Contents ( 55)
- In Memoriam
- Epigraph
- Cast of Characters
- Americans
- Russians
- Canadian
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Weapons and Acronyms
- Weapons
- Acronyms
- About the Author
- Also by Dale Brown
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
“Copy that, descending,” Ingalls said with a tight nod. He pushed the steering yoke forward very gradually, not by much, no more than a degree or two. This approach to the drop zone was a tricky one. Past the midpoint of the Brooks Range, the highest peaks tended to diminish in elevation, but some of them still spiked nearly a mile into the sky. If the HC-130J came in too low, it risked slamming head-on into a mountainside. If it came in too high, there’d be no way to descend rapidly enough to drop Flynn and his men from a safe height.
Ingalls saw the airspeed indicator on his HUD rising and throttled back a bit. Ideally, he wanted to cross the drop zone at no more than 130 knots. Much faster and any parachute jump would be far too hazardous. Much slower and he risked stalling out, especially with the drag from their dead Number Two engine. He blinked away a bead of sweat. This was a high-wire act from beginning to end, with no safety net waiting to save anyone if he screwed up.
Aft of the HC-130J’s cockpit, Flynn sat hunched over in one of the mesh seats that lined the sides of the cargo compartment. Between his parachute harness, weapons, and other gear, he was carrying well over a hundred pounds of extra weight strapped to his back, chest, and thighs. Add the tendency of the big aircraft to shimmy and shake in turbulence every few seconds, and there was no way he could hope to get comfortable. Thank God this was such a short flight, he decided.
He turned his head to look at the rest of his team. Soldiers and airmen gave him answering grins or flashed thumbs-up signs. Another positive of the quick trip, Flynn thought dryly. Nobody’d had much time yet to consider what a really dumbass idea this was.
And then Staff Sergeant Wahl was leaning over him, holding on to a seat frame. “Six-minute warning, sir,” the HC-130 crewman yelled into Flynn’s ear. For the purposes of this flight, Wahl was acting as both loadmaster and jumpmaster. Despite the half-inch-thick insulation covering almost every exposed metal inch of the aircraft’s fuselage, the deafening roar from the Super Hercules’s big engines made it sound like the other man was a hundred yards away.
Wahl saw his answering nod and moved out into the middle of the compartment. He waved his arms to get everyone’s attention. “Get ready!” He used hand signals to make sure he could be understood over all the pounding racket.
Obeying the command, Flynn and the others unbuckled their seat belts.
“Port-side personnel, stand up!”
Made awkward by all their heavy equipment, Flynn and the five men with him on the HC-130’s left side staggered upright and turned toward the rear of the plane. As the first man slated to jump, he was at the head of the line.
“Starboard-side personnel, stand up!” Wahl shouted next.
Now those seated on the right side clambered to their feet. Sergeant Andy Takirak, who would be the last man out, was at the back. A gauze bandage covered the jagged cut on his forehead. He met Flynn’s gaze and nodded confidently, as if to confirm that he was ready to go despite his minor injury.