As Turk crisscrossed over the area, he piped the feed from his sensors directly to Danny and the MC-17. When the combat cargo craft was about sixty seconds away from the drop point, Turk radioed to make sure they were still “go.”
“Roger, Tigershark,” said Danny, his voice clear over the dedicated Whiplash com channel.
“The UAVs appear headed for the Marines,” added Turk.
“I copied that. We’re jumping in thirty seconds. Keep an eye on the boats and that minesweeper.”
“Godspeed,” said Turk.
Danny felt a knot grow in his stomach as the wind ripped against his body from the open ramp of the MC-17. He’d jumped from airplanes countless times in nearly every condition, but he’d never lost the little nudge of anticipation mixed with anxiety that accompanied the first time he’d given himself over to gravity. No jump was ever truly routine, especially a high altitude — low opening night jump; it was a long way down, with plenty of opportunities for something to go wrong.
“We’re ready, Colonel,” said Grisif.
He gave the jumpmaster a thumbs-up, and she in turn gave it to the crew chief and then the team. They went out briskly, in single file, walking into the darkness of the night like commuters moving to catch an early morning train.
The rush of the wind untied the knots in Danny’s stomach, chasing away the tension. He spread his arms and legs the way he always did, adopting a frog position. When you were a human airplane, freedom and exhilaration far outweighed fear.
The Whiplash team wore suits with special webbing that extended beneath their armpits and between their legs. These acted like wings, enhancing their ability to maneuver toward the target. Dropped some miles west of the ship, each man and woman flew forward as well as fell downward, maneuvering toward the target. Their helmets not only displayed their current altitude, bearing, and rate of fall, but showed their GPS position, a computed course and time to their objective.
It was quite a difference from how things were when Danny had first jumped from an airplane, to say nothing of the WWII Pathfinders who were the godfathers of all American airborne troops. But certain things would never change: the strong brush of the wind, and the hard jerk of the parachute rig when it opened a few thousand feet above the landing zone.
It was a strong tug, and while it didn’t catch Danny unaware, it still nearly took his breath away, jerking hard against his vulnerable groin.
“Better than the alternative,” the old paratrooper who’d taught him used to say.
Chute deployed, Danny checked his lines with a small wrist flashlight. Assured that he had a good canopy, he tapped the side of his helmet.
“Team, ready?” asked Danny. “Check in.”
One by one, they did. Unzipping their leg and arm wings, they sailed to a preset point on the western side of the ship.
“Ten seconds to touchdown,” Danny told the team as the deck loomed below him. “Let’s do this the way we practiced.”
As soon as Turk saw the chutes blossom on his screen, he directed Sabre One and Sabre Two to head toward the minesweeper, just in case the Chinese boat saw them and got curious. The chutes were small and made with an absorbent material that tended to cut down on their radar signature, but only slightly. Anyone aboard the fishing boats with a pair of NODs or even a good set of eyes would be able to see them.
If any of the fishing boats opened fire, he would sink them all. The computer had already stored their locations and computed targeting solutions for an attack; all he had to do was tell the rail gun to fire.
Though still deemed experimental, the aircraft’s small-scale energy weapon had been so thoroughly tested that Turk was as confident about using it as he was firing the F-35’s cannon. More so, actually, since he had worked extensively with the gun before going to Iran.
Like all rail guns, the weapon used a powerful electromagnetic field to propel a metallic slug at a target. The principle was well-known, and versions had been around for several decades; the real innovation here was the size of the weapon, which fit into the body-long bay of the sleek Tigershark II. The only downside was its need to recycle energy and lower its heat every dozen rounds. Even this, though, was a vast improvement over the earlier incarnations.
Turk looked at the sitrep screen to see how Sabre Three and Four were doing. The Tigershark’s helmet provided him with a configurable control and display board; he had arranged several default configurations for the mission. The base configuration, which he was using now, was generally similar to what would be seen in a standard aircraft cockpit — an instrument panel, a 360-view of the outside, and a HUD projection of critical flight data.
Aside from the fact that the HUD display was always in front of him no matter which direction he faced, the major difference between the Tigershark’s and conventional cockpits were the virtual video screens, which replaced the glass canopy and could be configured in any form he wanted. Turk had located three “screens” in the bottom-left corner of his forward view. He configured the top screen to give a God’s-eye view of his aircraft and what was going on around them — a sitrep, or situational awareness view. The bottom showed the Whiplash link, with messages and other data. He used the middle to select different feeds from the Sabres.
They were still nearly thirteen minutes from the Marines. The F-35s were on radio silence, preparing to deal with the UAVs.
“Five seconds from landing,” said Danny over the Dreamland circuit.
Turk returned his full attention to the Whiplash landing. Eleven figures descended on the merchant ship, each aimed at a different point on the deck; once there, they would shed their chutes and head in different directions, aiming to quickly subdue opposition. The two men who were ostensibly on watch were completely oblivious to what was going on; Turk guessed that they were sleeping, as the computer indicated they hadn’t moved since the first Sabre passed overhead.
They were about to wake up inside a very bad dream.
The fishing boats seemed oblivious as well. Meanwhile, the Whiplash Ospreys hovered some thirty miles to the south, staying just above the waves so they were completely invisible to the minesweeper’s radar. It would take them roughly ten minutes to get to the merchant ship, either to pick up the team or to support it with their chain guns if things got difficult.
Everything in place, thought Turk. Let’s get this show going.
Danny flared as he hit the deck, then pulled the toggle to release the parachute. In nearly the same motion he grabbed the SCAR rifle out of its Velcroed scabbard on his chest. The rifle was no different than the weapon issued to other U.S. special ops troops, with one exception: its sights interfaced with Danny’s helmet system.
He was on the starboard side of the deck, the high end of the ship, five feet from a door on the superstructure that led to the compartments below. He ran to the door without waiting for the rest of the team; once through, he began descending the stairlike metal ladder to the corridor that would take him to the engine room.
The ship was completely dark. If there was electricity, it wasn’t working here.
“Behind you, Colonel,” said Tony “Two-Fingers” Dalton, coming down the ladder.
“Dead ahead,” said Danny, running to the second ladder, which would take them to a large, presumably empty area immediately forward of the engine compartment. As he started down, he caught himself — there were no steps.