Specialized equipment allowed this miracle, and he relied on it. Every last piece of it. From the Special Forces HALO helmet with its oxygen mask strapped snuggly over his nose and mouth, to the goggles that allowed peripheral vision and much-needed facial protection, to the backlit altimeter on his wrist, that registered nothing at the moment, its altitude range less than his. The lightweight auxiliary pack strapped to his belly provided a measure of assurance if his main parachute failed. His gloves kept his ten digits warm enough.
God, what a ride.
The experimental GPS wrapped around his wrist matched its digital partner’s lack of information. No matter. They’d both flash on soon enough—within seconds if the new technology behind them functioned as expected. The GPS was part of the reason for this extreme jump. This was its maiden flight, its beta-test, and he was just the man for the job.
Until it kicked in, supposedly at a higher altitude than others now on the market, he gloried in the adrenaline rush, free-falling to what very well could be his death. Therein lay the rub and the magic of a precision drop—all the risk of dying only to pull up at the last possible second and spit in the stone-cold eye of the Grim Reaper.
Nothing like it in the world.
The fact that another brave soul had recently made a twenty-four-mile high jump from the stratosphere only proved Adam’s point. Some men were made to fly, and he was one of them. This ordinary jump of nearly seven miles straight down was enough for the adrenaline junkie he’d become. For now. Maybe someday he’d match that other guy’s record. Maybe not. Adam truly didn’t care about records. Just the fall. Just the flight.
He liked that initial ‘What the hell have I done?’ sensation in his gut, even more so because he understood the physics behind a HALO, the very real concept of terminal velocity when the downward force of gravity equaled the restraining force of drag. Law of gravity. Risk of splat. Gotta love it.
Every HALO jump involved unique dangers—the frigid cold, decompression sickness, and hypoxia. Death never lingered more than a heartbeat away. But the thrill. The view.
He could’ve pulled his body into a compact, cylindrical projectile, secured his arms to his sides and his legs together instead of splayed like they were, in order to increase his speed. Skydivers called it free flying, when a man’s body became more bullet than flesh and blood. But as much as Adam loved the thrill of downward acceleration, he loved the journey more. Only HALO jumps brought him this close to Heaven. He truly loved the sea, but God, he loved the sky more. In the sky he was free, not so much bird as shooting star. On land he became a bulky beast of burden bound to the earth’s core. A turtle. Why hurry a three-minute ride?
Suspended between earth and space, it seemed time stopped on a night like this one. No moon tonight, just the constellations and Ursa Major glittering in the sub-polar altitude, crisp and clear. Adam’s buddy, Polaris, shone exactly where the pointer stars in the bowl of the Big Dipper indicated it should be. The North Star beckoned like the true friend it was, as constant and a thousand times squared more reliable than any woman he’d ever known. Always beckoning him home.
His failed relationship with his ex-girlfriend and ex-nightmare flashed to mind. The one he’d been damned glad he left behind. But none of that mattered now. He forced his very disciplined mind to the work at hand. Shirley was old news, the poison of her manipulative grasp at last diluted with enough good times mingled with plenty of scotch.
The experimental GPS digital readout flashed to life right on schedule, reminding him he had better things to do than dredge up the past, like finding that wayward drone.
Impact in less than two.
South Dakota lay below, now the site of a lost prototype, the multi-million dollar HH UAV, the Hummingbird Hawk Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. Named for its compact but predatory stealth design, it had gone down during its initial test flight out of Ellsworth Air Force Base, just a few miles away. Its advanced technology made it immeasurably valuable in the world of military intelligence. All of DoD held its breath when they’d heard it went missing. The CIA, too. This was their baby, their future, and now their worst nightmare. Too many foreign powers wanted the technology behind this particular drone. Russia. China. Terrorists. Allies.
Ellsworth had been alerted. They knew he was dropping in tonight, but were advised not to engage in the search, only to assist with the drop. For now, this operation was just him, a missing baby bird, and maybe a few barking rodents.
The peculiar nature of his mission still nagged, though. The very capable folks at Ellsworth would’ve been happy to retrieve the UAV. They could’ve, and they should’ve. The request for a HALO was one hundred percent unnecessary, but the CIA said, ‘Hell, no,’ to the Air Force offer to assist. Hands off. Like the control freaks they were, the spooks demanded a non-defense-related contractor perform the retrieval.
Enter the man responsible for developing the prototype, Mr. Paul Reagan, inventor and billionaire CEO of the prestigious Reagan Industries out of northern Virginia. He’d made the CIA’s paranoia look tame when he’d circumvented them and went straight to Alex Stewart, the owner of the covert surveillance company, The TEAM. Before the Air Force or CIA could shoot off their well-prepared rebuttal, the deal between Reagan and Alex was struck.
One agent and one only would handle retrieval. Given his aptitude for HALO drops, it was a no-brainer from the get go. Adam Torrey, ex-Navy SEAL, was the best flying squirrel on The TEAM, and in transit before his boss’s signature had dried on the dotted line.
But why one agent only? Why a HALO? Why not Ellsworth’s assist? Very odd indeed.
Checking altimeter and GPS coordinates again, Adam allowed a small smile of success. No meteorological events interfered with his flight tonight. Smooth descent. Right on target.
Earth approached fast.
Fifteen thousand.
His favorite country western song popped into his head, its heavy bass a heartbeat that matched his philosophy. What was life for if you didn’t live it? And man, this was living at its most extreme.
Eight thousand.
His GPS flashed once. Then twice. His target might as well be already acquired and the mission over. Smoothest drop ever.
Six thousand.
Thicker atmosphere at the earth’s surface brought warmer temperatures. Almost time. He stalled the inevitable, wishing he didn’t have to land.
Four thousand.
Two.
Begrudgingly, Adam jerked the ripcord. Whoosh. The flat-black nylon, eight-celled, ram-air canopy released, stopping death in its tracks, and offering a few breathless seconds to view the LZ before his boots hit the dirt. Drifting toward touchdown, the sight below was all he expected. Prairie. Flat. Damned dark.
He activated another specialized tracking device, set to pick up the HH locator signal only. Just in time. South Dakota rushed up to meet him. To be safe, he removed the night-vision goggles from the zippered pouch on his belt and strapped them around his neck. It never hurt to be prepared. Freedom lived in the heavens. Not on earth.
He braced for impact, his knees bent and his senses sharp, primed for any and all possibilities.
Oomph. Touchdown.
Adam rolled as he landed, expelling nothing more than a soft grunt that none heard, unless the few curious prairie dogs scampering out of his path mattered. Gathering big handfuls of the black nylon, he stuffed it into the empty nylon bag he’d brought with him, using those same few minutes to survey the wide-open space around him. The pure sounds of the dark Dakota night met his ears...
Smoothest landing ever.
Once he’d stowed his gear, he let the rucksack drop from his back. It carried what-if supplies like water, MREs, medical supplies, and his all-important EPIRB, his emergency position-indicating radio beacon.
The feeling that this was some bizarre game persisted, mostly because a HALO drop into harmless South Dakota made no sense in the wary world of a black operator. HALOs we
re last-option only, the safest way into deadly terrain. Not prairie. Why, oh why old man Reagan, the billionaire eccentric behind this op, had demanded such a high-security measure in the middle of grassland seemed irrational and foolish.
But there was a job to be done, and until an adversary presented himself, Adam had no reason for alarm. The soft green glow from the screen displayed a map of his immediate area, a red dot pinging a heartbeat less than three clicks to the northeast and the exact position of the missing drone. Good enough.
Setting a steady pace, he jogged toward it, watching where he stepped. Landing in a prairie dog hole could snap a man’s leg. He had no intention of being airlifted for such a stupid mistake, not after the exhilaration of this perfect drop.
The sweet Dakota air smelled good at 0245 hours. Cool. Pleasant. And a good run relaxed a man. It allowed the adrenaline overload from the falling out of the sky to burn away. He checked the tracker again. Less than a thousand meters straight ahead. Instantly, his very analytical brain provided mathematical equivalents. Three thousand, two hundred, and eighty-one feet. One thousand, ninety-four yards.
Man, I love my job.
A prairie dog barked off to his left. Then another. Adam grinned at the exhilaration of a night so rare. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat. What’s more, this very expensive, very top-secret UAV would be home in its cradle before the world knew it had gone missing.
The tracking device that indicated he was nearly on target sounded steady beeps. Slowing his gait, Adam glanced to his right and then left. Only grass and more grass. All good. How hard could it be to find a two-foot long baby bird, attach it to a miniature aerostat, punch the can of helium to inflate the balloon, and let it fly away home? Not hard at all. Once the prototype was airborne, a larger UAV would snag the line between baby bird and the aerostat with a specially designed pincer attached to its nose. By the time Adam’s boss inhaled his first cup of coffee in far-off Virginia, the baby bird would be back in its hanger at Reagan Research, and all would be well.
As big a fiasco as this loss might have been, the mechanics of baby bird’s rescue would once again prove the undeniable need for drones in defense and industrial missions. A drone rescuing another drone. Technology upon technology. The world was an amazing place, and Adam reveled in it. It helped him fly.
Brushing his palms over the knee-high grass, Adam let it tickle his splayed fingers. Everything about the prairie was just plain magic. Buffalo used to roam here. The Lakota, too.
The GPS pinged louder, leading him straight to his prize. A dark shadow carved into the tall grass revealed the landing skid, and ultimately, the smooth body of the tiny predator. He knelt, one knee to the ground in awe, pulling the little guy gently out of the shallow depression of its crash-landing. The weight of the tiny drone surprised him. He’d expected more, but it felt less than twenty pounds. Coated in flat-black, radar-absorbent material, the overall smooth design contributed to its invisibility. It was the perfect predator. Small. Invisible. Deadly.
He cradled it tenderly, proud of his skill and aptitude. Best day ever.
“Come on, little guy. Let’s get you home.”
He pushed to his feet with a sigh of relief. In the moonlight, the drone didn’t appear damaged, other than a few scrapes along one side of its sleek metallic skin—nothing a good buffing wouldn’t solve. He committed the serial number from the metal plate at the edge of its polycarbonate nose to memory: UVZ172661. And hot damn. Operation Baby Bird was nearly over. Way to go, Torrey!
A soft whirring overhead, the telltale ruffling of silky nylon ballooned tight with air, interrupted his self-congratulations. Adam jerked his gaze heavenward. It couldn’t be. Another jumper? Here?
Nothing revealed itself, but his ears hadn’t lied. He crouched to one knee and hunkered low in the tall grass. With the infant UAV tucked tightly to his chest, he let nature provide the camouflage while he went into full alert.
Sliding his night vision goggles up over his face, the world turned lime green. His sixth sense screamed, “You’re not alone,” but no other sound rent the silence. No boots on the ground. No motorized engine. No un-oiled squeak of a control lever to bring a parachute or a one-man glider to pinpoint landing. Nothing.
He held his breath, trusting his gut more than his ears or sight. But who was out there, and why? Better question—how could anyone have known he was there? Or was he just that paranoid?
A rippling breeze parted the tall grass ahead of him for mere seconds. He’d switched to NV too late. From up high, somebody dropkicked the side of his head, hard, but not hard enough to make him release the baby in his arms.
Adam crouched to adjust his goggles, searching after his assailant. And there the bastard was. A lime-green tinted man sat beneath a triangular-shaped paraglide floating overhead, as silent as the night itself. An engine noise would’ve confirmed the visual, but there was none. Whoever this guy was, he’d banked and was coming around again, no doubt thinking he’d rendered his target unconscious.
Guess again. Adam growled low in his throat. The predator in him sprang to life. Two could play that game.
Rolling to his back with the baby still in his arms, he waited until his assailant was nearly on top of him again. But this time, automatic rounds strafed the ground alongside Adam. Enough was enough! He flipped to his stomach, set the drone down, and charged the would-be assassin.
Surprised, the guy banked sharply. Too sharp. With a running leap, Adam grabbed his ankle and jerked. Either the idiot hadn’t buckled up or the harness broke. Umph. Down he came, hitting the dirt hard. Adam followed through with a kick to the guy’s midsection. His boot connected with body armor. The guy had anticipated trouble.
Good to know. Me too.
Reaching to his ankle holster, Adam pulled his knife up, and—
“Got it!” a woman shrieked behind him. He whirled as another black silhouette materialized against the midnight sky. Whoever she was, she now had the HH.
He cocked his arm back and hurtled his knife at the thief. Bull’s-eye! She grunted, sagged, and collapsed limp in her harness. The paraglide continued into the night with the tiny drone tucked into the silvery netting beneath the woman’s seat.
No way! Adam ran with long-legged strides, his lungs bursting and every muscle on fire to get that damned HH. The nearly silent engine offered the barest hum as he closed the distance, his heart pounding with adrenaline and rage. No one—and I mean no one—messed with Adam Torrey.
Six more yards. Maybe less. Almost there. Almost got it. He forced his last reserve of strength into a final lunge, stretching with all he had to secure that baby bird again when—
BLAM! A wicked blast of fire and pain caught his shoulder. It spun him around and turned him into a ragdoll, tumbling end over end through the grass. Forward momentum finally ceased when he came to a breathless stop, face up, blood streaming out of the hole in his chest. A universe of stars swirled overhead. He had no way to reach his gear bag. Thunder rumbled too close. Not thunder. Maybe boots on the ground. Running fast. Coming straight toward him.
A black shadow descended, cruel and cold.
The butt of a rifle.
The last thing he saw.
About the Author
Irish Winters
…is a best-selling author of military romance who, when she isn’t writing, dabbles in poetry, grandchildren, and rarely—as in extremely rarely—the kitchen. More prone to be outdoors than in, she grew up the quintessential tomboy on a dairy farm in rural Wisconsin, spent her teenage years in the Pacific Northwest, but calls the Wasatch Mountains of Northern Utah, home. For now. She believes in making every day count for something, and follows the wise admonition of her mother to, “Look out the window and see something!”
Connect with Irish online:
On Facebook: https:/www.facebook.com/author.irishwinters
On Twitter: https://twitter.com/irishwinters1
Or at www. IrishWint
ers.com
Renner (In the Company of Snipers Book 19) Page 37
