The voice that returned his greeting was deep and firm.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant, this is Captain Kalinin. I hope you’ve enjoyed the flight so far. Sorry that the accommodations aren’t a bit more spacious, but such is the small price we pay for our great speed.
Grigori cleared his throat.
“It doesn’t matter. Captain. We are quite comfortable back here.”
“Good,” responded the Tupolev’s pilot.
“I figured three hardy Spetsnaz operatives like yourselves could survive this temporary discomfort. I’ve called to tell you that soon you’ll have time to properly stretch your legs. You see, you’re scheduled to jump in precisely fourteen and a half minutes.”
Checking his watch, Grigori retorted, “Very good, Captain. We’ll begin our preparations at once.”
Hanging up the receiver, he turned to face his men.
“Well, hello, my sleeping beauties. I hope your dreams were pleasant.”
Looking like beard-stub bled moustached twins, the two dark-haired soldiers yawned and stretched their limbs. Konstantin Lomakin crawled up to the porthole and peered outside.
“Some restful sleep,” offered Konstantin.
“Here we are at 78,000 feet, and all I dream of is blowing away a gang of Mujahiddin. Will that war ever leave my mind?”
“There will soon be plenty to take your thoughts away from that crude conflict, my friend,” advised Grigori.
“We’ll be jumping in another fourteen minutes.”
Continuing to gaze out of the porthole, Konstantin asked, “Then we’re in United States airspace now?”
“I imagine so,” offered Dmitri Andreyev with a grin.
“Yet the Americans will never know it. I’ve heard tales of these so-called stealth aircraft, but the reality of it all is even more amazing.”
“Let’s just hope we indeed remain invisible to their radar,” added Grigori.
“Otherwise there will soon be a flock of angry F-15 Eagles on our tail. Now, let’s get going with that gear. There’s much to prepare, and the time is short.”
Doing their best to stand in the tight quarters, the two junior officers joined Grigori at the compartment’s forward section. There they began slipping on the odd assortment of pressure suits, oxygen equipment, helmets, and goggles that would enable them to jump from a height of 40,000 feet. To insure a minimal target, nearly all of this would be a free fall with their altimeter-triggered chutes not opening until they reached a mere 1,200 feet above sea level.
After the various body gear was in place, each member of the team doublechecked the others. Once this was accomplished, they proceeded to strap on their weapons. Special waist-carried, padded carriers were utilized to hold the assortment of Americanmade weaponry which they would take with them.
Grigori had just buckled on the harness that held the Stinger package in place when the intercom again activated. This time it was Dmitri who answered it.
Taking in the pilot’s two-minute warning to jump time, he smiled at his coworkers with relief. Thirty seconds later, the Spetsnaz team stood at the hatchway.
All eyes were locked on the two lights mounted above the door there. At present, only the red one was lit. Any moment now, the hatch would automatically slide open, the green light would pop on, and they’d be free to go.
To prepare for the sucking blast of pressure that would meet them when the door opened, the men held onto a specially designed steel support rod.
Dmitri would be first to go, followed by Konstantin and Grigori. Each did his best to calm himself, as the seconds ticked slowly by.
Grigori’s pulse jumped when the hatchway finally slid open with a loud hiss. Pulled instantly forward by the resulting depressurization, he strained to keep himself in place. A wave of ice-cold air enveloped him and he was aware of the now-deafening roar of the plane’s engines. He forced himself to yawn to equalize the pressure on his eardrums, and then the green light suddenly blinked on. Without further prompting, Dmitri soared outward, followed closely by his two comrades.
To catch up with his teammates, Grigori tucked in his hands and legs and rocketed downward like a lead weight. All too soon he was forced to slow himself. To do this, he merely fanned out his limbs, and the resulting drag did the rest. When Konstantin and Dmitri were finally level with him, he continued his free-fall, only a couple of arm lengths away from them.
The air was cold and thin, and it streaked by with a banshee-like wail. Far above him, the crimson wings of the Red Fox could be barely seen, as the jet initiated a sweeping turn that would take it homeward.
Diverting his line of sight downwards, Grigori took in the incredible view of the ocean below. Clearly visible were the Channel Islands, and further to the east, the actual mainland. A thick bank of fog was visible far offshore, yet for the moment their target, the smallest and most northerly of the islands, was clearly in sight.
Free-fall was a time of pure joy for Grigori. Nothing could exhilarate him in quite the same manner.
Though the bulky HALO gear kept him from feeling the icy, stimulating air on his face, the mere act of falling through the skies invigorated and refreshed him. His fatigue was the furthest thing from his mind as he watched the planet’s surface approach with an incredible speed.
His thoughts were free from fear and concern as both his teammates’ chutes opened almost simultaneously.
Slowed dramatically, both were immediately pulled out of sight above. Guessing that his own pack would open any second, Grigori took in the ever approaching earth and felt the first stirrings of panic.
Quickly checking his wrist-mounted altimeter, he saw that he was past 1,100 feet. But why hadn’t his own chute activated? He was well aware that he carried no spare, and his gut tightened as he imagined what it would be like to die in such a nightmarish manner.
Had his equipment been packed improperly, or was a mechanical malfunction at fault? It was too late to place blame now, and he plunged ever downward.
It wasn’t until he hit the 900-foot level that his pack finally popped open. Pulled to a near halt with a spring, he issued a breath of relief upon watching the silken-white chute billow outward. They had been issued the new rectangular, steerable parachutes, and Grigori gratefully took hold of the two steering cords that were beside each shoulder. His panic was long passed as he noticed that his comrades had good chutes also.
Remembering the map that had been given to him at Petropavlovsk, he aimed for the island’s deserted western shoreline. There, a wide patch of sandy beach was visible, several meters from the rock-lined surf itself. The surface winds were at a minimum, and Grigori swept in from the ocean and hit his mark with the ease of stepping off the bottom rung of a stepladder.
The added encumbrance of the Stinger package made gathering his chute a bit awkward, yet by the time his teammates landed beside him he had his gear in complete control. Thankful to get his oxygen mask off, he took his first breath of Capitalist air. Beside him, Konstantin did the same.
“So this is what smog smells like,” Konstantin said.
“Tell me, comrades, where are all the surfers?”
Taking this in with a distasteful grin, Grigori beckoned them to keep their voices down. After all, this was enemy territory, and there was no telling who could be close by listening.
A ledge of sharp, volcanic rocks lay to their left, and Grigori signaled that this would be where they would seek shelter. It was behind this outcropping that their HALO gear was subsequently buried and their new equipment readied. In addition to their matching green camouflaged fatigues and corresponding berets, both Konstantin and Dmitri were armed with Colt,45-caliber pistols, several stun grenades, and M16 A2 rifles. Grigori carried the same side arm, yet in place of the eight-and-a-half-pound rifle he was armed with a lightweight Uzi 9-mm. submachine gun. This would allow him to more easily carry the still-packaged Stinger.