“Sector reports,” he said, speaking into a small handheld radio clipped high on his field vest.
One by one, his team reported “all clear,” confirming what his senses detected. No lights were visible from any of the surrounding villages due to the distances involved. The largest town in the area, Ayogoz, was just below the visible horizon to the northeast, once again giving McFarland the distinct impression that the mission planners involved in this operation knew what they were doing. Settlements along the highway to the west were blocked by a range of low mountains running parallel to the highway, and the local road they used to travel through the mountains showed no signs of permanent inhabitants. Even at its closest point of approach, this washed-out road never came closer than twelve miles from the plateau, and traffic between Ayagoz and the southern town had been minimal. All in all, they were nicely tucked away in the middle of nowhere.
Satisfied that they were alone for the moment, he leaned his head back and took in the vast, brilliant array of stars. McFarland had served in the army at remote outposts around the world, finding little comfort in the harsh, inhospitable locations during the day. He took his solace at night, when night vision and sophisticated listening devices provided a distinct advantage over their enemies, tipping the odds overwhelmingly in their favor. The insurgents rarely bothered them at night, which afforded him the opportunity to enjoy the tranquility and raw beauty of an unspoiled sky, something he could never enjoy living amidst pervasive fields of artificial lighting back home or at a major Forward Operating Base. His reverie was cut short by a growing gust of wind, which he had learned to predict during their twenty-two-hour stay on the exposed plateau.
He started to reach for the goggles hanging loosely around his neck, but decided to shift his AK-74 from a stowed position across his back to a ready position along his chest. The transition took less than a second, which was one half of a second longer than it took for him to figure out why he had instinctively gone into self-preservation mode. The gust of wind came from the wrong direction, preceded by a deep thumping.
“They’re right on top of us. Fuck!” said one of his team members on the radio circuit.
McFarland turned his body, looking frantically in every direction as artificial gusts of wind buffeted his body, stinging his face with pebbles and dirt. He quickly brought the goggles to his face and continued his search for the helicopters. Through the dust storm, he spotted them hovering fifty feet in the air over the eastern half of the plateau. They had approached the LZ from the leeward side, which he had expected.
Helicopter pilots preferred to land and take off into the wind, though this was not a requirement, especially for skilled pilots. What he hadn’t expected was a mission altitude lower than the plateau, which was why he never spotted their approach. They arrived from a downwind position, below the nearby visible horizon, masking the sounds of the rotors and blocking his line of sight.
Not bad at all, he thought as he pulled three high-intensity chem sticks from his front right cargo pocket. He cracked all three sticks at once and proceeded to wave them overhead for several moments in a specific order. Red. Green. Blue. Once finished, he raised his night vision goggles and waited for the return signal. Three infrared lasers, one from each helicopter, reached out and intersected at his feet, confirming that his signal had been verified. If he had waved the chem lights in a different order or tried some other method of attracting their attention, the same infrared lasers would have guided hundreds of 7.62mm projectiles into his body.
Satisfied that he wouldn’t be cut to pieces by the miniguns, he started to jog to their encampment, which had likely been turned upside down by the rotor wash. He didn’t need to issue orders to his team. Everyone would return to the tents and let their guests run the show from this point forward. Darryl Jackson had made one aspect of this mission clear. They would have no contact with the helicopter assets upon arrival. Personnel onboard the helicopters would arrange the refueling gear within the LZ and promptly depart, leaving his team to guard the site until Combat Controllers relieved them at a still undecided point in the near future. Easy money he hoped.
Examining the helicopters through his night vision, he could tell that the operation supported by this refueling station would be anything but easy money. Two KCH-53K Dragon Cows followed a MH-53 Pave Low into position over the LZ, spreading out over the center to give plenty of distance between rotors. He’d never seen one of the Dragon Cows in person, but could easily recognize the rare refueling variant of the CH-53K by its refueling probe and extended fuselage. Instead of airlifting bladders of fuel in a sling underneath one of these behemoth helicopters, the Dragon Cows would fill empty bladders with their own internal fuel tanks. This had been another reason he had expected to easily spot the helicopters on their approach. He had anticipated that they would be forced to fly at a higher altitude due to externally slung bladders.
The Dragon Cow gave mission planners more flexibility, putting an incredible amount of mobile fuel in one place. Employing the Marine Corps’ Tactical Bulk Fuel Delivery System, this helicopter variant could add an additional 2400 gallons of fuel as internal cargo to its expansive 3000 gallon built-in capacity. Two Dragon Cows could refuel twenty helicopters on the way in to their objective, with plenty left over to top them off on the way home. Whatever was in the works out here had the potential to be huge.
McFarland sat down near a small outcropping of rocks that served to shield their tents from some of the wind and observed the operation. Less than an hour later, the helicopters departed, leaving one Advanced Aviation Forward Area Refueling Station (AAFARS) behind, configured to receive four helicopters simultaneously. The station was oriented east to west, to best take advantage of the most common prevailing winds, though helicopters could approach the individual stations from the south, avoiding the fuel bladders and pumping equipment. Four bladders stood behind the main pumping equipment, significantly higher than the rest of the equipment. His best guess regarding their capacity was 500 gallons, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the morning, when he could read the nomenclature stamped to the equipment.
Overall, it represented less fuel than he had estimated, given the presence of two Dragon Cows in the refuel task force. It did give him a good idea of what might be headed through the refueling station en route to some nasty business. If he had to guess, he’d say some variation of the Sikorsky H-60 frame. The army and navy versions of the venerable airframe sported a two hundred gallon fuel tank, giving them roughly a 350 mile round trip fully loaded. The smaller fuel bladders made sense when considering the smaller H-60 tanks. Average tank size for the H-53 frame measured over 1300 gallons. The refueling station in its current configuration could easily support a round trip for up to four UH-60 Blackhawks. That was his bet, but unfortunately, he would never know. His team would be long gone when the helicopter strike force came through.
Chapter 30
Katie Reynolds felt less secure the further they travelled from the center of Novosibirsk. She had no weapons and no backup, which was compounded by the fact that she had lost track of any recognizable landmarks. She knew they had started off in an easterly direction based on her knowledge of the city streets within central Novosibirsk, but as they drove deeper into the outskirts of the bleak city, she couldn’t be sure they were still headed east. An overcast sky kept her from making the most basic calculations.