The Line bo-2

by Bob Mayer

  Johnson took the strap for the monkey harness he wore and hooked it into a 0-bolt on the side of the floor of the aircraft just short of the hinge where the ramp began. He played out enough slack so that he could make his way the end of the ramp and then cinched it tight so he couldn’t fall out once the ramp opened.

  “Check equipment!” The jumpmaster waved his arms, palms toward his chest. Each man started from his head and worked down, making one last check on their gear, a few semi-squatting as much as the gear would allow to make sure that one of their legs straps was not routed over a testicle.

  The noise level on the inside increased abruptly as the ramp began to open. A thin horizontal crack appeared, rapidly growing wider as the top portion of the ramp disappeared into the cavity that housed the large tail of the aircraft and the lower ramp began leveling out.

  “Sound off for equipment check!”

  The last man in each stick slapped the man in front on the rear, yelling “OK,” and the message was passed up until the front man in each stick looked the jumpmaster in the eye and reported “All OK, jumpmaster!”

  The jumpmaster immediately turned toward the open ramp and gingerly made his way around the side of the right Zodiac. He held onto the hydraulic arm that had lowered the ramp and stuck his head out into the slipstream, peering ahead to try and make out the island of Oahu which should be approaching on the side of the aircraft. Satisfied, he came back in and took his place at the front of his stick.

  “One minute,” the pilot radioed to Johnson.

  “You got the secure signal?” he asked the co-pilot, who was wearing night vision goggles. The co-pilot leaned forward and peered down to the right, where Kaena Point protruded into the ocean. He spotted a flash of light from their strobe in the sand dunes near the lighthouse.

  “Roger. We’re good to go.” The pilot relayed the information to the load master

  Johnson grabbed the jumpmaster’s shoulder and gave him both the time warning and strobe information, then wedged himself in between the bundle and the skin of the aircraft.

  “One minuter” the jumpmaster gave his last time warning.

  The eyes of all the jumpers were wide now, the adrenaline flowing freely. The red light high up above the ramp glowed brightly.

  Johnson felt his knees buckle and knew that meant they were thirty seconds out and the pilot was bringing them up from 200 feet above the waves to jump altitude at 500 feet.

  “Stand by!” the jumpmaster called out, edging forward until he was as close as he could be to the Zodiac. Johnson drew his knife from its sheath, making sure that his assistant load master on the other side of the plane had his out and was watching him. He then focused on the red light.

  “Go!” the pilot yelled in the headset at the same moment the light turned green. The razor-sharp edge on Johnson’s knife went cleanly through the webbing holding the Zodiac’s pallet. The pallet slid off, the chute deploying almost immediately and the chem lights disappearing into the darkness below. The jumpmaster was right behind it, waddling off the edge of the ramp and disappearing from sight, the only reminder of his presence the deployment bag fluttering the air behind the aircraft, still held by the static line.

  The other six jumpers in the right stick followed, less than half a second between each man.

  As the last man in the right stick cleared the ramp, Johnson chopped his arm down, indicating for the other load-master to cut his boat free. The other stick was gone in less than four seconds. Johnson stood and walked to the edge of the ramp, feeling the tug of the safety harness pulling him back. A row of chutes were deployed behind the path of the Talon, the first jumpers already in the water. Johnson turned back and activated the static line retrieval system. A large bolt on each of the static line cables slowly pulled the deployment bags back in. Once they were clear of the ramp, Johnson informed the pilot, and they closed the ramp and dropped back down to 200 feet, pulling a hard left turn at the same time to head for home.

  KAENA POINT, OAHU, HAWAIIAN ISLANDS

  2 DECEMBER 2:00 A.M.LOCAL 1200 ZULU

  “I counted fourteen jumpers and two Zodiacs on pallets,” Boomer said, the sound of the MC-130 Talon fading into the noise of the surf. The darkened aircraft turned left and disappeared, but not before Skibicki and Boomer had had a chance to positively identify it — there was no mistaking the “whiskers” on the nose for the Fulton aerial recovery system unique to that aircraft.

  “Same here,” Boomer edged up on the sand dune until he was kneeling on top in order to be able to see out into the ocean. He caught sight of one of the Zodiacs as it rode a wave then it disappeared again. The chem lights made it easy to pinpoint the boats. Each chem light, almost invisible to the naked eye at this distance, showed up like a spotlight in the night vision goggles. Boomer knew the men out there weren’t happy about having to use the lights, but it was a better alternative to splashing around in the water and not being able to find the boats. As the waves moved he could make out figures moving over the sides of the boats — the jumpers climbing on board. Boomer knew the routine well; he’d done it himself numerous times.

  The first man in would check for gas — at night by smell — to make sure the fuel bladder hadn’t ruptured. As soon as the second man was aboard, they would free the engine from its place on the floorboards and mount it with the engine’s clamps on the rear center of the transom. They would also secure it with a retention cable that was anchored on one side of the boat, so they wouldn’t lose the engine in case the boat capsized. It was secured to only one side so they would be able to right the boat from the water.

  “Hear it?” Skibicki asked.

  “Yeah.” Boomer caught the cough of the engine starting.

  The sound of its running was lost in the surf and distance.

  He knew the two boats were holding in place, waiting to collect all their swimmers. Then they would be off, but which way?

  Skibicki twisted around and glanced inland.

  “I didn’t see any IR strobe,” he noted.

  “Maybe there wasn’t one, or maybe there was another message.”

  “Could have been down in the dunes,” Boomer noted.

  “They could see it from the cockpit.”

  “I didn’t see any coverage either,” Boomer said.

  “They could be out there blacked out,” Skibicki said.

  The lights on one of the boats suddenly went out. All were aboard.

  Boomer focused his attention on that spot, maintaining its location through his goggles, catching sight of the lowlying silhouette as it crested each swell. He was unaware of the wavering red dot of light that had suddenly appeared in the center of his back. The dot shifted, moving over to Skibicki, at first also centering on the back, then slowly moving up toward his head.

  “I think they’re turning east,” Boomer said, turning to Skibicki. He threw himself forward and grabbed the sergeant major, the two of them toppling down the beach side of the sand dune as a shot rang out.

  Boomer flipped off the safety on the Calico.

  “He’s got laser sights. Somewhere up near the lighthouse. Must be security for the jump and our IR strobe man.” He was calculating rapidly, assessing the situation.

  “We need to break left.”

  “No,” Skibicki said.

  “We got to get back to my jeep.

  We got to go right.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “The rocks are slippery, but if we get down in them, we can circle around.”

  Boomer accepted that this was Skibicki’s terrain and that the older man had more combat experience. Skibicki moved out, crouching low, keeping the sand dune between them and the lighthouse.

  Boomer was glad he was wearing running shoes as they started moving across algae-covered rock. His sneakers were soon soaked, but he maintained a degree of traction.

  He kept the Calico ready for use in his right hand, using his left hand to steady himself. He felt exposed, knowing that someone with
a night vision scope and laser sight was out there in the dark, waiting and watching and that the bullet would hit before he even heard the crack of the rifle.

  The roar of the waves crashing onto the rocks thundered in his ears.

  Boomer kept his neck craned inland, watching the nearest dunes. He crabbed sideways behind Skibicki as they made their way around the tip of the point and started moving down the southwestern shore.

  As Boomer hopped from one large rock to another, he slipped, falling into a large tidal pool. He kept his face up, desperate to keep the goggles from getting soaked and shorting out. He stood up in waist-deep water, and gained his footing, only to be knocked over as the next wave rushed in, and then sucked back out, dragging him with it.

  He slammed the edge of the telescoping stock of the Calico between two rocks and grabbed hold with both hands to keep from being pulled out into the ocean.

  Skibicki clambered up onto a tall rock to Boomer’s right and held out his left hand, holding on precariously with his right, his weapon hanging free on its sling.

  “Come on!”

  Boomer reached, but there was a two foot gap between their extended fingers. He was inundated up to his neck as the next wave roared in.

  With a hiss, the water poured out, pulling him down to his knees. In the pause before the next wave came in, he unhooked the Calico and slapped the barrel into Skibicki’s hand. With the sergeant major giving a hard tug. Boomer got to his feet and climbed up onto the rock, escaping the wall of water that cascaded in.

  Boomer was soaked to the skin but the goggles still functioned.

  Skibicki moved inland about ten meters to avoid a repetition of the experience. They continued for twenty minutes, then Skibicki halted.

  “The road’s right ahead.”

  Boomer remembered that when they had come up the” road, it had cut close in to the west shore, leaving no space for them to maneuver between the ocean and the steep cliffs.

  They sat still for ten minutes, searching the darkness with their goggles, waiting for any sign that the unseen sniper was aware of this choke point The thunder of the surf continued unabated and there was no movement in the dunes to the left, where the sniper would have a clear field of fire up the road.

  “I’ll go first,” Skibicki said.

  “Cover me until I get about twenty-five meters down the road. Then I’ll return the favor.”

  Boomer scooted up to the edge of the road on his stomach, then snuggled the butt of the Calico into his shoulder.

  The red dot from his laser sight showed clearly in his goggles, allowing him to easily aim it. He picked the center of mass of the largest dune.

  “Go.”

  Skibicki leapt to his feet and sprinted onto the dirt road, immediately turning right. Boomer caught the flash of the rifle firing, a hair before the sound of the rounds going off reached him. He fired on automatic, directly at the muzzle flash of the sniper. The Calico worked just as Skibicki had promised, the muzzle staying smooth and level, the empty brass flowing out of the bottom ejection port.

  Boomer was rewarded with the muzzle flash of the sniper’s weapon abruptly going up, then silence.

  “Skibicki!” he yelled.

  “I’m all right,” the sergeant major called back from his prone position on the far side of the road, where he was nudged up against the cliff face.

  “Son of a bitch missed me.”

  “Think there’s more than one?” Boomer asked, sweeping the muzzle of his weapon along the dune.

  “I got the one that shot at you.”

  “I don’t want to wait around and find out,” Skibicki replied.

  “I’ll cover you. Move!”

  Boomer didn’t need to be told twice. He got to his feet and ran, feeling the skin on his back contract and his shoulder hunch in anticipation of a bullet slamming into him. He was almost abreast of Skibicki when he heard the sound of firing to his rear. He dove right, rolling off the edge of the road and slamming into the wet rocks, feeling the jagged edge of one leave its painful imprint on his right side.

  Skibicki returned fire with a long stutter of rounds from his silenced weapon.

  “You OK?”

  Boomer wedged himself between two rocks and sucked in a painful breath.

  He felt along his side and winced as his fingers touched.

  “I think I busted a rib.”

  “If you’re breathing you’re OK,” Skibicki returned.

  “I hit the second one. Let’s book.”

  “I’ll cover,” Boomer said as he edged up and peered over the edge of the road.

  Skibicki didn’t bother answering. He got to his feet and ran down the road, disappearing where it bent inland, the cliffs covering him.

  “Set!” he yelled.

  Boomer jumped to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain that jabbed into his side. He joined the sergeant major and leaned over, trying to draw rapid shallow breaths.

  “Fuck, that hurts.”

  “Pain is weakness leaving the body,” Skibicki said, peering carefully around the rock face to see if they were being followed.

  “Let’s make like a duck and get the flock out of here.”

  They started out at a steady jog and Boomer stoically bore the pain.

  They reached Skibicki’s jeep and stowed the weapons under the seats.

  Boomer leaned back in the passenger seat, bending slightly to the right. Skibicki started the car up and they headed down the highway.

  As overhead lamps flashed by. Boomer tenderly opened his shirt. The skin was broken and blood was slowly oozing from a jagged tear in his chest. He felt through the blood and torn skin.

  “It’s cracked,” he announced.

  “First aid kit’s in the back,” Skibicki said, checking his rear-view mirror.

  “Stop the bleeding, and I’ll put a wrap on it once we get a chance to slow down.”

  “What about the cops?” Boomer asked.

  Skibicki snorted.

  “Fuck the cops. We’re in deep shit here and I don’t think we’re on the side with the bigger firepower.

  If this Line exists, you can bet your ass they’re wired in deep at all levels of bureaucracy. We call the cops and tell them we just shot some people out at Kaena Point, and all we’re doing is turning on a searchlight and pointing it at ourselves and we’ve already done that twice. Three times and they’ll lock us up.”

  “Where are you going?” Boomer asked, tearing off a piece of tape to put some gauze over his wound.

  “Maggie’s,” Skibicki replied.

  “I’ll drop you off there.

  You’ll be safe. I’ve got some checking to do on other things.”

  “Like what?” Boomer asked.

  “Listen,” Skibicki said.

  “Whoever these guys are who just parachuted in, they had security here on the beach and that security damn near wasted our ass. The shit’s starting to hit the fan, and I’m going to go around on shit watch.

  Seeing where it hits. I know people all over this island and I want to find out what they know. Particularly about the President’s visit.”

  Skibicki taped his watch.

  “It’s two December.

  We only got five days to get to the bottom of this.”

  CHAPTER 13

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  2 DECEMBER

  9:30 A.M.LOCAL 1430 ZULU

  As Trace sped north. Secret Service agent Mike Stewart drove across Memorial Bridge to Fort Myer, the military caretaker post for the nation’s capital. Bordering Arlington National Cemetery and home to the 3rd Infantry — the Old Guard — Fort Myer also was home for the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, within short commuting distance of the Pentagon.

  Stewart was thirty-three, relatively new to the Secret Service, having joined five years ago after a six-year stint in the Army. He was tall, slightly over six foot and solidly built, projecting the type of physical image the Secret Service wanted surrounding the President. His crew cut was
sprinkled with premature gray. Although he enjoyed his job, the constant stress wore through at times.

  Stewart rolled into Fort Myer, past the stately brick buildings housing the 3rd Infantry, and pulled up to the small chapel that had served as way station for most of the bodies destined for interment at Arlington.

  Today, the body in the casket at the front of the chapel was that of Lieutenant General Wayne Faulkner, the fiery commander of the Army’s III Corps, who had been best known to the public during operation Desert Storm for leading the 5th Armored Division faster and farther through enemy territory than any armored commander in history.

  More newsworthy though, was an event after Desert Storm, and in the second month of the fledgling presidency.

  Faulkner had joined the President on a fact-finding mission to Poland and in a snafu typical of the early months of the administration, he’d been rudely bumped off the helicopter flying to a meeting with former Warsaw Pact political and military leaders.

  The bump had been bad enough — with CNN broadcasting a fuming General Faulkner in his ribbon-bedecked uniform standing at the airfield, trying to commandeer a ride on a subsequent flight — but the President’s press secretary had thrown gasoline onto the fire by getting caught on a mike she thought was dead saying, “We don’t need those-damn toy soldiers screwing things up any more.”

  The remark had cost the young woman her job, but it had cost the President more, Stewart knew. The President’s already-strained relationship with the military fell to an alltime low, and he’d spent the last two years striving to patch up an unfixable break.

  As Stewart drew to a halt outside the chapel, he reflected that the President’s presence at Faulkner’s funeral later today was a gesture that they all probably could have done without. The unexpected death of the well-liked General had caught everyone by surprise, and with the MRA still a burning issue, the presence of the unpopular President at the funeral was going to leave a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth.

  The only bright spot was the location. As advance security man for the visit, Stewart liked the fact that everything was going to occur in the closed environment of the military post. The military might not like the present President, but Stewart knew he could count on 100 percent support for security and that all the wackos would be on the outside of the’ fence surrounding the base, not on the inside.