Riley didn’t fancy the idea of digging through thirty feet of ice, or more if the entire shaft was blocked. On the other hand, the plug might be only a few feet thick. “I’ll take the first shift digging.” He looked around. “I’ll knock the ice down, and you all pile it up in that corner.”
Riley took the entrenching tool from his ruck and tucked it inside his parka. He also unsnapped a twelve-foot length of nylon rope that was attached to the outside of his ruck, then wrapped the rope about his waist and around each leg, making an expedient climbing harness. He tied two loops in the ends of the rope and connected them with the snap link that had held the rope to his ruck. Then he climbed back into the shaft and up the rungs.
Reaching the ice, Riley clicked the snap link on a rung and sat back in the harness. He reached inside his parka, pulled out the e-tool, and unfolded it. Carefully pulling up his hood to protect his head, he used the point of the shovel to break off chunks of ice, letting them fall down the shaft to the floor. He worked mostly by feel — the reflected light from the room below barely lit the shaft.
It was the sort of mindless work that Riley enjoyed. It took his thoughts off the sight of Lallo lying in the corridor, bullets slamming into his body. And it didn’t allow him to think about the fact that he had killed again today. There would be plenty of time to think about that after they got out of here.
Major Frank Bellamy watched the confusion in his men’s faces as they were handed the cold-weather clothing that the battalion sergeant major had scrounged out of the central issue facility. The fact that the facility even had cold-weather gear in the first place was a little surprising, but they were Special Forces after all — ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice. Just because they were stationed in Panama didn’t mean they wouldn’t be sent to someplace not as temperate.
Bellamy grabbed the red webbing that served as seats on the side of the MC-130 Combat Talon as the plane suddenly stopped on the runway and then slowly turned. The roar of the engines easily penetrated the plane’s metal skin.
The loadmaster was yelling at Bellamy to get his men seated for takeoff. Bellamy ignored him. Air Force people always acted as though they were the most important thing in the world and the other services were just training aids to support them. What difference would it make if his men were seated on the web seats or standing in the middle of the plane if they crashed on takeoff, Bellamy had always wondered. They’d be dead either way.
Bellamy was the company commander for C Company, 3d Battalion, 7th Special Forces Group (Airborne). He’d received the alert direct from Special Operations Command forty minutes ago, and in that time he had gathered together two of his teams — the ones who weren’t out training — and gotten them and their gear loaded onto this MC-130. The twenty-six men were now crowded in the rear of the aircraft, trying to sort through the rapidly loaded equipment. Halfway up the cargo bay, a large black curtain blocked the view forward. Bellamy knew that behind the curtain were banks of electronic equipment manned by air force personnel.
With a slight bump, the brakes released and the plane rumbled down the runway. The loadmaster must have told the pilot that the soldiers had ignored his order to sit down, because the nose of the plane suddenly lifted and they immediately began climbing at an extreme angle.
“Assholes,” Bellamy muttered as he lurched backward and reluctantly took his seat.
His XO, Captain Manchester, sat down next to him and yelled into his ear. “Where are we going?”
“Antarctica,” Bellamy screamed back.
Manchester took that news in stride. “What for?”
“Fuck if I know,” Bellamy replied. “All the alert said was to get our butts in gear. I’m supposed to get filled in once we’re airborne and SOCOM gets its shit together and calls.”
Manchester nodded and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. No sense worrying about what they didn’t know. Bellamy had the same attitude. He bunched up a poncho liner behind his head and was asleep in less than ten minutes after takeoff.
The U.S. Eighth Army commander, General Patterson, steepled his fingers and contemplated his staff G-2. The G-2 was the officer responsible for intelligence, and it was at his request that the other primary staff members of Patterson’s headquarters were gathered in the situation room at almost eleven o’clock at night. The G-2 had just spent twenty minutes going over his recent intelligence data. He’d finished only a minute ago, and the rest of the room was waiting for Patterson’s reaction.
“OK. Let me see if I have this straight. All these indicators that you’ve just briefed add up to level four activity across the border. Am I correct?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered. Contrary to what many nonmilitary people think, it is impossible to launch a large-scale military campaign without certain preparations. These preparations are watched carefully by the intelligence agencies of all the armed forces in the world and are the basis for predicting the actions of their potential enemies. Noting some of those activities across the border in North Korea was what had caused the G-2 to become concerned and call this meeting.
“How many times have you seen this?” Patterson asked.
“We saw it during Team Spirit back in March. The North went up to level two then, but that was expected because they do it every year during that exercise. We haven’t seen an unexpected four like this in the eight months I’ve been here.”
“What do you think the reason for this is?”
The G-2 wasn’t about to conjecture. “I couldn’t say, sir. However, I must point out that the activity seems to be southern directed.” He gestured at the map on the wall behind him. “The satellite imagery definitely shows the V and II PKA Corps moving to forward assault positions along the border.”
“They may be doing this just to get us to deploy our forward elements into their battle positions so they can ID them,” pointed out the operations officer, the G-3. “They can pull those units back just as quickly as they move them forward.”
“Our sensing equipment is also picking up some tunneling activity in the DMZ,” the G-2 added. “We haven’t pinpointed it yet, but it’s the most extensive we’ve heard since ‘94 when Kim II Sung died.”
Over the years three tunnels under the DMZ had been discovered and neutralized. It was estimated that at least eighteen more tunnels had yet to be found, each one large enough for an estimated 8,000 troops an hour to pass through.
Patterson frowned. Level four was the first stage of intelligence alert to possible invasion from the north. By itself, it required no action on his part other than to inform subordinate commanders. Level three — if it came to that — required the restriction of all personnel to base and a one-hour alert status for every unit. Level two required forward movement to defensive positions and the initiation of movement of reinforcements from U.S. bases outside of the Korean peninsula — the real version of the Team Spirit exercise that was conducted every year. Level one meant that war was possible with less than a ten-minute warning.
“How far are they from reaching level one?” Patterson asked.
The G-2 bit his lower lip. “I’d say minimum of seventy-two hours, sir, if they’re committed to it. More likely a week. If we get any of several intelligence nodes passed in the next eight to twelve hours, we will be at level three.”
Patterson nodded. “All right. Inform me immediately if I have to go to level three alert. I want all major subordinate commanders notified about the level four. That includes all reinforcing units. I’m going to personally call the CG of the 25th in Hawaii and update him. I’ll also call the war room in the Pentagon.” He turned to his air force and naval commanders. “Please notify your respective personnel to go to level four alert.”