The high fan whirred and bit, slowing the jumper right down. "Looks good…very nice…" called the instructor on the ground, as Rick landed gently. "Three more of those, you'll be ready for the balloon."
That took place at 0700 the following morning, Friday. And Rick found himself staring up at an enormous balloon anchored in the sky, thirty feet above the ground. Way below it, at the bottom of the cable, was a flimsy-looking standing metal cage. It was big enough to hold six people.
Rick, the lone pupil, was guided in by the dispatcher. The single bar that served as a door was slammed across, and, on the signal, the cage began to move upward with the balloon, its cable being slowly released, unwound from a winch truck.
"You'll feel it tilt all the way up there," said the instructor. "When it clicks off at the top, the angle will change and we'll level out at eight hundred feet. That's when we've arrived."
For the first time, Rick debated whether he might right now declare his nerve had gone. He was more or less struck dumb by fear, but he could control that. Through the low metal-grid rails, he could see the ground slipping away beneath him, as the balloon rose to the dropping height.
The master of Hunter Valley was not enjoying this. Up and up they swayed, the rising wind now whining through the bars of the cage. Rick hung on to the section of the wall nearest to him, knuckles milk white in the eerie silence of the ride. He touched his parachute pack, gripped by the unnerving silence.
He could not for the life of him imagine he was going to jump out of this cage, and probably plummet to his death. No way. No fucking way. I might be crazy, but I'm not fucking nuts.
Just then the cage swayed back into a level position…Jesus Christ. This is it. I've got to get out.
"Okay, sir, check parachute lines on the static line right above your head…that's good…step forward…"
Rick stayed where he was, gazing out around him, aware of the manifest truth that he could see half of California from here.
"Right, Commander, over here, sir…"
Rick came forward, planting his lead left foot on the toe of the cage. The instructor checked the parachute line. Rick placed his left hand on the outside of the doorway. Someone pulled off the bar, the single bar that stood between him and instant death.
"Look up!"
"Now, when I tell you to go, you go, right?"
"Yes."
"Go!"
And Rick Hunter hurled himself out of the cage…into thin air…and as he fell, he felt himself leaning back, his feet riding up in front of his face. Never had he experienced such a chill of fear.
Then high above him he heard a crack, and a billowing sound, and he began to swing back, and his feet began to ride downward, and suddenly he was going slower and his body was at the right angle. Staring above him he could see the parachute had miraculously deployed and the canopy was right up there, and he might not die after all.
And now, temporarily safe, he remembered the drills. And he looked about him, to the left and to the right and especially downward. He knew he was supposed to be going forward, slowly, and he pulled down on his forward lift webs, adjusting his feet for the landing.
Down below he could already hear the instructors on the ground barking commands through their megaphones. All right, Commander…assess your drift…adjust for landing.
The ground was now coming up to meet him. Rick kept his knees together, shifting the angle of his feet, as he had been taught.
"Let up now!!"
Moments later he hit the ground, not too hard, and went immediately into the roll. But when he stood up the chute began to pull him across the ground, as the wind took it again.
"Pull in lower lift webs…collapse the canopy," someone was yelling.
Rick obeyed, and broke free of the parachute. He packed up calmly and headed back toward the Navy Jeep, a slight swagger in his stride.
"How was it, sir?" asked the driver.
"No trouble," he replied jauntily.
1100, FRIDAY, APRIL 22
With two instructors Rick climbed aboard the aircraft. It was raining lightly, and they took off into the skies above San Diego to make Rick's first airborne parachute jump.
The main objective right now was to become familiar with the noise, the turbulence, and the need to watch the hand signals from the dispatcher and the lights above the door.
Strapped in now, Rick braced himself as the troop transporter roared down the North Island runway, thundering and vibrating upward, through the low rain cloud and up to an operational height of just under 5,000 feet.
Rick felt the pilot bank right, crawling right around to the north of the city of San Diego, the noise of the engines deafening inside the aircraft. Soon he heard the dispatcher announce, "We've come full circle, we're right above the airfield again…coming up to the Drop Zone now…let's go to action stations…!!"
Rick stood up, clipped on to the static line that runs along the fuselage of the aircraft, and moved toward the rear. The dispatcher had the door open now, and the scream of the wind made communication almost impossible.
"Stand in the door…!"
Rick came forward, jaw jutting, always the leader in his own mind.
"Okay, sir, you know the drill…you're clipped on…parachute ready…red on…"
Above the door the red light glared. Rick Hunter placed his lead foot on the step, keeping his eyes up, left hand angled out against the doorway.
"Green on!! Go…!"
Rick Hunter, with one of the supreme acts of courage of his life, leapt clear of the aircraft, and tumbled through space, knees together, falling backward waiting for the magic moment when the canopy would crack open above him.
He heard it first, then saw it, then felt it, stabilizing his fall, pulling him upright again. And now he was swinging down in the wind, dropping through the air.
He could see the ground rising to meet him, and he braced for the landing, feet together, angled for the approach, knees together, pulling the back lift webs to slow his forward movement. He hit the ground less than gently, but going the right way, immediately into the forward roll position. The wind was low on the ground and he collapsed the chute without any trouble, packed up, and walked to the waiting instructors.
"Well done, sir. Nice landing."
"Thanks," said Rick. "Thanks very much. No problem."
"No problem," replied the instructor with a knowing wink, remembering of course his own terrifying, ass-gripping, heart-shattering first jump, right here on this very field. "Remember, sir. Next time it'll be the Atlantic instead of the airfield. And it's just as fucking hard, trust me!"
Rick Hunter chuckled as he walked back to the Jeep that had arrived to pick him up. He hadn't much enjoyed his short course in parachute jumping. But at least he knew how to do it.
Admiral Bergstrom had done the decent thing and permitted Rick Hunter a short lunch break, which the commander considered "real sweet of him," since he, Rick, had just spent one and a half days "executing lunatic leaps into space, somehow cheating death on a goddamned hourly basis."
And now the Navy helicopter was bringing the Commander back to his old home, coming in to land inside the barbed wire that surrounded the SEALs' compound behind the beach at Coronado. Although Admiral Bergstrom had organized an excellent lunch for both himself and Rick, he made quite certain it was a working lunch.
He had also invited two VISs (Very Important SEALs), Lt. Commander Dallas MacPherson and Chief Petty Officer Mike Hook, both of whom had served with Rick in the desperate getaway from Burma, three and a half years ago. Both men had manned M60 machine guns in the inflatable boats as they escaped, hammering away at the Chinese helicopters.
And now they met again for the first time since the bloodbath in the Burmese Delta. Commander Hunter walked into the bright, white-painted conference room below Admiral Bergstrom's office and almost died of shock at seeing his old teammates.
He threw his arms around Lt. Commander MacPherson with that joyful affe
ction so often found among men who have fought a terrible battle, shoulder to shoulder, and survived. And he hugged Chief Mike Hook with equal warmth and friendship. Each one of the three had always understood that without the other two, they would surely have all perished.
Admiral Bergstrom thoughtfully left them alone for ten minutes before he joined the group, and when he did so, he began with a very short, dramatic announcement: "Dallas, Mike, I want you to know officially from me that Commander Hunter has rejoined the United States Navy for the purpose of just one highly classified mission."
"You mean he's here to help plan it, or he's actually going on it?" asked Dallas, as if Rick Hunter was not even in the room.
"He's not only here to help me plan it, he's going to lead it. Which should be interesting for you both. You're going with him."
"Me?" said Lt. Commander MacPherson. "I thought I'd done my main mission. I thought I was going to be a senior instructor."
"You are, Dallas. But first you're going to take a short trip to the South Atlantic with your old boss. I should perhaps tell you that I asked Commander Hunter personally if he had any preference for a 2I/C, and he said immediately, ‘Dallas MacPherson, if he's available.' You should be very honored."
"I am, sir," replied the Lt. Commander. "It's just a little bit of a shock, that's all. But I'm ready. Where did you say we're going?"
"South Atlantic. Falkland Islands."
Dallas MacPherson, always prepared with a dash of old Southern charm, stepped forward and shook the hand of Commander Hunter. "Death to the gauchos, right, sir? I been reading all about 'em. Battered the Brits and stole the oil, right?"
"That's correct. But we're not going down there to kill 'em all. We're just going to blow a few things up, get their attention, catch 'em off guard."
"Hey, as I remember, you and I are pretty good at that."
"As I remember, Dallas, we're not too bad. Not too bad at all."
Lt. Commander MacPherson was now the principal explosives expert on the base. A wide-shouldered career officer from South Carolina, he had started his military studies at the great Southern academy, the Citadel, but moved after just a couple of semesters to Annapolis. He made gunnery and missile officer in an Arleigh-Burke destroyer before he was twenty-five.
As careers go, that came under the heading of meteoric. But it was nowhere near good enough for Dallas. He immediately requested a transfer to the U.S. Navy SEALs, and finished a sensational third out of around a hundred in the BUD/S indoctrination course.
A lot of people were amazed at such a performance by a very young surface ship missile officer. Dallas, however, remarked that he thought he'd been stitched up. Opinion on his future was fractured into two quite definite camps. One group was convinced he would ultimately take over the chair presently occupied by Admiral Bergstrom. The other believed he was more likely to end up with a posthumous Medal of Honor.
Commander Hunter had always been in the first group, but did not entirely discount the possibility of the second. Dallas MacPherson was as tough as hell and as brave as a lion. But it was his brains that Commander Hunter admired. And after the death-defying mission in Burma, he had developed an unshakeable respect for the wisecracking, fast-thinking SEAL, whose expertise would, he knew, be critical to the mission in the South Atlantic.
The supremely athletic Chief Petty Officer Mike Hook was also an explosives expert. He came from Kentucky, like Rick, and would act as number two to Lt. Commander MacPherson, in charge of the timing and fuses. They had worked together causing probably the biggest explosion ever seen in the Burmese jungle, petrifying the natives, and shuddering the entire delta of the Bassein River.
Chief Hook stepped forward and offered his hand to his old commanding officer. "Look forward to it," he told the racehorse breeder from his home state. "You got any idea what we're gonna hit?"
"Couple airfields, few fighter-bombers," replied the Commander. "Kids' stuff to guys like us."
"How do we get in?" asked the Chief.
"Submarine, then inflatables."
"How do we get out?"
"Damn fast," interjected Dallas.
Admiral Bergstrom stepped in. "Okay, men," he said, "let's sit down right here and have some lunch, then we'll retire to one of the ops rooms, meet our colleagues, and get down to details. For the purpose of the next hour I'd like to restrict ourselves to basics…the insert…the objectives…the rescue…the mission…and the exit, okay?"
The three SEALs nodded. The Admiral pressed a bell, and an orderly entered the room with plates of salad and warm crusty bread. Then he asked each man how he would like his steak cooked."
"Jeez," said Dallas MacPherson. "I knew that word rescue was significant. This has to be real important. Medium rare, please."
"Don't worry, old buddy," replied Commander Hunter. "They're not even captives yet."
"You mean the Brits have left some Special Forces in there, and we gotta get 'em out?" asked Dallas, with truly astonishing perception.
"Now how the hell would you draw such an outlandish conclusion?" asked the Admiral, quietly.
"Well, we're sure as hell not going to rescue any Argentinians," he replied. "The Brits have surrendered the islands. The population is coming to terms with their new rulers, and I guess they're back in their homes and farms. And you said ‘rescue,' that means the Brits have left something behind. And that leaves only one option — their recce team, which somehow got stranded, out of the mainstream, and is still in there, out of contact and refusing to surrender with the rest of the troops since no one knows where the hell they are. Probably SAS. Right?"
Bergstrom's chair, no doubt, thought Rick Hunter.
And the Admiral himself, as if by telepathy, smiled, and said "Thank you, Dallas. You don't mind if I keep this chair warm for a few months, do you?"
Lt. Commander MacPherson grinned. He was well used to being a couple of jumps ahead, and he knew he had a long way to go to make Rear Admiral. But he saw himself walking with kings, rather than courtiers, and was accustomed to achieving his objectives.
"No problem, sir," he replied. "Just trying to cast a ray of light on the strategic picture."
"Jesus Christ," said Commander Hunter. "Shut up, Dallas. We all recognize your brilliance."
"You mean we really are going in after a marooned SAS team?"
"Among other things, yes," said Admiral Bergstrom. "But you need to be very careful. For obvious reasons, Hereford dare not risk locating them with a cell phone call. Because if the Args picked it up, Captain Jarvis and his team would be hunted down by sheer weight of numbers. But I have their call sign on satellite radio, and I think that's the way to go when you make contact."
All three of the combat SEALs nodded in agreement. And just then the steaks came in, which kept everyone, even Dallas MacPherson, more or less quiet for a few minutes.
Lunch, as deemed by the Admiral, was restricted to the broad brushstrokes…the final preparations…the ocean drop to the submarine…the arrival of the gear, by parachute, and the number of men who would conduct the opening attack.
In Rick Hunter's view, they should consider the SAS team intact in body, mind, food supplies, and weaponry. "According to your brief, Admiral," he said, "They inserted the Falklands on Friday night, April eighth. They conducted a classified mission in the small hours of Saturday morning, April sixteenth, and according to Hereford were not located, nor even detected.
"The Brits surrendered six hours later that same morning. It's now Friday, April twenty-second, so the guys have been on the run for six days, probably living off the land, hiding out, and eking out their supplies. The place is awash with unpolluted fresh water, and it houses several billion sources of roast lamb. I think we should treat Captain Jarvis and his men as fully operational."
Admiral Bergstrom nodded in agreement. "I think that's a very good point, Rick," he said. "We're not putting sixteen men into that part of the mission to make an evacuation of eight walking wounded. No one's
wounded. No one's even been spotted. We're really seconding their eight-man team to ours. And that means Rick's assault group should make contact as soon as they land."
"Sir, if I might refine that," said Rick. "I think we should conduct our first objective as soon as we go in. That airfield in the north. I'd need only eight men, and from there we could link up with Captain Jarvis, after we find him, and proceed to our next mission, all sixteen of us."
Again the Admiral nodded in agreement, and said, "Okay. I think that's sound. Let's finish lunch right away and move out to an ops room where there's a big computer screen. It's hopeless trying to work out a plan on a pile of remote islands without big accurate charts. Basement situation room. Block D. We can walk."
Twenty minutes later, they filed into the white concrete-walled ops room where Rick Hunter had three times sat before, plotting death, doom, and destruction upon the enemies of the United States.
The four men were the first to arrive, and Commander Hunter automatically fired up the huge wall computer — SEALs never switch on computers, they fire 'em up, just as they wrap dark green scarves around their heads going into combat, like red Indians, and refer to them as their "drive-on rags."
Rick hit a few buttons and a detailed chart of the Falkland Islands illuminated almost the entire wall, in color, with ocean depths, tidal directions and heights, navigation routes, guides, cans, lights, lighthouses and shoals, sandbanks, rocks, wrecks and oil rigs. On land it showed accurate contours of mountains, a few roads, townships, sheep stations, airports, harbors, and government buildings. All updated whenever possible by the Pentagon.
The SEALs gravitated toward it like a flight of homing pigeons…Christ, it's pretty damn shallow in there…how big's this damn place? Which side are we landing? Anyone know which area the SAS guys are in? Any warships in the north? Is that a garrison on top of this darn great headland?
The questions came raining in. No SEAL team ever has quite enough information. They wanted to know everything. Is this a gate? Does it squeak? Who lives in this farmhouse? Will there be a moon? If it rains, what's the ground like in here? Do we have details on Argentinian patrols? Are they out looking for Captain Jarvis?
Ghost Force am-9 Page 34
