Читать книгу Permafrost - M. Schwartz - Страница 12

5

Feint

The team landed softly from their jump, some running as they touched down on the grass, some lifting their legs and sliding on the grass to a halt on top of a South Korean mountain. After a quick inventory and gear check, the teamed donned their night-vision goggles and headed into the warm Korean night.

“Coms check,” Lieutenant Coleman chirped. “Trident 1, good.” The team’s commander was Ian Coleman. He was second in his class at the Naval Academy and received brilliant marks for his tactician skills—ability to read the terrain and track almost any animal or human. The lieutenant had started his illustrious career out as a submarine officer but said that there hadn’t been enough challenge in it. He applied for the SEAL program and had excelled most expectantly. The only flaw that Baron had found was that he had a short fuse when it came to situations that require patience and was prone to use excessive force when it came to interrogations or hostage negotiations. Baron had witnessed his commander put a bullet between the eyes of a gunman holding people hostage instead of talking them down, twice. Although he had never lost a hostage so command couldn’t reprimand him too much, he still always took the riskier route in certain situations—a leadership trait Baron did not envy.

“Trident 2, good,” Special Warfare Operator Second Class (SO2) Reyes, their sniper, keyed. Armando Reyes was disturbingly accurate with his rifle and was nicknamed Specter by his team since he had an uncanny ability to move in and out of situations like a ghost with no one ever seeing him, not even his teammates. His slim outline, smooth facial features, and black skin helped him blend into most clandestine situations. He not only shot perfect with his MK11 but also the M4, AK-47, an assortment of pistols, grenade launchers, and even throwing knives. Baron couldn’t actually remember the last time he saw Reyes miss anything he was trying to hit.

“Trident 3, good,” Chief Petty Officer Baron whispered, checking all of his explosives to make sure they were accounted for and secure. It turned out Baron’s love affair with stress made him a prime candidate for being the team’s explosive expert and primary when it came to explosive ordnance disposal. He had spent a few weeks training with other military branch’s EOD teams and excelled much quicker than his other classmates. Apart from his leadership role, now that he had been promoted to chief, Baron loved being the explosive expert and took great pride in it.

“Trident 4, good,” SO3 Jackson, the heavy weapons enthusiast, whispered. Kurt Jackson was Reyes’s best friend from Texas. They had been from the same neighborhood, joined the Navy on the buddy program, and stuck with each other every step of the way. Jackson looked like one of those guys in the weightlifting magazines and was a mountain of a man. Standing at 6'9" and 280 pounds of solid special operations muscle and onyx skin that looked like it had been cut with lapidary precision, Kurt carried the M249 Saw like a pistol and could sprint with ease carrying the majority of the team’s ammo, communication equipment, and a spare rocket launcher.

“Trident 5, good,” SO1 Gomez, their translator and tech wizard spoke up. Peter Gomez was unique in most ways. He refused to advance to a higher rank in favor of being in the field all the time. His father had died in Tower 2 on 9/11, but he was only eight and too young to remember most of the details accurately from that day. Instead, he learned about them through his mother and the local news as he got older. Gomez had received a scholarship to MIT and was in his second year of dual-majoring in electrical engineering and linguistics when his mother had been killed in Boston. She had taken up distance running to reduce the stress and cope with the loss of her husband, and while visiting her son at MIT one spring, went running in the Boston Marathon where debris struck her from one of the homemade explosives. The next day, he dropped out of school and enlisted in the Navy. Since then, Gomez had put his brilliant brain to use and was sent to multiple schools for language since he had an ear for it. He had since been rated fluent in Russian, German, and Spanish. He modestly claimed to be only “conversational” in Korean, Mandarin, and Thai.

“Trident 6, good,” SO2 Owens, the corpsman said lastly. Steve Owens was your typical soldier if there were such a term. He had been a trauma nurse at the Denver ER clinic for two years. He wanted to get his master’s degree and needed money, so he signed up for the Navy. He tells the story as two wrong busses and a signature later, he was in the SEAL program as a corpsman though Baron knew better. It takes a certain person to conduct field surgery in a combat zone, someone who thrives off that kind of stress. For Owens, it was Sunday brunch to open up a wound on the battlefield, stabilize, and transport. He would never admit it, but Baron knew he had become addicted to the adrenaline rush, only the intensity of combat could bring.

“Five, call it in,” Coleman ordered in a hushed voice.

“Jackal, Jackal this is Trident 4 over.”

“Trident 4, Jackal. What’s your status, over?”

“Jackal, Four. We are mission green and on schedule. Check-in two hours. Over.”

“Four, Jackal. Roger, good copy. Jackal, out.” The line to command died.

Sweat dripped down Baron’s face five minutes into the night march in the mountains. The summer heat here was powerful, though it still wasn’t as bad as South Florida in July and August. After crossing six miles in two hours, the team was across the border and into North Korea. They could have done it in a better time, but neither country officially knew they were there, and if seen by North or South, in the still heavily militarized DMZ, they were confident there would be shooting. So they took their time and did it slowly and methodically. Once across the border, they took shelter under a small grove of trees near a road they were told the vehicle would be passing by, or so they hoped. The landscape looked arid and desolate. A few clumps of skinny, unhealthy looking trees sporadically placed in mostly pale-brown dirt and dead grass. A zephyr carried a subtle odiferous sting of rot on the hot and thick air that seemed to almost complement the visually depressing vistas. Somehow, even the landscaped seemed to be oppressed in this country.

“We will wait here,” Coleman whispered into the mic. “Set up eyes all around. If anyone sees a vehicle, any vehicle, I want to know about it. Don’t forget to hydrate.” Echoing of clicks filled the com line, acknowledging the order.

Baron sat his woodland camouflage-painted M4 rifle next to a tree, removed his backpack full of various explosives set it on the ground next to him and sat down, back against the same coniferous tree. He removed the canteen from his pack, unscrewed it, and took a deep gulp of warm water. Sweat beaded down his black-and-green-painted face, the salty droplets stinging his eyes. He could feel his clothes sticking to his sweat-drenched skin as he moved and adjusted positions, wiping away the perspiration from his face with his sleeve he keyed up his throat mic.

“Four, this is Three,” Baron whispered.

“Go ahead,” Jackson replied.

“What time is this jagaloon supposed to ride in?” Baron asked him, his Southern accent more noticeable now. It had a way of being thicker when he became tired, irritated, or drunk.

“Around 0500, bud,” Jackson replied. Baron looked at his watch, and the digital read out said 0430. Baron sighed and looked back to the horizon of green trees and modest mountains.

“Thirty to wait, huh? Well, I’ve always wanted to see a North Korean sunrise, ya know. It was in the top ten things to see in the recent Southern Home and Garden magazine,” Baron whispered. He could hear the low laughing all around him.

“Yeah, Three, maybe you’ll find a good girl while you’re here,” Jackson responded.

“You know me, nothing like a crazy indoctrinated North Korean girl who worships her dear leader every morning and night to get me going.” More muffled laughs in the darkness.

“Team, this is One. Lock it up, two lights over the hill direction southwest, contact imminent.” This got the team’s attention, and all joking stopped, cutting all chatter they got ready to go to work. The quiet sounds of boots scraping and stepping up on dirt, rounds being loaded into chambers and gear being donned filled the small hidden woods as the members of the team lowered their night vision into place over their face. Baron enjoyed this part. The anticipation before the trap was sprung. They had done this countless times, and every single memory plays back the same.

Baron felt like an indomitable lion hidden in the shadow about to pounce on and kill his prey. He could feel his blood pumping faster and could feel his heartbeat in his chest. The feeling of butterflies in his chest never went away, and he didn’t want it to either, it was a sign he was still alive and still had his edge. Baron felt that if he wasn’t nervous, then he wasn’t in any danger, and he was most certainly in danger.

“Two, this is One. Prepare to fire, disabling the truck.” Colman clicked over the radio as the ragged 1990s-looking truck came down the gravel road from the hill, kicking up dust and small rocks, leaving a visible plume in its wake. As the truck came closer and the popping and cracking from heavy rubber tires of gravel became clearer, Baron looked around at his team. He could see most of them from his position, and they all looked identical. None of them were fidgeting, just standing like iron statues with their eyes in their scopes, pointed down range like true professionals. The tension in the air was palpable, as the team waited for the order to attack and release a small bout of concentrated hell on these North Korean soldiers. The truck was twenty yards away when their commander clicked his mic twice and a bullet hole instantly appeared in the vehicle’s hood, penetrating to the engine block. A loud hiss and pop seeped from the engine, and the squealing old brakes brought the North Korean truck eventually to a halt. Two men leaped from the truck screaming in what Baron could only assume was Korean.

“Eotteohge doen geoyeyo?” one of the men shouted. Baron heard his headset click on; it was Gomez.

“What happened? Did we get shot? Something…about a radio. Shit, One, they are about to call it in, One,” Gomez said in a quick panic. Two quick clicks in succession mic filled the radio, and Baron heard a muffled cough. One guard’s head exploded pink mist and bloody chunks of gray matter. Bone and flesh filled the area like an overfilled balloon exploding. Another cough sounded in the distance and the second guard’s head snapped back, his uniform hat flying off, collapsing like a limp ragdoll onto a pile of dust and rocks. The team did a ten count before moving on the truck to ensure no one else was feeling like they needed to go for a walk. The area was quickly secured, and Coleman opened the back driver-side door to see a man sitting in the middle of the seat with a black bag over his head. He grabbed the man and yanked him out of the truck violently. He landed with a heavy thud on the ground, kicking up dirt dust all around him.

Baron looked at the hooded man, who had his hands zip-tied in front of him, lying on his side in the dirt. He had a ratty and torn blue denim jacket with faded brass buttons, matching pants; and under his jacket, there was a dirty white V-neck undershirt with multiple torn holes on it and what looked like to Baron as multiple dried blood stains. As the dust settled around the man, Baron looked at this team members. Some had their back to the man, keeping an eye on the horizon, pacing a little nervously back and forth. Some, like Coleman and Gomen, kept their weapons pointed at the helpless man. After lying motionless for a few moments, the man began to stir, trying to right himself. The sound perked everyone’s ears up like a hunting dog who heard the bushes rustling. The team was on high alert, absorbing every sight and sound and assessing it for danger.

The man who was bagged and in the process of standing up was violently forced to his knees by a strong kick to the back of his kneecaps by Coleman. Coleman placed his pistol to the back of his head and removed the hood. Baron knelt down in front of him to see if he was the missing doctor. In the growing morning light in the North Korean hills, Baron saw some similarity to the picture they were given during the brief but couldn’t be sure. His glasses were the same thick semisquared wooden frames, his thick bushy eyebrows matched the man in the picture by being brown with hints of gray on the edges, and he had a similar thin nose bridge, but something wasn’t quite right over all, Baron knew. So he went through some verification questions.

“Doctor, we are here to rescue you. I am sorry, but I have to ask you a couple of questions first, okay?” Baron said in a calm tone.

The man, eyes full of fear, shook his head up and down nervously. Baron thought it was strange since they just rescued him but pushed the thought from his mind and tacked it up to shock from the kidnapping.

“Doctor, when were you born?” Baron asked.

“Ten, thirteen, seventy-eight,” the man said nervously like he was trying to remember a distant fact.

“Excellent, now what is your cat’s name?”

“Claudus,” the doctor said in a whimper.

“Good, now one more. What do you prefer in your coffee? Milk or sugar?” Baron asked. He could see the man’s eyes racing back and forth like he was searching for the answer. “Sir? You okay?”

“Mi…milk,” the man said in a whisper. The whole team stopped looking around and the perimeter for enemy contacts and turned to stare at the man on his knees.

“He just say milk?” Coleman asked, confused.

“Yup,” Baron replied quickly.

“Well, that’s not ideal.” Coleman spat on the ground and looked up to the sky, rotated his neck, cracking it, then swung his custom-built black Colt 1911 at the back of the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

“What was he supposed to say again?” Jackson asked, looking confused.

“Christ, dude, pay attention in the mission briefs,” Gomez began. “Nothing, the missing guy doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Doc, give our new friend something to stay asleep until we can exfil. Jackson, share your gear and shed some of your equipment. You are primary on prisoner transport,” Gomez call it in. The team snapped into action, and cleared the road in ten minutes, hiding all evidence they were there. The team exchanged some gear with each other, then took off in a fast hike back toward the South Korean border and to relative safety. They had crossed the border undetected in five hours constantly trading off carrying the unconscious impersonator. Though once they had crossed, they had to wait for nightfall, which involved hiding under brush and not moving, talking, or eating.

The long summer day succumbed to the overpowering night, and Gomez called in the helicopter to pick them up. The blacked-out stealth chopper was not only fast, but its sharp angles and classified paint job resulted in a minimal radar signature. Coupled with a state-of-the air rotor and exhaust system, the platform was magnitudes quieter than his older cousins, the Black Hawk or Osprey. The team piled on and carried the body of the unconscious man to the deck of the helicopter.

“Who the hell is that?” the pilot asked, concerned.

“Just get us to Seoul,” Coleman replied.

“Damn SEALs,” was all the pilot said in reply.

The normal two-hour trip by train from Cheorwon to Seoul was done in forty-five minutes flat by the sleek helicopter. Their ride out of the mountains landed on a large concrete H helipad on top of an unmarked building covered in polished blue glass. They hopped off and carried the impostor inside. Coleman came up to a pad and typed in eight numbers given to him during the mission brief for a one-time use: 17751790. A light ringing sound emitted from the panel, and the door popped open. The hiss from the emerging door made it sound like the entry system had been pressurized inside and was made to be airtight. Once fully open, the team piled into the building and down two stories. Coleman typed in another pin, and the second door opened.

The room they entered was nothing more than a dolled-up office full of a people in average black-and-gray suits, business casual garb, and a lot of generic and cheap art like a lake surrounded by trees or birds flying near clouds hanging on the wall. Baron couldn’t think of it any other way than a cliché office space you would see on TV. There were office cubes walls made of cheap fiber, large TVs on the walls displaying various satellite images, and the standard fare of white halogen tube light bulbs screwed into the ceiling illuminating cubes for people to work. People Baron didn’t know, or care to, milled about holding documents in their hands dressed appropriately for an office job. A medical team in blue-and-green scrubs came up to the SEALs and confiscated the unconscious man. Behind them, a tall elderly man with light-brown skin, gray hair, and a clean black suit with a white button-up shirt and a blue tie walked up to them. Baron noticed that he had more creases and wrinkles on his face, as well as a receding hairline, no doubt due to stress, than the average male his age. All the lines covering his face gave him a more withered and tired appearance than he probably intended.

“Good work, folks,” the man said with no hint of a smile.

“I don’t know about that, Admiral, but it went as smoothly as it could under the circumstances,” Coleman replied. Baron looked at the man and thought that this must have been Rear Admiral Hatch, the new commanding officer for Naval Special Operations Command. Baron gave him a once-over and noticed the one thing that seemed to stick out over any other detail. On his left lapel was a small golden pin in the sign of the Navy SEAL badge, an eagle emblazoned in gold over top of an anchor holding a pistol in one claw, and a trident in the other. The admiral caught Baron’s eye and commented on it.

“That’s right, son. I was with the teams,” Admiral Hatch said as just another fact like the sky was blue or he was wearing a suit.

“Aye, Admiral,” was all Baron said in reply.

“Well, let me be the first to welcome you to the CIA’s outpost in Korea.” The admiral gestured with a wave of his hand. “Now let’s get you and your boys into a more secure SCIF and talk about what the hell happened out there.”