He waited. Two thousand feet. Seventy seconds. Mark. He had fallen a total of thirteen thousand feet in seventy seconds.
He pulled the ripcord handle and waited as he continued to fall. The pilot chute, or extractor, rushed clear of the fifty-pound Bergen rucksack. It had a brindle cord attached to it, which pulled the main canopy. The sudden jerk told him the main parachute had safely deployed.
A soft wind suddenly caressed his face. The sun had all but vanished below the horizon. He scanned the sky around him and spotted the parachutes in a circle around The Bundle’s dual parachutes.
The dark green Earth came up to greet him. It looked majestic, serene, almost peaceful. He approached it slowly, with control. He followed Zimmer’s lead toward the large clearing that Pruett had shown them on the map. It was a few miles north of Kourou. Far enough to avoid detection, yet close enough to reach their objective in two hours. Two hours, hardly enough time to hide their chutes, get the rest of their gear from The Bundle, and reach their objective. But they were Mambo. The elite fighting force. Mambo could do it.
Ortiz’s thoughts quickly faded away as he landed hard on the clearing. He fell on his side and rolled twice, letting the roll absorb most of the impact. He got up and started pulling the canopy toward him.
Aboard the StarLifter, Cameron got a visual on the platoon. It had taken them exactly three minutes to reach the landing zone. He turned to Pruett.
“Looks like they know what they’re doing, Tom. I couldn’t have done better even at my peak.”
Pruett smiled and headed for the cabin. He opened the door and briefly examined the interior. The pilot and copilot were in their seats. To Pruett’s immediate right was the navigator. To Pruett’s left the flight engineer was handling most communications.
“Yes, sir?” the navigator said, turning his head toward them. He was a kid no older than twenty-five, Pruett estimated. Blond with blue eyes, medium build.
“I need you to hook the phone up back there. Got to make some hot calls.”
The young navigator smiled. “No problem, sir.”
The flight engineer turned around. “Sir?”
Pruett shifted his gaze to the left. “Yes?”
“Just got confirmation from Mambo. All is well.”
“Good. Keep me posted if something else comes up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pruett and Cameron headed back to the relatively small aft cabin, where Marie quietly stared at the clouds through a small circular window. There was a phone on the wall. Pruett picked it up and dialed a White House number he had committed to memory. He had hoped he would hear the President’s calm voice answering, but instead Stice came on the line. Pruett frowned.
“Yes?” said Stice.
“The team is on the ground, sir. Two hours to target.”
“Time to launch?”
Pruett checked his watch. “Just under three hours.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Of course.”
“Good-bye, Tom.”
“Good-bye, sir.” He hung up the phone and stared at Cameron.
“It’s gonna be real close, Tom. Real close.”
Pruett massaged his chest and inhaled deeply. He reached for the pack of antacids and popped two in his mouth.
Ortiz finished stowing away the canopy under a large fallen log, one end of which dipped into the waters of a swamp. The area was filled with them.
“This is just fuckin’ great, Tito,” Ortiz heard Zimmer say as he approached him. “The word from Siegel’s that most of the terrain we gotta cover’s swamp. We’re gonna be up to our necks in shit, man.”
Ortiz smiled.
“What’s so funny? You enjoy having mud bugs crawling up your ass?”
Ortiz slowly shook his head. The smile on his face remained. “No, hermano. It’s just the way you said it that’s funny. Ever thought ‘bout picking up stand-up comedy?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Tito. I’m not in the—”
“All right, people. We ain’t got all day. Move out.” Siegel ordered. “Tito.”
“Sir?”
“Take the lead. Stay thirty feet in front. Tommy, you cover his rear. The rest of you follow single file. Ten feet intervals. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ortiz stood by the edge of the swamp. It extended ahead into the darkness. Somewhere on the other side was the target. Firmly clutching his Cold Commando, Ortiz stepped into the putrid waters. His thick camouflage fatigues were instantly drenched, but somehow it felt refreshing. The black water was cool. As long as his fatigues and sturdy boots kept leeches and other bugs away, Ortiz decided, he would be all right. Ortiz hated bugs, particularly leeches. Just the thought of them made him nauseous. Slimy, shiny creatures! As a kid he used to pour salt on them and watch them shrivel up. But now he didn’t have to worry. The Army had provided him with protective clothing to keep the leeches off and keep his mind on the mission. After all, he was the point man for Mambo. He was its eyes and ears. His unit depended on him.
He looked at the swamp and drew his lips in a tight frown. Fucking leeches!
Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Crowe of the U.S. Navy had just fallen asleep when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Go away! Don’t give a shit who you are!”
It didn’t work. The hand remained on his shoulder. Crowe didn’t move. He was just too comfortable. This was his first real rest period after a two-day rescue exercise with the Venezuelan Navy’s newly acquired Sea Stallion helicopters, to provide quick evacuation support to the region’s offshore oil platforms in case of emergencies.
“Sorry, Commander. The Skipper wants to talk to you.”
“Ahgg, fuck him!”
“Sure, sir. But the Skipper gave me strict orders to get you on the bridge in ten minutes.”
Crowe turned over and sat up. “Dammit! What in the hell’s going on? I’ve just busted my ass for one straight week teaching those damned pilots how to fly those damned helos they just bought. This is my break. My break, and the Skipper knows that! Damn!” Hastily, Crowe got up. He wore only his underpants and a white T-shirt. “Toss me that shirt, would ya?” He picked up the pants off the floor and put them on.
“Here you go, sir.”
Crowe exhaled and grabbed the white shirt. It had his name tag on the right side and several ribbons over the left pocket. A pair of silver wings above them marked him as a naval aviator.
“Have any idea what’s going on?” he asked as he buttoned up the shirt, which was a bit too tight on the arms. His bulging biceps were slightly out of proportion with the rest of his upper body.
“Ah, no, sir. Just that I had to get you to the bridge in—”
“Yes, yes, in ten minutes.”
“Six.”
“Whatever.”
He sat on the bed and put on his shoes. “I love my job, you know,” he continued. “But every man’s got his limitations and mine are close to the edge. I need to sleep. I’m fucking exhausted!”
“Sorry, Commander, but the Skipper gave me—”
“Let’s go.”
Followed by the mate, Crowe headed for the bridge of the nineteen-thousand-pound amphibious command ship. U.S. Navy classification LCC, Blue Ridge performed a variety of surveillance jobs, including monitoring low-flying planes leaving Colombia and Venezuela in a northerly heading. Blue Ridge’s primary job was of detection only — the reason for a variety of communications aerials on the flat upper deck. Blue Ridge was not supposed to try to shoot down the planes; its job was simply to detect them.
There were two helicopters on board — two Sea Stallions, among the Navy’s largest and most powerful helicopters, capable of hauling fifty-five fully equipped troops for just over 250 miles.