“The last transmission the Agency received from its operative was the SEALs were still being held in Bridge House. All other intercepts by CIA and NSA have been unsuccessful. The ChiComs are being very quiet. But each agency is confident they’re still at that location.”
Grant leaned back against the desk. “I have a feeling there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”
“I’d say it’s more like two ‘shits.’”
“Christ! What the hell’s wrong?”
“Which bad news do you want first?”
Grant’s pulse shot up. “Just… tell me.”
“First, the CIA hasn’t released the name yet.”
“Oh, shit! Can’t you get somebody higher up to hold their feet to the fire? Jesus, Scott!”
“I know! I know! And I have pushed the issue higher up. I’m waiting.”
“If and when you do get that name, let me fill you in on our LZ,” Grant said. “We decided on Dianshan Lake.” He lifted a piece of paper from his pocket. “The coordinates are 31°8′ 40.83, 121°0′ 52.94.”
“Got it.”
Grant put the paper back in his pocket. “Now, go ahead and tell me what’s behind door number two.”
“Some new information has just been passed down to us. It seems one of Zhu’s former subordinates had attempted an escape to the U.S.”
“Attempted?”
“He never made it.”
“We’re not supposed to find him too, are we?” Grant looked at his watch. He was getting anxious. Time wasn’t on his side when it came to the upcoming mission.
Mullins sidestepped the question. “The Agency learned about this guy from their operative. He originally requested the SEALs take him along with Zhu. The Agency denied the request, but at the time it didn’t know what he had in his possession — two Russian-made canisters of plutonium, stolen from the nuclear sub shipyard.”
“Oh, Jesus!”
“We understand… ”
“Hold on a minute, Scott. Are you saying the Agency held back information again?”
“I was hoping you missed that, but it seems to be the case. They didn’t give any importance to helping this other guy escape. Once they found out about the plutonium, it was too late.”
Grant remained quiet, as he started pacing in front of the desk, trying to get himself under control. This kind of Agency shit had happened way too often while he was in the Navy, and it was picking up right where it left off.
Mullins continued. “From what the operative was able to find out, each container was the size of a cat food can. The inner container was sealed with a bolt and gasket to prevent motion during handling, then the outer container was welded. As a precaution, the process was repeated, encasing the plutonium twice, which was supposed to keep it more stabilized during movement, as well aslimit the possibility of leakage.”
Grant finally commented. “I don’t understand why the hell we didn’t pick up any transmissions from the ChiComs.”
“I could give you all kinds of assumptions, Grant. Losing plutonium isn’t something any country would want to admit. Initially, there were a couple of spurt transmissions, then everything stopped. Everyone’s opinion is the ChiComs started passing information and details via couriers. They were on the hunt for that guy.”
“Listen, Scott. Our mission is to go in and get our men, not hunt down two cans of plutonium. Shouldn’t that be the ChiCom’s problem anyway?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. And it still is. But the Agency and NSA seem to think this guy’s in hiding and… ”
Grant interrupted. “With the plutonium?”
“Nobody’s certain.”
“I don’t know why the hell I even asked because it doesn’t matter what the answer is. We can’t do it. Do you know what it’s gonna take just for us to get in then get out? And what if our guys aren’t where they’re supposed to be, Scott? There’s no way in hell I’m not gonna track them down and find them. To hell with the Chinaman! Let the Agency’s man deal with it!”
On one hand, Mullins was surprised by Grant’s outburst. On the other, he expected it. There’s no way in hell Grant Stevens would leave China without those SEALs.
Grant took a deep breath, trying to slow down his heart rate. “Is this by order of the President?”
“Nothing official yet; just your need to know for now.”
In this brief span of time, during this conversation, Grant had already started to plan what he’d do should an executive decision come down.
Chapter 6
With its four turboprop engines revving, the C-130 began its takeoff roll. The pilot advanced the throttles close to fifty percent. As the Hercules rumbled down the main runway at Atsugi NAF, the co-pilot kept an eye on the V1 (velocity/speed). If there were any major problems, such as engine failure or fire, they’d have to abort takeoff before reaching V1. But once past that speed, takeoff was the only option, no matter what happened after.
When the engines stabilized at forty-five percent, the pilot accelerated them to takeoff thrust. Reaching Vr (rotation speed), he raised the nose gear off the runway. Current wind conditions dictated the aircraft would come to heading 258.8° W, putting it on course for the DZ, nine hundred miles away.
Once at cruising altitude, the pilot pushed the aircraft close to its top speed of three hundred sixty-six mph. Even at that, it would take almost three hours before Team Alpha Tango would make its jump.
In the fifteen foot wide cargo bay, sitting on orange nylon web jump seats, the men loosened their seat belts. Under their jump gear they were outfitted the same — dressed in black from head to toe.
Quietly, they each began checking their own weapons, equipment, chutes, testing O2 bottles. Everything would be checked, rechecked.
Doc Stalley had one extra piece of gear to check, even though it was for the second time. He unzipped his medical backpack. With supplies, it weighed twenty pounds. He quickly eyed the contents of the main compartment and pockets: battle dressings; saline solution; IV fluid kit; sutures; syringes; morphine, and everything else needed for battlefield care. It was his own portable “clinic.”
Grant reached into his rucksack, taking out the satellite photos. Those were the only pieces of intel he brought. The folder and its contents were no longer needed, but left on the Gulfstream, secure with Matt Garrett. Everything had been put to memory by each man. They couldn’t risk having any information on them should the worst happen. The photos would be destroyed before they made the jump. What each man did have was some “haul ass” money, Chinese currency called “renminbi.” The primary unit of renminbi is the “yuan” which means “people’s currency.”
During the flight from D.C., the Team examined all photos. They decided the LZ would be the northeast side of Dianshan Lake. There were some rice fields but mostly grassy areas. It appeared to be far enough away from civilians. With the Team’s expected time of “arrival” it was unlikely anyone would be in the fields, except maybe for grazing water buffalo.
The LZ would put them west of their destination, Bridge House, situated on the outskirts of downtown Shanghai.
Adler turned slightly on the jump seat, hooking his fingers in the back webbing. He debated whether he should bring up the subject. “Are you okay?” he asked Grant with a worried expression.
“With what?”
“You know. It hasn’t been that long since… since you were in the hands of those East German bastards.”
Grant slowly took a deep breath. “Listen, Joe. I’m fine. East Germany’s in the past. What I’m concerned about are those two men.”
He laid the photos on the seat, then stood as he adjusted the earplug in his right ear. Slight turbulence made him rest a leg next to the seat’s aluminum support bar. He was worried, but mostly he was pissed… again. Goddamn Agency, he thought. Mullins still hadn’t gotten the name of the CIA operative.