Dancing with the Dragon (2002) (27 page)

Scott turned to Dave Finchly. "How did you get involved in aviation?"

"I didn't have an option." He chuckled. "Our family has had avgas or jet fuel in our veins since my great-grandfather on my mother's side flew Pan Am flying boats--Clippers--around the Pacific back in the 1930s."

"No kidding?"

"It's true. He was a captain, but they didn't go by that rank. They were Masters of Ocean Flying Boats--the Skygods. Our family has run the gamut from barnstormers to navy carrier pilots to crop dusters to airline pilots."

Scott leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "The depth of our family's aviation history dates back only to Vietnam. My dad was a Marine fighter pilot who got shot down once, but he lived through two tours and retired a number of years ago."

"Jackie told me that you flew in the Marines."

"That's right--Harriers."

A few minutes later Dave and Scott joined Jackie in a peaceful sleep as the Greyhound leveled off for the long flight to the USS Stennis.

The sunlight awakened Scott when the COD began its gentle descent to rendezvous with the carrier battle group. Dave Finchly was already awake and Jackie was stretching her arms over her head. The rest of the passengers were still asleep.

"How'd you sleep?" Scott asked Jackie.

"Like I was comatose."

"Same here--it must be the stress."

"Stress--what stress?" She quietly chuckled.

The Greyhound pilots had been given a "Charlie" on arrival (permission to land) and were making a long straight-in approach to Stennis. Shortly after the wing flaps and landing gear were lowered, the aircraft commander called the ball--the Fresnel optical landing system that displays visual glide slope information to the pilot--and began the final descent to the flight deck. The C-2A landed with a resounding thud and came to a very sudden stop. The COD would remain on board the carrier for Scott's mission.

After Jackie, Scott, and Dave deplaned, two young officers helped the trio carry their bags to their private staterooms. They stowed their luggage and the threesome went to the wardroom to have breakfast. Later Scott met with the COD pilots to go over every aspect of the hazardous night drop.

When he was finished, Scott joined Dave and Jackie to brief the helicopter extraction. They went over every detail and every contingency, playing devil's advocate about timing, fuel limits, radio calls, and emergencies. Afterward they had a late lunch and retired to their quarters to get some much-needed sleep.

Scott turned off the lights and sprawled on his back. Staring into the darkness, he replayed every move and every second of the jump and the extraction, at least the way it was supposed to happen. The part that bothered him the most was the unknown factor between the jump and the helicopter pickup. He knew that period in time would be a crapshoot.

USS Stennis

Surrounded by her escort ships, the supercarrier steamed smoothly on the pleasantly calm ocean. Overhead a pale moon cast a faint shadow of light over the flight deck of Stennis. The Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigate USS Ford had been dispatched earlier to cruise closer to the Chinese cargo ship Chen Ziyang. One of the frigate's two SH-60B Seahawks had been flown to the carrier to make room for Lieutenant Finchly's rescue helicopter if it ran low on fuel or had other problems.

At precisely 0100 Finchly lifted the HH-60H Seahawk from the dark flight deck of the carrier and headed southwest toward the Chen Ziyang. The H version of the Seahawk is the navy's combatsearch-and-rescue (CSAR) helicopter assigned to carriers.

In the left seat of the HS-8 Eightballers helicopter, copilot Jackie Sullivan worked the radios and kept a running plot on the Chinese cargo ship. Information about the exact location of the Chen Ziyang was continuously updated from spacecraft and reconnaissance aircraft and passed to the Seahawk, call sign Black Shadow Six.

In the back of the helicopter the rescue swimmer and the other crewman looked at each other with blank stares. They had never met the mysterious pilots before. According to the aviators they were on a mission to pick up a man who had fallen off a cruise ship.

Both aircrewmen were handpicked senior petty officers. They were seasoned enough to know something strange was going on but smart enough not to ask any questions.

Ten minutes after the Seahawk took off, the C-2A Greyhound taxied to the port bow catapult. Strapped into his rear-facing seat, Scott Dalton braced himself when the twin turboprops came up to full power. The entire aircraft shook, rumbled, and vibrated for what seemed like an eternity, then kaab000m, the airplane blasted down the catapult track.

Hanging in his straps, Scott felt the familiar deceleration when the COD went off the bow and began climbing. The landing gear was raised and the flaps were retracted. The boxy Greyhound accelerated and began climbing on a southwesterly course to the jump altitude of twenty-eight thousand feet.

Scott slipped out of his Marine uniform and began getting dressed for his jump. He donned a black wet suit, extra-thick neoprene booties, an assault knife on his lower left leg, and tucked his 9mm Sig Sauer into a compact nylon holster strapped to his right thigh.

Next came two small waterproof cameras in a special pouch attached to his left thigh and two radios in a container on his lower right leg. Finally, Scott wriggled into his black custom-made parachute and black reserve chute. Last came the multigrip gloves, a black helmet, a wristwatch-sized altimeter, and a small oxygen tank and mask. Due to the buoyancy of the wet suit and the salt water, he wouldn't need a life preserver or life raft.

Scott waddled to the cockpit and conferred with the pilots. Both aviators were friendly, quiet, and nonchalant about the mission, knowing this was a hush-hush operation. The pilots were getting continuous updates on the target's position. The wind was light and they were going to try to be in a position two miles in front of the cargo ship when they gave Scott the signal to jump.

The Chen Ziyang

The cargo ship cruised slowly in smooth waters three hundred miles north of Honolulu, Hawaii. Two crewmen stood on the main deck amidships and lighted American-made cigarettes. The balmy sea breeze reminded them of port calls in Hawaii, especially the visits to Zhang Wen-cheng's house and her young, nubile Chinese girls.

Basic seamen in a crew of officers, scientists, and engineers, the two deckhands performed manual duties and stood watches with the armed guards. At thirty-minute intervals, one of the men would walk around the outside of the ship while the other sailor patrolled the interior spaces and cargo areas.

After twenty-five minutes, the two would gather at the same spot on the main deck and have another cigarette break. Like a broken record, they continued their ongoing complaints about their bosses, their meager salaries, and their working conditions. It was their way of life, no different at sea than in port.

Three minutes before his jump, Scott made his way to the back of the Greyhound and sat down near the loading ramp. The pilots turned off the interior and exterior lights, and then concentrated on following the GPS readouts as precisely as they could. Between the spacecraft and the recon planes, the exact location of Chen Ziyang was known within six to nine feet of her actual position.

After Scott and the flight crew went on oxygen, the pilots depressurized the cabin and lowered the cargo ramp. With one minute to go, Scott carefully walked to the open ramp. He pulled his clear goggles down and rechecked all of his parachute fittings. A crewman tapped him on the shoulder, signaling that they had reached the jump coordinates.

Scott bent forward and took two long strides, plummeting from twenty-eight thousand feet into the dark night sky. He could barely discern where the sky met the coal-black water. Once he was stabilized in a facedown, spread-eagle position, he began searching for the running lights of the Chen Ziyang. Knowing the basic design of the ship, Scott wanted to land near the open fantail of the bulk cargo carrier. Landing on the bow of the vessel would expose him to the crewmen manning the bridge.

From the information Hartwell Prost had given him, he knew the bridge was slightly aft of midship and that the vessel had two aft holds and two forward holds intended for general cargo. Twin risers resembling king posts served as stacks. The ship had a variety of standard booms and two high-capacity booms, one forward and the other aft.

On board the Chen Ziyang, the sailor walking around the exterior of the ship never heard the C-2A Greyhound. He walked slowly, listening to the sounds of the ocean and stopped to look at the luminescent bow wave. Although he and his shipmates constantly complained about their lives at sea, he loved being on the ocean and smelling the fresh breeze.

Passing twelve thousand feet, Scott still hadn't located the running lights of the Chen Ziyang. It was an uncomfortable, anxious feeling. He was beginning to think the information the pilots had received was wrong. He took off his oxygen mask and tossed it and the portable bottle into the black night.

Where is it? Scott thought as he fell through nine thousand feet. The altimeter was unwinding at an alarming rate and he had to make a decision. If he couldn't locate the ship by five thousand feet, he needed to pop his chute to give himself more time to search for the vessel. Concentrate. Don't screw this up.

Eight thousand feet.

Where is it?

Seven thousand feet.

"Son of a bitch."

Six thousand feet.

Scott gripped the rip cord and started to yank at the same instant he saw a ship. He hesitated, thinking it was a cruise liner. No, a cruise ship wouldn't be three hundred miles north of Hawaii.

Five thousand feet.

Scott waited, but there wasn't much time.

Four thousand feet.

It has to be the cargo ship. He spotted a wake and then running lights. Ah, twin risers--got it.

Three thousand.

Slightly ahead and to the left of Chen Ziyang, Scott waited a moment and then pulled the rip cord. The chute opened with a soft report and he began his approach to the fantail. Dalton could clearly see the name of the ship. He let out a sigh of relief. I'm almost there.

The sailor standing on the starboard side of the bow was startled by the soft, muffled sound. He looked around and didn't see anything suspicious. More curious than alarmed, he began walking toward the stern of the ship. The man wondered if he'd really heard something or whether his imagination was getting the best of him. He grinned, thinking about his shipmates. They constantly kidded him about being hard of hearing whenever there was work to be done.

Playing it cautiously, Scott approached the ship with plenty of altitude. The last thing he wanted to do was come up short and land in the water aft of the cargo vessel. At four hundred feet he could see the details of the deck reasonably well. He approached from amidships and made a very tight 180-degree turn high and close to the fantail. If he overshot, he could bleed off altitude quickly and hit the deck from an almost vertical position.

Scott completed his turn at a hundred fifty feet and focused on the spot where he intended to land. He had a nice approach going, controlling his descent with judicious use of his parachute risers. At seventy feet, Scott was about to begin his flare when he saw a sailor walking onto the fantail. Stunned, he made a split-second decision.

Keeping up his speed, he brought his knees up and steered straight at the unsuspecting crewman. As silent as a whisper, Scott extended his legs in front of him and slammed into the sailor with the force of four men. The blow knocked the wind out of the crewman and literally lifted him off his feet. He staggered backward and fell over the side of the ship, landing in the churning wake.

Feeling the effects of the collision, Scott quickly got to his feet and slipped out of his parachute. He threw it and the reserve chute overboard along with his helmet and goggles.

He did a quick check to make sure the cameras and the radios were okay. Scott then began looking for a passageway leading to the cargo holds. On his third try, he found a ladder leading to the aft cargo holds. To his surprise he could see, although the light was dim, that the holds contained nothing more than general cargo and some containers of oil.

Scott retraced his path and went up to the main deck. Quietly and cautiously, he worked his way toward the bow and found another ladder, leading to the forward cargo holds. As soon as he saw the giant laser and associated equipment, Scott knew he had hit pay dirt.

He took a moment to study the sophisticated equipment. The two brightly lighted cargo holds had been revamped to allow the laser-based weapon and the attached holographic image-projection apparatus to be hydraulically raised to the main deck.

The complex mechanism, along with the enclosed control console, was well built and mounted to a thick steel plate with six hydraulic arms. It reminded him of the platforms used for flight simulators.

Scott quickly removed one of his waterproof cameras from the pouch and began snapping pictures. He moved rapidly, photographing everything in the combined holds, including the laser with a warning sign in the background. The sign was in Chinese, as were the warning plaques on the control console and on the door.

Dalton was in the process of using the second camera when a sailor walked out of a passageway and almost stumbled into him. The Chinese crewman was thunderstruck. Panic flashed across his face.