“Clear, so the pilot tells me,” answered the RSM. “Don’t worry, lads. You’re in luck.”
“ ‘You’re in luck!’ he says,” commented Aussie laconically, throwing his head up, pushing his helmet back against the cargo net, and turning first to Thelman on his right, then Schwarzenegger to his left, and then back up at the RSM. “You going home then after we jump? Return flight, is it?”
“All right,” said the RSM. “We’re in luck. Suit you better?”
“Then, matey,” said Aussie, suddenly producing a small indelible pencil, the flash of lightning reflected from the heavy cloud cover illuminating the bizarre contrast between his dark camouflage paint, green khaki uniform, and pink tongue. “Put your money where your mouth is. Come on, you blokes. I believe the sarge. Four to one says there’s no reception committee.”
“You’re crazy!” said Thelman. “Goddamn nuttier than a fruitcake.”
The RSM feigned disgust, but whatever else he was, the Aussie was an entertainer. And whether the men realized it or not, by being willing to take wagers about what kind of interference they might expect over the drop zone, the Australian and his outrageous obsession with gambling kept the others— eighteen, not counting the RSM, in Brentwood’s troop — from dwelling on their own fears. Even the taciturn Brentwood, the RSM noticed, who had seemed unduly subdued, more so than most of his men and not a good sign in the man leading the troop, couldn’t help but shake his head at the Australian’s willingness to bet on anything. The RSM flicked the Aussie’s indelible pencil. “Where the hell did you stash that?” he asked, for there didn’t seem to be a spare centimeter in the 110-pound pack they were carrying.
The Aussie lifted his right magazine pouch, showing a piece of blackened sticking plaster which he’d used to attach the pencil. “All right — step up the ladder,” the Aussie called out to them. “Who’s game?”
“A quid there are no lights on us,” said Cpl. “Choir” Williams, a stout Welshman of tough mining stock who, in addition to his standard troopers’ load of eight of the SAS’s own ‘“flash-bang” magnesium stun grenades, was also carrying three French light and disposable Arpac antitank launcher/ missile packs.
Hopefully they wouldn’t need them, but if they came up against Russian armor during their withdrawal, Rye wanted them to have something other than the normal heavy antitank weapons, given the fact that they were already loaded to the hilt with abseiling — grappling — equipment as well as ammunition and grenades.
“Hey,” said Choir. “Are you marking my bet down then, Aussie?”
“Sorry, sport. A quid — hardly worth the trouble. I’m looking to retirement. Minimum bet ten quid — or you Yanks, twenty-five bucks. Aw — I’ll be generous. Twenty bucks.”
“Up yours!” said Williams. “With brass knobs on.”
“Promise?” said Aussie.
“Twenty for me,” said Schwarzenegger, “No reception committee.”
“Okeydokey, Fritz, you’re covered.” With that, Lewis licked the indelible pencil and carefully entered the bet on the palm of his left hand.
“What if you lose your mitt?” said Thelman.
“Morbid, Thelma. Very morbid. I won’t be losing anything.”
The amber light came on and they heard the pilot’s voice. “Twenty minutes to the drop zone.”
“Right, lads!” said the RSM. “Final check.”
David squeezed his canvas side holster until he could feel the Browning nine-millimeter’s hard outline. At the same time his left hand, beneath his right, felt the light but strong Kevlar “Sportsman” crotch protector. He was sure that if he was going to be hit anywhere, it would be there. He thought of Melissa and Stacy and let his memory of Lili evict them from his mind as he flipped up the cover on his compass watch, holding his arm up, the signal for everyone to synchronize. From now on, nine minutes to target, he, not the RSM, was in total command of Troop B.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
President Mayne’s idea of going to Camp David was, as his press aide Paul Trainor knew, militarily unwise. The shelter there wasn’t as good as that below the White House, and it was farther from Andrews, where, in the event of a “nuclear exchange,” the president would need to go to board NEACP—”Kneecap,”—the national emergency airborne command plane. But politically, the president going to Camp David was a smart ploy. All three evening news networks— despite the lead stories of deepening gloom about the possible escalation of the war in Europe because of “the Korean situation”—showed the president smiling, confident, even relaxed, waving, as he stepped aboard the presidential chopper on the south lawn, heading off to spend the weekend at Camp David. Another bevy of television reporters was on hand to watch him being piped aboard Camp David, it being a naval establishment — the cameras still showing Mayne smiling. Above all, from the moment he left the White House, alighted from the chopper, and entered the bulletproof limousine which soon eased to a stop in front of the Aspen Lodge, he conveyed the impression that the president and commander in chief of the United States had matters firmly in hand.
If things were bad, Mayne had never seen any point in making them seem worse — especially to the public. Accordingly he had insisted that the air force colonel who shadowed him as custodian of the “football”—the black vinyl briefcase containing the nuclear war codes, should it come to that — must not be in service uniform but rather in civvies and should not get out of the limousine until the press were well out of the way.
They had been in the lodge for only two minutes when the phone rang, CNO Admiral Horton informing the president that following the chemical weapons/A-shell “exchange” in Korea, two long-range E-6As — early-warning radar dome aircraft — had already been dispatched, one from the naval air station at Patuxent, Maryland, the other out of Reykjavik, Iceland. The planes were trying to make contact with two Hunter/Killer Sea Wolfs. Neither sub had “clocked in” to SACLANT either at Northwood, England, or Norfolk in the United States, and were presumed either sunk or in deep hiding, lying in wait for Soviet subs in the deeps between the spurs in the undersea mountains running off from the global spine of the Atlantic Ridge.
The plane out of Patuxent, Maryland was concentrating on the HUK Vermont’s last reported position; the E-6A out of Iceland was trailing its five-mile-long VLF wire antenna, attempting to contact the Roosevelt, which, following the sabotaging of the Wisconsin sub “signal farm,” could not be reached and, it was thought, might be hiding somewhere near or in the Spitzbergen Trench.
Approaching the cyclone-fenced compound of Romeo 5A, one of the underground launch control silos in Wyoming, Melissa Lange had two shifts to go before she would take a week’s holiday, and she was keen to complete the next twenty-four-hour-shift as efficiently as possible.
Looking smart in her striking blue uniform with red cravat, she scanned the slip of paper containing the day’s entry code, placed it in the “burn” slot, where it became instant gray ash, then she entered the carpeted elevator, descending sixty feet.
After punching in the code, she waited for the eight-ton blast door to open. Inside, she saw that her crew partner, Shirley Cochrane, was already readying herself for the shift, pushing her long brunette hair up into a tight, rather severe bun so that it wouldn’t get in the way of any of the silo’s console switches. Melissa stepped out of the way of the two crew members who were coming off shift. Everything was cordial as usual. Cantankerous types weren’t suited for “Ground Zero,” “Bullseye,” or “The First Good-bye,” as the silos were unofficially referred to. You had to be able to get on with people. Of course, there was always the danger of someone becoming distressed because of personal pressures, such as that Melissa was undergoing, rethinking Rick Stacy’s marriage proposal after he’d found her and Killerton having it off in the bungalow. Stacy had “forgiven” her, which made Melissa madder than if he’d gone berserk. It was supposed to be nobler on his part, she guessed, showing how “controlled,” how “civilized,” he was — the kind of cool that had got his promotion to SAC headquarters down in Omaha. But his lack of anger angered her and made her feel even guiltier for the sudden, uncontrollable passion she’d given way to as “Killerton” had wordlessly stridden over from where he’d been fixing the leak, switched off the TV, and quite literally lifted her off her feet, holding her hard up against the bungalow wall, she trying to fight him off until the moment she felt him penetrating her and she yielded — telling herself it was rape, that she had no option. Yet only seconds later, she gasped with sheer pleasure, urging him on. For several moments at a time, he’d pause, fondling her breasts, suckling them with a tenderness so at odds with the brutal fullness of his entry.