Lin paused for just the slightest of moments as he reached the ladder. Were they so desirous to attack or to join with their brethren in the south?
Five miles. The road was rising up, the land swelling toward Ararat. Two vehicles had already broken down and been left on the side of the road. General Kashir had his map out and was scanning the terrain ahead, searching for the best route toward the Ahora Gorge. It was on the northeast side of the mountain, so he directed his lead vehicle to leave the road and angle to the right.
The first indication of the incoming Turkish jets was when their ordnance obliterated the front third of Kashir’s column. The blast wave from the bombs blew over Kashir like a warm wind. He craned his neck but the planes were already miles away, making a long turn to come back for another run. Glancing forward, he saw the smoking ruins of the front vehicles.
“Disperse and make for the rally point,” he ordered.
The Iranian vehicles spread out and raced toward the mountain as the Turkish jets unloaded the rest of their bombs. Half of the tanks and APCs were destroyed, but the rest continued on course, heading up the slope of the mountain.
“We’ve received a message from Kelly.” Quinn’s voice sounded tinny and distant in the headphones, the result of being scrambled by the Delta equipment and descrambled by the receiver set next to Turcotte.
Turcotte glanced over his shoulder. Mualama was seated with his back against one of the plastic cases, his eyes closed, apparently resting. Morris had another case open and was going through the gear inside. Turcotte was seated in the depression in the center of the bouncer, his hands on the control. They had just crossed the East Coast of the United States and were headed east at over three thousand miles an hour across the Atlantic.
“And?” Turcotte asked.
“We’ve got a grid for Excalibur. I’m sending it hard copy via onetime pad.” Turcotte nodded slightly as the machine scrolled out a piece of paper. “So if we have it, Aspasia’s Shadow has it.”
“A good assumption,” Quinn said. “Anything else in the message?”
“Just the coordinates and one word.” Turcotte waited.
“Beware.”
CHAPTER 13: THE PRESENT
The capital of South Korea, Seoul, has the disadvantage of being a relatively short distance from the demilitarized zone. As North Korean and Chinese forces poured over and under the border, General Carmody and the South Korean president had to make some quick recalculations based on the dual facts that they had neither tactical nuclear weapons nor American naval and air support from the fleet as expected.
The major advantage they did have in conducting their defense was the land itself and time. A mountainous land, the terrain of Korea lent itself to the defense by channeling attacking forces. And time played a role in that South Korea had had almost fifty years since the cease-fire that suspended the all-out war of their forebears to prepare themselves for another assault.
Unlike the war in the 1950s, both sides were more mechanized, making them more powerful, but also limiting their terrain mobility. As columns of North Korean and Chinese forces moved south, they were first struck by American and South Korean jets. Farther south, engineers placed conventional charges in preconstructed choke points along all major axes of advance.
Sides of mountains slid down onto roads, bridges crashed into rivers below, and dams were blown open, releasing torrents of water. To save their country, the South Koreans were sacrificing a good portion of it.
At the Presidential Palace in Seoul and at Eighth Army Headquarters, men and women hurriedly packed up critical equipment and paperwork as a mass evacuation began. General Carmody was with President Pak, making last-minute decisions as they walked down the steps of the palace. They paused on their way to waiting helicopters as a swarm of Chinese-made M-ll missiles thundered into downtown Seoul, exploding two thousand meters above the ground in a breathtaking exhibition of flashes and bangs.
“I don’t understand,” Pak said, looking up at the sky and the apparently harmless detonations.
General Carmody, dressed in battle dress, flak jacket, and the other accoutrements of his profession, understood exactly. He ripped open the case on his left hip and pulled out the contents, extending it to the South Korean president. “Put this on.”
Pak stared at the gas mask, comprehension dawning. His eyes shifted to the streets of his capital city, home to millions. He slowly shook his head, pushing the mask back toward the American general. “No. This”—Pak spread his hands wide, taking in the city— “is my responsibility. You defend the rest of the country. Make them pay for what they are doing now.”
Carmody, knowing he had scant seconds, slipped the mask over his head. He also pulled his hands — his only exposed skin — into his sleeves. The crews of the helicopters were better prepared, already in their protective suits. They slipped on masks and waved for Carmody and the rest of his staff who had masks to hurry. The general paused, then dashed down the stairs and into the helicopter. The door immediately slammed shut behind him.
On the stairs, President Pak could swear he felt the first drops of the deadly rain touch his skin, although when he looked at his hands, he could see no liquid. The sound of the engines powering up on the choppers mixed with the noise of the blades cutting air as the helicopters lifted off and headed o the south. He could see masked faces in the windows turned toward him.
Pak reached up and rubbed underneath his nose as it began to run. He heard screams in the distance. As he tried to draw another breath, his lungs felt as if strong rubber bands had been placed around them. He struggled to draw in air. Blinking, Pak looked for the fleeing helicopters but his sight was blurred. His field of vision was diminishing, until all he could see was a pinprick of light. He continued to struggle to get air, knowing as he did so that he was simply drawing in more of whatever was killing him.
A spasm ripped through his stomach and intestines as strongly as if he had been cut open with a sword. He dropped to his knees, doubled over in agony. He could still faintly hear the helicopters.
Pak retched at the same time he experienced involuntary urination and defecation, his body trying to expel whatever was killing it, even though the attempt was in vain. He rolled to his side, desperate for air, but his diaphragm was locking up, unable to work the lungs anymore. The president died of suffocation, as did over two million of his fellow citizens in the capital city.
“What do you have?” Turcotte asked into the radio that connected him with Major Quinn. He was doing two things at once, or rather he was doing one thing and having another done to him. He was piloting the bouncer over Africa, still heading east, and Morris had an IV stuck in his arm and was pumping oxygen-rich blood into Turcotte’s veins. Mualama was in the same place, also with an IV in his arm. Although he hoped to be able to go directly to the coordinates that Kelly had sent, Turcotte had long ago learned to prepare for the worst possible contingency, and in this case that was having to spend time on the mountain.
The concept of blood packing was several decades old. Some athletes had tried it in the Olympics, particularly those competing in distance events, before it was outlawed. Since their bodies wouldn’t have time to adjust to less oxygen coming in from their lungs, what normal climbers of Everest spent months at altitude doing, they were going to increase the amount of blood in their systems, trying to keep the amount of oxygen relatively level for a short period of time.