The pilot put up his hand, gesturing to Danny that they were now five minutes from the landing zone.
“Clean,” said Danny.
Behind him the Marines got ready to hit the dirt. Even though this was the third warhead they’d recovered today, the men still tensed as they gathered near the door. Danny could smell the sweat as their adrenaline picked up and they got ready to go.
The Ospreys bucked slightly as they pitched toward the ground. The rear ramp opened and the Marines swarmed over the desert, anxious ants swarming an abandoned picnic basket.
Danny had Starship give him the widest possible view of the area from the Flighthawk; after making sure it was clean, he tapped the pilot on the shoulder and went to join the men as they took control of the area. Two fire teams ran full throttle to the highway, moving in opposite directions so they could observe and stop any traffic if necessary. Four men went toward the village, setting up a post where they could watch for anyone approaching them.
“Secure, Captain,” said the ranking Marine NCO, a gunnery sergeant named Bob McNamera, who, like gunnery sergeants throughout the Corps, was called Gunny. “Ready to take a look at our Easter egg?”
“Let’s get a look,” said Danny, starting toward the warhead.
It was larger than the last two. Much of the fairing was burnt, and the ground around it was scorched. Bits and pieces of rocket were scattered behind it in an extended starburst pattern.
“This one’s a different missile than the others,” Danny told Dreamland Command as he scanned the area with his smart helmet’s built-in camera. “Bigger.”
“Very good,” replied Ray Rubeo over the satellite connection.
“Different procedure for disarming?”
“We’re determining that right now, Captain. What exactly is the ETA of Ms. Gleason to the site?”
“Huh?”
“When is Ms. Gleason expected to arrive?”
“Ms. Gleason
Rubeo cleared his throat, then explained that Jennifer Gleason was en route with the rest of the Whiplash ground team.
“Are you kidding?” Danny said. “They’re supposed to parachute into our camp in India an hour from now.”
“It would be useful for Ms. Gleason to join you at the scene,” said Rubeo. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Who told her she could do a night jump?”
“Who tells Ms. Gleason she can do anything?”
“Change in plans, Jen,” said sergeant Liu after he clambered down the ladder from the cockpit area. “We’re going to go out a bit farther north than originally planned.”
“OK,” she answered, gripping her jump helmet. She was sitting with the other Whiplashers on a row of plastic fold-down seats at the side of the large cargo hold. The big aircraft was empty except for a small pallet of gear that would be dropped with the team.
“You sure you don’t want to hitch up?” Liu asked.
“I hate tandem jumps,” she said.
“It’s a high altitude jump at nighttime.”
“I’m Army qualified, Sergeant.”
Liu gave her a dubious look, but it was true. A year before, she had suffered the ignominy of a tandem jump into Iran. She liked the excitement of parachuting, but didn’t like being tethered to someone else. So she’d gone to the trouble of completing a parachute course with a former Army Ranger and master combat jumper.
“Qualified” was a relatively low standard — a soldier could earn the basic Army parachutist badge with five jumps, only one of which was at night. Liu and his men would do five jumps in a single day just to stay sharp. And HALO jumps — high altitude, low opening — weren’t even part of the program.
“I’ve had three night jumps, all with more gear than I’m carrying now,” added Jennifer, sensing Liu’s objections. “And I’ve done thirty jumps, including three HALO. OK? So I don’t need a keeper.”
“Hey, I jumped with her, Nurse,” said Sergeant Geraldo “Blow” Hernandez. Blow was also the team jumpmaster. “She’s got the goods.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“It’s gonna cost you,” said Blow.
“Not if I hit the ground first.”
“Global hawk shows a car coming, Captain. Driving from the east.”
Danny couldn’t believe the bad timing. The Whiplash team had just gone out of the aircraft.
“How fast?”
“Hard to tell,” said Gunny. “Ground team can’t see him yet. You want us to nuke him?”
Danny knew what the sergeant meant, but it was still a poor choice of words.
“Let’s see if he goes fast enough to miss them,” Danny told the sergeant. “Better for all of us if he just drives on.”
“Your call,” said the Marine, his tone leaving no doubt that he disagreed with Danny’s decision.
Danny waited for the car to come into view. If only the Whiplash team had jumped, he could have told Liu and the others to change their landing spot to avoid being detected. But he felt that was too much to ask of Jennifer.
She really shouldn’t have been on the mission at all.
“Guy’s a slowpoke,” said Gunny, who was watching the car with a set of night glasses.
Danny glanced toward the sky. The team would be opening their chutes just about now.
“We may make it,” said Danny hopefully.
“Your call.”
“Yes, it is.”
The shock of wind as she hit the slipstream below the jet sent a chill through Jennifer so severe that her legs shook. Even with the Dreamland night-vision technology embedded in the smart helmet, all she could see was black.
“Damn,” she told herself.
That was as close as she would come to admitting that she’d bit off a little more than she could comfortably chew. She pulled her arms and legs back closer to her torso, shaping herself into a frog position as she plummeted downward. The altimeter in the smart helmet was somewhat distracting — the default display flashed large numerals in blue as the jumper descended — but she did like the infrared night view, which bathed the world in a warm green glow.
It didn’t feel like she was falling. The sensation was more of flying, sailing through the air at a tremendous clip. For all her intellectual skills, Jennifer loved to push her body; running and rock climbing were regular pursuits. Skydiving wasn’t quite as much fun — there was too much prep involved, which meant she had to plan quite a bit with her schedule. But it was definitely a rush.
The smart helmet showed her where she was compared to her designated landing zone. She tilted her arm and left leg, leaning back to the right spot.
A tone sounded. Jennifer yanked the ripcord, and within moments the loud hurricane rush transformed into something gentler. This wasn’t the lullaby of a bassinet slowly lulling a newborn to sleep: she had to work, checking her canopy with the aid of a wrist flashlight and then steering according to the cues given by the helmet. The parachutist and her parachute were a miniature aircraft, capable of flying literally miles before touching down.
Jennifer didn’t have to go quite that far. With her chute and lines looking good, her course set, she enjoyed the view. There were small huts in the distance, a car on a road, the Osprey and work team.
The digital altimeter counted down her altitude: 200 feet…150…100…
The helmet blacked out.
