— sand.
The sea was very shallow for a long way out, just there. The beach should consist of fine white sand up near the trees. An impact on wet sand would be risky; they had to make the DZ above the tide.
'Skipper — alter course to intersect the coast ten miles west of the headland. Somewhere between there and Ras Shahid is the DZ.'
'You have to be more specific, Gant. I got no fuel to spare.'
'OK, OK.' He flicked once more through the sections of the map in a feverish hurry. He heard breathing around him, a ragged chorus, like the noise of boxing fans believing their man is going down for the final time. Section after section passed before him, each one covering no more than five miles of coast, detailed, enlarged—
— but only drawings, sketches.
There…
He made the calculations. The beach stretched for a mile and a half in almost a straight line. High tide reached no more than — it was wide enough. Trees, no villages or settlements, no bungalows. A sandbar almost encircled a small bay.
'OK,' he announced. 'Seventeen miles west of Ras Jaddi — hit that beach and hope to God.'
There was silence for a moment, then the muttering of the Galaxy's navigator, finally: 'OK, mister, it's your funeral.'
'I know it.'
'ETA is five minutes plus. We're at nine thousand feet, cruising at two-forty knots. Twenty miles to run. Beginning my descent. When we reach the DZ, you have time for one look-see.' He paused, then added: 'Then you say go or no go.'
Gant envisaged the Galaxy's enormous shadow flickering across the fine white sand, and swallowed the saliva that had gathered at the back of his mouth. The huge wingspan, the weight of the aircraft, its lumbering inability to maneuver, everything. He saw it sagging toward the beach, laying its three pallets like eggs — a great prehistoric, reptilian bird. There would be time for the two passes, no more. The beach had to be wide enough, long enough, flat enough.
He stared at the picture on the screen until it began to grow vague and out of focus, then looked up. Mac nodded grimly. Garcia tried to grin, but his hps trembled. Garcia's crew had moved away. Gant had done what they all wanted, and what they had most not wanted. Garcia was not as good as he was, none of them had his experience; no one had his reputation. Now he was risking their lives, and they resented it.
'Mac,' he said brusquely, 'see the loadmaster. Make sure the guy is up to this, huh?'
Mac was experienced enough for his judgment to be trusted, even in this situation. He was the only one for whom Gant did not have to feel responsible. And Mac was in his MiL. Mac, perhaps, was lucky.
'Sure, Major.' Even Mac was stiff and remote with anxiety, using Gant's rank as an indicator of doubt.
'The rest of you, you know the theory. Just let it happen to you.' He shrugged. Always, he felt this difficulty, this distaste for risking other people's lives. He resented his responsibility for them. 'Belt in tight and ride down. You do nothing. The captain and the loadmaster are the main men. The fuel goes out first, then you, Garcia. Then me on the second pass. I won't drop on your back/
'Sure,' Garcia replied.
Gant resented the almost sneer, even as he understood it. Then he saw Anders moving swiftly down the hold toward him, his face no less drawn and pale than when he had departed for the communications room.
'OK,' Gant concluded. 'You got maybe five minutes. I suggest you get on board. Stow everything movable, make everything secure. OK? Anders?'
They drifted away from him, completing a departure they had begun the moment his decision was made. Anders glanced at them, looked at the map display — bending to reconcile it with the large-scale map of Pakistan on the floor of the hold — then said:
'Langley says to hold.'
'Tell the skipper. He's talking about five minutes, no more. What kind of holding pattern is that?'
The Galaxy was descending now. Through the window, the strip of sand was still no wider, no more than a margin between blue and green and brown. The sea glittered far below, wide and empty.
'I know, Gant, but the government in Islamabad can't be talked to and persuaded all in a couple of minutes.'
'Karachi?'
'Awaiting orders from Islamabad.'
'We have to go, whatever. You know that, they know that. Up the ante — a bigger bribe, Anders. Get those guys in Islamabad to see it our way. Isn't it this neck of the woods where bribery's a way of life?'
'It all takes time, dammit.'
'Time is the thing we haven't got.'
'You know I can't authorize this, Gant,' Anders said heavily. He leaned one crooked arm against the bulkhead, his weight against it. He appeared to be staring down at the sheen of the sea.
'You're just playing politics, man,' Gant snapped, staring at the displayed section of map. That beach, there—
He was committed. They had to go.
'Whatever, it's been put on hold,' Anders murmured.
'Hold? Anders, the computer scenario for the mission is out of date — tell them. Wake them up!'
'I did, but—'
'We're talking about minutes here! The shit's hit the fan, and all those guys are wondering is, who's broken wind.'
'It's still on hold, Gant.'
'It can't be.'
He turned to look at the two Russian helicopters. Garcia was already aboard the 24A, checking that everything was stowed and secure. His copilot was alongside him, his gunner in front of them in the forward section of the helicopter cockpit. The MiL, on its pallet and with rotors folded in line along the top of the fuselage, looked helpless, unready. Behind it, the fuel drums were being checked on their pallet. The shadowy bulk of his own helicopter was closest to him. Around all three pallets, the Galaxy's crew moved urgendy. Mac stood with the loadmaster. Orders and checks crackled and flew from microphones.
He had already briefed the crew and their loadmaster. Getting Mac to check was only a way of keeping him occupied, and away from himself. The loadmaster was experienced and competent. He had dropped palletized loads at zero feet on previous occasions, but only from the hold of a much smaller Hercules transport. In the end, he would have to do little more than obey orders. The Galaxy's captain would call out the timings on each run, give the green light, and only then would the loadmaster's team, harnessed to the fuselage, release the pallets through the open rear doors.
'It can't be,' Gant repeated softly.
'It has been.'
'Jesus H. Christ! Do they realize? Do they understand? We lose these two choppers unless we can dump them on the beach. There is no other way — even they ought to be able to see that, six thousand miles from here.'
'Gant?'
'Yes, skipper,' he snapped into the headset.
'ETA, one minute. When we hit your beach, we have no more than four minutes in the DZ area. Two passes only, after the look-see. You got that?' There was an edge of nervousness in the aircraft pilot's voice now; something almost apologetic, too. 'I don't have clearance, Gant,' he added.
Gant looked at Anders, then said without hesitation: 'You have it, skipper. I just gave it to you.'
'Let me talk to Mr. Anders.'
Anders was glaring at Gant. His body was slumped against the fuselage. The sea was much nearer beyond the curve of his arm. Hills were real, individual mounds and peaks and slopes. The line of palms and other trees, the strip of white sand snaking away westward, losing clarity and finally identity in the faint heat haze and the sheen of the sea. Gant swallowed.
