They took all five of their Chinook MH-47G’s aloft, but only three would be involved in the first drop.
“Ready to kick,” he called to Abby over the intercom. Charlene One had the lead.
“In twenty.” She’d already flipped the cargo bay lights to red to save their night vision.
He’d debated with himself long and hard about going in personally, but they needed an AMC. And loading the Air Mission Commander role on top of the heavy tasking Abby already carried as the flight lead wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t doubt she could do it, but it wasn’t the best use of his resources. Yet, it meant sending his team into the fray without Derek joining in.
Bill Bruce sat at the head of the cargo bay on Abby’s bird. He had a tablet computer in his hands that must connect him to the observers at each location, tipped so that Derek couldn’t see it. But Bill was watching him, not his computer.
“How did you do it?” It was killing him to watch the team perform final buddy checks without him.
“I didn’t.”
Derek squinted at him.
“I always went in. I never took the AMC role personally.”
Derek spun to look at his people. Seven guys, one woman, and a DAGOR. Team Two on the second helo would jump with silent electric motorbikes. And Team Three were going to be late arrivals, fast-roping onto the target’s rooftop timed to hit the site fifteen seconds behind the first two teams to maintain the element of surprise.
Too late to switch, he could only watch as Abby’s count hit Five. Then everything happened at once.
Sam had already lowered the cargo bay’s rear ramp, letting in the chill swirl of the Fort Campbell training range. Derek could see the lights of the base and the surrounding suburbia in the distance, but below lay the darkness of the range. At Four, Sam tossed the drogue chute out into the wind and checked that it was drawing well. At Three, he picked up the release line and at Two climbed up into the curve of the Chinook’s interior framing to get out of the way. At One, he yanked on the line. That freed the main chute, which the drogue dragged out the rear cargo hatch.
At Zero, the other crew chiefs popped the chains on the DAGOR vehicle and the big chute yanked it out of the cargo bay like a grenade out of an M32 launcher. The oversized equipment parachute caught the wind generated by the helo flying along at a hundred and fifty knots and the four tons of vehicle simply disappeared. Close on its bumper, the eight-person squad ran down the length of the cargo bay and dove off into the night. By the time they were clear, the DAGOR had slowed below fifty knots and another big chute fired out and opened to slow it further—all part of the LVAD, Low Velocity Air Drop system.
Hot Rod did a twist as his final step and saluted. That photo of a Marine doing that out a C-17 cargo lifter had already become iconic, but Hot Rod kept hoping he’d find a war photographer who wanted to take the same photo with a D-boy in the frame.
Derek raised his tablet halfway, then lowered it as if it wasn’t worth his time.
The last thing he saw of Hot Rod as he fell back into the darkness was his gloved middle finger raised in salute.
Then Derek spotted Bill watching him from the head of the cargo bay’s empty expanse. Derek’s people were out there. Within minutes they’d be in the fight. Even a simulated one, he was supposed to be embedded in the team, not watching from on high. What was he doing up here?
He walked the thirty feet forward as Sam closed the rear ramp and Derek sat on the opposite side of the cargo bay facing Bill.
“Different people, different choices, Derek. That’s a hard one you made. Now, focus.” Leave it to Bill to not comment on whether it was a good choice or bad.
Derek yanked his own tablet out while listening in on both the flight frequency—which was Night Stalker quiet—and the two jump teams—equally chill. No need for chatter if you had a clear enough plan—there wasn’t any. On the tablet, he monitored the fall of the DAGOR and the team. Unguided, the truck was going to go where the wind took it and it was up to everyone else to follow it down. For that reason, air drops were typically run at a far lower elevation than strictly personnel drops under steerable chutes. But for this op, they’d decided to drop from higher up to avoid attracting attention. The unguided parachute was heading their vehicle perilously close to the trees.
“Charlie Two,” he called the second helo, “this is Home Run. Shift drop two hundred meters southwest.”
Bill looked up at him in surprise.
Oh, right. “Uh, make that one hundred meters.” The electric motorbikes would have far less windage than the big DAGOR. Hopefully that would balance out the fall line as his main vehicle thudded down mere meters in the clear.
Bill went back to studying his own screen.
Derek went back to cursing himself for every moment of indecision, especially revealing any at all to Lt. Colonel Bill Bruce.
20
Hot Rod was first into the DAGOR while the others cleared the big chutes. He fired the engine and began counting thumps of butts in seats. At six aboard, he goosed it.
“Asshole,” Compass cursed after he dove into the navigator’s seat—seventh butt in seat. As Hot Rod’s right-hand man, his task was checking the others’ safety before climbing aboard, so he was always last. Compass might be his best buddy and the best map-man anywhere, but that didn’t mean Hot Rod had to make it easy for him.
“Just tell me where I’m going.”
“Hell!” Compass completed their ritual. “Then slide through those trees a hundred meters on the right. If you see a deer trail, that’s your path.”
