Joe Anderson, sitting in the middle of the forward-facing bench seat, watched the preparations with mild interest. The nine troopers were readying themselves, checking weapons, cinching straps, testing equipment. They had those things to do. He had just his thoughts to occupy him. Thoughts of another job. Thoughts of his home, his wife. Thoughts of his life. What he had done, what he would miss. He could have let sadness and bitterness envelop him, had it not been for the reality that his sacrifice had saved a lot of lives. He wasn’t a hero for doing it, just as these men didn’t think themselves deserving of accolades, but he, and they, could all take satisfaction in doing a job and doing it well. It might seem simplistic, even insincere, to those who could not understand the motivation to do something, even if dangerous, because it needed to be done, but it was what counted. Success meant the good guys won. To Joe, and to those he proudly joined on this mission, winning was a very private victory.
“You ready, Mr. Anderson?” Sean yelled across the two feet that separated them.
Joe lifted his equipment case and nodded. “Always, Major.”
The noise picked up as the door gunners, one on each side of the Pave Hawk just behind the cockpit, slid their respective windows open and swiveled the pintle-mounted miniguns into the open. The weapons locked into position, and the gunners tested the built-in stops that prevented the guns from rotating too high, lest they inadvertently put a stream of 7.62mm shells into the 230-gallon fuel tanks that hung from the high mounted wings on each side. A low whine emanated from each mount. They were now powered up, ready to fire if need be, just the pressure of their gunner’s finger required.
“Test your LAMs,” Sean ordered. He lowered his NVGs and activated the LAM mounted underneath his MP5SD4’s integral suppressor with a touch to the grip-mounted pressure switch. A beam of infrared light sprayed from the unit, a focused red laser dot in its center. Sean moved it around in the darkened cabin, placing death spots on three of his comrades before he was satisfied that all was working properly. He flipped the NVGs up again and checked his watch. “Five minutes to first stop! Lock and load!”
The nine troopers pulled the loading levers back on their weapons and slid them easily forward, chambering the first round.
“Safety on until we’re swinging, then set on controlled burst!” Sean checked the left side of his weapon, making sure the selector switch was to its top position: safe. He looked left to Buxton. “Move fast, Bux.”
“Like lightning.”
“And keep your head down,” he added, not knowing quite why.
“Then I won’t be able to see all the fun.”
Sean nodded and motioned for the team to switch on their radios. “Test check.” He got eight nods in response. In sequence the other troopers transmitted over the short-range system. “Cho, you got us?”
“Five by five, Major. Two minutes to tippee-toes.”
Sean held up two fingers for Anderson, who did not wear a radio.
Joe saw the victory sign and gave a thumbs-up to the confident gesture. It was nice being among the best of the good guys.
The Communications Vessel Vertikal, a former whaler that had taken its share of leviathans from the deep during its previous life, plowed through the mild Atlantic swells at seventeen knots, churning a bright white wake that luminesced in the low moonlight. There was barely any spray over the high bow, even running at her top speed, and the captain of the ship stood confidently just outside the wheelhouse, the thought of wearing a slicker blasphemous on such a warm night.
“Debris in the water, dead ahead,” the lookout reported.
“Where?” the captain asked skeptically. They weren’t supposed to be near the reported site for another hour. Flotsam could not have drifted this direction, nor this distance since the American Coast Guard contacted them.
“There, Captain.”
He scanned the swells, and there it was. The unmistakable blob of orange floating and bobbing on the water. And more. The captain counted ten separate pieces of debris. But of what? And how did it get here? An aircraft going down would not have spread its remnants over twenty nautical miles. Nor would a ship going down. There would be a greater concentration of debris in either case. It was as if it had been spread across the ocean from high above. Or far below.
But it could not be that. Or could it?
“Launch the boats. Bring back everything you find. Fast!”
First Lieutenant Duc made his altitude fifty feet as the Pave Hawk skimmed the choppy waters toward the deserted beach near Playa Rancho Luna on the eastern shore of the Bay of Cienfuegos.
“Nothing ahead,” Second Lieutenant Sanders reported. His eyes were focused on the LLTV and the FLIR sensors, both of which stole the darkness from the expanse of white sand that was to be their first stop. The copilot flipped his NVGs, which were specially designed for use by flyers, down and scanned their flight path. Duc had them on a straight run in. Reconnaissance had showed no troops in this immediate area, and any civilian stupid or lucky enough to catch a glimpse of them would have little time to sound a warning. The objective was just minutes from here.
“Here we go, Maj.”
Sean did a quick look around the cabin, his eyes falling upon Anderson last. “See you in a few!”
Joe barely heard the shout. “Don’t mess up my missile!”
The major smiled and gave the signal to open the doors. The chill of an eighty-knot breeze instantly filled the cabin of the Pave Hawk.
“Feet dry,” Duc announced.
Antonelli and Makowski gripped their duffels tighter as the sound of the rotors changed. It became a deep, throaty pulse before the Pave Hawk’s nose flared, slowing the helicopter and reducing altitude.
“Go!” Sean yelled into the radio as they settled at five feet above the sand.
The troopers piled out through both doors, Antonelli and Makowski turning as they hit and going beneath the floating helicopter. They attached the hooks to the fore and aft SPIE connectors respectively and pulled the duffels out from below, Antonelli going to the left with the short rig, and Makowski to the right with the aft rig, which was longer by ten feet.
“Good hooks, troops. Double check.” Sean lined up in a prearranged row with the rest of the entry team: Antonelli, Goldfarb, Lewis, and Quimpo. They attached the paired connectors, one to each shoulder, and made themselves a semi-rigid unit with carefully placed handholds on each others’ web gear. One hand was dedicated to that. The other held their weapons. “Bux?”
“Ready.”
“Safeties off.” Nine selector switches moved down one notch to the controlled burst setting. “Let’s make ‘em pay. Ready, Cho. GO!”
Lieutenant Duc needed no time to ease into the maneuver, which he had practiced countless times and used for real in several tight spots before. He brought his collective up with the helicopter in a hover, lifting Sean’s group first, then, a second later, Buxton’s group clear of the ground. When the latter was thirty feet above the sand, he added more power and nosed the Pave Hawk down, gaining speed and maintaining his altitude. The two groups of Delta troopers, nearly invisible in their coal-black working suits, swayed backward, away from the direction of travel, their HKs held forward in preparation and anticipation.
“Raptor, this is Gambler,” Duc said over the net. “Two minutes out.”