He could see the others nearby. Good chutes.
He wanted the ground but couldn’t see it. He waited, the hardest thing.
Where the hell was it?
The plane had to crisscross back overhead, flying an extremely narrow corridor where the North Koreans couldn’t find it on radar. A mile either way and not only would it be shot down but Duke and the twenty-two people who’d come out with him would be hung out to dry.
So where the hell was the ground already?
Tyler saw shadows and braced himself, trying simultaneously to relax and brace for the landing at the same time.
It didn’t come. It wouldn’t.
Too fucking long. A lot of guys wanted the jump to go on forever, or so they said; he was always anxious for it to end.
He was off balance now, unsure what the hell was going on.
More shadows. He braced again.
Nothing.
And then the ruck thumped behind him. His right leg touched down a millisecond before the left; he screwed it up, lost his balance, fell to the right instead of walking off like a champ. If this were a training film he’d be the shitful example, tumbling onto the ground, the idiot who did everything wrong, got his head messed up, doubted the equipment, dragged along on the ground as the chute inflated with the wind.
His fingers fumbled against the restraint snaps.
He was eating dirt. His face bashed against the rocks.
Three months in Washington and I’m this far out of it?
Tyler ignored the bumps and bruises, rolling up his chute and trying to hide the damage to his ego.
The team leaders quickly gathered their men together. Besides eighteen Army Special Forces soldiers — one and a half A teams — they’d taken along two Air Force air commandos with special training so they could refuel the aircraft if necessary. They also had two CIA people with them, a female officer and a native Korean agent, who could provide assistance as well. The agent had some familiarity with the terrain and would be useful in case things went very wrong; had the CIA version of the plan been approved, they’d have been here alone.
Tyler wasn’t the only one who had trouble landing. One of the soldiers had broken his arm but insisted he could travel. Tyler ’s first call was whether to let him or not.
An easy calclass="underline" The man could still walk.
“You’re with us,” said the major. “All right, let’s move out.”
He checked his AK-47. The team had been equipped with Korean weapons and uniforms; most of the men had Asian backgrounds and they might be able to at least temporarily fool an enemy patrol.
Temporarily.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” repeated Tyler. “We have twenty miles to travel tonight.”
Chapter 17
HELLO AMANDA
RECEIVED YOUR INSTRUCTIONS. THANK YOU! I WILL GO TO THE AIRFIELD EVERY NIGHT STARTING TONIGHT.
STILL NOT BEING GUARDED.
I HAVE PRAYED TO BE DELIVERED. I LONG TO LIVE IN FREEDOM. GOD BLESS YOU FOR YOUR HELP.
____________________ Headers ____________________
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Chapter 18
From the outside, the Berkut looked like a Sukhoi with its wings on backward.
From the inside, it felt like a splinter that could change directions in the wink of God’s eye.
The other man who had flown the plane compared it to a lighter, longer F/A-18; one of the engineers who’d been in the backseat thought it closer to an ancient F-104 Starfighter that could maneuver like an A-10A Warthog. Howe had flown the F/A-18 only once (it was a Navy plane) and had never sat in the cockpit of the Starfighter, which was retired long before he had joined the service. He’d also never flown an A-10A. His main comparison was therefore the heavily modified F-16 that he’d used to familiarize himself with the Berkut before strapping himself inside; the S-37/B was slightly faster and so twisty that it was easy for the plane to get ahead of the pilot during high-g maneuvers, becoming essentially uncontrollable. The nose of the plane had a tendency to shoot up during a hard turn, and despite all of the engineering it remained at least theoretically possible to jam the Berkut so tightly at high speed that the divergent forces of lift, gravity, and momentum would snap off the forward winglets.
Master those forces, however, and the plane form had a great deal of potential. The Russians were trying to sell their version, somewhat tamed down, as a multitasking fighter-bomber. As a ground-pounder the plane carried more armor — a lot more armor — which not only increased its survivability but took just enough of the maneuverability away to make it safer to fly.
Though much less fun.
Howe wasn’t particularly concerned with the fun factor or even his version’s ultramaneuverability as he took off from Misawa Air Base in northern Japan. As the crow flew, he was roughly eight hundred miles from his destination, but he wasn’t a crow and he wasn’t going in a straight line. After a refuel over the Sea of Japan and a rendezvous with a pair of flight groups providing cover in case anyone was tracking him, Howe would tuck toward the waves and begin his weave over the border of Russia and down into North Korea. His flight path led through a poorly covered defense zone, well north of a cluster of radar units that would be scanning for an American intrusion. Flying along the northern border of the country, he would have to watch for Chinese as well as Korean air patrols, but this ought to be relatively easy, as neither country was in the habit of flying many nighttime sorties in the vicinity. Once past the border town of Hyesan, he would cut southwest through Yanggang Province for about fifty miles before zagging through the hills and landing at the air base.
Ten minutes before he touched down, Howe would make a transmission in Russian indicating that he was experiencing engine problems. The SF team on the ground would hear the broadcast and relay a go/no-go via the satellite communications system to a mission coordinator orbiting far off the coast in an RC-135.
There were three options, the call to be made by the ground team, which by now should be ringing the airfield and observing the nearby camp where the scientist was staying.
The first plan, and the preferred option, had Howe landing and taxiing to the far end of the runway. The scientist would be waiting. Howe would help him aboard and then take off. They would fly out to the Sea of Japan, where he would meet a refueling jet. The Special Forces troops, meanwhile, would proceed back to a landing area near where they had parachuted; a pair of Ospreys would sneak through the radar-free corridor and pick them up two nights later. This was the preferred plan, and they would use it if the scientist left the camp where he was staying and went to the airport, as he had agreed to do via coded e-mail.