“And what happened those nights?” Simmons asked. Franklin didn’t answer. “Those are the nights you spotted strange lights doing unexplainable maneuvers in the air on the other side of the mountaintop. This mountaintop,” Simmons said with a bit of heat in his voice.
“Yeah.”
“So this is the first time you’ve ever been up here and they didn’t know you were up here. This might be a night you were supposed to go back to the mailbox.”
“Yeah.”
That explained why Franklin was carrying the only camera, Simmons realized. Franklin was using him as a cover in case they were caught, probably hoping that Simmons’s status would help him with the authorities. Simmons took a deep breath as he considered the possibilities. It was dangerous, but there was a chance here for a big story. “I guess we’ll just have to see what happens, then.”
They both turned their heads as they again heard the whine of jet engines in the distance.
“That’s Janet,” Franklin said as the 737 descended over head to a landing on the airstrip. He sounded concerned.
“It’s early. It usually doesn’t come until five forty-five in the morning.” Simmons looked through the goggles. The two ATVs had turned around and were now heading away. He thought that even more strange than the 737 coming early.
The 737 came to a halt a quarter mile away from the two C-130’s. Turcotte followed Prague off and into a small building next to a hangar. Up against the base of a large mountain there was a cluster of buildings, several hangars, and what appeared to be a couple of barracks buildings, along with a control tower for the runway.
“Stow your kit bag there, meat,” Prague ordered.
The other men were opening wall lockers and pulling out black jumpsuits and putting them on. Prague led Turcotte over to a supply room and began tossing him pieces of equipment, a similar jumpsuit leading the way, followed by a combat vest, black balaclava, black aviator gloves, and a set of AN-PVS-9 night vision goggles — the hottest technology in the field.
Prague unlocked a large bin and pulled out a sophisticated-looking weapon. Turcotte nodded in appreciation. The NRO was supplying these guys with top-of-the-line gear. Turcotte took the weapon and checked it out. The gun was a 9mm Calico, with telescoping butt stock, built-in silencer, hundred-round cylindrical magazine, and mounted laser sight.
“It’s zeroed in on the laser out to one hundred meters, flat trajectory,” Prague informed him. “Out from there you raise about an inch per fifty meters.” Prague looked at him. “I assume you have your own personal sidearm?”
Turcotte nodded. “Browning High Power.”
“You can carry that, but only use it as a last resort. We like to stay silenced.” Prague also handed him a headset with boom mike. “Voice activated, it’s preset to my command frequency. Always have it on and powered,” he ordered. “If I can’t talk to you, you’d better be fucking dead, because you don’t want to see or hear me again.”
Turcotte nodded and slipped it over his head, sliding the main battery pack on a cord around his neck.
Prague slapped him on the shoulder, much harder than necessary. “Get changed and let’s roll.”
Turcotte zipped up the coveralls and tugged on the combat vest, filling the empty pockets with extra magazines for the Calico. He also appropriated a few flash-bang grenades, two high-explosive minigrenades, two CS grenades, and placed them in pockets. He took his Browning out of his kit bag and slid it into the thigh holster rigged below the vest. For good measure he added a few more items from his kit bag: a leather sheath holding three perfectly balanced and highly honed throwing knives handmade for him by a knifesmith back in Maine went inside the jumpsuit, strapped over his right shoulder; a coiled steel wire garrotte fitted inside one of the suit’s pockets; and a slim, double-edged commando knife with sheath slid down the outside of the top of his right boot. Feeling fully dressed for whatever might occur, Turcotte joined the other men by the doors to the hangar. There were twenty-two men and Prague was apparently in charge. He spotted Turcotte.
“You stay with me tonight, meat. Do what I tell you to do. Don’t do nothing you aren’t told to. You’re going to see some strange things. Don’t worry about anything. We got it all under control.”
If we have it all under control, Turcotte wondered, why do we need the guns? But he kept his mouth shut and looked out at what the other men were watching. A UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter, blades folded, had already been placed inside the first C-130. Two AH-6 attack helicopters—”little birds,” as the pilots referred to them — were also being loaded onto the second one. The AH-6 was a small, four-man helicopter with a minigun mounted on the right skid. The only unit that Turcotte knew of that flew the AH-6 was Task Force 160, the army’s classified helicopter unit.
“Alpha team, move out!” Prague ordered.
Four men with parachutes casually slung over their shoulders walked onto the tarmac toward a waiting V-22 Osprey that had been sitting in the dark, unnoticed until now in the lee of the large hangar. Another surprise.
Turcotte had heard that the government contract for the Osprey had been canceled, but this one looked very operational as each of its massive propellers began turning. They were on the end of the wings, which were rotated up — a position that allowed the plane to take off like a helicopter, then fly like a plane as the wings rotated forward. The Osprey was moving even before the back ramp finished closing, lifting into the sky.
Turcotte felt a surge of adrenaline. The smell of JP-4 fuel, the exhaust from the aircraft engines, the sounds, the weaponry, all touched his senses and brought back memories — some good, most bad, but all exciting.
“Let’s go!” Prague ordered, and Turcotte followed the other men on board the lead C-130. The interior could easily fit four cars end to end. Along each side of the plane facing inward was a row of red canvas jump seats. The skin of the aircraft wasn’t insulated and the roar of the four turboprop engines reverberated through the interior with a teeth-rattling drone. Several chest-height, small round portholes were the only windows to the outside world.
Turcotte noted several other pallets of gear strapped down along the center of the cargo bay. There were other groups of men already on board, some dressed in gray jumpsuits, others in traditional army green.
“The ones in gray are the eggheads!” Prague yelled in his ear. “We baby-sit them while they do their stuff. The green ones are the pilots for the choppers.”
The ramp of the C-130 slowly lifted and closed and the interior lights glowed red, allowing the people inside to maintain their natural night vision. Turcotte glanced out one of the small portholes at the airfield. He noted that the V-22 was out of sight. He wondered where the four men were jumping. Out of the corner of his eye something large and round was moving about thirty feet above the flight strip, between them and the mountain. Turcotte blinked.
“What the—”
“Keep your attention inboard,” Prague ordered, grabbing his shoulder. “Your gear good to go?”
Turcotte looked at his leader, then closed his eyes. The image of what he had just seen was still clear in his memory, but his mind was already beginning to question itself.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Like I said, just stick with me for this first one. And don’t let nothing you see surprise you.”
The plane shuddered as it began to slowly move.