They all watched as Moore got up, walked over to the electronic map, and pointed. "We have a limited number of Special Operations Forces permanently stationed in the Pacific. The air force has the 1st Special Operations Squadron at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, which consists of four MC-13 °Combat Talon aircraft.
"As far as navy goes, they have a Special Warfare Group of SEALs dedicated to the theater. The army has the 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group headquartered in Okinawa and the Special Forces Detachment-Korea, also known as DET-K, up here in Seoul.
"This mission, 17-A, is for a unit from DET-K. It was initially designed as a team's wartime mission in the event of all-out war between the United States and China. The way we come up with these missions is to give general taskings to the subordinate units and then ask them to develop missions they feel are within their capabilities. In this instance the general guidance was to inflict damage on the Chinese war-fighting ability by attacking their petroleum industry."
Moore seemed ready to continue, but Sutton held up a hand. "I think that's all we need for now. In this scenario, we're using the wartime mission as a Command Authority surgical strike to retaliate against the Chinese government. The political reasons for such a strike are not important, since we are merely testing the ability to command and control such a mission. In doing so we will also get a good idea of the feasibility of the mission. That data will be in our files. In case there is ever a need to consider any of these missions, the data will be available for study."
Sutton consulted his notes again. "I want to run through the tentative schedule and rules for the exercise so we can get started on time. The evaluated exercise formally begins today at 1200 Zulu. By the way, all times from here on will be in Zulu, or Greenwich mean time. That will help prevent any confusion with the various time zones we'll be working with. All your message traffic will go through the computer. The blank square in the lower right corner of the electronic map is where all the traffic going in and out will be displayed."
Sutton paused as Olson raised a hand. "You mean there's no way we can talk directly to the units?"
Sutton shook his head. "Not verbally. There are two reasons we run it this way. First, it is more secure because we are able to automatically encrypt and decrypt the message traffic. You will find, if you ever operate out of the Pentagon's Emergency Operations Center, that it works in the same way. There is the capability to talk voice in an emergency, but almost all traffic is handled through the keyboard.
"The second reason is that the computer in some cases will be making the responses for your subordinate and higher elements. For example, you will be receiving some input from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as your link to the National Command Authority. Naturally, we don't have the chairman standing by. The computer will simulate his responses and input along with that of other people and units."
Sutton turned to the map board. "In addition to the…"
In the back of the room, Meng tuned out the droning of Sutton's voice. He'd heard it all before. Grown men playing games. He looked at his watch. Almost 7:30. He slipped out of Tunnel 3 to catch the latest news on the TV.
About ten soldiers were scattered about talking quietly in the bar area of the Page II All-Ranks Club. Mitchell looked around as he grabbed a bar stool. It was early yet for a Friday night. Mitchell knew most GIs went downtown to one of the five Korean clubs clustered around the post's main gate; these places offered bar girls and livelier entertainment.
He looked with irritation at his watch. Jean was really late tonight. He'd gone over to the hangar to see her as soon as he'd arrived at seven. She'd still been in her office, working on paperwork that she hadn't been able to get to in a day full of flying. She promised him she'd make it to the club by eight. Mitchell had dumped his overnight bag in the small room on the end of a Korean war-vintage Quonset hut that served as Jean's quarters and then come over to the club to wait for her.
He nodded as a warrant officer from his wife's unit came in and took the stool next to him. Chief Warrant Officer Third Class Colin Lassiter was his wife's main assistant in making sure the flow of aircraft went smoothly. Her company, D Company, 309th Aviation, was responsible for fixing all the helicopters in the battalion — a total of almost fifty aircraft.
Lassiter shook his head at Mitchell. "Captain Long working late again, sir?"
Mitchell nodded glumly. "She was supposed to be here at eight."
Lassiter ordered them both a beer. "I'm sure glad she's in command here. Things have gotten a lot better since she took over. We used to be totally screwed up. Now we're only half screwed up."
Mitchell was relieved to see Jean walk into the bar, still in uniform. She smiled as she saw him and strode over. "Hey, babe. Sorry I'm late."
He was still irritated. "Yeah, sure. Want a beer?"
She looked at her watch. "No, I've got to fly tomorrow morning." She turned to the warrant officer. "Keeping my husband out of trouble, Colin?"
"Yes, ma'am. You know me."
She laughed. "Yeah, I do. That's why I asked." She turned back to her husband. "I'm starved. Let's eat."
Mitchell slid off his bar stool and, saying good night to Lassiter, followed his wife to the other end of the club where the dining room was located. It was five minutes before the kitchen closed but the Korean waitress was more than happy to persuade the cook to scrape together something for her favorite captain and her husband. Mitchell was always impressed by how his wife could make people like her. A sense of humor was a valuable tool, he knew, but one he didn't have a good handle on. His wife was usually smiling and could laugh at anything. In the army this sometimes irritated people, who thought she might be laughing at them. It was the same mistake he had made when he'd first met her at Fort Bragg.
As they waited for the meal, they filled each other in on events of the past week. Mitchell let his wife do most of the talking, because he could sense she was upset about something. It took her a few minutes, but she finally got around to it. She reached into one of the numerous pockets on her flight suit, pulled out a photograph, and passed it across the table. "Someone in my company found that posted on the bulletin board at flight operations."
Mitchell checked out the picture. It showed his wife drinking out of a large tankard in front of a bunch of men. Someone had scrawled across the bottom: MUST BE HARD TRYING TO BE A MAN. "When was this taken?" he asked.
"During my hail to the battalion six weeks ago. They fill that tankard with beer and you have to drink all of it."
Mitchell looked at his wife. "You drank all of it?"
She nodded. "It was only four beers. I had to do it. It's the tradition for a new officer."
Mitchell didn't think much of the tradition. "That's a real professional unit you're in."
"Hey, it was only in fun. I thought it was kind of humorous."
Mitchell stabbed his finger at the printing. "Who the hell wrote this at the bottom?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. Someone from my company saw it on the board at flight ops and took it down and brought it to me."
Mitchell was pissed. The resentment that was continually directed toward his wife for being in the army grated on his nerves. He hated it when someone tried to hurt her. It made him want to find whoever had done it and hurt them. Not a very mature reaction, he knew. Jean could, and wanted to, fight her own battles. And she was good at it. She'd held her own for nine years. All she wanted from him was comfort and support.