Atlantis Found (A Dirk Pitt Novel)

by Cussler, Clive

  “The men are well trained for that. The key to a successful high-altitude, low-opening infiltration jump is to exit at the correct grid coordinate upwind, and have everyone under canopy at relatively the same altitude.”

  “We’ll put you out on a silver quarter. But it won’t be no picnic.”

  “No,” said Cleary solemnly. “I’m sure that in the first minute after we drop from the plane, we’ll wish we were falling into a fiery hell instead.”

  Stafford checked the instrument panel again. “After you and your men finish prebreathing, I’ll decompress the cabin. Immediately afterward, I’ll pass on the twenty- and ten-minute warnings to you and my crew. Then I’ll notify you over the intercom when we’re six minutes from the release point. At two minutes out, I’ll lower the ramp.”

  “Understood.”

  “At one minute out,” Stafford went on, “I’m going to ring the alarm bell once. Then, when we’re directly over the release point, I’ll turn on the green light. At the airspeed we’ll be flying, you’ll have to get out quickly as a group.”

  “Our intentions exactly.”

  “Good luck to you,” said Stafford, twisting in his pilot’s seat and shaking hands with the major.

  Cleary smiled faintly. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Our pleasure,” Stafford said genuinely. “But I hope we don’t have to do it again anytime soon.”

  “Nor do I.”

  Cleary stood and straightened, left the cockpit, and walked aft into the aircraft’s cavernous cargo bay. The sixty-five men seated inside were a serious-faced group, dogged and dead calm, considering the uncertain peril they were about to encounter. They were young. Their ages ranged from twenty to twenty-four. There was no laughter or unproductive conversation, no grousing or complaining. To a man they were absorbed in checking and rechecking their equipment. They were a composite of America’s finest fighting men, hastily thrown together on the spur of the moment from special units nearest to Antarctica that were on counter-drug operations throughout South America. A team of Navy SEALs, members of the Army’s elite Delta Force and a Marine Force Recon team . . . a combined band of secret warriors on a mission unlike any ever conceived.

  Once the alert had been given the Pentagon by the White House, the one thing they had in short supply was time. A larger Special Forces unit was on the way from the United States but was not expected to reach Okuma Bay for another three hours, a time span that might prove too late and disastrous. Admiral Sandecker’s warning was not received with enthusiasm by the President’s top aides, nor the Armed Forces chief of staff. At first, none dared believe the incredible story. Only when Loren Smith and various scientists added their weight to the plea for action was the President persuaded to order the Pentagon to send a special force to stop the rapidly approaching cataclysm.

  An air assault with missiles was quickly ruled out because of an utter lack of intelligence data. Nor could the White House and Pentagon be absolutely sure that they might not find themselves in hot water with the world for destroying an innocent plant and hundreds of employees. Nor could they be certain of the specific location for the command center for Earth’s destruction. For all they knew, it could be hidden in an underground ice chamber miles from the facility. The Joint Chiefs decided that a manned assault offered the best chance of success, without an international outcry if they were wrong.

  The men were seated on their heavy rucksacks, wearing parachutes, and were engaged in completing jumpmaster inspections. The rucksacks were full of survival gear and ammunition for the new Spartan Q-99 Eradicator, a ten-pound deadly killer weapon that integrated an automatic twelve-gauge shotgun, a 5.56-millimeter automatic rifle with sniper scope, and a large-bore barrel in the center that fired small shrapnel-inflicting missiles that exploded with deadly results at the slightest impact. The spare magazines, shotgun shells, and shrapnel missiles weighed nearly twenty pounds and were carried in belly packs slung around their waists. The top flap of the belly pack held a navigation board, complete with a Silva marine compass and digital altimeter, both clearly visible to the jumper while gliding under his canopy.

  Captain Dan Sharpsburg led the Army’s Delta Force, while Lieutenant Warren Garnet was in command of the Marine Recon Team. Lieutenant Miles Jacobs and his SEAL team, which had aided NUMA on St. Paul Island, was also part of the assault force. The combined group was under the command of Cleary, a Special Forces veteran who had been on leave with his wife enjoying the Kruger Game Park in South Africa, when he was whisked away on a minute’s notice to take command of the elite makeshift assault unit. It had to be the first time in American military history that separate special units were merged to fight as one.

  For this mission, every man would be utilizing a new ram-air parachute system for the first time, called the MT-1Z or Zulu. With a four-to-one lift-to-drag ratio, the canopy could travel four meters horizontally for every meter descended, an advantage that did not go unappreciated among the three teams.

  Cleary scanned the two rows of men. The nearest officer, Dan Sharpsburg, tilted his head and grinned. A red-haired wit with a gross sense of humor, and an old friend, he was one of the few who actually looked forward to the suicidal plunge. Dan had been “chasing airplanes” for years, achieving the status of Military Free Fall Instructor at the U.S. Army’s prestigious Special Forces Military Free Fall School in Yuma, Arizona. When not off on a mission or training, Dan could be found skydiving with civilians for the fun of it.

  Cleary had barely had time to glance at the service records of Jacobs and Garnet, but he knew they were the best of the best turned out by the Navy and Marines for special force missions. Though he was an old Army man, he well knew the SEALs and Marine Recon teams were among the finest fighting men in the world.

  As he looked from face to face, he thought that if they survived the jump and glide to the target site, they then had the Wolfs’ security force to contend with. A well-armed and trained small army of mercenaries, he was told, many of whom had served the very same forces as the men on the plane. No, Cleary concluded. This would be no picnic.

  “How soon?” Sharpsburg asked tersely.

  “Less than an hour,” Cleary answered, moving down the line of men and alerting Jacobs and Garnet. Then he stood in the middle of the united fighting men and gave them final instructions. Satellite aerial photos were carried by everyone in a pocket of their thermal suits, to be studied once they had fallen into the clear and opened their canopies. Their target landing site was a large ice field just outside the mining facility, whose broken, uneven landscape offered them a small degree of protection when regrouping after the jump. The next part of the plan was the assault on the main engineering center of the facility, where it was hoped the doomsday controls were housed. Expert military minds judged that fewer casualties would occur if they landed and attacked from the outside rather than landing in the maze of buildings, antennas, machinery, and electrical equipment.

  Coordination was to take place once each unit was on the ground and assembled for the assault. Any who were injured upon landing would have to suffer the cold and be dealt with later, after the facility had been secured and any systems or equipment that were designed to separate the ice shelf destroyed.

  Satisfied that each man knew what was expected of him, Cleary moved to the rear of the cargo bay and donned his parachute and rucksack. Then he had one of Sharpsburg’s men give him a complete jumpmaster inspection, with emphasis on his oxygen-breathing equipment for the long fall.

  Finally, he silhouetted himself with his back to the closed cargo ramp in the floor and waved his hands to get the men’s attention. From this point on, communication with the entire assault team would be conducted by hand and arm signals, which was standard operating procedure. The only voice communications until the jump would be between Cleary, Sharpsburg, Jacobs, Garnet, and Stafford in the cockpit. Once they exited the aircraft and were under canopy, each man could communicate with individual Motorola radios over
secure frequencies.

  “Pilot, this is the jumpmaster.”

  “I read you, Major,” came back Stafford’s voice. “Ready on the mark?”

  “Jumpmaster checks complete. Oxygen prebreathing is under way.”

  Cleary took an empty seat and studied the men. So far, it was going well, almost too well, he thought. This is the time when Murphy’s Law came sneaking around, and Cleary wasn’t about to allow Mr. Murphy any opportunities. He was pleased to see the men were fully alert and primed.

  They wore hoods under gray Gentex flight helmets to gain additional protection from the harsh subzero temperatures. Adidas Galeforce yellow-lens goggles for fog and overcast were attached to the helmets, resting up and leaving the men’s eyes clearly visible to Cleary and the oxygen technician so they could check for any signs of hypoxia. The heating units in their thermal suits were activated, and each man checked his buddy to make certain that all equipment was properly organized and in place. Bungee cords and web straps were strategically laced around each man’s clothing and equipment to prevent them from being torn away by the great burst of air expected upon their exit from the ramp.

  After they checked their radios to confirm that each was transmitting and receiving, Cleary stood up and moved near the closed ramp. Facing his assault force again, he saw that all the men were giving him their undivided attention. Once again, he motioned to the man nearest his left with a thumbs-up signal.

  IN the cockpit, carefully studying his computerized course and the programmed target, Captain Stafford was concentrating his mind and soul on dropping the men waiting aft over the precise spot that would give them every chance of surviving. His primary concern was not to send them out ten seconds too early or five seconds too late and scatter them all over the frozen landscape. He disengaged the automatic pilot and turned the controls over to Brannon so his perspective and timing would not be diverted. Stafford switched to the cockpit intercom and spoke through his oxygen mask to Brannon. “Deviate one degree and it will cost them.”

  “I’ll put them over the target,” Brannon said self-assuredly. “But you have to put them on it.”

  “No confidence in your aircraft commander’s navigational abilities? Shame on you.”

  “A thousand pardons, my captain.”

  “That’s better,” Stafford said expansively. He switched to the cargo bay intercom. “Major Cleary, are you ready?”

  “Roger,” Cleary answered briefly.

  “Crew, are you ready?”

  The crewmen, wearing harnesses attached to cargo tie-down rings and portable oxygen systems, were standing a few feet forward of the ramp on opposite sides.

  “Sergeant Hendricks ready, Captain.”

  “Corporal Joquin ready, sir.”

  “Twenty-minute warning, Major,” Stafford announced. “Depressurizing cabin at this time.”

  Hendricks and Joquin moved cautiously close to the ramp, carefully guiding their harness anchor lines, following checklists and preparing for what was about to become one of the most unusual duties of their military careers.

  As the cabin decompressed, the men could feel the temperature drop, even within the protective confines of their electrically heated thermal jumpsuits. The air hissed from the cargo bay as it slowly equalized with the outside atmosphere.

  Time passed quickly. And then Stafford’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Major, ten-minute warning.”

  “Roger.” There was a pause, then Cleary asked sarcastically, “Can you give us any more heat back here?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Stafford replied. “We need ice for cocktails after you leave.”

  For the next two minutes, Cleary went over the infiltration plan of the mining facility in his mind. They were combining the elements of a high-altitude, low-canopy opening jump with a high-altitude, high-canopy opening jump to keep detection to a minimum. The plan was for the team to free-fall to 25,000 feet, open their canopies, assemble in the air, and fly to the target landing zone.

  Sharpsburg’s Delta Force would exit first, closely followed by Jacobs and his SEALs, and then by Garnet and his Marine Recon Team. Cleary would be the last man to jump, in order to have an overview of his men and be in the most advantageous position to give course corrections. Sharpsburg would be the Mother Hen, the term tagged to the lead jumper. All of the Ducks in Line would then follow. Where Sharpsburg went, so would they.

  “Six minutes to jump,” came Stafford’s voice, interrupting Cleary’s thoughts.

  STAFFORD’S eyes were on the computer monitor, linked to a newly installed photo system that revealed the ground in astonishing detail through the clouds. Brannon handled the big aircraft as tenderly as if it were a child, his course rock-steady on the line that traveled across the monitor, with a small circle depicting the jump target.

  “Damn the orders!” Stafford suddenly snorted. “Brannon!”

  “Sir?”

  “At the one-minute warning, cut our airspeed to 135 knots indicated. I’m going to give those guys every chance at surviving I can. When Sergeant Hendricks reports that the last man has jumped, ease the throttles to two hundred knots.”

  “Won’t the Wolfs’ ground radar pick up our reduction in speed?”

  “Radio McMurdo Station on an open frequency. Then say we’re experiencing engine trouble, will have to reduce speed and arrive late.”

  “Not a bad cover,” Brannon conceded. “If they’re monitoring us on the ground, they’d have no reason not to buy the story.”

  Brannon went on his radio and announced the deception to anyone who was listening. Then he gestured at the numerals flashing on the computer monitor indicating the approaching jump mark. “Two minutes coming up.”

  Stafford nodded. “Begin reducing speed, very gradually. At one minute to drop, just after I ring the bell, cut the airspeed to 135.”

  Brannon flexed his fingers like a piano player and smiled. “I shall orchestrate the throttles like a concerto.”

  Stafford switched to the cargo bay intercom. “Two minutes, Major. Sergeant Hendricks, begin opening the ramp.”

  “Ramp opening,” came back Hendricks’s steady voice.

  Stafford turned to Brannon. “I’ll take the controls. You handle the throttles so I can concentrate on timing the drop.”

  After monitoring the transmission, Cleary stood up and moved to the port side of the ramp, keeping his back turned to one side of the fuselage so he had a clear view of his men, the jump/caution lights, and the ramp. He raised and extended his right arm in an arc, palm facing from his side to a perpendicular position. This was the command to stand up.

  The men rose from their seats and stood, checking their rip cords and equipment again, adjusting the heavy rucksacks they wore to the rear below their main parachute container. The huge ramp began to creep open, allowing a great rush of frigid air to sweep through the cargo bay.

  The next seconds passed with cruel sluggishness.

  In grim determination, they gripped the steel anchor line cables with gloved hands for support against the immense whirlwind they expected when the ramp fully opened, and as guides as they moved to the edge of the ramp to execute their exit. Although they exchanged self-assured glances, it was as if they didn’t see their buddies around them. No words were needed to describe what they would experience once the ramp opened, and they dove into air so cold it was unimaginable.

  IN the cockpit, Stafford turned to Brannon. “I’ll take the controls now, so I can concentrate on timing. The throttles are yours.”

  Brannon raised both his hands. “She’s all yours, Cap.”

  “Cap? Cap?” Stafford repeated as if in pain. “Can’t you show me at least a smidgen of respect?” Then he switched the intercom aft. “One-minute warning, Major.”

  CLEARY did not acknowledge. He didn’t have to. The alarm bell rang once. He gave the next signal, right arm straight out to his side at shoulder level, palm up, then bent it at the elbow until his hand touched his Gent
ex helmet, giving the command to move to the rear, the men in front coming to a stop three feet from the ramp hinges. He lowered his goggles into place and silently began counting off the seconds until exit. Suddenly, he sensed something out of place. The aircraft was noticeably slowing.

  “Ramp opened and locked, Captain,” Hendricks informed Stafford.

  The sergeant’s voice took Cleary by surprise. He immediately realized that he had forgotten to disconnect his communications cord from the intercom jack.

  Cleary gave the men the hand and arm signal indicating fifteen seconds from exit. His eyes were fixed on the red caution light. The sixty-five-man team was massed into a tightly compressed group, with Sharpsburg now perched inches from the edge of the ramp.

  Simultaneously, as the crimson caution light blinked off and the jump light flashed a vivid green, Cleary pointed to the open ramp.

  As if jolted by a shock of electricity, Lieutenant Sharpsburg dove from the aircraft, soaring off into cloud-shrouded nothingness. With his arms and legs spread, he was swept out of sight as swiftly as if he’d been jerked by a giant spring. His team was no more than a few feet behind as they were also swallowed up in the clouds, followed swiftly by Jacobs and his SEAL team. Then came Garnet and his Marines. As the last Marine stepped off the ramp edge, Cleary leaped and was gone.

  For a long moment, Hendricks and Joquin stood and stared into the white oblivion, unable to believe what they had just witnessed. Almost as if mesmerized, Hendricks spoke into the intercom on his oxygen mask. “Captain, they’re gone.”

  BRANNON lost no time in easing the throttles forward until the airspeed instruments read two hundred knots, half the C-17’s cruising speed. The cargo door was closed and the oxygen system in the cargo bay replenished. Stafford’s next act of business was to switch to a secure frequency and radio the U.S. South Atlantic Command Headquarters to report that the jump went as scheduled. Then he turned to Brannon.