of their electrically heated thermal jumpsuits. The air hissed from the cargo bay as it slowly equalized with the outside atmosphere.
Time passed quickly. And then Stafford's voice came over the intercom.
'Major, ten-minute warning.'
'Roger.' There was a pause, then Cleary asked sarcastically, 'Can you give us any more heat back here?'
'Didn't I tell you?' Stafford replied. 'We need ice for cocktails after you leave.'
For the next two minutes, Cleary went over the infiltration plan of the mining facility in his mind. They were combining the elements of a high-altitude, low-canopy opening jump with a high-altitude, high-canopy opening jump to keep detection to a minimum. The plan was for the team to free-fall to 25,000 feet, open their canopies, assemble in the air, and fly to the target landing zone.
Sharpsburg's Delta Force would exit first, closely followed by Jacobs and his SEALS, and then by Garnet and his Marine Recon Team. Cleary would be the last man to jump, in order to have an overview of his men and be in the most advantageous position to give course corrections. Sharpsburg would be the Mother Hen, the term tagged to the lead j camper. All of the Ducks in Line would then follow. Where Sharpsburg went, so would they.
'Six minutes to jump,' came Stafford's voice, interrupting Cleary's thoughts.
Stafford's eyes were on the computer monitor, linked to a newly installed photo system that revealed the ground in astonishing detail through the clouds. Brannon handled the big aircraft as tenderly as if it were a child, his course rock-steady on the line that traveled across the monitor, with a small circle depicting the jump target.
'Damn the orders!' Stafford suddenly snorted. 'Brannon!'
'Sir?'
'At the one-minute warning, cut our airspeed to 135 knots indicated. I'm going to give those guys every chance at surviving I can. When Sergeant Hendricks reports that the last man has jumped, ease the throttles to two hundred knots.'
'Won't the Wolfs' ground radar pick up our reduction in speed?'
'Radio McMurdo Station on an open frequency. Then say we're experiencing engine trouble, will have to reduce speed and arrive late.'
'Not a bad cover,' Brannon conceded. 'If they're monitoring us on the ground, they'd have no reason not to buy the story.'
Brannon went on his radio and announced the deception to anyone who was listening. Then he gestured at the numerals flashing on the computer monitor indicating the approaching jump mark. 'Two minutes coming up.'
Stafford nodded. 'Begin reducing speed, very gradually. At one minute to drop, just after I ring the bell, cut the airspeed to 135.'
Brannon flexed his fingers like a piano player and smiled. 'I shall orchestrate the throttles like a concerto.'
Stafford switched to the cargo bay intercom. 'Two minutes, Major. Sergeant Hendricks, begin opening the ramp.'
'Ramp opening,' came back Hendricks's steady voice.
Stafford turned to Brannon. 'I'll take the controls. You handle the throttles so I can concentrate on timing the drop.'
After monitoring the transmission, Cleary stood up and moved to the port side of the ramp, keeping his back turned to one side of the fuselage so he had a clear view of his men, the jump/caution lights, and the ramp. He raised and extended his right arm in an arc, palm facing from his side to a perpendicular position. This was the command to stand up.
The men rose from their seats and stood, checking their rip cords and equipment again, adjusting the heavy rucksacks they wore to the rear below their main parachute container. The huge ramp began to creep open, allowing a great rush of frigid air to sweep through the cargo bay.
The next seconds passed with cruel sluggishness.
In grim determination, they gripped the steel anchor line cables with gloved hands for support against the immense whirlwind they expected when the ramp fully opened, and as guides as they moved to the edge of the ramp to execute their exit. Although they exchanged self-assured glances, it was as if they didn't see their buddies around them. No words were needed to describe what they would experience once the ramp opened, and they dove into air so cold it was unimaginable.
In the cockpit, Stafford turned to Brannon. 'I'll take the controls now, so I can concentrate on timing. The throttles are yours.'
Brannon raised both his hands. 'She's all yours, Cap.'
'Cap? Cap?' Stafford repeated as if in pain. 'Can't you show me at least a smidgen of respect?' Then he switched the intercom aft. 'One minute warning, Major.'
Cleary did not acknowledge. He didn't have to. The alarm bell rang once. He gave the next signal, right arm straight out to his side at shoulder level, palm up, then bent it at the elbow until his hand touched his Gentex helmet, giving the command to move to the rear, the men in front coming to a stop three feet from the ramp hinges. He lowered his goggles into place and silently began counting off the seconds until exit. Suddenly, he sensed something out of place. The aircraft was noticeably slowing.
'Ramp opened and locked, Captain,' Hendricks informed Stafford.
The sergeant's voice took Cleary by surprise. He immediately realized that he had forgotten to disconnect his communications cord from the intercom jack.
Cleary gave the men the hand and arm signal indicating fifteen seconds from exit. His eyes were fixed on the red caution light. The sixty-five-man team was massed into a tightly compressed group, with Sharpsburg now perched inches from the edge of the ramp.
Simultaneously, as the crimson caution light blinked off and the jump light flashed a vivid green, Cleary pointed to the open ramp.
As if jolted by a shock of electricity, Lieutenant Sharpsburg dove from the aircraft, soaring off into cloud- shrouded nothingness. With his arms and legs spread, he was swept out of sight as swiftly as if he'd been jerked by a giant spring. His team was no more than a few feet behind as they were also swallowed up in the clouds, followed swiftly by Jacobs and his SEAL team. Then came Garnet and his Marines. As the last Marine stepped off the ramp edge, Cleary leaped and was gone.
For a long moment, Hendricks and Joquin stood and stared into the white oblivion, unable to believe what they had just witnessed. Almost as if mesmerized, Hendricks spoke into the intercom on his oxygen mask. 'Captain, they're gone.'
Brannon lost no time in easing the throttles forward until the airspeed instruments read two hundred knots, half the C-17's cruising speed. The cargo door was closed and the oxygen system in the cargo bay replenished. Stafford's next act of business was to switch to a secure frequency and radio the U.S. South Atlantic Command Headquarters to report that the jump went as scheduled. Then he turned to Brannon.
'I hope they make it,' he said quietly.
'If they do, it will be because you sent them out into a blast of air a good two hundred and fifty miles an hour less in strength than our normal cruising speed.'
'I hope to God I didn't give them away,' said Stafford, without remorse. 'But it seemed certain death to subject them to such an explosive gust.'
'You won't get an argument from me,' Brannon said somberly.
Stafford sighed heavily as he reengaged the automatic pilot. 'Not our responsibility any longer. We dropped them right on a dime.' Then he paused, staring into the ominous white clouds that whipped past the windshield and obscured all view. 'I pray they all get down safely.'
Brannon looked at him askance. 'I didn't know you were a praying man.'
'Only during traumatic times.'
'They'll make it down,' said Brannon, with a sense of optimism. 'It's after they hit the ground that hell could break loose.'
Stafford shook his head. 'I wouldn't want to go up against those guys that just jumped. I'll bet their attack
