. Ultimately, it had been decided that the best way in was airborne. A HALO night jump, high-altitude, low-open.

HALO minimizes the time men spend floating down in their parachutes, which is when they are most at risk from enemy observation and fire. HALO jumps are done from about thirty thousand feet. Nobody hears the aircraft approach at that altitude, nobody sees the jumpers coming. At such a high altitude, it is necessary to use minibottles of oxygen and a mask to remain conscious. Altimeters on the parachutists’ wrists—every move is precision timed.

Fifteen miles before the jumpers reach the target, out they go. Nobody sees them that high up is the idea. They use flat chutes as parasails to steer through their descent. The team free-falls for as long as possible, straight down through the radar detection zone, and then the men pop the chutes and begin long, controlled glides downrange into the LZ.

Using the newly acquired White House satellite images of the Chinese military installation’s location on Xinbu, they had identified a pretty good landing zone. The designated LZ would be a high mountain meadow located two miles from the base perimeter fencing.

On the seaward side of the base, Hawke had seen images of a huge complex of hardened concrete bunkers with no visible opening to the sea. This, he knew, was so that Centurion submarines could come and go unseen by sats or surface eyes. He’d also gotten flash traffic from his U.S. Navy contact inside the White House that a wolf pack of six Yong class subs had left Xinbu sub base at 2200 hours. They were steaming straight for the USS carrier
Theodore Roosevelt
.

According to his inside guy, the president had told the
TR
’s fabled skipper, Rabbit Christiansen, “You better get ready, Rabbit, because that Chinese wolf pack is all over your ass. They will be picking you up on their screens by 0500. They mean business, son . . . this is WAR!” Half an hour later, his navy guy had messaged him again.

It was official.

The Chinese subs had cornered the besieged carrier battle group. The United States of America had gone to DEFCON 1. This state of maximum readiness carries the exercise term “Cocked Pistol,” meaning nuclear war is imminent. During the September 11 attacks, the United States reached DEFCON 3, standing by for an increase to DEFCON 2, the highest level ever used, which never came.

At DEFCON 1, you were teetering on the brink, one foot in the abyss.

Like the big engines under her wings, hours and hours aboard
Dumbo
droned on. Two hours had passed, then three. Hawke could feel the men’s emotions spiking as the drop zone rapidly approached.

In what seemed like no time at all, the jump/caution red light illuminated, and the jumpmaster was pointing at Hawke.

“Saddle up, Commander,” the rangy kid said. “Skipper’s going to dip down to thirty thousand feet now, reduce our airspeed, and then we go.”

“Five minutes out,” Froggy’s excited voice boomed over the intercom. “Conditions at the LZ, good visibility, no SAM installations visible, no combatants, all clear. I’m turning over control to my copilot now, boys, getting my chute on. I’ll see you on the ground!”

Brock touched Hawke’s forearm and said, “Look, if this doesn’t go well for me? My luck runs out tonight? In the marines, all I was interested in was mission success. Getting it done and getting my guys home safe. Sir. That’s all.”

“Just do your job, Harry, you’ll stay lucky,” Hawke said. “Duty. That’s all I ever ask.”

“Just like the rodeo cowboys say, ride it to the buzzer.”

HAWKE STOOD UP, ALMOST INVISIBLE
in his black camo jumpsuit plated with Kevlar body armor. He checked his weapons for the last time. HK 9mm submachine gun. A Sig Sauer 9mm sidearm. Both with suppressors. Grenades, stun and smoke, plus Willy Petes, the white phosphorus grenades hung like grape clusters from his web belt. Terrifying to an enemy and incredibly lethal. He was carrying a lot of gear, but nowhere near the weight of the men who’d be going out with the M-60 heavy machine guns.

Weight was a big problem in the thin air of a high-altitude jump. Some men jumped carrying a hundred pounds of equipment. He didn’t envy them.

“Two minutes!”

The huge ramp at the rear began to grind down and soon
Dumbo
’s interior was filled with an icy roaring wind.

“Ramp open and locked,” the jumpmaster said, and Hawke walked out onto the sloping ramp, the cold wind tearing at him.

Time to go.

Ride it to the buzzer, cowboys.

C
H A P T E R
  6 7

T
he jump alarm bell signaled one minute to drop.

Hawke would be first out. He used the time to turn the impending scenario over in his mind: fitting all the individual jigsaw pieces of the strategic plan together as quickly as he could until they popped up as a cohesive story. Beginning, middle, and end. He couldn’t vouch for a happy ending, but he could always vouch for an end.

Of course, no war plan ever goes like it’s supposed to. But he’d gotten into this last-minute prep habit during his Royal Navy flying days and it had served him well. And just as the last puzzle piece popped into place—

The jump light flashed from crimson to green.

Hawke glanced at Stoke, gave him a big thumbs-up, and strode all the way out onto the lowered ramp.

“Mind your head, boss!” Stokely shouted over the roaring wind. Hawke instinctively looked up. There was a good twenty feet of clearance above him.

“Go!” the jumpmaster shouted.

Hawke stepped out into thin air.

The freezing slipstream body-slammed him like a wall of ice.

He sucked it up and relaxed into his long free fall, watching the earth spinning crazily up toward him, trying to memorize the island’s geographic details as they flashed by. Then, in what seemed like no more than a split second later, his flat chute deployed automatically and beautifully, an event always cause for brief but profound celebration.

He’d occasionally had a chute deploy ugly, and it was always most unpleasant.

He began a series of controlled and ever-tightening spirals to slow his speed for the rest of the way down. He was on a glide path toward the two-hundred-square-yard patch of meadow, the landing zone known forevermore as LZ Liberator. Stoke had code-named it aboard the sub.

Descending through three thousand, Hawke could now make out the purple-black silhouette of the mountainous basin where the target meadow was. The bowl of night was black, filled with cold, pinprick stars and drifting strands of cloud. Off to his left, a large white marble structure he recognized. The Te-Wu Academy for assassins. Then, to his left, he saw the huge white bunkers of the Centurion submarine complex and, finally, a large ultramodern four-story building he knew to be the newly constructed Weapons Design Center, or WDC.

Perhaps Bill Chase was in there at his drawing board right now. Burning the midnight oil in the service of a madman. CIA had told him that if Dr. Chase really was in residence on Xinbu Island, there was a very high probability that he could be found working and living in that building. The WDC, on Hawke’s map, was a quarter of a mile from the intended insertion point, the spot where they would breach the perimeter.

It was certainly possible. At the very least it was a good place to start. The ground came up fast, but Hawke tucked his chin in, bent his knees, manipulated his risers, and managed to stay on his feet.

He gathered his chute. He heard canopies fluttering high above and looked up to see a host of falling angels, the brave men who would march beside him into battle, each one of them prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice on this historic do-or-die night.

Hawke adjusted his helmet headset. “First Knight, this is Lone Eagle, copy?”

“Roger that, Lone Eagle, copy.” It was Stoke. The newly anointed “First Knight.” Stoke now informed strangers that he was the first member of his distinguished Harlem family to attend college—and the first to be knighted by the Queen.