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
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.
Rick came forward, jaw jutting, always the leader in his own mind.
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.
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 affection 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
