Dragon Sim-13 (7 page)

As the blades slowed she turned to the lieutenant. "What do you think? You want to go to maintenance school and become a test pilot?"

The young man shook his head. "Ma'am, it's all yours. I'd rather be in the line unit. We get to fly the real missions."

Yeah, right, Jean thought. What do you think we just did? That's why your knuckles were white from grabbing the side of your seat when I autorotated, she smiled to herself. Another manly man who wanted to do manly things. Thinking about men, her mind turned to her husband, who should be on his way right now. She looked at her watch and shook her head. She had so much paperwork left to do in her office that she doubted she'd be done by the time he arrived.

"Set the troops to their tasks without imparting

your designs: use them to gain advantage without

revealing the dangers involved."

Sun Tzu: The Art of War

Fort Meade, Maryland Friday, 2 June, 1110 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 6:10 a.m. Local

Brigadier General Sutton looked over the group of men arrayed in front of him. USSOCOM hadn't brought very many people to run this exercise, he thought to himself. During some joint exercises, Tunnel 3 had been packed with up to forty various commanders and staff personnel, all of them tripping over each other. For Dragon Sim-13, the Tunnel looked almost empty, with just five people from the command at MacDill Air Force Base seated in front of him. The man in overall charge was the deputy commander for USSOCOM, Major General Olson. It was to him that Sutton addressed his inbriefing. "Good morning, General. Welcome to Dragon Sim-13. Before we get started with the briefing that describes what you will be doing over the course of the next week, I'd like to introduce the members of my staff."

Sutton pointed out his people as they were introduced. "Although I'm the head of Strams, as we call the project here, the real brain behind this setup is Doctor Meng. He is also the program chief of the first shift." Meng inclined his head at the guests. "The man in charge of handling all your communications and message traffic is Major Tresome. He's also the second-shift communications chief. Our second-shift program chief is Doctor Wilson. The first-shift communications chief is Master Sergeant Burns.

"As you can tell, very few people are involved in the running of this exercise. There are two major reasons for this." Sutton gestured at the electronic billboard behind him and then at the computer consoles. "The first is that the majority of the exercise is automated and we simply don't need that many people. The second is due to the fact that we are using real war-plan oplans—every mission is highly classified. The fewer people involved the better."

Sutton looked down and slid his notes for the formal inbriefing to the top of the podium. "Gentlemen, you all have copies of USSOCOM contingency oplan Typhoon 17-A. That is the oplan we will be using for Dragon Sim-13."

Sutton looked up at General Olson. "Sir, perhaps you could explain to us, so we're all on the same sheet of music, the significance behind this operational plan and why your staff developed it."

General Olson was a heavyset air force general with a ruddy complexion. He shifted in his seat as he handed off the question. "I'd like my operations man here to answer that. Colonel Moore?"

An army colonel with a Special Forces combat patch on his right shoulder fielded the inquiry. "I'm the assistant operations officer at USSOCOM. Our Typhoon series oplans are contingency and wartime missions for our Special Operations Forces in the Pacific targeted against China. Every special ops unit in the Pacific has various wartime missions allocated to them. The alpha at the end of this oplan signifies that the unit is army. The seventeen means that it is the seventeenth mission assigned to army special operations in the Pacific."

They all watched as Moore got up, walked over to the electronic map, and pointed. "We have a limited number of Special Operations Forces permanently stationed in the Pacific. The air force has the 1st Special Operations Squadron at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, which consists of four MC-130 Combat Talon aircraft.

"As far as navy goes, they have a Special Warfare Group of SEALs dedicated to the theater. The army has the 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group headquartered in Okinawa and the Special Forces Detachment-Korea, also known as DET-K, up here in Seoul.

"This mission, 17-A, is for a unit from DET-K. It was initially designed as a team's wartime mission in the event of all-out war between the United States and China. The way we come up with these missions is to give general taskings to the subordinate units and then ask them to develop missions they feel are within their capabilities. In this instance the general guidance was to inflict damage on the Chinese war-fighting ability by attacking their petroleum industry."

Moore seemed ready to continue, but Sutton held up a hand. "I think that's all we need for now. In this scenario, we're using the wartime mission as a Command Authority surgical strike to retaliate against the Chinese government. The political reasons for such a strike are not important, since we are merely testing the ability to command and control such a mission. In doing so we will also get a good idea of the feasibility of the mission. That data will be in our files. In case there is ever a need to consider any of these missions, the data will be available for study."

Sutton consulted his notes again. "I want to run through the tentative schedule and rules for the exercise so we can get started on time. The evaluated exercise formally begins today at 1200 Zulu. By the way, all times from here on will be in Zulu, or Greenwich mean time. That will help prevent any confusion with the various time zones we'll be working with. All your message traffic will go through the computer. The blank square in the lower right corner of the electronic map is where all the traffic going in and out will be displayed."

Sutton paused as Olson raised a hand. "You mean there's no way we can talk directly to the units?"

Sutton shook his head. "Not verbally. There are two reasons we run it this way. First, it is more secure because we are able to automatically encrypt and decrypt the message traffic. You will find, if you ever operate out of the Pentagon's Emergency Operations Center, that it works in the same way. There is the capability to talk voice in an emergency, but almost all traffic is handled through the keyboard.

"The second reason is that the computer in some cases will be making the responses for your subordinate and higher elements. For example, you will be receiving some input from the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as your link to the National Command Authority. Naturally, we don't have the chairman standing by. The computer will simulate his responses and input along with that of other people and units."

Sutton turned to the map board. "In addition to the . . ."

In the back of the room, Meng tuned out the droning of Sutton's voice. He'd heard it all before. Grown men playing games. He looked at his watch. Almost 7:30. He slipped out of Tunnel 3 to catch the latest news on the TV.

Camp Page, ChunChon, Korea Friday, 2 June, 1145 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 8:45 p.m. Local

About ten soldiers were scattered about talking quietly in the bar area of the Page II All-Ranks Club. Mitchell looked around as he grabbed a bar stool. It was early yet for a Friday night. Mitchell knew most GIs went downtown to one of the five Korean clubs clustered around the post's main gate; these places offered bar girls and livelier entertainment.

He looked with irritation at his watch. Jean was really late tonight. He'd gone over to the hangar to see her as soon as he'd arrived at seven. She'd still been in her office, working on paperwork that she hadn't been able to get to in a day full of flying. She promised him she'd make it to the club by eight. Mitchell had dumped his overnight bag in the small room on the end of a Korean war-vintage Quonset hut that served as Jean's quarters and then come over to the club to wait for her.

He nodded as a warrant officer from his wife's unit came in and took the stool next to him. Chief Warrant Officer Third Class Colin Lassiter was his wife's main assistant in making sure the flow of aircraft went smoothly. Her company, D Company, 309th Aviation, was responsible for fixing all the helicopters in the battalion—a total of almost fifty aircraft.

Lassiter shook his head at Mitchell. "Captain Long working late again, sir?"

Mitchell nodded glumly. "She was supposed to be here at eight."

Lassiter ordered them both a beer. "I'm sure glad she's in command here. Things have gotten a lot better since she took over. We used to be totally screwed up. Now we're only half screwed up."

Mitchell was relieved to see Jean walk into the bar, still in uniform. She smiled as she saw him and strode over. "Hey, babe. Sorry I'm late."

He was still irritated. "Yeah, sure. Want a beer?"

She looked at her watch. "No, I've got to fly tomorrow morning." She turned to the warrant officer. "Keeping my husband out of trouble, Colin?"

"Yes, ma'am. You know me."

She laughed. "Yeah, I do. That's why I asked." She turned back to her husband. "I'm starved. Let's eat."

Mitchell slid off his bar stool and, saying good night to Lassiter, followed his wife to the other end of the club where the dining room was located. It was five minutes before the kitchen closed but the Korean waitress was more than happy to persuade the cook to scrape together something for her favorite captain and her husband. Mitchell was always impressed by how his wife could make people like her. A sense of humor was a valuable tool, he knew, but one he didn't have a good handle on. His wife was usually smiling and could laugh at anything. In the army this sometimes irritated people, who thought she might be laughing at them. It was the same mistake he had made when he'd first met her at Fort Bragg.

As they waited for the meal, they filled each other in on events of the past week. Mitchell let his wife do most of the talking, because he could sense she was upset about something. It took her a few minutes, but she finally got around to it. She reached into one of the numerous pockets on her flight suit, pulled out a photograph, and passed it across the table. "Someone in my company found that posted on the bulletin board at flight operations."

Mitchell checked out the picture. It showed his wife drinking out of a large tankard in front of a bunch of men. Someone had scrawled across the bottom: MUST BE HARD TRYING TO BE A MAN. "When was this taken?" he asked.

"During my hail to the battalion six weeks ago. They fill that tankard with beer and you have to drink all of it."

Mitchell looked at his wife. "You drank all of it?"

She nodded. "It was only four beers. I had to do it. It's the tradition for a new officer."

Mitchell didn't think much of the tradition. "That's a real professional unit you're in."

"Hey, it was only in fun. I thought it was kind of humorous."

Mitchell stabbed his finger at the printing. "Who the hell wrote this at the bottom?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Someone from my company saw it on the board at flight ops and took it down and brought it to me."

Mitchell was pissed. The resentment that was continually directed toward his wife for being in the army grated on his nerves. He hated it when someone tried to hurt her. It made him want to find whoever had done it and hurt them. Not a very mature reaction, he knew. Jean could, and wanted to, fight her own battles. And she was good at it. She'd held her own for nine years. All she wanted from him was comfort and support.

"What are you going to do about it?"

She put the picture away. "I'm going to talk to the captain in charge over at flight ops. Even if he doesn't know who put it up, if he saw it there he should have taken it down. Then I'm going to talk to my colonel and show it to him."

"Why do people do things like that?"

Jean shook her head. "I'm the only female pilot in this battalion. I think it threatens the men to have me here. They think they're less of a man because a woman can do the same job." She slumped back in her chair exhausted. "I don't know. I just get tired of this shit. If someone has a problem with me I'd rather they come and talk to me rather than do childish stuff like this. This is such bullshit. I just want to do my job."

Mitchell tried to lighten the mood. "They won't face you because they're not man enough. Hell, even I don't like getting in an argument with you and I'm married to you. You always win." He slid his seat toward his wife and put his arm around her. "Listen, sweety-pie, don't let these idiots get to you." He hugged her tight.

Clark Air Force Base, Philippines Friday, 2 June, 1300 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 9:00 p.m. Local

The duty officer for the 1st Special Operations Squadron (1st SOS) looked up as the secure SATCOM terminal machine in the corner hummed with an incoming message. He put down his book and went over to the machine. After five seconds, the humming stopped and the message was spit out. The man's eyes widened as he read the message.

CLASSIFIED: TOP SECRET

ROUTING: FLASH

TO: CDR 1ST SOS/ 1ST SOW/ MSG 01

FROM: CDR USSOCOM/ SFOB FM

SUBJ: ALERT/ TANGO ROMEO/ AUTH CODE: FIERCE WIND

REF: OPLAN TYPHOON ONE SEVEN ALPHA

REQ: ONE MCI30

START: FRIDAY/ 2 JUNE/ 1500 ZULU

DEST: OSAN AFB/ ROK

POINT OF CONTACT: LTC HOSSEY/ DET-K

END: TBD

CLASSIFIED: TOP SECRET

The duty officer grabbed the phone and punched in the number for the commander's quarters. Damn, he thought. 1500 Zulu. That wasn't much time to preflight and get a crew together.

Eighth Army Headquarters, Yongsan, Seoul, Korea Friday, 2 June, 1332 Zulu Friday, 2 June, 10:32 p.m. Local

Hossey pulled into the parking lot of the Eighth Army Headquarters on north post less than fifteen minutes after getting the phone call from the duty officer about the Flash message. Hossey showed his ID card to the guard and wound his way through the building until he got to the duty office. The major there checked his ID card again. Satisfied that Hossey was who he claimed to be, the major handed over a sheet of paper.