The moon was just beginning to peek over the ocean to the east. The gantry was rolled all the way back, as far as it would go, towards the ship's superstructure. PSP-perforated steel planking-was laid out between rows of containers lining either side and virtually the full length of the ship forward of the gantry. The forward mast was long dropped.
On the PSP the eight light, single engine, short take off and landing aircraft belonging to the group idled. Two of these weren't, strictly speaking, needed for the current lift. They were there, however, assembled and crewed, to serve as backups should one of the six designated airplanes for this part of the mission fail.
Always nice to have a back up, Terry Welch thought, looking at the two extras, sitting directly under the gantry. At the same time, unconsciously, he patted the reserve parachute strapped across his stomach. It occurred to Welch that any comfort he derived from having a reserve chute was possibly false comfort; he and his men were going to jump so low that a reserve chute might activate, if at all, only after they had been driven several feet into the ground.
Vibrations ran through the PSP. Whether that was from the airplanes or from the engines straining below to bring the ship up to full speed for the launch, neither Terry nor any of the men clustered around him could tell.
"It's really overkill," said McCaverty, the lead pilot for the mission, glancing down and around at the PSP.
Terry hadn't heard over the massed roar of the engines. "What was that?" he asked.
McCaverty pointed down at the planking, then ran his finger forward toward the bow to where the steel disappeared in the darkness.
"We don't need this much," he shouted into Welch's ear. "At the ship's speed, and with the light loading, we could launch in half this space. Or less."
"Does it hurt any to have the extra safety factor?" Terry shouted back.
"Well . . . no," McCaverty admitted with a shrug. "But it isn't needed."
"I'll take it, anyway." Again, Welch's hand unconsciously stroked the reserve.
Again, McCaverty shrugged.
A member of the ship's crew began trooping the portside line of aircraft. "Launch point in thirty minutes," he announced, quietly, as he passed each group or individual. He said the same to Welch and McCaverty as he got to the forwardmost CH-801. Then the crewman turned to walk the line of planes on the starboard side.
"Load up?" McCaverty suggested.
"Yeah," Terry agreed. Even though it was thirty minutes to launch his heart began to beat a little faster.
"Need a hand getting to the plane?" the chief pilot asked.
"Getting to it, no," Terry said, beginning the awkward, overladen shuffle to the door. "Getting into it? Yes."
The team consisted of twelve men, two per aircraft. Yes, in theory the planes could have lifted three each, plus the pilot. In practice, though, it was just too cramped with three men, fully equipped for both parachuting and combat, to exit the things easily. And where ease of exit meant speed of exit, and speed was rather important, two would have to do.
McCaverty checked that both Welch and his other passenger, Little Joe Venegas, were strapped in for the take off. Ordinarily, this would have been the job of a crew chief. Since, however, the table of organization, such as it was, was quite skimpy in some areas, he had to do it himself. Oh, sure, the Mexicans could have done it, but they were busy getting ready the rocket and machine gun pods that would be the next load for most of the aircraft.
McCaverty's was only the third bird to actually start its engine. He was first in order of lift off, even so. He looked to the side and saw two conical lights come on. One of the ship's crew-though the light allowed past the opaque cones was faint, the pilot thought it might be the same one who'd passed the word to begin loading-signaled by holding them straight overhead and parallel to each other: Assuming control. In reply, McCaverty gave a little gas to the engine: You got it.
Apparently satisfied with that, the ground guide began walking toward a spot on the center line of the flight deck. The pilot duly followed, then stopped-except for aiming the plane toward the bow-when the guide crossed the lights over his head. The lights moved off to the side with McCaverty's eyes following.
"All my life . . . " McCaverty whispered, as his eyes followed the lights, "all my life I've wanted this . . . just this . . . this feeling of impending . . . crisis . . . this sense of plunging into danger."
One of the batons twirled, then pointed toward the bow. With a half-maniacal cackle of unadulterated glee, McCaverty pushed the throttle forward. The plane vibrated, lurched, and then began to move down the ad hoc air strip. Long before it reached the end of the strip the pilot felt the thing begin to lift, the force pressing him down into his seat.
As the plane left the Merciful behind, McCaverty could be heard singing-well . . . trying to sing- "Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys . . . "
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Why join the Navy if you can be a pirate?
-Steve Jobs
D-1, Yemen
"Short final," the taciturn pilot said over the intercom.
After the buffeting from flying with the landing wheels barely above-indeed, sometimes skimming-the waves, then barely above the sand dunes, though it didn't skim those, it was a welcome relief to Konstantin when the helicopter went into a low hover. The pitch of the engine changed, as well.
Though he'd never before flown into anywhere in an MI-28, Konstantin was certain that the change in pitch meant a landing. The sudden shudder and bounce as the landing wheels touched down told him his guess was correct.
"Devaye, devaye, muzhiks," the pilot said, which translated roughly as, "Un-ass my helicopter, peasants."
Konstantin flipped the small door open and dived out. He hit and rolled, groaning, "I am getting too old for this shit," before scurrying to take up a position around the helicopter. He couldn't see the other bird, but heard it not far away.
"Still darker than three feet up a well-digger's ass," he said, with satisfaction, looking around at the sand dunes that seemed to enclose him on all sides. He flipped onto his back and brought his NVGs down to his face, scanning quickly but thoroughly.
Already, the helicopter was powering down. In the grainy green image he saw the other bird. He saw, too, that the other three men were likewise lying down around it. Closer in he caught glimpses of the two, Musin and Galkin, who had flown with him.
And now we wait for the choppers to power down completely, put up the camouflage nets, break out the motorcycles, change clothes, rest until nightfall, and then . . . .we're off.
D-1, MV Merciful, paralleling the eastern coast of Ophir
Down in the hull, several layers of containers down, forward of the internal open assembly area, Boxer watched over a UAVs pilot's shoulder as another greenish image, this one on a monitor screen, changed with the movement of the UAV.
"Fuel?" Boxer asked.
"Maybe half an hour," the pilot replied, after checking his somewhat ephemeral instruments. "Not enough to get the thing back."
"All right," Boxer nodded. For a moment he considered the very high amusement quotient in sending the thing to Saudi Arabia where it could be found, after crashing, complete with Israeli markings, on Saudi sands. It would be a hoot, and bound to muddy the waters, but . . . better not.