Ten feet. Ortiz heard a few words. They were speaking in French. They were too close. Ortiz knew he had to act right away or risk detection. Would he be able to propel himself out of the mud fast enough?
He eyed Zimmer, the right-most sentry, the left-most sentry, and back to Zimmer. Their eyes locked. Ortiz held up his left hand and counted one, two, three with his fingers.
Now!
They lunged simultaneously, knives extended in front, aimed for the throat. Ortiz reached his prey in less than three seconds, catching him entirely by surprise as he was about to take another draw from his half-smoked cigarette. The sentry’s hand never made it to his face. Ortiz drove the ten-inch blade into the base of the sentry’s neck. He heard the nauseating sound of broken bone and ripped cartilage as the stainless-steel blade went deeper and exited through the larynx. An explosion of air and foam followed as the sentry brought both hands to his neck before falling face-first into the swamp. Ortiz let go of the knife and turned to the sentry in the middle, whose face showed obvious surprise. His eyes were open wide in fear as his fumbling fingers tried to reach for the automatic weapon that hung loose from his left shoulder.
Ortiz lunged and pushed the sentry on his back and forced him into the swamp. He grabbed the sentry’s lapel with one hand and pushed his head back with the palm of the other hand. The sentry let go a half scream before his head went under. Ortiz eyed Zimmer. He had disabled the right-most sentry. Ortiz shifted his gaze back toward the sentry he had pinned down in the swamp. The sentry’s body was under except for his arms, which viciously flapped in a desperate attempt to free himself from Ortiz’s death lock, but Ortiz kept up the pressure. He knew it was just a matter if time. The sentry had screamed before his head went under. That meant he’d exhaled instead of inhaled. The more the sentry fought the faster he would use up the little air that remained in his lungs. Ortiz was right. The arm movement slowed to a halt. Ortiz counted to thirty before letting go. When he did, he noticed the arms slowly sinking.
“Damn, Tito. You sure can be one mean bastard.”
Ortiz stared at Zimmer. “Can’t say I was proud of it, but we can’t let their people know we’re here.” He reached for his handkerchief and wiped off his neck. “How many, hermano?”
Zimmer got close. “Just one. How about me?”
Ortiz examined Zimmer’s neck. “Two.”
A few minutes later he reached for the radio. “Ortiz here. Sentries neutralized. Area’s clear.”
“All right. Let’s move it, Tito. You two hide the bodies and keep moving forward. We’ll catch up with you. This area is likely to be roaming with patrol helos in a few minutes.”
“Roger. Moving out.” He replaced the radio. “You heard the boss, Tommy. Let’s get outta here.”
“You got it, brother.”
Vanderhoff picked up the phone on the first ring. “Yes?”
“Sir, I think we may have a situation.”
“Explain.”
“A helicopter just made a routine run east of here and they can’t get a response from the patrol team on the ground.”
“Equipment breakdown perhaps?”
“Ah, no, sir. Each man carried a portable radio. I doubt all three are malfunctioning at the same time.”
Vanderhoff inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself down. He checked his watch. Less than an hour to go before the launch. He had to keep the intruders away for another hour. After that it would be over. There was nothing anyone would be able to do.
“Send all available men out!” he snapped back. “I want those two helicopters delivering security personnel out there immediately. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
Vanderhoff slammed down the phone and tightened his fists. This was the most critical phase of the operation. It was the only way to be sure Lightning would be destroyed. Doing it otherwise would leave too much to chance and would give NASA time to figure out a way to save the wounded orbiter.
Wearing a set of GEC Avionics “Cat’s Eyes” Night Vision Goggles, Lieutenant Crowe stared at the fuel drogue on the end of the sixty-foot-long hose hanging down and behind the tail of the KC-97 tanker. Crowe’s wingman, Stallion Two, patiently took second place behind him. The advanced NVGs, secured to a bracket mounted on the front of his helmet, superimposed two smaller combiner lenses in front of Crowe’s eyes. Intensified outside light, reflected onto the combiner lenses through a mirror and prism design, provided Crowe with a bright, green-tinted view of the moonless night.
Crowe lifted the collective lever and twisted the motorcycle-style throttle grip at the end, increasing main rotor RPM and also changing the rotor blade profile, creating additional lift. The maneuver empowered the 36,000-pound heavy assault transport helicopter to climb to a comfortable one thousand feet at 160 knots.
He eyed the approaching drogue and then his helo’s seven-foot-long refueling probe extending out from the right side of the nose. The drogue was less than ten feet away.
Crowe inched the cyclic forward. The trick was to approach the drogue fast. A slow approach would cause the drogue to be pushed down by the air from the main rotor. Crowe eyed the drogue. He aligned the refueling probe as best he could with it. Then in one move, he gently pushed the cyclic forward. It took about one second for the Sikorsky helicopter to leap forward.
Contact! The probe reached the drogue and snagged it.
“Leaded or unleaded, Stallion One?”
“Don’t matter,” he responded. “They all come from the same tank anyway. I’ve only got five hundred pounds of juice left. Top me off.”
“Will do, Stallion One. Are you gonna want the windows washed?”
“Ah, no thanks.” Crowe smiled. Someone was in a good mood aboard that tanker.
Two minutes later he eyed the fuel gauges. “All right, guys. I think that’ll just about do it. Thanks a bunch.”
“Our pleasure, Stallion One. Good luck on your exercise.”
Crowe raised his right eyebrow. Exercise? Okay, so someone had given that explanation to the tanker’s crew. They — whoever “they” were — wanted to keep the number of people involved at a minimum. It made sense, he decided. That way, when things go ape-shit, “they” don’t have to tell too many people to keep a lid on it. Covert operations. He’d flown them enough times in Vietnam to be able to smell them and this one stunk. The worst part of it was that he had no idea what was going on. Just that he had to pick up an Army Special Forces team. Nothing else. He had been given a rendezvous point and a time. He was to wait for no more than five minutes and would keep rotor RPM high enough to leave in seconds.
Crowe gently maneuvered his helo to the side to make way for Stallion Two. He flew without a copilot. The two rookies were onboard Stallion Two, which approached the drogue too slow. It went under.
Crowe spoke on his voice-activated headset. “Back off and go back a bit faster.”
“Roger, Stallion One.”
The Stallion let the drogue move forward about twenty feet before it moved in again. This time Crowe watched approvingly as the large helo approached the drogue at a higher speed, snagging it.
“Good job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Crowe checked his watch. They had forty-five minutes left.
Vanderhoff finished dialing Chardon’s private number. He heard it ring twice before the general’s rough voice crackled through Vanderhoff’s speaker box.