For the final piece of weaponry, he used a loose piece of Velcro on his combat vest to secure a set of brass knuckles that had been spray-painted flat black to his left side.
"You can take the boy out of Boston, but you can't take Boston out of the boy," Jenkins commented.
"South Boston," Vaughn corrected his team sergeant. Jenkins had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin and always found his wife's and brother-in-law's stories of big city life strange. As strange as Vaughn found Jenkins's stories of farm life.
"If you got to use those," Jenkins said, pointing at the brass knuckles, "you're in some deep shit."
"That's the idea."
Vaughn looked over at him.
"You carry that pig sticker everywhere," he said, referring to the machete Jenkins had just finished securing behind his right shoulder, the handle sticking up for easy access.
"It's for firewood," Jenkins replied.
"Yeah, right."
Finally came a black Kevlar helmet, not the same distinctive shape the rest of the United States Army wore, but simply a semiround pot with a bracket bolted to the front. Out of a plastic case, Vaughn removed a set of night vision goggles and latched them onto the bracket, leaving the goggles in the up and off position so they wouldn't obscure his vision. The amount of gear he wore limited his exposed flesh to a small patch between his eyebrows and chin, which was already covered with dark green camouflage paste. The entire effect was greatly dehumanizing, making the men seem like machines, not flesh and blood.
A third, similarly dressed figure walked up in the dimming light.
"Sergeant Major, don't you think your wife knows how short you really are?"
"Shut up," Jenkins growled, but without anger. The same jokes now for months – it was almost a ritual. One that Vaughn wished would end.
Several other men loomed up, all equipped the same way, except for two who carried heavier Squad Automatic Weapon machine guns. Ten men. Vaughn's team. Across the field, in a long tin building, was the platoon of twenty-five Filipino commandos who were to accompany them on this raid. And in between, squatting on the field like man-made bugs, were five UH-1 Iroquois transport helicopters with Philippine army markings. Like wraiths in the darkness, the pilots and crew chiefs of the aircraft were scurrying around them, doing last minute flight checks.
Vaughn looked at his watch.
"Time. Get our allies," he ordered one of his men, who took off at a jog toward the barracks. He turned to another.
"Got the designator?"
The man answered by holding out a rucksack.
"It's set for the right freq."
Vaughn took the backpack, slid one of the straps over one shoulder and the MP-5 over the other.
"To your birds."
He and Jenkins headed toward the lead helicopter while the others split up. The sound of excited Filipino voices now echoed across the field as the platoon of commandos also headed toward the choppers.
Jenkins suddenly froze, putting an arm out and halting Vaughn. With one smooth movement, Jenkins's right arm looped up over his shoulder, grasped the well-worn handle of the machete and whipped the blade out and down. The razor-sharp blade sliced into the foot high grass – and through something else.
Jenkins leaned over and picked up the still wriggling body of a beheaded snake.
"Very deadly," he commented as he tossed it aside.
"Got to watch out for bad things in the grass."
Vaughn stood still for a moment, then followed his team sergeant. Without another comment they continued on to the helicopters. Jenkins slapped Vaughn on the back as he turned for the second bird while Vaughn turned toward the first. But then Vaughn paused and reached out, grabbing his brother-in-law by the arm and pulling him close.
"Hey, Frank," he whispered harshly.
"This is the last mission for you. Don't do nothing stupid."
Jenkins smiled.
"For sure, Jim. You watch your own ass. Linda will – " The smile was suddenly gone, and he didn't complete the sentence. The two stood awkwardly for a moment, then both of them nodded and turned toward their respective aircraft.
What Vaughn didn't mention was the promise he had made his sister to keep her husband out of any last mission – a promise he had known he couldn't keep as soon as he made it, because Frank Jenkins wasn't the type of man to be held back from doing his duty. But Vaughn had made the promise to give his sister peace of mind. She'd lost her first husband in the terrorist attack on the Pentagon on 9/11, and it was a testament to her love for Jenkins that she had married him though his job put him on the front line on the war against terrorism.
Reaching his helicopter, Vaughn scanned the other four birds and got the pilots' attention by circling his arm above his head, indicating it was time to power up. He climbed onboard the aging UH-1 Huey and sat on the web seat directly behind the pilots, facing outboard. Another Delta Force man took the seat next to him. Vaughn's MP-5 submachine gun dangled over his shoulder and he put the designator pack on the floor between his legs.
The turbine engine above his head came to life with a loud whine. Vaughn checked his watch again. Three minutes before liftoff. Even though the aircraft were Filipino, the pilots were Americans, and like Vaughn, dressed in unmarked uniforms. They were from the elite Nightstalkers of Task Force 160, the best chopper pilots in the world. All the pilots selected for this mission were old warrant officers, as most of the newer 160 pilots had never flown a Huey, being brought up on the more modern Blackhawk. Vaughn grabbed a headset from a hook over his head and placed the cup over his ears so he could listen to the crew on the intercom.
"One minute," the pilot announced.
Vaughn looked up. He knew the pilots were ready to hit their stopwatches and would lift off on time. This entire mission depended on everyone doing their job at exactly the right second. The Filipino commandos filled out the rest of the space on the web seats in the chopper. In addition to the Delta operator on his left, there were two American "advisors" in the rear of each chopper to complement the Filipinos.
In fact, the Americans were running the show, and Vaughn was the senior U.S. Army man. A Filipino colonel was technically in charge of the commandos and the raid, since it was taking place in his country, but the older man had declined to participate, claiming it was more important that he remain behind to "supervise."
Even though there was nothing to supervise. There would be no radio communication at all.
The last thing anyone from here to Washington wanted was a recording of American voices in combat operations in a place where they weren't supposed to be.
Vaughn opened the backpack and pulled out a bulky object that looked like a set of binoculars piggybacked onto a square green metal box, with a glass eye at the front end and a small display screen on the rear. The manufacturer called it "man portable," and at thirty-two pounds, Vaughn supposed it was, but it was an awkward thing to use. Designated the LLDR – Lightweight Laser Designator Rangefinder – it could both tell the distance to an object viewed through the lens and, when needed, "paint" it with a laser beam, designating the spot as a target for smart bombs. A steady green light on the rear indicated the designator was on, although the laser was not activated. There was also a GPS – Global Positioning System – built into the device that would feed location information to the computer, in conjunction with range to the designated target, which then was transmitted to incoming missiles, directing them. It was a lot of technology designed for one purpose: to put a bomb on target within a designated three-meter spot.