Rogue Threat (14 page)

He looked at his reflection in the porthole window. Dark hair, longer than it should be, he thought. He didn’t know why that thought had come to him. It just seemed that it should be shorter. Strong face with high cheekbones, dark green eyes, almost neon.

Rampert walked him through the mission one more time. “I’ve checked your parachute for the third time. It’s okay. Watch your altimeter and remember to open at eight hundred feet. You should be above the horizon with canopy for only a few seconds. If you’re spotted, move to hide site number one, come up on satellite communications, and wait. We have Pave Low helicopters ready to extract you in less than thirty minutes. You’ve got enough ammunition to hold anybody off for that long. But remember, you’ve got to be near an open area. We’ve got a beacon on you so we’ll know where you are all the time.”

“Yes, sir.” Boudreaux nodded.

“You won’t be detected, though. You’ll get in under the cover of darkness and find your way to Ballantine’s camp. If you’re compromised there, just kill him as quickly as you can, then fight your way out. The Pave Lows will be able to respond to any trouble you get into. If you’re not compromised, move to your link-up site. There, you’ll find an old, green john boat with a nine-horsepower motor. There will be two fishing poles and another Satcom radio inside. The radio will be in the live well, so don’t put any water in it. Call in at each checkpoint so we know your progress. If you can, try to find the operations center first. You’ve got the three template locations. It has got to be one of those.”

Rampert talked slowly, his eyes locked onto Boudreaux’s. The vice president had asked him to guarantee success. He couldn’t do that. He never guaranteed anything. Particularly now. He had personally saved this man’s life a year ago, and now he was certainly sending him to his death. Rampert remembered being there.

They were hidden in the creek bed watching the enemy file out of their base camp, ready to smash the weak Marine defenses. The weather had prevented any kind of air power, and it looked like the Marines were going to fight without reinforcements. Rampert remembered the enemy artillery opening on friendly positions with the distinct report of the cannon, the nerve-racking whistling, and the deadly explosions.

Out of the wood line from across the field came a deep bellow, reminding him of the rebel yell he had read about. U.S. infantrymen rushed the enemy fighting positions and artillery pieces, firing anti-tank missiles and destroying most. The enemy soldiers turned on the Americans, and their lines merged in a fight more akin to a Civil War battle than the high-tech warfare of late.

Rampert watched an officer and his radio operator come charging from the woods and join the fray. He recognized the man. They had been scouting him as a candidate for the Joint Special Forces Command. He knew the soldier’s record; this man was a warrior.

The radio operator was shot in the chest, spinning him backward. The man grabbed his M4 carbine and fired it until it went empty. He pulled his pistol from his holster, shooting it until he was out of ammunition. Pulling his bayonet from its scabbard, he fought hand-to-hand.

The rain was moving to the north in a typical thunderstorm pattern. Rampert was vectoring friendly aircraft into the fight using his high-frequency radio. One minute away. But one minute and the fight might be over. He gave the radio to his assistant team chief, grabbed his M4 carbine, and began to suppress the enemy near the officer. He moved slowly from the creek bed under the cover of a row of bamboo shoots. He changed magazines.

Artillery and mortar shells began to rain upon them. The explosions were deafening, and he thought he could feel his ears bleeding. Wasn’t the first time.

He saw the officer take a bullet in the lower abdomen. Then an enemy combatant rammed a bayonet through the officer’s shoulder. Rampert shot the enemy soldier from twenty feet. He raced to the officer and slung him into a fireman’s carry at the same time that he saw another company of infantry emerge from the creek bed two hundred meters to his south. The diversion gave Rampert enough time to move the wounded officer over a small rise where several American soldiers lay dead or wounded.

He removed the man’s uniform and dog tags and then called the team medic to his location. They performed life-saving measures and guided in a Pave Low medevac for the man. Rampert sent the medic with the wounded officer, while he and the rest of his team stayed and fought with the others. A mortar shell landed on one of his best friends, who had been with the team for over ten years, cutting the veteran operator into so many pieces it took them an hour to collect the barely identifiable remains.

Rampert held the dog tags of the decimated operator and the severely wounded conventional-force officer in his hand. Looking down, he said, “Goodbye, Winslow,” dropped the shredded shirt and identification tags on his dead friend, and boarded the helicopter.

As he looked at Boudreaux, these unpleasant memories came rushing back to him.
What have I done?
he wondered.

Boudreaux felt the plane level at the drop altitude.

“Ten minutes,” Tedaues shouted to Rampert. Tedaues had climbed down from the cockpit and walked toward them. He and Rampert were both wearing B-11 square parachutes used for high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) jumps. Neither Tedaues nor Rampert were jumping, but they wore their parachutes in case they either needed to jump or fell from the airplane while performing jumpmaster duties for Boudreaux. Boudreaux had the same suit but was outfitted with a reserve that would automatically deploy if his altimeter read 600 feet above ground level and his main had not deployed. Rampert decided setting the altimeter was the moral thing to do in case Boudreaux mentally froze on his descent. But 600 feet was not very high.

The three men were standing at the back of the aircraft as the ramp began to lower. Boudreaux watched the platform separate itself from the top of the aircraft, making him feel like Jonah in the stomach of the whale. Pitch-black night greeted them as the ramp leveled even with the floor of the aircraft.

“You’ll break through a thin layer of clouds at about two thousand feet. After that, you should be able to pick out the drop zone. When you’re under canopy, take about five seconds with your night-vision goggles and search for an infrared marker. There should be one at the southeast portion of the drop zone. From there, you’ll find the boat.”

“I’m ready. I know what you’re telling me; you don’t have to keep repeating it, sir.” Raising his voice above the din of the aircraft, Boudreaux sounded like he was shouting. Rampert and Tedaues looked at each other, a sign of acknowledgment. It was time.

“Good luck,” Rampert said.

Boudreaux thrust his arms outward, practicing his flair as he walked onto the ramp. Hindering his movement was a dark green rucksack rigged behind his buttocks. Once his parachute deployed, he would use a twenty-foot nylon line to lower the rucksack beneath him prior to landing. In it he had packed a tactical satellite radio, one hundred and fifty rounds of 5.56mm ammunition for his M4 carbine, six MRE combat rations, two gallons of water in his Camelbak, an assortment of smoke grenades, star clusters and other pyrotechnics, a Berretta 9mm pistol with four magazines of ammunition, and a set of fishing clothes hand-picked by Rampert out of the North Face catalog. He wore an outer tactical vest where the other half of his M4 ammunition was stored in five 30-round magazines.

“One minute!” Rampert shouted. They were jumping on time and azimuth, not really needing to see any reference points. Boudreaux was leaning over the ramp watching the earth pass beneath them. Small dots of light, a few glimmers of moonlight skidding off oxbow lakes. Then he saw a lone car driving from north to south on a road. That road was the one-minute mark. Rampert’s call was right. They were on schedule and on target.

“Thirty seconds!”

Boudreaux stood and practiced his flair a final time, stretching his chest muscles, splaying his hands to either side. He looked over his shoulder at Rampert and Tedaues. He flashed them a thumbs-up. Rampert moved toward the ramp, holding both hands forward, fingers spread. Five seconds passed and he dropped his left hand, then counted down with his right. Four, three, two, one.

The green light flashed. Rampert howled, “Go!”

Boudreaux jumped, spreading his body into flair position, catching the wind and riding it into the night. He slipped into the silence not unlike the coma he had emerged from several months earlier. One second ago, he was bouncing in the noisy, manmade machine; the next, he was floating effortlessly in quiet solitude through the thin air, rushing toward the ground.

Seconds passed into perhaps a minute. The wind beat against his chest, the air rushing around his helmet, forcing his head back. He fought to maintain balance against the turbulence. He turned his left wrist inward and glanced at his altimeter: 6,000 feet.

Formations on the ground grew larger. Single lights were now small groups of lights. He could distinguish buildings. He slipped on his night-vision goggles to search for the flashing infrared light that marked his optimal touchdown point, turning the world green. Once-indistinguishable lights were suddenly bright flares. He pivoted his head from left to right. He noticed an area that appeared to be a clearing, but there was no flashing light.

He spun his body 180 degrees and saw another larger clearing. In the back of his mind, he was counting the seconds. Too many had passed. He was plummeting now, probably 2,000 feet, only a few seconds away from having to deploy his main canopy.

One final scan. A blip. Two blips. Could be a flashlight, even a firefly at this height, but he would aim for it. He had to go somewhere.

He lowered the night-vision goggles and stuffed them inside his outer tactical vest. He had to stow his night-vision goggles to prevent damaging them during the opening shock of the parachute. The metal rip cord grip felt cool to his grasp. He looked at the altimeter one final time: 700 feet. Too low.

He yanked hard and listened as the main parachute deployed and snatched him, slowing his descent to a manageable rate.

400 feet.

Deployment had taken three hundred feet. Perfect. He would soon be below the horizon.

He began steering the square toward the spot where he had last seen the flickering light. He raced about three hundred meters, then began to spiral down. The ground was nearby now: tree tops, a lake about a half mile away, then level with the trees, open field, a ditch, some high scrub. He released his rucksack and then yanked down on both steering toggles. He let the ground come up to him as he kept his feet and knees together. The ground smacked him, and he rolled with it. His landing was soft enough for him to stand quickly and roll his parachute, stuffing it into an aviator’s kit bag. On one knee, he retrieved the necessary equipment from his ruck.

He snapped his night-vision goggles onto his head harness, screwed the silencer on his M4 carbine, attached his night scope, then chambered a round, putting his weapon into operation—the first priority.

He quickly broke the brush toward the wood line. Instinctively, he walked toward the lake he had seen out of his periphery on his way down. Chest-high ferns swayed in a cool breeze, brushing against his gear. He walked in the green world of the night-vision lens. Pale greens were lighter objects; dark greens and blacks were darker. The ferns and shrubs reached up toward him like the hands of begging children. The trees were about fifty meters to his front.

A sudden brightness raced across his field of view. It appeared to come from his right. He waited. There it was again. Another flash. He lifted his goggles and looked in the direction of the flash. He waited. Nothing. Snapping the goggles back on, he immediately saw the infrared beacon. He walked toward it, secured it, and switched a small button to turn it off. He extracted the small map Rampert had given him, and using his infrared light, he read the instructions.

Two hundred meters, 349 degree azimuth. Hit a small stream, follow it on azimuth of 11 degrees. Equipment at stream and lake intersection.
That was it. Simple note. Simple job.

After twenty minutes of walking, he found the boat tied to a tree with pine branches draped across its bow. He found the plug sitting loose and replaced it.

So far, so good. Everything was just like the rehearsal. Nagging at the back of his mind was the fact that, as he descended through the sky, there were flashes of memory, things he couldn’t recall outright.

He would deal with that later.

He checked his watch: 0200 hours. He had about five hours until daylight. He wanted to use the night to his advantage. If he could take the shot tonight, he would. The sooner, the better, Rampert had told him. But he needed to find the operations center and shut it down.

All the right things were going through his mind. He was aware, like a panther. He could feel the wind against his skin. He could pick out the different smells: the pine needles, the bream going to bed in the lake shallows. The night sounds were amplified in his ears: a squirrel jumping from branch to branch, an anonymous animal burrowing in the underbrush, the smack of a fish against the water’s surface.

Lying in the prone, he tested the AN/PAQ-4C night lasing device using his night-vision goggles. The small device attached to the muzzle of the weapon pulsed an infrared laser to the point of aim. He sighted on a distant shore line, picked out a log rising above the water, steadied his aim, and then lowered the weapon. It seemed okay.

Time to move. He switched the infrared beacon on and placed it in the nook of a branch in an oak sapling. Focusing his night-vision goggles, he depressed the azimuth indicator on his monocle.

 Turning until the indicator read 36 degrees, he struck out through the woods in search of Ballantine.