CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
'General Rodgers, I thought the pilot was flying us into some warm sunshine!'
Even over the roar of the engines, Lt. Col. Squires along with the rest of the Striker team could hear the slashing rain as they crossed Ise Bay on their approach to Osaka. Rodgers was always fascinated and impressed by imbalances of that sort, like hearing a harp in the midst of an orchestra. In a way, it was similar to the philosophy behind the formation of the Striker unit. From David and Goliath to the American Revolution, size did not always mean dominance. Playwright Peter Barnes had once written about a puny weed that split the walk, and that image— not just the Andrew Jacksons and Joshua Chamberlains and Teddy Roosevelts of history— had kept Rodgers going in some of his darkest days. He'd even had his sister stitch the design onto his duffel bag, so he'd always be reminded of the image.
Private Puckett broke into Rodgers's reverie with a salute and a snappy 'Sir!'
Rodgers removed his earplugs. 'What's the word, Private Puckett?'
'Sir, Major General Campbell says he has a C-9A jet waiting to fly us over.'
'Leave it to the army,' Squires said. 'We get an unarmed Nightingale to fly over North Korea.'
'I'd rather have a nice, snug Black Hawk myself,' Rodgers said, 'but we've got a problem with range. Thanks, Private.'
'You're welcome, sir.'
Squires grinned as Puckett returned to his seat. 'Johnny Puckett's a real good man, sir. Says his daddy used to have a Ham radio setup in his room when he was a baby— made him a mobile out of old knobs.'
'There's something to be said for that. Like in the old days, when people learned one craft and became real good at it.'
'True, sir. Only if you don't get quite good enough at it, like my daddy trying to be a soccer player, you're screwed.'
'Are you?'
'Seems so to me.'
'He passed that drive and ambition on to you, didn't he? King Arthur couldn't search for the Holy Grail himself. Moses wasn't permitted to cross the River Jordan. But they inspired others to do those things.'
Squires cocked his head. 'You make me feel guilty about not writing home.'
'You can send him a postcard from Osaka when we head back.'
Rodgers felt the plane bank to the southwest. Head back. The words always caused his throat to tighten up. You never knew if you would come back; you just assumed it. But there were so many times that didn't happen, and even experienced soldiers were caught off-guard by that realization. The words of Tennyson came back to haunt him, as they often did:
Home they brought her warrior dead. She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching said, 'She must weep or she will die.'
The transport landed, and as Captain Harryhausen complained about the weather, the Striker warriors rushed out to the waiting aircraft. They were in and airborne four minutes after the door of the C-141 had been opened.
The sleek, narrow Military Airlift Command jet rose rapidly in the driving rain and headed northwest. The men were sitting as before, in benches along the sides, but the mood now was entirely different. Those who had slept or played cards or read on the trip to Osaka were now electrified. They were checking gear, giving each other pep talks, and a few were praying. Private Bass Moore was in charge of the parachute rigging, and he checked the lines as the jet flew in low over the Sea of Japan, bucking the heavy winds and thinning sheets of rain.
An officer from Seoul was onboard, reviewing the exit strategy with Squires. There would be a Sikorsky S-70 Black Hawk waiting to come and get them: the chopper could be over the DMZ and into the Diamond Mountains in a matter of minutes. More importantly, the eleven-sealer had a pair of M-60 side-firing machine guns to help ensure that they'd get out again.
With just twenty minutes until drop time, Rodgers called Puckett over and asked him to raise Hood.
The Director was edgier than Rodgers had ever remembered hearing him, and it was refreshing.
'Mike, it's beginning to look like you're going to be in the thick of it.'
'What happened?'
'The President doesn't buy it, but we're convinced that a South Korean team is behind all this, and we've also learned that a pilot took two men from a ferry in the Sea of Japan. Guy was so nervous he cracked up his plane on landing and spilled his guts to the sea patrol. He said he took the men to Kosong.'
'Kosong? That's just a three-pointer from the Nodongs.'
'Exactly. And there were two bodies on the ferry. The dead men were carrying gambling money from Japan to North Korea. Tens of thousands of dollars.'
'That's decent bribe money up North. Most of those bastards would sell their kids for a grand.'
'That's what Bob Herbert says. It's a big leap of faith to assume that someone from the South is planning to use that money to get control of the Nodong site, but we can't afford to overlook the possibility.'
'Which means we've got to get in there and find out for sure.'
'Right. I'm sorry, Mike.'
'Don't be. This is what we signed on for. To paraphrase George Chapman, being threatened is what turns us into lions.'
'Sure. And like Kirk Douglas said in Champion, 'Ours is like any other business, only here the blood shows.' Take care of yourself, and tell Charlie and the boys to do the same.'
'Ten minutes!' Squires called back.
'That's it, Paul,' Rodgers said. 'I'll radio you when we have something. And if it's any consolation, I'd rather be dodging bullets than the press on this one. Good luck to you too.'
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
General Schneider forgot his dream the instant his orderly entered. All he remembered was that he was on skis somewhere and liking it very much. Reality, and the dry night air, always brought him back with an unpleasant jolt.
'Sir, there's a phone call from Washington.'
'The President?' he said.
'No, sir. Not that Washington. A Mr. Bob Herbert from Op-Center.'
Schneider muttered an oath. 'They probably want me to straitjacket poor Donald.' Sliding into his slippers, the General went to his desk. With an air of relief, he inserted himself in the swivel chair and picked up the phone. 'General Schneider.'
'General, this is Bob Herbert, Intelligence Officer at Op-Center.'
'I've heard of you. Lebanon?'
'Yes. That's quite a memory you have.'
'Bob, I never forget when we do something stupid. Goddamn Embassy had a 'kick me' sign on it for terrorists. No heavy barricades out front, nothing to stop a bomber bent on driving a truck to Allah's doorstep.' He leaned back in the chair and raised his eyelids to stretch the sleep from them. 'But enough about old mistakes. You're calling to stop a new one from being made.'
'I hope so,' said Herbert.
'Yeah, I don't know what the hell got into the man. Well, that's not true. He lost his wife yesterday. Donald's a good man. He's just not thinking clearly.'
'Clear enough to go over there with official instructions, I hope.'
