maximum fuel load can cover 4,894 miles without gulping more juice.
Douglas looked at the cave-like interior of the big ship, and then at the Air Force sergeant who was the load master.
“How in hell do we get out of this thing?” Douglas asked.
“Easy. We lift the rear cargo door and you run down the wide ramp, and one step later you’re outa here. We’ve got you attached to static lines so you’ll have instant opening of the chutes. Nothing to get in the way except our prop wash.”
“How long we got, Sarge?”
“Our flight time to the DZ is an hour and twenty-three minutes. I’ll alert you fifteen minutes before drop time.”
They nodded, and the crew chief went back to the cabin. Douglas looked out the small round windows. It had grown dark quickly after they took off, and now he could see nothing but pure blackness.
The two men slumped in the bucket seats, and worked their own thoughts. Douglas had been restoring a 1931 Model A Roadster in a garage near his apartment in Coronado. It had yellow wire wheels, a rumble seat, and a cloth top. He wanted to keep it all original but soon foundthat parts for a sixty-seven-year-old car were almost impossible to find. So he had been replacing some with remanu-factured parts from specialty houses. He’d keep it as pure as he could, especially the outside. He loved the gas tank that sat over the engine next to the inside of the fire wall. No fuel pump. Gravity flow.
He looked at the SATCOM radio he carried. It was much smaller than the multiple-use one that Ron Holt had for the platoon. This was a simple transceiver for the satellite only. He would turn it on to receive at midnight, and at noon. He could send at any time.
That was the one item that could tie the team to the U.S. If they faced capture, that was the first destroy job he had. He had been with the Third Platoon for almost two years now, had been through three big operations before. He’d get through this one if he had to walk every damn step to Baku.
First they had to find where the Iranian nukes were being made. South, somewhere south. At least this was something different from the shoot-and-scoot he’d been involved with so far.
He knew Iran was a mountainous place. One hill went over eighteen hundred feet, which was higher even than Mammoth Lake, where he came from in California. Mammoth was around eight thousand feet, in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas. He yawned—no time for a nap.
Colt Franklin took out the pistol again from deep inside his three layers of strange clothes. It wasn’t even in a holster, just nestled into some folds of cloth. Safer that way, they told him.
Skydiving and parachuting were not new to him, but this low jump would be a first. Sport jumping usually makes you go out at least twenty-five hundred feet. He thought of writing a letter, but didn’t have any gear. He’d write when he got back. He’d heard about the mountain near Tehran. They said it was 18,934 feet. Damn. He’d love to get a shot at climbing it. But not this tour.
Rock climbing was his passion, but he’d never seen a mountain almost nineteen thousand feet high. Maybe later he’d have a shot at it. If he didn’t get shot on this run. He looked out the window again, but there was nothing out there. Just blackness. Good. He’d hate to see the slash of a jet fighter slamming past them. Much prefer to be alone in the dark, and get to the damned DZ in one fucking piece.
Ten minutes later the load master came back and yelled.
“Time: We’re about fifteen away from the Drop Zone. I hate this low-level stuff. You probably felt us rolling around a little. So far we’ve not had any radar tracking us, which is great. About five minutes until drop, I’ll open the rear hatch and get you hooked up on the static line.”
He vanished. They tried the windows again. Nothing.
When the load master came back into the cabin, the two SEALs stood. He hit a switch somewhere and there was a grinding, whirling
Douglas looked at the cave-like interior of the big ship, and then at the Air Force sergeant who was the load master.
“How in hell do we get out of this thing?” Douglas asked.
“Easy. We lift the rear cargo door and you run down the wide ramp, and one step later you’re outa here. We’ve got you attached to static lines so you’ll have instant opening of the chutes. Nothing to get in the way except our prop wash.”
“How long we got, Sarge?”
“Our flight time to the DZ is an hour and twenty-three minutes. I’ll alert you fifteen minutes before drop time.”
They nodded, and the crew chief went back to the cabin. Douglas looked out the small round windows. It had grown dark quickly after they took off, and now he could see nothing but pure blackness.
The two men slumped in the bucket seats, and worked their own thoughts. Douglas had been restoring a 1931 Model A Roadster in a garage near his apartment in Coronado. It had yellow wire wheels, a rumble seat, and a cloth top. He wanted to keep it all original but soon foundthat parts for a sixty-seven-year-old car were almost impossible to find. So he had been replacing some with remanu-factured parts from specialty houses. He’d keep it as pure as he could, especially the outside. He loved the gas tank that sat over the engine next to the inside of the fire wall. No fuel pump. Gravity flow.
He looked at the SATCOM radio he carried. It was much smaller than the multiple-use one that Ron Holt had for the platoon. This was a simple transceiver for the satellite only. He would turn it on to receive at midnight, and at noon. He could send at any time.
That was the one item that could tie the team to the U.S. If they faced capture, that was the first destroy job he had. He had been with the Third Platoon for almost two years now, had been through three big operations before. He’d get through this one if he had to walk every damn step to Baku.
First they had to find where the Iranian nukes were being made. South, somewhere south. At least this was something different from the shoot-and-scoot he’d been involved with so far.
He knew Iran was a mountainous place. One hill went over eighteen hundred feet, which was higher even than Mammoth Lake, where he came from in California. Mammoth was around eight thousand feet, in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas. He yawned—no time for a nap.
Colt Franklin took out the pistol again from deep inside his three layers of strange clothes. It wasn’t even in a holster, just nestled into some folds of cloth. Safer that way, they told him.
Skydiving and parachuting were not new to him, but this low jump would be a first. Sport jumping usually makes you go out at least twenty-five hundred feet. He thought of writing a letter, but didn’t have any gear. He’d write when he got back. He’d heard about the mountain near Tehran. They said it was 18,934 feet. Damn. He’d love to get a shot at climbing it. But not this tour.
Rock climbing was his passion, but he’d never seen a mountain almost nineteen thousand feet high. Maybe later he’d have a shot at it. If he didn’t get shot on this run. He looked out the window again, but there was nothing out there. Just blackness. Good. He’d hate to see the slash of a jet fighter slamming past them. Much prefer to be alone in the dark, and get to the damned DZ in one fucking piece.
Ten minutes later the load master came back and yelled.
“Time: We’re about fifteen away from the Drop Zone. I hate this low-level stuff. You probably felt us rolling around a little. So far we’ve not had any radar tracking us, which is great. About five minutes until drop, I’ll open the rear hatch and get you hooked up on the static line.”
He vanished. They tried the windows again. Nothing.
When the load master came back into the cabin, the two SEALs stood. He hit a switch somewhere and there was a grinding, whirling
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