Apparently satisfied with his mental calculations, Kosciusko suddenly stood bolt upright, cutting off whatever Boxer had been about to say. 'You know, Wes,' Kosciusko said to Stauer, 'we could kill two birds with one stone here. If we're clever.'
'Oh?'
D-1, thirty-six miles northeast of Nugaal, Ophir, and about three hundred feet over ground
The land below wasn't just sere; it was also rough. That meant that the six CH-801s moving across it in a loose staggered trail formation were also moving up and down . . . and up . . . and down and . . .
Terry Welch wanted to puke. Desperately wanted to, as a matter of fact. He held it in, no matter how hard the self-willed vomit hammered at his tonsils, because one hurl and it was a safe bet that everyone aboard the aircraft would do likewise.
On the plus side, at least the nausea keeps me from worrying.
And there was a great deal to worry about. He could worry about the planes-especially the lead bird, his own-not finding the right drop zone. Sure, sure, the Global Positioning System-GPS-should ensure that this did not happen. And, sure, McCaverty had shown considerable ability to find the right spot during practice jumps back in Brazil. 'But that was yesterday . . .'
Then, too, there was the worry about the self-packed chutes opening properly, and, given the altitude at which they intended to jump, quickly. The reserve on his belly may have been a comfort, but it was a small one, if so, because there mightn't be any time to deploy it if the main failed.
Landing? Jesus, landing? Dark, rocky, and anything but flat. And laden like pack mules.
Then there was the hump over the mountains, preparing a hide and hiding out all day, then a night move to the objective, and finally, the assault.
And let's not even get into the timing of the extraction. Or making sure we can get off the airfield at Nugaal, or . . .
'Twwwooo minutes!' McCaverty announced.
Or much of anything else.
D-1, Safe House, Elayo, Ophir
There was no electricity here; thus the only light came from the fire on which they'd cooked their meal and a couple of candles burning on a table. Wahab paced back and forth, nervously, causing the candles to flicker and the slight shadows they cast to shift in random and annoying ways.
'Never done this before, have you?' Fulton asked. A large caliber bullpup rifle-a Russian VSSk-with a long tubular extension, the silencer, sat across his lap.
The African stopped his pacing, clasped both hands behind him, and admitted, 'No, nothing like this.' Wahab had fought before, of course, as a regular, back when he'd had a country with a regular armed force, and then as an irregular, leading his fellow clansmen against other clans, made of those who had once been his countrymen. That, however, had been different in kind.
'Some people say it's the waiting that's worst,' Rattus said, with an evil smile. 'Me, I've always thought the worst part was when the bullets were smacking around your head; that, and the incoming artillery. Oh, and the IED's . . . Jesus! I remember one time-'
Rattus's beginning monologue was stopped by a dirty look from Buckwheat Fulton.
'Relax, Wahab,' Fulton said. 'Our job is pretty easy. No, it's not without its risks, but overall it's pretty easy. We take the vehicles to a place about two miles out from the airport's military side. Then we split up, go in on foot to a point about half a kilometer from that. Then we shoot the engines until every helicopter or other military plane there is unable to fly or someone notices us doing it. If we can kill that someone, we keep doing it.
'Odds are fair, though, that nobody will notice even if they're awake. The rifles are subsonic and suppressed. The only thing anyone's going to hear is the strike, and that's an unusual enough sound that they're unlikely to know what it is. Or where it's coming from.'
'Now get some sleep,' Fulton finished. 'Big day tomorrow.'
D-1 Minisub
Enroute, they'd surfaced and popped the hatch half a dozen times to get their location with a hand-held GPS. In no case had they stayed up more than as long as it took to pop the hatch and get a reading. But the last previous check they'd made had had them within five kilometers of the target and a small fraction of that of where they should have been on their predetermined course.
The sub was tiny, as such things go, and, though quiet on its own, not particularly well insulated from outside noise. Thus, when the small orca-painted conning tower, or sail, broke the surface Eeyore could hear the water rushing off and around the boat, even as he saw the line of the surface recede in his port.
'Dead slow, Simmons,' he ordered.
'Aye, slow,' the boat's driver echoed.
The tower had a clear vision port wrapped around the forward half of it, just where tower met deck. Ordinarily, with a two-man crew, Antoniewicz would have had the port just in front of him. As was, with Morales taking up space, he had to scrunch.
The opening to the harbor was there, about a half a mile off and almost dead ahead. The little difference from dead ahead was not, in Antoniewicz's judgment, worth resubmerging for. It will do. Most of the city behind it was darkened, without the ambient glow one normally associated with built up areas of that size. My compliments to the chauffeur.
They weren't submariners, really. The formal commands and sequence of events weren't a big deal. In fact, the former SEALs thought it was all a bit silly.
Instead, with a mixture of relief-after all, Simmons could have misnavigated-and satisfaction, Eeyore said, 'It's almost dead ahead. Good job. Bring us up past deck level. Morales, you ready?'
'To get out of this fucking can? You couldn't imagine how ready, Eeyore. My fucking back is killing me.'
'Bitch, bitch, bitch,' Antoniewicz said as he stood up and stretched his own back. He didn't take long over the stretch, though. As they'd rehearsed it dozens of times on the Merciful's deck, he scrambled out the hatch, keeping low, to the deck ahead of the tower. There he sat down and spun on his butt until he was facing aft again, away from the port. By that time Morales was standing in the hatch well, ready to begin passing over the munitions and equipment.
First out was a pod of limpet mines, with an attached strap. Eeyore took the mine pod and hung it, over the side and half in the water, by hooking the strap over a small stanchion. Another mine pod followed, then the third and fourth.
After that came masks with underwater night vision attachments. These were more or less normal, if wide view, masks, with a single, waterproof, image intensifier that could be rotated to either eye. Then followed fins, Phoebus Bio-fins, which did not come cheap. The real advantage to those were that they were so efficient that the user used up much less oxygen, thereby increasing dive time.
The fins were followed by snorkels, fairly light weight-belts with waterproof GPS clipped on, harnesses, rapidly inflatable vests, and rebreathers. Last came two of the underwater useable assault rifles, the Russian APS's.
Simmons stayed inside, still lying prone, with his face to the other clear vision port, to help keep the boat balanced and on an even keel.
While Antoniewicz was donning his equipment, trying to keep the latter from going over the side, Morales
