Freefall

FREEFALL

To the military men and women who stand in harm's way around the world, and to the families who stand by these sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, fathers, and mothers, awaiting their return home. Those of us who enjoy our country's blessings owe you all a debt of gratitude for your service.

And to Jay—cheerleader, best friend, supplier of chocolate, and the forever-after grand love of my life.

Heartfelt thanks to Robin Rue, matchmaker agent extraordinaire and empress of lunches.

A huge thank-you to the wonderful people at NAL, who made writing this first of my High Risk books so much fun: Leslie Gelbman; Kara Welsh; Claire Zion (who rescued my first manuscript from the slush pile so many years ago); my super editor, Laura Cifelli; and Anthony Ramondo, whose talented art department created a cover guaranteed to heat up frigid February nights!

Thanks also to Rick Pascocello and Craig Burke for the enthusiastic welcome.

With gratitude to the always fabulous Iris Johansen, who took time from her own writing to read
Freefall
.

Thanks to FBI Special Agent Gary L. Kidder for answering my questions.

And last, but certainly not least, a special thank-you to all my readers, who've made it possible for me to live my dream these past twenty-five years.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother.

—William Shakespeare,
Henry V

Gardez Air Base, Afghanistan

1 April

Chief Petty Officer Zachariah Tremayne had been shivering in the bite of a lingering Afghan winter for three hours. Not that Zach minded being cold. Or waiting. Being uncomfortable and forced to wait was part of a SEAL'S job description. He'd known that going in, from stories his old man told about the long, wet hours hunkered down in the swampy waters of the Mekong Delta, waiting for Charlie to show up.

But in this case, for every minute that passed, the closer they were to the mission going south.

Which damn well wasn't an option.

Bad enough that the moon was riding across the sky like a gazillion-candlepower spotlight.

Worse that the sky, which had been clear as crystal only five minutes ago, had begun spitting wet snow.

Worse yet that they were only three hours and fifty-eight minutes from sunrise, and if there was one thing that would be more dangerous for his team than humping up the side of the damn Kush mountain beneath a full moon, it would be climbing it in daylight, when they'd be silhouetted against the white snow and gray sky.

It was rotten luck that the first helo had burned up an engine, requiring a replacement to be flown in from Bagram. Then they had to wait for the newly arrived bird to be refueled.

And just as they'd finally climbed aboard the Chinook, damned if the delayed timeline hadn't gone crashing into a B-52 bombing raid on nearby mountains that lit up the sky in a psychedelic, pink, yellow, orange, and purple northern lights-type display.

As cool as it was to watch, the demonstration of American firepower was one more thing eating up the clock. It was vital for the planners to get their collective ass in gear.

Now.

While last week's earthquake may have shaken things up, the mountainous land in the lawless area along the Afghan/Pakistani border had already become destabilized as various factions struggled for supremacy.

Recently one al-Qaeda leader dubbed Rambo—due to his tendency of going off on his own tangents rather than sticking with any united terrorist program—had begun a move to control the entire region. Making matters worse were his taunting videos, which had put him in U.S. military crosshairs.

According to the latest intel, Rambo was holed up in one of the many subterranean tunnels. Zach's SEAL team had been tasked with finding the ratlines supplying him, locating the "bat cave," then calling in massive amounts of ordnance on it.

Having shared his take on the situation with enough brass to start their own Afghan marching band, Zach was cooling his heels with three other members of the team, breathing in the sweet airfield scent of jet fuel and oil, when Lieutenant Mike Roberts came out of the command post.

"We've got two choices," Roberts said as he spread out a map on the metal floor of the Chinook. "Since there's no way we're going to be able to reach the LZ in time to make the climb in the dark, choice number one is to abort and delay until tomorrow."

"I vote for bumping twenty-four hours."

Studying the map, Zach already knew what was behind door number two. And it wasn't pretty.

"That's what I advised command. But given that they've been getting a lot of pressure from Washington, I was instructed to 'seriously rethink' choice number one."

"Meaning there
is
no choice number two."
Shit
.

"This mission is also getting bigger."

"How big?" Zach asked suspiciously.

"We've taken on some non-operatives. A couple of CIA guys."

"Not surprising." There were probably as many spooks in these mountains as locals.

"And the Marines want to play."

Of course they did.

"How substantial a contingent?"

"A security unit of nine. Ten with the captain."

Zach thought about that for a minute. Bringing in the Marines could create some command and control problems. But then again, with the jarheads taking care of security issues, including holding sniper positions, Zach's team would be able to concentrate more fully on their mission.

"I suppose we can always use a few more guns," he said.

"That's what I told them. Which is why I went along with the army throwing in some Rangers."

"Hell, next we'll all be wearing party hats and breaking out the piñata."

"There's more."

"Of course there is." Given events so far, Zach should have expected nothing less.

"Sorry." Roberts ran his hand through hair that he, along with the other members of the team, kept long to blend into the general population when the team went undercover. "Mach-11 swept the area for any activity and cleared us to go in. But they've been called off to assist troops in combat and won't be able to cover us."

"Screw that."

SEALs routinely pushed the envelope. More than pushed. They tore through it on a regular basis.

But there was risk.

And then there was reckless.

Wading into a full-bore hot zone without gunship coverage was flat-out reckless.

Zach dragged a gloved hand down his face. "We're going to be sitting ducks slogging up that hill."

"That's why we're changing the LZ to the top."

Yet another choice that wasn't a choice.

Landing on the top of the mountain would be like putting flashing red lights and sirens on their helmets, jumping up and down and shouting,
Hey, here we are, all you insanely armed radical insurgent terrorists! Shoot us
!

Then again, if you looked up "flexibility" in the dictionary, you'd find it under "Special Operations Warfare techniques."

"If they want someone who needs the risk reduced to zero, they might as well send in some Girl Scouts," Zach muttered.

It was the lieutenant's job, as ranking officer, to define the mission. Zach's job was to figure out how to get it accomplished.

The difficult his team could do immediately.

Impossible took a little longer.

The good news was that their pilot, Shane Garrett—a member of the army's elite SOAR Night Stalkers—was the best copter jockey in the business. He'd shuttled the team on so many successful missions over the past nine months, they'd come to think of him as their lucky charm.

Minutes later the ungainly-looking Chinook finally lifted off, carrying Zach's team along with the Rangers, the Marines, and the two CIA agents, one of whom Zach recognized from their days hunting Saddam in Iraq. Team members flipped their night vision goggles—which, along with providing an advantage over the enemy, added to their badass reputation—down over their eyes.

A cloud moved across the silver-dollar moon, plunging the inside of the copter into pitch-black darkness. But Zach could see Quinn McKade—who'd been in BUD/S training with him before becoming the team sniper—seated next to his spotter, Sax Douchett, a Cajun from south Louisiana who was moving to whatever jazz was coming through the earbuds of his iPod.

Lucas Chaffee, a medic trained by the navy, was doing a last-minute check of his "Mike" bag. Chaffe, a guy who followed the old axiom Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, was loaded for bear with a vest pack, backpack, supply bags hanging from both the vest and the backpack.

A heavy loaded Mike bag ran around twenty-six pounds. Knowing that Lucas always added more stuff that he'd collected from sources around the world, Zach guessed he was carrying thirty pounds of supplies. He hoped to hell the medic wouldn't get the chance to use any of them.

The scene below, illuminated in an eerie green by his NVGs, showed mud walls separating acres of hardscrabble farmland covered in snow.

The helo was flying without lights, but the binocular goggles transformed the night into a bright landscape. Zach could see the outline of each of the mud rocks making up the walls, could count the trail of dual footprints in the snow to one field, where, despite the isolation and the hour, two men stood.

Dressed in long tunics and billowy pants, they looked up as the Chinook passed overhead.

They could be harmless. Probably were. After all, these mountains had been home to Afghan goatherds for centuries. How they managed to live and work at fourteen thousand feet was something Zach—who'd grown up at sea level on Swann Island, off the lowland South Carolina coast—couldn't begin to fathom.

Or they could be the enemy and were even now calling ahead on some damn cell phone, warning of the American helicopter.

As the Chinook flared to land, its huge tandem rotors churned furiously in the thin mountain air, kicking up clouds of ice and snow around the windows and ramp. The team silently gathered at the open ramp hinge as they'd done hundreds of times before.

Sticking to their motto, Rangers lead the way, the army guys insisted on being the first off the bird. The Marines would follow and set up a defensive perimeter.

The lieutenant would be next. Then McKade, then Douchett, then Chaffee. Zach would be right behind them.

The Chinook was still hovering when Garrett shouted, "RPG!" from the cockpit.

The rocket's fiery glare was blinding as it hurtled toward the left side gunner's door.

As machine-gun fire began raking the Chinook, the rocket-propelled grenade slammed through the side, rocking the huge bird like a roundhouse punch, It sliced through hoses, spraying hydraulic fluid all over the team before blowing McKade's M4 to pieces.

Then all hell broke loose.