This happened when Bear caught the captive security agents trying to circulate a note. Liu’s inspection of this document showed that it was advising patience and circumspection. These were qualities that Liu certainly couldn’t complain about. Yet since the next note could have been one orchestrating an insurrection, he severely castigated his prisoners for this futile effort, and shot off a few rounds of submachine-gun fire into the ceiling to make his point.
Liu’s last stop of the day took him to the security room. He was expecting to find Max Kurtyka here, monitoring the surveillance screens. Instead he found his daughter alone at the console, still doing her best to learn how to operate the complicated system.
This was the first time he had been able to visit with her since the initial takeover. He was pleased to find her adjusting quite well. Liu had feared that she would have trouble coping if things got violent. He made certain to remind her about the reasons behind their actions.
Satisfied that she’d hold up under the continued pressure, Liu learned that Max had gone outside to have a smoke.
He left Kristin with a kiss on each cheek, and headed aft to locate Max.
31
A dark gray sky greeted him as he walked out onto One Deck’s exterior pool area. The air was brisk, and though he failed to spot Max here, he proceeded to the deck’s aft railing, where the vessel’s flag less jack staff was mounted.
The QE2’s prop wash could be clearly traced, a thin snaking line of agitated seawater that extended to the lightning-lit southern horizon.
Dusk was falling, with not a trace of a sunset in the cloud-filled heavens.
Hoping that the hurricane would stay to the south, Liu turned around.
He scanned the series of terraced decks capped by the upper portion of the ship’s towering red funnel, from which poured a constant stream of black smoke. It was at the stern rail of the uppermost deck, directly aft of the helipad, that Liu spotted a single, rail thin figure, thoughtfully scanning the same stormy horizon that he had been inspecting. The bright red glow of a cigarette could be made out between this individual’s lips. Liu didn’t have to see any more to proceed up to the Sports Deck to join him.
“Hang on, Special Agent,” warned an amplified voice from Thomas’s headphones. “We’re going down on the deck to check the winds for our HARP calculation, and things could get a little rough.” Thomas de his intercom button and curtly acknowledged this warning that came to pass all too soon with a violent jolting motion of the MC-130His fuselage.
The Combat Talon rapidly lost altitude, its four turboprop engines whining away in futile protest.
Thomas tried his best to control his rising nausea, aggravated by the rubber oxygen mask tightly strapped around his mouth. In preparation for the HALO jump, he had been pre-breathing oxygen for the past hour.
The darkened rear cabin shook wildly, rolling from side to side with such intensity that Thomas feared he’d be torn from his seat belt. This extreme turbulence even managed to get the load master attention, who finally awoke from his nap and rushed over to strap himself securely to the same bench on which Thomas was seated.
A cursory glance at his watch showed that the moment of truth was almost upon them. In a strange way, he was relieved. The long flight had given him too much time to think about his traumatic past and the great dangers he would soon have to face.
His primary worry was whether he had lost his jump skills. This attempt would be difficult enough during the day, with perfect weather conditions prevailing. It was only too apparent from the Combat Talon’s wildly shaking fuselage that severe crosswinds would have to be dealt with. When these winds were factored in with a hostile, untested landing zone, presently cutting through the pitching seas at over twenty knots, all the ingredients for disaster were in place.
Thomas could take small solace in the LPU that he wore beneath his parachute harness. In the event that he missed the QE2, he hoped the life preserver unit would keep him afloat. A water-activated radio beacon, which the Combat Talon would be monitoring, was sewn into the preserver’s outer seam. The water temperature in this portion of the North Atlantic was in the low forties — he’d have but a few precious minutes to get into the sheltering confines of a life raft, before deadly hypothermia set in.
The pitch of the Talon’s turboprops further deepened, and Thomas was aware that his body was no longer being pulled forward. After several minutes of level flight, the MC-130H initiated a steep climb that forcefully pushed Thomas back against the bulkhead, with all the pressure of a prolonged stiff-arm.
His headphones crackled alive. He could hear the copilot calling out their rapidly increasing altitude. As they passed 20,000 feet, the navigator informed him that HARP had calculated that there was a dangerous 170-degree wind shear present, with the winds themselves gusting up to eighteen knots at sea level. These disturbing environmental factors did not bode well for a safe jump, and since they were at the marginal permissible limits, it would ultimately be up to Thomas to make the final decision to go.
His inner debate was a short one. And even though he could have easily scrubbed the mission, he found himself activating the intercom and firmly declaring, “Let’s go for it, gentlemen!”
He reached up and further tightened the fit of his parachute’s chest harness. The load master unbuckled his seat belt and stood. With careful steps, he continued to the rear of the cabin to prepare the ramp for opening.
“HARP indicates that we’ve got four minutes to go until we reach our optimal release point,” informed the amplified voice of the navigator.
No more notification was needed to get Thomas to unbuckle his own seat belt and stand. He made a final check of his equipment, then began the short transit to join the load master at the back of the cabin.
“Three minutes,” informed the navigator, from his console on the flight deck.
While Thomas allowed the load master to double-check the fit of his gear, the intercom crackled alive with the voice of the pilot. “Good luck, Special Agent.”
“Thanks, Major,” replied Thomas. “Don’t forget to give my regards to the folks back at Hurlburt.”
“Will do, sir. And enjoy your cruise!”
With the delivery of this optimistic comment, Thomas disconnected the intercom. He tried his best to steady his rapidly beating pulse, and he took a series of deep draws on his oxygen mask, the tank of which was securely strapped to the side of his harness.
The clamshell doors of the Talon’s rear ramp parted, and Thomas got his first view of the gray dusk sky. Cloud cover kept him from spotting his target down below. He expectantly looked up to the jump indicator lights that were mounted into the fuselage beside the helmeted load master Only the bottom, red caution light was illuminated.
Fifteen seconds from green light, the load master flashed him a thumbs-up. This allowed Thomas to make a final adjustment to his goggles before the green light popped on, and the load master pointed outside into the gathering darkness and shouted, “Go!”
Without hesitation, Thomas leaped off the ramp. The first thing he was aware of was the sudden silence, and the incredibly strong, icy cold wind that appeared to be blowing from below. He immediately arched his back and spread out his arms and legs to establish a stable spread-eagle position. Too invigorated to feel fear, he subconsciously found himself counting off ten seconds, the approximate time it would take him to attain terminal velocity. As long as he remained in a Delta position, terminal velocity indicated the maximum speed of his free fall — roughly 120 miles per hour.
Thomas knew that he had attained this speed, when he suddenly felt as if he were no longer falling. This strange sensation was caused by the gravitational pull of his body being equalized by the wind resistance.