Dallas placed his right foot in the middle of his back, pushed upward and grabbed for Brian's hand. Two others seized his legs and pushed up. Dallas MacPherson was on the wing in four seconds flat.
Expertly he moved to the nose-cone panel, where the avionics equipment is located. In there he also found the front undercarriage hydraulics, and he placed a charge right in the middle, setting it for 120 minutes. Then he opened the panel of the port-side engine, the one they use for lubricating, and placed another small magnetic bomb right in there, angled to blow the engine block in half.
At the second Skyhawk, the nose cone was much more securely locked, so Dallas decided to blow both engines clean in half. While he set the charges he ordered a trooper to 'Get in the fucking cockpit and cut and rip every wire you can see, and boot out all the dials on the instrument panel on the way out.'
Ron Wallace chuckled at the determination of the young SEALs explosives king, but wondered what the point was of wrecking the instruments if the darned plane didn't have any engines. Still, Dallas was a thorough man.
Skyhawk three was tackled in the same way, and so was four, but it was taking too long, and Rick instructed them to take out the next four aircraft with one charge in the cockpit and another in the engine, which was much faster.
'Right now we've got forty minutes for the last seven bombers…Dallas, you and Mike better take the far two…I'll take care of the next two right here. Three men with each aircraft…the timers are all preset for sixty minutes after we leave. Ed's got the chart on the little computer…he'll just hand you the correct timer for the final group, numbered one to seven on the casing.'
It took all of the forty minutes to complete the operation, but they made it with three minutes to spare. There had been no sign of a patrol from the air base buildings, and the SEALs gathered up the remains of their equipment, loose wire ends, cutters, screwdrivers, stuffed them in their rucksacks and set off at a jog behind Rick Hunter, making straight for the gate Bob Bland had just rendered useless.
That took only four more minutes, and they ran through it and on down the track, with Commander Hunter using the flashlight every few seconds for the briefest direction check. It took five minutes to reach the big shed, but not until they stood directly in front could they see it, the tall wire gate, inside of which was a large sign. Rick picked it out with the light — a red skull and crossbones, above the word
'Holy shit!' said Rick. 'This is it.'
'You're right,' said Dallas. 'And we plainly have to give it proper attention.'
Everyone within range chuckled in the night air. Rick called out softly…'Bob? You in there?'
'Right here,' hissed back their resident burglar. 'I've severed the gate wire. The lock was too tough to crack in four minutes…but right here, you can get in.'
Rick and Dallas climbed through, obliterated a window, and dropped two powerful short-delayed charges inside. Then they climbed back out to the road, hurled four grenades through the broken glass, and ran for their lives, diving into the grass as the smallish explosives went up.
Then they set off fast down the track, putting themselves as far away as possible from the shed, before the real stuff exploded. They were one and a half miles away when the ammunition dump blew with unbelievable force.
The ground literally shuddered. In fact, the whole darned island shook from end to end. The flash from about fifty thousand-pound bombs lit up the night. Three minutes later, staring from the hill on which they had paused, the SEALs could see plainly the raging fires in the shed at the perimeter of the airfield.
They could also see headlights from two or maybe three vehicles speeding toward the area, down the track. Rick stared at his watch and just faintly discerned another shudder in the ground as all fifteen aircraft back down the runway exploded with dull numbing force.
None of them would ever fly again, and Rick doubted if the Argentine military would even have noticed, given their present proximity to perhaps the mightiest blast in the Southern Hemisphere since Krakatoa blew its stack in 1883. Even if they did, they would surely have put it down to yet more detonations in the ammunition store.
'That's it for us, guys,' he snapped. 'Now, to utilize an old SEAL phrase, let's get the fuck out of here.'
He checked the compass, checked the GPS, and led the way. They ran three times as fast as they had on the inward journey. Except for their weapons and ammunition clips they were empty-handed, racing across the biting wind, over the flat, cold, sparse ground, headed straight for the beach.
They covered the final half mile in probably record time and raced into the hide, hurling themselves into the shelter of the rocks, Dallas and Ron Wallace laughing, gazing back at the brightly lit sky to the west, watching the occasional violent explosion.
The time was 0230 and the sea was still pounding.
'We going, sir? In this?' Mike Hook sounded concerned.
'We're going, Mike. In this,' replied Rick. 'Because at first light someone's going to know we were here, because they'll find the blown aircraft. It'll take 'em about an hour to have a massive search party operational, and they'll be combing this island with helicopters. I don't care where we are six hours from now, just so long as we're not on Pebble Island.'
For the next half hour the SEALs ate on the run. Ed Segal made ham-and-cheese sandwiches, while they carried their gear down to the water's edge. Then they upended the boats and carried them both down to the same spot. Separately they hoisted the engines down to the boats, and bolted them on to the stout wooden transom of the inflatables, connected the fuel lines and the electric wires to the oversized batteries. Finally they went back for the extra fuel cans and carried them down to the departure zone.
They were all wearing their heavy-duty wet suits and life jackets, but in this surf there was no question of keeping the boats sufficiently still in the water to load them while they floated. So they piled their gear into the inflatables at the seaward end of the beach. Then came the tricky part.
Once more Rick Hunter lined his four-man team up. In the lead boat he was taking Mike Hook, Bob Bland, and Ron Wallace. Don Smith would provide the heavy muscle at the starboard bow of the second boat with Dallas, the second Team Leader, on the port bow. Brian Harrison and Seaman Segal would work at the stern.
With the inflatables now loaded with all the SEALs' worldly goods, they simply could not afford to capsize, and, standing in the shallows, Commander Hunter went over the drill again.
Rick pumped his right fist and added, 'The moment you feel the bow riding up
Commander Hunter did not hear one '
He made one final check, saying quietly, 'Everything loaded…no traces left behind?'
'Only the biggest fire since the Brits burned down Washington,' muttered Dallas, in his Southern drawl, pronouncing the armies of His Britannic Majesty
Everyone grinned in the dark, and Rick Hunter said firmly, 'Boats to the shallows…we're going together… watch for the wave…and when I shout ‘Go,'
They seized the handles and hauled the boats down the slope and into the inches-deep foaming water. Despite the lightness of the rubberized hulls, the SEALs were appalled at the weight now that the engines were fixed. Rick and Dallas primed the fuel lines and quickly tested the ignition and starter motors. Then they stood, facing the incoming Atlantic, waiting for Commander Hunter to select the right wave.
All seamen know the ninth wave in the succession is often markedly bigger than the previous eight, and Rick waited, counting and watching for the big one. When it came the water came tearing in around the SEALs' knees. And Rick knew the next one would be smaller.
'Okay, guys…into the water and let the next wave suck out…we'll go on the following wave…'
The next wave came in with a crash, but not so heavily as the previous one. The moment it started to suck out, Rick Hunter roared,
The inflatables surged forward for twenty yards as they hammered through the surf in the pitch dark, guided
