by Richard Bard
He’d practiced and practiced over the past couple of nights while everyone else slept. Slowly but surely he had made progress, using plastic glasses to test his speed. Dropping a suspended glass, spinning around, and catching it before it hit the floor was no longer a problem. The bad headaches that he got after doing it, however, were getting worse.
Mental checklist: Speed issue solved. Living long enough to enjoy it? No.
Jake glanced at the hard men standing around him, doubt etched on some of their faces. Without warning, he lunged forward, pulled one of Ripper’s combat knives out of its shin holster, stood back up, and displayed the big knife flat on his palm. His uncanny speed brought a collective gasp from the men.
Jake continued, “Just because something’s impossible doesn’t mean it can’t be done.” Jake focused his thoughts on the knife, willing it to remain hovering in space as he slowly lowered his hand to his side.
“Madre de Dios,” Snake said, crossing himself.
“I’ll be buggered,” Becker said.
Jake felt a sharp pain at the back of his skull, but he refused to show it. He released his mental hold on the weapon and snatched it out of the air as it fell toward the floor. A stunned Ripper took it from Jake’s offered hand.
No one moved. Jake had their full attention. He fought back a wave of nausea before continuing. “While you guys secure the perimeter and set the stage for our escape, the sarge and I are going into the depths of hell to collect the hostages, one of whom is a six-year-old girl. Don’t worry your asses about whether or not I can hold up my end. Just do your jobs, and one way or another, I’ll do mine. Got it?”
A strong “Hoo-rah!” echoed back from the ex-marines in the group.
“You heard the man,” Tony said. “Keep your heads in the game and get your shit ready.”
The men went back to work checking their kits.
Becker steered Jake and Tony over to an eight-foot-long table scattered with equipment.
“Are you set?” Tony asked.
“Yeah, everything I asked for is here,” Becker said. “You already saw my two remote-control fifty-cals.” He waved his hand over the collection on the table. “We’ve also got claymores, tripwire, satchel charges, frag and fuel-air grenades, detonators, and enough C4 to take down a mountain.”
“Good, because that’s just what we’re gonna do,” Tony said, exchanging a glance with Jake.
Becker clucked his tongue and hiked one of his thick blond eyebrows. He walked over to a crate about the size of a washing machine and pulled the lid up. “Lend a hand, Sarge. Let’s get ’er out.”
Jake watched as they pulled out what looked like a miniature ATV. It supported three dark-gray pressure tanks connected to a black funnel angled upward on the rear chassis.
“Lil’ Smokey here is my special surprise. Once we’re done pissin’ on the hornet’s nest up there, we’re gonna need to get out fast and under cover.” He crouched down, his hand on one of the ATV’s tanks. “She’s a modified, self-propelled, radio-controlled version of the M56E1 smoke-generating system. She spits fog oil embedded with graphite fiber.”
“Duration?” Jake asked.
“Twenty to thirty minutes, depending on wind conditions. The smoke will obscure both visual and infrared better than a sandstorm in the outback.”
Tony continued to make rounds with the men, checking and rechecking kits and attitudes.
Jake watched the team from just outside the wide-open hangar door, his attention on the quiet Cossack woman sitting by herself in the far corner of the space. Her name was Maria. She was inspecting and cleaning her Dragunov 7.62 SVD sniper rifle with the same care as a mother would give her newborn child. She was a small woman—barely taller than her rifle—with short dark hair, a hooked nose, coal-black eyes, and skin burnished from a life outdoors. Her sharp features were broken with a faint patchwork of premature wrinkles—not a single one of which would be confused with a laugh line—earned from several lifetimes of stress that had been crammed into her twenty-something years, first as a Chechen rebel and later as a freelancer.
He appreciated the care she took as she examined each of the specially made rounds of ammunition before pressing them into the magazine. As if sensing Jake’s stare, she paused, turning her eyes toward him from across the hangar. She locked her gaze on him like an eagle spotting a rabbit in the snow.
A slight nod of her head affirmed the unspoken acknowledgment between them. She was responsible for covering Jake’s back during the first critical minutes of the operation. For the next twenty-four hours, their lives were linked.
The approaching drone of twin turbo-prop blades drew Jake’s attention outside. An airplane shaped like a large pelican with upraised wings was descending on a very fast final approach. As it loomed larger and larger, it appeared as if it would crash into their hangar. A ground crew eating lunch in the shade of a nearby fuel truck came to the same conclusion. They dropped their food and fled across the tarmac in panic.
Jake grinned and stood his ground, hands on his hips. Tony and Papa walked over and stood on either side of him.
At the last possible moment, like a large African crane landing on the shallow waters of the Serengeti, the plane’s nose lifted and its horizontal speed slowed dramatically. The sound of its blades biting the air shifted from a steady drone to heavy staccato thuds that reverberated across the airfield. The nacelles holding its thirty-eight-foot-wide blades rotated on their axes from horizontal to vertical. The plane’s forward movement stopped abruptly. It hovered thirty feet in the air, its downwash blasting a thin veil of dust in a wide circle across the tarmac.
The three men squinted and turned their faces away from the rush of warm air and dust as the bird settled to the ground in front of the hangar.
“That’s our ride, boys,” Jake said. “The V-22 Osprey. Flies like an airplane but can land and take off like a helicopter. And the jock on the stick is one of the best pilots I know.” Jake smiled when he added, “And one of the craziest, too.”
Jake had met Cal Springman twelve years ago during USAF fixed-wing pilot training at Reese Air Force Base in Lubbock, Texas. Jake graduated number two in his class behind Cal, who edged him out because of his previous flight experience as a helicopter pilot in the US Coast Guard. From Long Beach, California, he was the classic surfer dude, with curly blond hair, blue eyes, skin permanently tanned from years at the beach, and an exuberant smile that infected everyone around him.
They became fast friends and creative troublemakers through their thirteen months of training. More than a few times they had found themselves braced in front of the squadron commander after bending the rules in the unfriendly skies during a training exercise, or when they’d instigated drunken competitions with rival classes at the stag bar on a “cucaracha day,” when one of the frequent panhandle sandstorms grounded the flight line. Cal’s motto: Grab that wave; it could be your last.
After the props wound to a stop, the rear cargo ramp of the V-22 opened, and a garrulous Cal bounded out with his young whip-thin copilot—swimming in his flight suit—not far behind.
Cal greeted Jake with an unabashed hug that lifted Jake’s 190 pounds clear off the pavement. “Dude, it’s good to see you. What’s it been, three years? How the hell are you?”
“I’m good, Cal. Thanks for coming, man.”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” He pointed to his copilot with a huge grin. “And Kenny brought toys.”
Kenny was a freckled and pimply faced redhead who looked to Jake like he was all of sixteen years old. But Cal had assured Jake that Kenny was twenty-five and fully qualified. There was an eagerness about him that seemed ready to burst. Jake got a firm handshake from the young lieutenant and made quick introductions to Tony and Papa.
“What’s your flying background?” Jake asked.
With an accent that hinted of Midwestern cornfields, Kenny said, “I’ve been flying since I was thirteen years old. My pop owned a crop-dusting business. We’
d dust during the week and fly air shows on the weekend.”
“Air shows?” Jake asked.
Kenny’s eyes lit up, and he made a quick survey of the area outside the hangar. “Give me thirty minutes to set up and I’ll show you.” He trotted off toward the V-22.
Jake cocked an eyebrow at Cal.
“Dude, you’re gonna love this,” Cal said.
They headed back into the hangar, where Marshall and Lacey had hooked a laptop to a small projector and screen for the mission briefing. Marshall’s left arm was still in a sling and his right palm still bandaged. He grumbled as he tapped the laptop’s touchpad with his right index finger. In an aggravated tone that was born more out of his discomfort than real anger, he said, “Are you sure you haven’t been messing with this?”
Hands on her hips, Lacey scowled back. “I haven’t touched your precious computer!”
Marshall stiffened, “Well, somebody—”
“Hey, Marsh, you remember Cal?” Jake said.
Marshall’s eyes widened in instant recognition. “Dude, how could I forget? We tore it up at Sharkey’s on the Hermosa Pier and met that girls’ volleyball team and—” He paused, glancing at Lacey. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, man.”
Cal’s eyes lingered on Lacey.
Marshall noticed. He stood up a bit too quickly, and his chair toppled over. He ignored it, put his good arm around Lacey’s waist, and made polite introductions.
Lacey leaned into Marshall.
Cal got the message and gave Marshall an understanding nod.
Jake made introductions to the rest of the team, including Ahmed, who was sitting at a small table nearby, reading a book.
Cal pulled a USB flash drive from a shin pocket on his flight suit. He handed it to Marshall. “I brought a little something for the show. Check this out.”
Marshall inserted it into the computer and flipped on the projector. He flipped through the onscreen menu and brought up a series of high-definition satellite images.
The rest of the team gathered around the screen.
Cal explained. “It turns out that Battista’s village is one of several dozen on our watch list because of its isolated location. It cost me a bottle of tequila and a box of frozen McDonald’s hamburgers to get hold of these.”
The first high-altitude view displayed a treeless, mountainous region that stretched across the screen. To the north of the rugged peak in the center, an ancient geographic upheaval created a broken pattern that scarred the landscape like a huge fault line. It looked as though a giant cleaver had dropped from the sky and the northern third of the mountain was wiped away, leaving a sunken, boulder-strewn plateau in its wake. Terrain markers superimposed on the image showed an elevation differential of nearly fifteen hundred feet at its sheer cliff.
Above the cliff, on the southern side of the mountain, there was a natural ravine with immense rock formations on either side that cast long shadows over a narrow road that snaked up its center to a cluster of tiny structures.
Cal walked up to the screen, his shadow covering part of the image. He used his index finger as a pointer. “This is the village. The only way in or out is up this road.” He motioned to Marshall. “Next image.”
The high-res photo zoomed in to the top of the ravine at the end of the dirt road. It revealed a serpentine cluster of earthen structures, some of which seemed to grow right out of the mountain. The only sense of order came from a series of short rock walls that connected some of the homes together, creating what looked like corrals for animals. There was a scattering of people outside the small huts.
“There’s nothing outstanding about the village,” Cal said. “It’s old, not very sophisticated, and there are maybe thirty or forty people living there. Troops from the 101st Airborne visited and never found anything out of the ordinary. The village is ancient and was obviously built here with defense in mind. The sheer cliff on the other side of the mountain can’t be climbed. That meant that marauding tribes could only approach up the easily defended narrow ravine. Sort of like the Afghan version of Butch Cassidy’s Hole in the Wall.”
Jake studied the photo. Battista’s village—where it all started.
Ahmed stepped up beside him, staring at the screen. “That’s my home.”
Jake placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Can you show us where the entrances are to the two caverns?”
Ahmed stood on his tiptoes as he tried to reach the spot with his pointer finger. When it was obvious he couldn’t reach, Lacey handed him an eighteen-inch ruler to use as a pointer. Appearing not the least bit intimidated in the midst of the gruff team, he used the pointer like a professor at a lecture. “If you follow this walking trail north out of the village, the first cavern lies just after the third twist. Right here.”
He pointed to a spot that was unremarkable from the rest of the terrain. “The entrance is about five meters above the trail, hidden above a big rock. So it is not visible unless you leave the trail and climb through this crack.”
“And this is the main barracks and living quarters?” Jake asked.
“Yes.”
“How many live there?”
“It changes. But usually there are between one and two hundred soldiers.”
The team stirred at the number and edged up to get a closer look at the screen.
“And the second cavern?” Jake asked.
Ahmed traced the winding line farther north up the mountain. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. To here, where the path opens up before a final run to the cliff.” Ahmed pointed to a canyon with a relatively flat clearing about the size of a large soccer field. It was surrounded by steep, dun-colored ridges that towered over it.
“The entrance is here.” He pointed to a spot beneath the eastern wall of the canyon. “It’s always guarded.”
Jake moved closer and studied the screen, focusing on the first cavern that served as barracks. “Ahmed, are you absolutely certain that there is only one entrance or exit from this first cavern?”
Ahmed nodded.
Everyone’s attention was yanked away by a high-pitched buzzing sound that echoed from the entrance of the hangar.
Like synchronized dragonflies, two miniature black helicopters, each about the size of a grocery cart, hovered in perfect tandem formation just inside the hangar door. In place of the normal bubble cockpit found in manned helicopters, these remote-control gunships sported serious looking AA-12 shotgun muzzles and miniature four-slot rocket pods. Spherical camera housings protruded from underneath the weapons.
Kenny sat at a small table he had set up just outside. He had a wireless joystick in his right hand that was held in place by a rigid brace-and-strap assembly looped around his forearm. A ruggedized extra-wide laptop sat open on the table.
Like a teenager playing a video game, Kenny was totally engrossed in the screen as he moved the joystick. The copters flew a gentle circle inside the perimeter of the hangar. As they turned back toward the doorway, they picked up speed and once outside, shot up and out of view like sparks over a blazing fire. By the time everyone hurried outside to watch the show, both birds had disappeared.
Kenny tapped a key and withdrew his attention from the screen. “Portable air support,” he said with a grin. “NRI AutoCopter gunships. They can engage at sixty mph with standard shotgun ammo or FRAG-12 grenade rounds at three hundred rounds per minute. And the mini-rocket pods can be equipped with a full variety of munitions, from incendiary to armor piercing.”
“Where the bloomin’ ’ell are they?” Becker asked.
Kenny turned back to the screen. “Ready or not, here they come.”
The two copters screamed around the far corner of the hangar like stock cars on the final turn at Indianapolis. They nosed up abruptly, hovering with a menacing stillness, their weapons trained on the group.
The laptop’s split screen filled with mirror images of the team from the point of view of the copters’ high-definition cameras.
Kenny
tapped another key and moved the joystick. One of the copters peeled away in a quick circle before returning to hover next to the other. “They can be operated independently with separate joysticks. Or up to four can be operated simultaneously in tandem mode.”
Both copters moved in unison in a hovering turn around them, their gun sights never wavering. “When these babies are in search-and-destroy mode, there’s no hiding from them.”
Ripper snickered. He made a pistol out of his forefinger and thumb and took a mock potshot at the two birds. “Sure, homie. Until somebody pops ’em with a cap pistol.”
Kenny smiled and said, “It looks like I’ve got my volunteer for the demo.” He pointed to Ripper’s still-extended finger. “Why don’t you take that big gun of yours out to that trash barrel I set up over there and see if you can draw a bead on these babies?”
Ripper’s grin faded, but he said, “No problema. I’ll be right back.” He jogged into the hangar and returned with his Grendel assault rifle. With a cocky grin, he winked at his buddies and jogged out to the field. When he was next to the garbage can—about fifty yards out—he waved his rifle.
Kenny entered a short series of commands. Jake noticed that the screen image changed to a very high overhead view of the field, but both copters were still hovering in front of him.
Noticing Jake’s confusion, Kenny pointed to a small spec circling high overhead. “The Raven portable surveillance drone. I launched it before the copters. It can stay up for ninety minutes to feed us battlefield sit-reps. The copters’ targeting computer uses real-time data from the drone. And all the imagery is integrated with the team’s sensor set, available through their helmet-mounted heads-up displays.”
The specialized helmets and other equipment of the Land Warrior system had arrived earlier in the day. Each team member would be equipped with a sensor set, comprised of a helmet that integrated a communications network with day and night cameras and weapon-mounted sight cameras. The images would be displayed on a half-inch transparent monocular display. Everybody on the team could get a visual from any other team member’s cameras, or from the drone or copters.
