Fallen Angel (6 page)

Moyer shook hands with the man again and lowered his head to avoid the rotor blast. The unit followed him. As he neared the side door, a voice shouted over the sound of the engine and wind blast. "Let me take that."

Moyer looked up at a short man in a flight suit extending a hand. Moyer lifted his kit and duffle and handed it to the crewman. The man then helped Moyer aboard. The movement was repeated for each team member. Moments later, everyone was strapped into the jump seats.

The stout man leaned close to Moyer's ear. "Welcome aboard, Sergeant Major. I'm the crew chief for this little jaunt. Please confirm all your team is aboard."

Moyer gave a thumbs-up. "Affirmative. We're good."

"Very good." The man pulled a plastic bag from one of the pockets of his jumpsuit. The bag held soft, orange earplugs. "I think you might appreciate these." He passed the bag around, then moved the microphone close to his lips. "We're good to go, Lieutenant."

The craft lifted off before the crew chief finished the last syllable.

NINETY MINUTES PASSED WITH
little discussion. Talking above the noise was too difficult. Moyer sat with his eyes closed, trying to think about the mission ahead. The most difficult moments of any mission were being shot at and waiting for the mission to start. Both could get on a man's nerves.

The crew chief approached. Moyer pulled the earplug from his right ear. "Have you been briefed about the next stage?"

"You're to drop us off on a Navy ship."

"Correct, but there's a catch. It's not just any Navy ship."

"What's that mean?"

"We'll be dropping you on a DDG-1000, Zumwalt-class destroyer."

"And that's a problem?"

"Unlike most surface ships, the DDG-1000 has a special hull design. You'll see what I mean in a minute. The problem is this: There's no landing pad."

"Then how do we get aboard?" Moyer didn't like where this was going. He had made many high-altitude-low-open and high-altitude-high-open parachute jumps, so leaving a perfectly good aircraft was nothing new, but he had an idea there was a twist in this.

"You're going to have to rappel to the deck."

"No problem. We've done plenty of rappelling."

The crew chief grinned. "Onto a pitching, rolling ship?"

"Um, you got me there. It's okay. We've been bumped around before."

"Well, there's another itty-bitty problem."

"And that is?"

"We are in the North Pacific. The waaaaay North Pacific. That means the water is cold. You don't want to fall in."

"And if I do?"

"You got maybe ten minutes before you go to the great, big Army base in the sky."

"Ten minutes?"

"Maybe ten minutes. Probably less since you won't be wearing a survival suit."

Moyer frowned. "Aren't you a ray of sunshine."

"I try." He motioned to the other men. "I'll pass the message. We're ten minutes out, so it's time to suit up. I'm afraid we will have to do this quickly. If we linger we'll go bingo fuel, and as good as this baby is, it floats like a brick."

"Understood, but I'll tell the men."

"If you want, we can lower you in a basket."

"Ain't gonna happen." Moyer popped his safety harness, made sure his men were looking at him, and pantomimed unbuckling a seat belt.

His team understood. The men released their restraints and reached for the duffle bags. Five minutes later they were garbed in their uniform MultiCam designed to blend anywhere; no emblems, no patches, no name tags.

He motioned for the men to huddle. Each removed one earplug. "We're going to rappel in."

"Nice," J. J. said.

"Our landing zone is a moving deck on a new destroyer. That's the good news."

"What's the bad?" Shaq furrowed his brow.

"The water. Fall in and you're a soldier-sicle."

"I take back my 'Nice.'"

"Shaq, you take lead. Colt, you follow."

J. J. nodded.

"I'm sure we'll have help on the deck, but we may need you two to help when we winch down our gear."

"Why not just rappel with our kit?" J. J. asked.

Moyer studied his weapons expert. "Um, because they don't float so well, and if you're wearing them—"

"Understood, Boss."

"Doc, you follow Colt; Junior, you follow Doc."

"Got it, Boss," Pete Rasor said.

Moyer turned to the newest member of the team. "I'll push Crispin out the door."

"New Guy needs a nick, Boss," Rich said. "It's tradition."

Crispin crossed his fingers and chanted, "Please let it be a cool name, please, please, please."

"Make it quick," Moyer said. "Suggestions?"

"Punch."

"Judy."

"Punch and Judy."

"Shep."

"Momma's Boy."

"Peach Fuzz."

"Come on, guys, I'm going to be shackled with this nick for a long time." Crispin looked worried.

J. J. put a hand on the man's shoulder. "He's right. How about Lassie?"

The crew chief patted Moyer on the shoulder. "Sixty seconds out."

"Understood." Moyer turned to Crispin. "Since you're our go-to surveillance guy, I hereby dub you . . ." Several moments passed.

"Come on, Boss. You're killing me here."

"Hawkeye."

"
Yes
." Hawkeye pumped a fist.

"I don't know, Boss." Shaq attempted to look serious. "What's it mean when a man is more worried about his nickname than swinging from a rope over frigid water?"

"It means he has his priorities straight." Moyer stepped to the side. "Line up, gentlemen. It's time to get some fresh air."

"Do you think the rope will hold Shaq?" Hawkeye flashed a wide grin.

Shaq grinned too, then seized the front of the man's vest so fast Moyer barely saw it. A half second later, Hawkeye was nose to nose with Shaq.

"I'm sorry, young man, I'm having trouble hearing over all the noise. What did you say?"

"I . . . I said that watching you work will be the pinnacle of my training."

"I guess I did hear it correctly." Shaq let go.

Not even the engine noise could drown out the laughter.

The crew chief opened the side hatch and double-checked Shaq's carabiner. Moyer stood to the side and peered out the hatch. Below, a pale gray, angular ship sat low in the water, rolling in large swells. "It looks like a Civil War iron side."

"That she does, Sergeant Major. She's a beauty. You are lucky men."

"Yeah." Shaq moved to the open door. "That's me. Lucky." He looked down, flashed a cheesy grin, shouted, "Tallyho!" and stepped into the air.

THE COLD BREEZE OF
the North Pacific, heightened by the pounding rotors of the helicopter, slapped at Moyer's face, making his skin feel as if he were staring into an open oven. The irony of cold making his skin feel burned wasn't wasted on him.

He slowed his descent as he neared the rolling deck of the strange-looking destroyer. On deck were four sailors and one soldier. Shaq stood out of the way, but Moyer had no doubts the man could reach him in seconds. From his perch in the helicopter, Moyer watched Shaq help each team member to the deck safely.

The wind was a problem. The same gusts whipping up the waves were pushing Moyer around like a tiny spider on a thin strand of web. Moyer could control the speed of his descent but not what the wind did to him.

He began to swing perpendicular to the ship's beam. The swing turned into a wide circle. Moyer spread his legs to slow the motion, but it did little to help. He looked up at the helo. It was bouncing, buffeted by the increasing wind.

Continuing his descent, Moyer tried to focus on the ship's deck. The sailors wore survival suits and life vests, each was tethered by a line to the deck. Shaq moved a few steps closer to the designated landing spot marked off by the position of the sailors. One of the crewmen motioned for Shaq, who wore no safety line, to move back. Moyer assumed the man was telling him to get inside. Shaq shook his head. The sailor stepped close and got in Shaq's face. Even thirty feet above the deck, Moyer could tell the sailor was shouting, perhaps to be heard above the sound of rotors and screeching wind. Most likely he was trying to intimidate Shaq.

"Don't do it." Moyer couldn't hear his own voice.

Shaq pointed to the landing spot and said something. The sailor moved back to his spot; Shaq held his.

As Moyer approached the deck, the circle his body was inscribing in the air widened, a function of the ever-lengthening line that tethered him to the helicopter above.

Twenty-five feet.

Twenty.

Fifteen.

This is going to hurt.

Ten.

Five.

Moyer swung over the frigid green waters, circled in front of the bow, and careened toward the port side.

A sailor stepped forward and extended his arms in an attempt to take hold of the human pendulum. Moyer's momentum knocked the man backward onto the deck. The man slid several feet along the wet surface until he reached the edge of the deck, his feet hanging above churning water, saved only by his tether.

A second sailor attempted the same move and received the same punishment.

Again Moyer swung over the churning ocean, around the bow, and back to the deck. The first sailor was on his feet again, arms spread. His face told Moyer all he needed to know: He was looking for another knockdown.

The man closed his eyes.

Great.

Shaq took two steps into the arena, pushed the sailor aside, and stood in Moyer's path. The sight sickened him. Shaq wasn't tethered. Moyer's impact could send the big man over the edge.

Moyer waved him off.

Shaq shook his head.

The impact felt like running into a brick wall. Arms clamped around Moyer with rib-breaking force, but Moyer's forward motion continued, driving Shaq backward, his feet sliding along the deck.

Six feet along the deck later, Moyer's feet were down. In seconds, Shaq had freed him from the line and was moving him to the superstructure near the middle of the ship. They ducked through a hatch and into the warmth of the destroyer.

A sailor led them toward the bridge.

The adrenaline in Moyer's body acted like jet fuel on a fire. "Of all the stupid, boneheaded, irresponsible things to do. Were you trying to get both of us killed?"

A voice came from behind them. "That was the dumbest, most unprofessional thing I've ever seen anyone do." Racially laced curses filled the air. Moyer turned his head to see the sailor he unintentionally knocked to the deck.

Moyer stopped midstep, turned, and raised a finger. "Last time I knocked you down it was an accident. I hear one more bigoted word from your yap and I'll put you on the deck and make sure you never get up. You read me?"

The sailor's face reddened but he said nothing more. Moyer returned his attention to Shaq. "Where was I?"

"Irresponsible."

"That's right. What kind of knucklehead does that? You let the sailors do their job and we do ours. Is that clear?"