“We call it the dirt aircraft carrier,” the pilot called over the intercom, her voice filled with a Texas drawl. “Folks based here call it Gilligan’s Isle with guns.”
“Ever been here before?” Mercer asked Sykes, seated next to him in the second observer’s seat.
“Couple of times. Damn! That was a secret. Remind me I have to kill you later.”
The pilot eased back on the quad throttle controls and activated the thrust vectoring system that allowed the two-hundred-eighty-ton aircraft to land in less than three thousand feet no matter how large the load she carried. The air was thick and humid and the four engines labored.
Thundering over the runway threshold, the Globemaster floated on ground effects for a few hundred feet before settling on its multiple landing trucks. Without concern for passenger safety beyond getting them to their destination alive, the air force major slammed home the thrust reversers and Mercer pitched against his harness.
Almost immediately the plane slowed to taxi speed and swung off the 11,800-foot runway.
Now that they were on the ground, Mercer saw that the planes he’d noticed during their descent were B-52s, the venerable strategic bomber whose crews were generally younger than the aircraft they flew. At the end of the parking ramp were four futuristic buildings that looked like flattened domes. These round structures measured two hundred fifty feet wide and were almost six stories tall. The C-17 taxied to a spot in front of the last building and the pilot cut the engines. After being assailed by the whine of the turbojets for so long, the silence was disconcerting.
Mercer peered through the windscreen. The building was a hangar with open clamshell doors. Tropical light flooded the interior and yet the aircraft in the center of the cavernous space seemed to absorb it all. Although he’d seen the same plane the day before at Area 51, seeing it deployed and knowing what they would be attempting soon sent the first pangs of fear into his gut. Mercer’s fists clenched and he had to consciously work to get them to relax. Sykes noticed but said nothing.
Officially designated Spirit, the bat-winged B-2 had been dubbed the stealth bomber by the media. The aircraft in the hangar was part of the 509th Bomb Wing out of Whiteman AFB, Missouri. She was number 82-1065, a last-generation block 30 with every conceivable upgrade the builders at Northrop and the air force could devise. With an unlimited range due to her in-flight refueling capability, the stealth was the ultimate weapon of the U.S. doctrine of force projection. It could carry a variety of payloads in her rotary launchers, everything from thirty-six cluster bombs with their hundreds of individual bomblets to eight five-thousand-pound GBU-37 “bunker busters” to sixteen B83 multimegaton thermonuclear bombs capable of leveling entire cities.
For the past several months this particular B-2 had been stationed at Area 51, the linchpin to the development of the MMU-22—what Sykes’s troops affectionately called the monkey bomb.
The concept for this secret weapon came from the military’s perceived need to covertly insert a commando team inside an area protected by heavy air defenses. Up until the development of the MMU-22 the only options were for troops to land beyond the radar umbrella and slog in on foot or risk a HALO (High Altitude Low Opening) parachute jump off the back ramp of a C-130. However, the Hercules cargo plane was as stealthy as a zeppelin and not much faster. Something better was needed, a covert way to get Special Operations soldiers to where they needed to be.
In the late 1990s, a British defense contractor was working on the development of pods that could be mounted under the wings of the Harrier jump jet. These man-sized capsules were designed for the rapid evacuation of wounded soldiers from deep behind enemy lines. Someone at the Pentagon expanded on the idea and wondered if it was possible to infiltrate troops the same way, but using a stealth platform such as the B-2 or F-117 Nighthawk fighter/bomber. From that abstraction grew the MMU-22.
The pods were slightly larger than telephone booths, doped in radar-absorbing composite material and formed in angular shapes to deflect incoming radar. Using the same global positioning satellite system that gave American bombs such precision, an onboard computer steered the MMU-22 as it fell. At a predetermined height, usually the minimum safe distance above the ground, the parachute would be deployed. Booker Sykes claimed accuracy of within twenty feet even in a crosswind of up to thirty knots.
Inside the pod, a Special Forces soldier was provided with enough room to stretch out, storage for combat harnesses, packs, equipment and the weapons necessary for their mission. While confining, the monkey bombs were lined with high-tech memory foam that made them relatively comfortable, provided the person inside didn’t suffer from claustrophobia. As Sykes had mentioned, there was a relief tube for a soldier to empty his bladder as well as a closed-circuit television attached to a camera at the bottom of the pod to give a view of the landing site during the descent.
Sykes loosened his safety straps and leaned over to Mercer. “Little more intimidating now that we’re here, huh?”
The B-2 resembled a black manta ray, its partially buried engine nacelles being the gills to feed the four General Electric F-118 turbofans, the bulbous cockpit the creature’s eyes. Even resting at its hard stand, the aircraft radiated menace. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Ten minutes later they were sweating on the tarmac. A steady breeze carried the iodine taste of the sea but provided no relief from the humidity. The ramp at the back of the C-17 was down and the aircraft’s loadmaster was coordinating a fleet of forklifts to remove the MMUs from the plane’s hold. Despite the tight security at Area 51 and here at Diego Garcia, the pods were crated in containers labeled MACHINE PARTS and wouldn’t be unpacked until they were in the hangar and the doors closed. There were eight MMUs in total, seven for Sykes and his Delta Force team and one for Mercer.
The six men, hand selected by Sykes, were perhaps the best-trained soldiers the United States had ever produced. They all came from the army and had excelled from their first days of basic training and in their extensive training since. Specialists in all forms of combat, they’d also learned to operate with initiative and flexibility. They were tighter knit than brothers, hard men who had trained through the human instinct of self-preservation to put their lives in the hands of the others. In Kosovo and Afghanistan and Iraq and a dozen other hot spots around the globe their bonds had been tempered by combat.
Because the occupant of the monkey bomb was virtually powerless once the weapon was loaded into the B-2, Mercer’s two days of orientation in Nevada was more for the Delta operators to assess him for themselves. New members seconded to the team, soldiers who’d already proved they belonged through years in the military, still needed months of initiation and indoctrination before they were accepted.
It wasn’t enough for the men that Sykes had said Mercer was all right. He had to prove it himself. In the thirty hours he’d spent with just the men, not Sykes, he was forced on two five-mile runs, endured numerous timed sprints through an impromptu obstacle course, expended about a thousand rounds of ammunition on a firing range and went on three static line parachute jumps (the jump master had explained why he wanted to see three jumps by telling Mercer anyone can fall from an airplane once, only a few will try it a second time and only damned fools go back for thirds and those were the kind he wanted).
In the end, the team’s senior noncom, Angel Lopez, a streetwise Honduran immigrant who went by the nickname Grumpy, had pronounced Mercer just marginally more fit than a week-old corpse. In keeping with the sequence of names the men chose for each other—Sykes being Doc, the son of a preacher who struck out consistently with women getting called Bashful, the team’s jokester going by Dopey, and so on—Mercer was given the ignominious name of Snow White.
Mercer and Sykes strolled past the hangar. In the background they could hear Grumpy snarling at the men. “H’okay people, we got twenty hours until we launch and twenty-four hours of work. I want a full weapons check, equipment breakdown and ammo load distributio
n in twenty mikes.”
At the edge of the aircraft ramp, beach sand blew across the asphalt in airy streaks. The wind had kicked up, a steady beat that flattened their clothes. Sykes hunkered down to a squatting position and took up a stick to draw random shapes in the dirt.
“What’s on your mind?” Mercer asked after a moment.
Sykes kept his eyes on his drawings as he spoke, his voice solemn. “We haven’t had a chance to talk since Dreamland. I just want you to know that Grumpy says you did okay back there. That’s a hell of a compliment coming from him.”
“So I gathered.” Mercer sensed this wasn’t what Sykes wanted to say.
“The boys are calling you Snow White.”
Mercer grinned wryly. “I’ve been called worse.”
“Yeah, I bet. Anyway, I’ve been with Delta for eight years now. I’ve lost a few men during that time. A good guy named Tom Hazen in Colombia, a heck of a sharpshooter in Pakistan, a gunny who got killed when his chute didn’t open at Bragg. A couple of others.
“These guys died doing their job. It’s part of the risk we take. But the thing is we take that risk. It isn’t given to us. Some ugly pops an ambush we’re too stupid to see, we deserve to get killed. That gunny packed his parachute wrong, he deserved not to have it open. You following me?”
Mercer knew where Booker was headed, but remained silent, knowing it needed to be said.
“Admiral Lasko tells me you’ve been in some real hairballs over the past few years and with some pretty good operators too. SEALs in Alaska, Force Recon in Africa. Some army spec dogs down in Panama last year. Don’t take this the wrong way, hell, there ain’t no right way, I guess, but I don’t want you thinking all that earned you a place here.”
“I never thought it did,” Mercer replied softly.
“I like you. I think you’ll do okay up there, but you have to understand my mission is about getting certain information back to the admiral. It’s not about protecting Miss Nguyen and it’s not about protecting you. If at some point you become a liability to that mission, or if you put one of my men at risk, don’t think I won’t drop you myself.”
“I’m taking this in the spirit it’s given. It’s not personal, I know.”
“It’s not, but this whole thing has my hackles up. We’ve never had a Snow White tagging along with the team before and that has me spooked.”
“You love them, don’t you?”
In the distance Grumpy was chewing out Sleepy, the marginally laziest man on the team. “Not them as individuals,” Sykes answered, “but the ideal of what they are. Faces come and go, but the team is still the same. Am I making any sense?”
“It’s the old saying about hating the president but loving the presidency. Only you’re talking about respect and honor, much truer feelings, ones that are harder to develop and sustain. You’ve felt this way for years now. It’s as much a part of you as the color of your skin. I’m not a member of your team, never could be, and you’re afraid that my going in with you will affect the balance somehow.”
Sykes nodded. “Something like that, I guess. I don’t mind being dropped out of a bomber in nothing more than a high-tech coffin or facing overwhelming enemy forces. I just like to know everyone who’s at my back.”
“There’s nothing I can say that’ll put you at ease so I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
They looked each other in the eye, a silent current of understanding flashing between them.
For the twelve hours the Delta team was slated for sleep, inside the hangar was a flurry of activity to prepare the B-2 and the eight MMUs. As Sykes had said, he and his men were only responsible for getting information out of Rinpoche-La. Mercer had been given the additional job of finding a way of turning that information into a practical plan. In an office off the barracks where the team snored away, he sat hunched over a laptop staring at the latest geologic reports coming out of La Palma.
The news wasn’t good. The numerous fumaroles, gas-emitting vents that dotted the volcano, were pumping out deadly aerosols with the force of jet engines. The discharge rate of noxious elements such as carbon dioxide and sulfur was rising exponentially. Rain as caustic as sulfuric acid was falling on parts of the island.
While the eastern side of the mountain was showing signs of displacement, the western, and more dangerous, flank hadn’t begun to slip. Yet each passing minute raised the temperature of the water trapped inside the volcano. It was only a matter of time before the increased pressure cracked the rock and the half-trillion-ton slab went crashing into the sea.
The president had hoped to keep the news of the potential eruption to a minimum, and it appeared for the time being his wishes were coming true. There weren’t any dramatic pictures for the media to focus on and the few so-called experts being interviewed downplayed the potential of a massive eruption because La Palma’s last jolt in 1971 hadn’t affected the fault. Instead, the press was focused on a Hollywood corruption scandal that was ruining the careers of several top-ranked actors. Mercer blessed the American fascination with fame and the misguided belief that the oceans still afforded isolation from the rest of the world.
Ever since he’d been asked to find a way to minimize the effects of a La Palma eruption, Mercer had spent countless hours examining the problem. He came at it from every direction, dissecting and discarding each scenario that occurred to him. Feasibility and practicality didn’t factor in his thinking. All he wanted were options. And as he’d known since the president first asked him to try to deflect a volcanic blast, there wasn’t a whole lot to be done except hope the other scientists working on the project were more inspired than he was.
Dawn found him asleep on the cradle of his arms.
The morning was spent in a locked room, where Sykes went over operational details. From the satellite photographs, a detailed model of the monastery and its environs had been constructed. The model maker had gone so far as to include a flock of sheep from a children’s toy farm.
The plan was simplicity itself. The back of the monastery hung precariously over a hundred-foot-tall wall of dressed stone that divided the valley into an upper and lower section. The wall, as substantial as that protecting any castle, spanned the width of the valley, and had doubtlessly deterred generations of soldiers from attempting an assault from the rear. The surety of the wall’s impenetrability made it less likely to be guarded and thus the logical choice for Sykes’s team. Under the cover of a moonless night, the MMUs would be directed to land in the lower valley at the base of the wall. There weren’t any discernible trails from the meadow to the upper valley so Bashful and Happy would free-climb the wall, anchoring ropes for the rest of the team as they ascended. From there it would be up to improvisation and luck to infiltrate the building and find Tisa. As a precaution, each man carried his own satellite phone to broadcast the eruption date once they’d gotten it from her.
Two hours before the afternoon takeoff, the team members began to don their gear. Maybe it was because Harry’s jokes about Prince Charming storming a castle had remained fresh in his mind, but to Mercer it seemed the process was like knights suiting up in their armor. Meticulous care was given to every detail. The weapons had all been cleaned and test fired the day before. Ammunition magazines were checked for the stiffness of their springs. Batteries for their comm gear and the sat phones were fully charged. If there was even minor wear on any piece of equipment it was discarded for another.
As the men were doing this, technicians swarmed the bomber and monkey bombs doing their last-minute checks. The two pilots performed their walk-around and were ready to board through the bottom hatch.
A blacked-out van took the commandos from their barracks to the hangar. Once inside with the door closed, the men piled out of the vehicle and assembled under the enormous flying wing. The large bomb bay doors were open. Although the air force had given this plane the name Spirit of Wyoming, the crew had added a nickname. Painted on one of the barnlike bomb doors was a fluffy cloud. Extendin
g from it was a downward-pointing hand with its index finger extended. The drawing was vague as it emerged from the cloud but grew more detailed closer to the fingertip, as though its presence was becoming more real. The bomber’s name was written underneath. Invisible Touch.
As was tradition during the preflight for this flight crew, a portable cassette deck pounded out the Phil Collins song by the same name.
Mercer eyed the MMUs. Sykes was right. They did look like coffins, especially with their lids open. The foam lining was covered in a microfiber that had the sheen of casket satin. Great.
The team stowed their gear in compartments built into the bombs, making sure straps were cinched tight and nothing rattled. Once they were set, the pilots shook hands with each commando and climbed into the B-2’s belly.
At the side of one of the monkey bombs, Sykes called his group for one last pep talk. “For the next six hours we’re nothing more than passengers who”—he glanced into the open capsule—“have about the same amount of room as folks who get stuck in coach.”
There were a few nervous chuckles.
“We’ve been working with this system for a couple of months now. We’ve all taken a tethered drop from the twenty-foot tower and know how to handle a landing. The only thing we have to worry about is the chute opening. And that’s something we face every time we go so that means there’s no difference in this op from any other we’ve ever done. We don’t have to sweat it. Once we’re on the ground we know what to do.”
“Rules of engagement?” Bashful asked.
“Take down anyone with a gun or anyone threatening you. The only person we care about is Tisa Nguyen. Snow White’s given us a pretty good idea what she looks like, but don’t take chances. Any woman under the age of say, forty, is off limits.”
Bashful raised his hand. “Even if they’re coming after us, Doc?”
“Ain’t no chica coming after you, man,” Grumpy retorted and the men laughed.
Deep Fire Rising Page 31
