'Yes, sir,' said the rookie, who was cool but was working his chewing gum overtime.
The Air Force had cleverly equipped the 76T with an enlarged oil tank that was divided into two compartments: one that fed the plane, the other that could leak with the press of a button. The leaking oil was designed to give the plane a reason to turn around if they were spotted. They could go down at once, if necessary, to avoid being shot down or forced to a Russian airstrip— or, this close to the coast, they could break away from the pursuit craft and make a run for home.
In either case, Squires knew that the 76T would be unlikely to be ferrying them back.
'What do you want to do, sir?' the Captain asked Squires.
'We'll jump,' he said. 'I'll let Op-Center know what's happened and let them figure a way out for us.'
The Captain took another look at the radar screen. 'In about ninety seconds, the MiGs will be close enough to see you.'
'Then we'll jump fast,' said Squires.
'I like your style, sir,' the Captain said, saluting.
Jumpmaster Squires hurried back to the cabin. He decided not to tell Striker what had happened. Not yet. He needed his team to be focused on the job. Though he would be happy to storm hell itself with any of these soldiers at his side, a stray concern at the wrong time by any one of them could cost lives.
At the FBI Academy in Quantico, the Striker team had practiced many kinds of aerial assault, from night jumps to Stabo assaults with the team hanging from helicopter lines and landing simultaneously on church steeples, cliffsides, and even the tops of moving buses. Each member had the poise, stamina, and smarts necessary for the job. But those in-depth examinations by the doctors, the 'chancre mechanics,' were easy: soldiers were either fit to serve or they weren't. Despite the best efforts of Liz Gordon and her team of psychologists, the real question mark was always how they would hold up under the stress of an actual mission— when there wasn't a fence made of two-by-fours to catch them in case they slid off the rooftop. When they knew that the rugged terrain wasn't the survival-training site at Camp Dawson, West Virginia, but the mountains of North Korea or the tundra of Siberia.
It wasn't for lack of respect or concern that Squires kept the information from them. It was to remove, as much as possible, another distraction from the successful execution of the mission.
The Strikers were lined up by the hatch, as they'd been for a half hour. Every five minutes, the navigator had provided Squires with their precise coordinates in case it had been necessary for them to jump early. While they stood there, the team prepared for 'infil.' Each member checked another's weapons and rucksacks, making certain they were tight against the chest, back, and sides, and that the ruck in back was firm against the bottom of the parachute where it wouldn't interfere with deployment. The rappelling equipment was stowed in rucks; that three of the Strikers carried at the end of fifteen-foot tethers that would dangle beneath the soldiers as they fell. The teammates checked their padded-leather jump helmets, oxygen masks, and night-vision goggles. These were bug- eyed glasses so heavy that counterweights had to be attached to the backs of the helmet. After a few months of training with these goggles, most Strikers found that their neck sizes had gone up two sizes from the building of their neck muscles. At the last moment before the jump hatch was opened, they switched from the oxygen consoles to which they'd been hooked to the bailout bottles strapped to their sides.
The darkish, blood-red cabin lights had been turned on and icy winds slammed mercilessly through the cabin. It was impossible to hear anything but the air rushing by, and as soon as they were over their target and got the 'go' signal, the lime-green jump light, Squires went out the door, pivoting on the ball of his right foot so that he was dropping facedown in the 'frog' position. From the corner of his eye, he saw the second team member jump, Sergeant Grey, then looked at the big, round altimeter strapped to his left wrist.
The numbers rolled over quickly— thirty-five thousand feet, thirty-four thousand, thirty-three. Squires felt the frigid air push against his flesh even through the cold-weather clothing, chilling and then stinging him with the combination of cold and fist-hard pressure. He assumed the glide position as he fell, and when his altimeter read thirty thousand feet he tugged the silver rip cord. There was a mild jolt and his legs swung underneath him.
As he drifted down through the dark and cloudless sky, the air warmed perceptibly though it was still below zero. As team members above him lined themselves up with the luminescent strip on the helmet of the Striker beneath them, Squires searched the ground for landmarks: the train track, the bridge, the mountain peaks. They were all there, and that afforded Squires a measure of relief. One of the most important psychological aspects at the start of any mission was being able to hit the target. Not only did that make the soldiers feel capable, but the maps had made them familiar with the terrain in the target area. It was just one less thing to worry about.
Though it was dark, the night-vision goggles allowed Squires to pick out the target cliff, and he used the riser straps above him on either side to maneuver the shroud lines and guide himself as close to the edge as possible. He had told the Strikers that he would be landing in the forward position and that they were to come in behind him. The last thing he wanted was for one of his people to overshoot the cliff. If they were snagged on a projection, they'd have to be rescued, costing them time. If they landed on the ground, out in the open, they might be seen.
Gusts near the ground caught Squires by surprise. He landed just five yards from the edge of the cliff. Dropping to his side to reduce the surface he presented to the wind, the officer quickly released his parachute and bundled it in, standing as he watched Sergeant Grey land, then Private DeVonne and the others. He was proud of them as they landed with precision; within five minutes, the six Strikers had knotted their parachutes to a tree. Private DeVonne stayed behind to leave a small incendiary device beneath the bundle. It was set to go off at 12:18 A.M., after the Strikers had departed the area, destroying itself and the parachutes and leaving nothing for the Russians to present to the United Nations as 'evidence' of a U.S. incursion.
As the Strikers huddled around Squires, they could hear distant engines that were more than just the 76T.
'Sounds like they've got company,' said Private Eddie Medina.
'They knew about it and it's being handled,' Squires said. 'Private Honda, set up the TAC-Sat. Everyone else, get ready to move out.'
While the five other Strikers moved out, using pitons and clamps to hook their heavy rappelling lines to the side of the cliff, Squires contacted Op-Center.
'Wake-up call,' he said as Mike Rodgers got on the line. 'What's the morning like there?'
'Sunny and mild,' said Rodgers. 'Charlie, you know about the MiGs—'
'Yes, sir.'
'Okay. We're working on it. The 76T's going to make a run for Hokkaido, but it won't be coming back. We're working on a variation of the original plan. Be at the extraction point at the scheduled time. We'll have an aircraft there.'
'Understood.'
It was unspoken, but Charlie also understood that if there was a problem, the team would have to find a place to hide. Several sites had been marked on their maps, and the team would go to the closest one if the need arose.
'Good luck,' Rodgers said before signing off.
Charlie handed the receiver back to Honda. While the radio operator packed up the TAC-Sat, Squires took a moment to look across the terrain. It didn't require the eerie green light of the night vision goggles to look dead and desolate beneath the canopy of unnaturally bright stars. The track came toward them in a gentle curve from the plains to the east, passed through a natural path between the cliffs, and continued on across flat scrubland dotted with trees and patches of snow. To the south were mountains. The region was as quiet as anywhere he had ever been. The only sounds were the whistle of the wind in his helmet and the scuffling of the Strikers' boots against the dirt and loose rocks of the cliff.
Honda moved forward when he was finished. And with a final glance toward the eastern horizon from which their quarry would soon be coming, Squires moved to where the Strikers were just finishing with their preparations to descend from the ledge.
CHAPTER FIFTY
