Hooker shook his head. "Man, they're working her to death. When's the last time she had a weekend off?"
Mitchell had to think about that. "Probably about two months ago. When we went to Soraksan National Park for the weekend."
"Need a ride over to Chongyangni Station?"
"I'd appreciate it, but I can take the subway."
"No trouble, sir. We'll leave here at 1545."
Mitchell paused as a thought occurred to him. "You don't suppose we're going on alert because of all this stuff going down in China, do you, Sergeant Major?"
Hooker considered that. "I doubt it, sir. Everything seems to be pretty static."
Mitchell shook his head. "I don't know. On the news there was a story that they tried sending troops into Beijing and the troops didn't buy off on it."
Hooker shrugged. "Who knows what the hell is going on over there. I sure haven't been able to figure out this part of the world, and I've spent quite a few years running around here. China has always been the great enigma." Hooker smiled proudly. "Hey, you like that fancy word I used?"
Mitchell gave the sergeant major his thanks for the ride offer and went outside to wait by the gate of the small compound that housed DET-K. The compound consisted of six buildings, one for the headquarters and one for each of the five A teams that made up the unit. It was located on the south post portion of Yongsan Army Military Base, nestled in the heart of Seoul. On a day when the winds blew away the cloud of pollution that usually covered the city, you could see the Seoul Tower on a hilltop rising above the city to the north, and the tall 63-Building to the south on the other side of the Han-Gang River. Today wasn't one of those days — a foreboding gray cloud hovered above the city.
Mitchell saw a deuce-and-a-half truck swing around the corner, roar past the softball field, and come toward him. He knew that if he didn't go with the truck, there were better than even odds that the driver wouldn't make it out of the city. Seoul had not been designed with cars in mind. In fact, it hadn't even been designed at all; it had just grown. There was a definite shortage of road signs, although a big improvement had been made during the buildup for the Olympics. Mitchell could read Korean characters and make out most signs, although he was a long way from being fluent in the language.
The driver pulled the truck up and got out. "Sir, I'm supposed to report to a Sergeant Major Hooker."
Mitchell decided to have mercy on the young man. "Private, you don't want to talk to the sergeant major. He hasn't had his breakfast yet and he might make you the first course." He clambered up the passenger side. "Let's roll."
It was a long and tiring fifteen-kilometer walk back to the pickup point. Riley enforced strict tactical discipline the entire way. As he continued to control the operation, he could sense the captain getting irritated with him. That was all right with Riley. They could hash things out after they got back to the team room.
Riley drove himself and his team hard, because he'd seen the results of half-assed efforts. In the peacetime army it was hard to keep the motivation level up. Occasionally, Riley just got tired of pushing. His soldiers sometimes resented his pickiness, what he called "attention to detail." But it was attention to detail that determined whether a soldier lived or died. Still, he tried to be fair, and his men respected him for that. Riley had two passions: his team and his martial arts training. Unlike many other soldiers serving a tour in Korea, Riley didn't have a mistress off post. Nor did he frequent the GI bars every evening. Riley dedicated himself to taking care of his team. The ten members of Team 3, Special Forces Detachment-Korea, were his family.
On the way to the pickup point, they reached a bridge spanning a small but deep stream. Riley stopped the team and signaled for Hoffman and Sfc. Lech Olinski, the team's intelligence sergeant, to come forward. Riley instructed them to emplace a one-rope bridge downstream from the road bridge for the team to cross on.
Hoffman stared at Riley for a second, then realized the futility of complaining. It would be much easier to go nontactical at this point and walk across the road bridge. But Riley didn't know the meaning of the word nontactical.
As the two moved off to the riverbank and broke out a 120-foot rope, Riley heard Hoffman mutter to Olinski. "Guess the man figures we need a bath, hey, Ski?"
Olinski grunted in reply. Riley smiled to himself. Olinski was not exactly verbose. As intelligence sergeant, he was the second-highest-ranking noncommissioned officer on the team, and Riley knew that he could count on Olinski's support for his strict training habits. Olinski had the same outlook Riley did.
Olinski was one of those people with a varied background that Special Forces seemed to attract. His parents were Polish and he himself had lived in Poland until he was eleven, when the family had escaped to West Germany. Olinski had spent three years there, then came to the United States to live with an uncle. At seventeen he enlisted in the army and joined the Rangers, where he rose to the rank of staff sergeant. When someone at the Department of the Army happened to see that Olinski spoke fluent Polish, German, and Russian, Olinski was asked to volunteer for Special Forces. After finishing his training, Olinski had spent several years in the 10th Special Forces Group, which had Europe as its area of orientation. When DET-K had picked up some responsibility for eastern Russia, Olinski had been sent to Korea for a one-year short tour.
Since his arrival, Olinski had maintained a reputation as a quiet but extremely competent intelligence sergeant. His knowledge of Soviet and Warsaw Pact armies and security forces came from more than just books. He also had his personal childhood experiences to draw on.
Olinski looked his name, with a broad Slavic face and tall lanky body. Besides the usual Polish jokes, Olinski was often the butt of other younger, and less experienced, team members' jibes for his willingness to be miserable when there might be an easier way out. In the Rangers, Olinski had learned to ignore the pain and discomfort that hard, realistic training entailed. This hard-core quality endeared the man to Riley, who was fond of saying that pain was weakness leaving the body.
Riley watched as Olinski lowered his body into the chilly mountain stream. This was the price one had to pay to be good, Riley thought. The easy way got you killed. With the rope tied around his waist, and his M16A2 held overhead, Olinski sidestroked to the far bank, being careful not to swallow water. Any water in the Korean countryside was extremely suspect: pollution and the Korean way of fertilizing fields with human waste ensured that. In his dripping uniform Olinski anchored the rope around a tree, then turned to provide far bank security.
Hoffman enlisted the aid of three other team members and they anchored the near end of the rope on a tree, then tightened it down as much as possible. Hoffman hooked Olinski's and his own rucksack onto the rope with snap links and started across. The natural stretch of the rope made the center section of the bridge sag so that Hoffman's head went underwater briefly, but he pulled himself over quickly. One by one, the rest of the team followed.
Sending his ruck over with Devito, Riley remained until last. He untied the near bank rope and swam it over. On the far bank, he coiled the rope and hung it on the outside of his ruck as the team moved out to cover the last kilometer back to their pickup point. When they reached the road junction where the truck was supposed to be, Riley sighed as he saw nothing there. He was too tired to get angry. Typical, he thought. He knew it would show up sooner or later. Between Hooker and Mitchell at the Operations Shop, one of the two would get things rolling.