“Yes, General.”
Within a half hour the MAGTAF was notified, and Captain Robert Brentwood, skipper of the Sea Wolf II class combination Hunter-Killer-ICBM sub USS
As Alexsandra was pushed out of the prison exit into the darkness in a large bamboo hopper, she almost threw up from the noxious odors of the hospital’s filthy linen, but it was her way to freedom, and within a half hour she had been transferred from the hospital truck to a
It was still several hours before dawn as Julia Reid was awakened by the baaing of sheep, the wind howling about the tent still sweeping down upon the Chang Tang unabated. Despite the soft sheepskin rugs she had been sleeping on, her body ached all over, and what had been a small bump on her left cheekbone, caused during her eject, was now a dark bruise. The smell of the dung fire, surprisingly pleasant, mixed with that of sour yogurt and cheese in the tent, gave a cloying quality to the air.
The strangeness of it all, the constant moaning of the wind and the pull on the tent ropes like a ship straining to be free, all reminded her of how far from home — how far from civilization — she was. She could hear the grandfather and the man who’d been watching her snoring like motor mowers, the sound so loud that at times it even subdued the wailing of the wind. Used to living in shared quarters at Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington State, she wasn’t normally bothered by the snores and other nocturnal sounds in barracks, but now they irritated her to the point of sleeplessness, and she pulled the sheepskin over her head. It was worse, her sense of isolation exacerbated. How long could she stay with the nomads?
From the little she’d been able to understand, it seemed as if they stayed only long enough for a pasture to be grazed and then moved on. Given this and the snow, she guessed they’d be on their way within a day or two. But to where? Further into the vastness of the Chang Tang plateau. Yet what else could she do? Turn around and
Someone in the tent broke wind, and a malodorous cloud permeated the smell of unwashed bodies, yogurt, and yak dung. Next time someone told her women weren’t fit for combat she’d tell them to go find a yak tent. Beyond the immediate noises of snoring and the wind, Julia thought she could hear snoring from the next tent, which she knew was impossible.
The more she listened, the more convinced she became that it was a motor. No sooner had she deduced this than the flap of the tent seemed to implode, and silhouetted against a flurry of snow was a man. From where she was lying he looked to be over six feet, and in his sixties, his face leathery from the harshness of the climate. He immediately began talking. Julia had no idea what it was about, but from his tone she could tell it was urgent. The snoring stopped abruptly, and in the dim light of the fire’s coals she could see the shadow of the grandfather, then his son or son-in-law.
The children woke and started crying. The man who had entered the tent so abruptly came across and tapped her on the arm. He raised his arms as if he were holding a rifle, then made driving motions, pointing beyond the tent. “Chin-eze,” he said, “Chin-eze,” and motioned her to follow him, handing her a sheepskin coat and hat. As she stumbled over the bodies in the darkness, she felt the grandfather grabbing her and thrusting something hard and warm into her hand. It was her service .45.
Out in the freezing darkness the snow was still swirling down. It was a light snow, the howling wind whipping it across her face, making it seem much denser than it really was. There were two yaks standing still as statues, and she wondered why she hadn’t heard them coming up to the tent The man indicated she should get on the nearest animal, which she thought would be easy until the yak, sensing her hesitation, moved, and it was more difficult to mount than any F-15.
“Chin-eze,” the man repeated.
“Yes,” she replied. “I know — Chinese.”
He nodded to confirm that she understood. “Chin-eze,” he said again, and headed off into the snow, the yak Julia was riding tethered to the first. Julia could still hear the motor sound she heard just before his arrival. Suddenly she was struck by a bone-chilling apprehension that he was not taking her away from the nomad encampment for her safety but to deliver her to the Chinese for what she knew must be a substantial reward for a downed American pilot. She just as quickly dismissed the idea as absurd. As far as she knew, the Tibetans hated the Chinese.
Of course there were those who didn’t, who, during the madness of the Cultural Revolution in the sixties when Mao sent out his Red Guards, had collaborated. The Chinese had forced the nomads into communes, and those who had wealth had their animals stolen, their silver earrings torn off, and other goods confiscated. The nomads were branded “class enemies” of the people and as often as not were evicted as outcasts, even from the lowest level of the communes. During this time, some of the very poor had become powerful officials of the Chinese. Then after the Cultural Revolution had faded, the old order of nomadic society had reasserted itself, to the relief of nearly all the nomads. But there were still those who, once having had the power of the Chinese behind them, wanted it again and would do anything to ingratiate themselves with the Chinese.
What bothered Julia most was having had her .45 revolver stolen — if only for a few hours. Perhaps it was a local custom to share anything new brought into the camp.
It was like instrument flying in bad weather. She could see nothing through the darkness. Having placed all her faith in the guide, all she knew for certain from her watch-compass was that she was headed east into the wilderness of the Chang Tang.
She could hear the sound of the motor about a mile away, she thought, behind them, and it kept getting louder. Then abruptly it stopped. The old man turned to her in the saddle, pointing back toward the camp. “Chin- eze.”
Then the old man slid off his yak and, still holding its rein, came back to her and motioned for her to get off. As her feet touched the snow, the old man pointed down at their track marks. They were discernible at least twenty to thirty yards back, the snow not falling heavily enough to fill in the yaks’ footprints. The old man now indicated that they must walk with the yaks. It would mean more but lighter footprints, which the snow would fill in more quickly. At the campsite, the woman in the tent had given her a beaded necklace of carved bone and stones, said to ward off evil spirits that lurked in the mountain passes to trap the unwary. She fingered it like a rosary as they went higher into the Chang Tang.
Aboard the USS
On this mission Robert Brentwood wouldn’t be part of the SEAL team as he had been before the cease-fire fell on the Yangtze. His job now was to insert the team of eight “surveyors,” one officer swimmer and seven other members, off the middle beach and then extract them four hours later after the SEALs, equipped with bubble-free Draeger rebreather systems, “cased the joint,” in the words of the chief of the boat, Petty Officer Rowan, by which Rowan meant they would go in in four pairs, a hundred yards from one another.
