18
With a keen sense of both excitement and trepidation, Jackie securely fastened her twin-cell airline-style life vest. She looked up at the moonless, star-filled sky, then donned her flip-down night-vision goggles and waited for her eyes to adjust to the greenish artificial light. The night-vision aid amplified ambient light 1,200 times, allowing her to conquer the dark.
After she felt comfortable with the goggles, she carefully checked the helo’s instrument panel and engine gauges one last time before she lifted the LongRanger off the container ship and flew alongside the bridge. With the transponder turned off and the exterior lights extinguished, the dark charcoal helo was almost undetectable as it flew low over the smooth Mediterranean Sea.
Satisfied that everything was functioning normally, Jackie set the radar altimeter for 100 feet, then added power and set course for her first navigational fix. She had flown the rescue mission in her mind dozens of times. She knew the circuitous route to the terrorist enclave like the main street of her hometown, and she had memorized every obstacle she expected to encounter, including three major centers of drug production and distribution. She was also acutely aware that the origins of illicit narcotics in the Bekaa Valley were fiercely protected by men armed with powerful weapons, including portable air defense missiles.
In Jackie’s view, the toughest part of the flight would be her descent into the valley that separated the Lebanon Mountains and the Anti-Lebanon Mountains. No matter how she approached the terrorist training camp, she would have to fly directly over concentrations of Hezbollah militias and encampments of Syrian soldiers.
Jackie smiled to herself when she touched the Hermès scarf tucked under the neck of her flight suit. Her father, Dr. E. Raines Sullivan, always sent her a dozen assorted scarves on her birthday. As much as she loved her pipe-smoking aristocratic father, his elitist and sexist values had driven her away from the family and all the trappings of inherited wealth. When she announced she had joined the Air Force, Dr. Sullivan abruptly canceled his annual pilgrimage to the Prix de Diane, France’s most exciting horse race, and vented his spleen at Jackie for two days and nights. Always an elegantly dressed and eloquently expressive man, E. Raines had had what he would later describe as an “indecorous lapse in manners.”
Without warning, a bright light ahead of the helo blinked on and off twice, then disappeared. Jackie changed course a few degrees and scanned the horizon looking for a boat or ship. The more she moved her eyes, the more she felt off balance. When the insidious “leans” began inducing the first stages of vertigo, she removed the NVGs and tossed them on the life raft behind her. She flew strictly by instruments for a few moments, then began sweeping her eyes across the sea for any sign of a ship.
After two minutes of fruitless searching, she altered course again and added a touch of power to make up the few seconds she’d lost. I must be seeing things that aren’t there. Concentrate.
Jackie’s nerves settled down as she continuously checked her time and position. She was hitting her coordinates precisely on time and on course. Sixty miles from the container ship, Jackie’s sense of well-being was shattered when she felt a shudder run through the LongRanger.
“What the hell was that?” she said under her breath, then quickly scanned her instruments. Everything appeared to be in order. Okay, take a deep breath and get a grip on your nerves.
Wearing a parachute, Greg O’Donnell coaxed the fuel-laden Cessna Caravan into the night sky and began a very shallow climb to their assigned altitude. While Scott exchanged his cargo-pilot uniform for his black jumpsuit, body-armor vest, modified rappelling harness, and paratrooper boots, O’Donnell switched radio frequencies and pointed the big single-engine turboprop toward Damascus.
After Dalton zipped up his boots and donned his helmet, he looked at the huge ferry tank bolted to the cabin floor, then stepped forward to the dimly lighted cockpit. “How much are we over gross?”
“You don’t want to know.” Greg quietly chuckled. “Let’s just say that I have enough fuel to fly from the valley to Athens, with plenty left over.”
“Well, as the British say, you can never have too much petrol.”
“Unless you prang the ship,” Greg quipped.
Scott checked the time and the Caravan’s GPS. “Jackie should be about twenty miles south of us.”
“Let’s hope so,” Greg replied with a slow grin. “How’s the chemistry between the two of you?”
“Chemistry?”
“Are you attracted to her?” Greg asked innocently. “Are you bonding? That kind of chemistry.”
After Scott gave it a moment of thought, he proclaimed, “I’d say that we get along just fine. In fact, I wouldn’t mind developing a much closer relationship with her.”
Greg adjusted the power and gave Dalton an understanding glance. “You mean, if you live through this, right?”
“Well,” Scott said as he strapped on his assault knife, “I try not to dwell on the negative aspect of things.”
“Seriously, Bubba,” O’Donnel said with a grim look. “This gig isn’t gonna be easy.”
“What could possibly go wrong?” Scott piped sarcastically.
“Well, we could start with the fact that you stood up your rescue pilot.”
“What?”
“She told me about the sailing date.” Greg laughed out loud. “Or should I say, the sailing date that didn’t happen?”
“I’m guilty as charged,” Scott admitted as he tucked his Sig Sauer into the compact nylon holster strapped to his thigh. “However, I wasn’t purposely shirking my responsibility.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Greg said with mock innocence.
“I thought you might put in a good word for me.” Scott chuckled as he donned his black, custom-made parachute. He snapped two grenades and a quick-don rappelling harness to his assault vest, then tugged at his multigrip gloves. “There’s something about her, something that makes the hormones churn.”
“Tell me about it,” Greg declared in a suggestive voice.
Scott sat down and closed his eyes. She is captivating, no question about it. Intelligent, attractive, articulate, and she has a good sense of humor. This definitely has long-term possibilities… if we live through this extraction.
Jackie closely monitored her flight instruments and the GPS until she was precisely thirty nautical miles due west of the coast of Lebanon. With an eye on the radar altimeter, she keyed the radio. “Charlie Tango,” she announced, and immediately switched to the secondary frequency.
“Transco twenty-seven on the numbers,” Greg O’Donnell radioed in his clipped fashion. The Caravan was on course and on time.
“Charlie Tango,” she said in the same abbreviated style.
“Copy.”
With her confidence growing, Jackie searched for the faint glow of lights marking Sidon, the Mediterranean terminus of the Trans-Arabian Pipeline. She would make landfall south of the piers and oil-storage tanks, then remain on course for another seventeen nautical miles. At that point she would turn left seventy degrees at the power plant south of the QaraaounReservoir at the southwestern edge of the Bekaa Valley. From there, it was a straight shot over the drug dealers and military troops to the terrorist camp.