Chou then split his company into two, and with the aid of a whistle and a stopwatch, loaded them onto the two helicopters. Then, with the blow of the whistle, the doors were opened again and his men piled out and deployed in protective rings around each chopper.
On the first try, it took the eighty-two Marines forty-eight seconds to completely deploy out of the choppers and set up their defensive perimeters.
Not bad, Chou thought. But he knew they would have to cut that time at least in half. So he had them do it again. And again.
And again.
By 0630 hours, the Marines had done the drill no less than fifty-eight times and had cut the time to thirty seconds. Again, not bad at all for so many fully equipped troops to stand up, straighten their gear, pile out of each copter, and go into a full combat mode by surrounding each aircraft in its own protective ring.
But Chou knew more drilling would be needed to shave another ten seconds off that time.
Still, he was pleased with their performance and told them so. Like their endless mock assaults on the Motel Six building, they never stopped trying to get better. But the most difficult part of this early morning was still ahead. It was heralded by the arrival of Smitz at Hangar 3 around 0645 hours. His ever-present IBM NoteBook out and turned on, he told Chou simply: “It’s time to get going.”
Moments later, a Humvee arrived and four men piled out. They were wearing the distinctive green flight uniforms of U.S. Army Aviation.
These men were introduced to Chou’s company as being part of the Army’s OPFOR unit based at Fort Polk in the Louisiana swamplands. It was from there, Smitz revealed to Chou, that the Russian-built choppers had come originally. In this upcoming mission, the Army guys would be flying the huge Halo copters.
Chou shook hands with them, then turned back to his men.
“OK, troops,” he said. “Pile back in. We’re all going for a ride.”
By this time, both the Hind gunship and the fuel-laden Hook had been airborne for about thirty minutes.
Norton was putting the Hind through its paces over a section of the Florida Straits known as Military Reservation Box 31.
He was falling in love with the massive copter—strange as that seemed. Once in the air, it flew as easily and smoothly as a small airplane. The controls were ultra-responsive, and somehow its size and bulk were offset by its powerful engines and the two stubby wings helping out with the lift. The presence of the stubby wings also allowed for the gunship’s huge rotor to dedicate most of its work to pushing the copter forward.
And this made the beast fast.
Damned fast!
He was carving through the warm morning air at speeds he thought impossible for such a huge rotor aircraft. And the odd thing was, it seemed as if he’d been flying the Hind for weeks—and he couldn’t get rid of this feeling. He was actually beginning to think that all the simulator work had been worthwhile.
As for Delaney, he was having the time of his life.
The front seat of the Hind offered its passenger a view and an experience different from any other aircraft. Because of its ultra-forward position and its bubble-like enclosure, it gave the rider the sensation that he was flying without the aircraft.
To this end, Delaney had his nose pressed up against the glass, looking out over the sea, his arms spread as far as the cockpit allowed, as if he was a bird.
Several times Delaney’s enthusiasm rose to such a level, Norton was forced to remind him not to use curse words over the radio. But typically Delaney was letting a slew of them slip.
“Jeesuz Christ!” he kept yelling. “God damn! What a fucking view!”
The fact that Delaney was a fighter jock—and one who had seen combat—meant that his excitement level was, like Norton’s, ice-cold most times. But this was different. The Hind was a monster on the ground, but an eagle in the air.
“Maybe this has been all worth it,” Norton caught himself thinking.
Twenty miles to the northeast, Ricco and Gillis were plowing through the early morning air in a slightly less robust fashion.
The big Hook fuel ship was very fast, but there were several factors working against it at top speed. First of all, there were many tons of gas in the cargo hold. Secondly, Gillis and Ricco were not jet jocks—they flew the big planes. As such, they were not ones to go gallivanting around the sky. To them, smooth and level was the norm.
But this did not mean they weren’t enjoying themselves.
“This is remarkable,” Ricco said several time times over. “How can something so awkward-looking sail like this thing?”
“The Russians can build a great chopper, we have to give them that,” Rooney told them.
He too was enjoying the smooth ride. If it weren’t for the constant sloshing of the jet fuel and the smell from it, it would have been a totally pleasant experience.
“I suppose we can’t ask exactly why we’re flying this bird, can we?” Gillis asked Rooney.
“You can ask,” the CIA man replied, “but I can’t answer.”
“I have the feeling we are supposed to fly it long-range. Am I wrong?” Ricco asked.
“You may be underestimating your upcoming mission,” Rooney replied in a rare bit of candor.
Ricco was about to reply when their radio started crackling.
“This is SGK Base… come in?”
“That’s for us,” Rooney said. “We are call sign Beta Two-Six.”
Gillis grabbed his radio chin mike and turned it on.
“Go ahead base.”
They next heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Gene Smitz. He was in the base control tower.
“Proceed to coordinate five-nine-five at east-northeast…”
Gillis wrote down the instructions, and Ricco began to turn the big chopper northward. His maneuver was met with a great splashing sound from the fuel bladders in back.
“If this is just a training mission.” Ricco asked, “why can’t those things be filled with water—instead of fuel?”
“I really don’t know,” Rooney replied truthfully. “But my guess is, someone figures this training mission could go real at any hour.”
Ricco and Gillis eyed each other. Rooney’s tone was a tad unsettling.
“And you didn’t hear that from me,” the CIA man quickly added.
But at that moment Ricco wasn’t listening. He was looking out his side window. In the low clouds he thought he saw two aircraft heading in their general direction.
“Damn, are we supposed to have any other traffic up here with us?” he asked Rooney.
Rooney leaned forward in his seat and saw what Ricco had spotted. There were two large helicopters flying about a mile below and two miles off their left side. They seemed almost as large as the Hook. Larger even.
“Don’t worry,” the CIA man said nonchalantly. “They’re ours. That’s who we’re being vectored to meet.”
Gillis looked down at the choppers and back at Rooney.
“Really?”
Rooney settled back into his seat. “Yep. Those, my friends, should be the Marines.”
It was the Marines.
Their two huge Halo copters had taken off from Seven Ghosts Key ten minutes before, and had been vectored to the same spot that the huge Hook was now heading for.
Inside both choppers, the Marines were packed in tight. Full loads, weapons ready.
The Army pilots were driving the big Russian cargo copters with ease. Of all the pilots at the Seven Ghosts base, they were the most experienced in flying Russian aircraft—and it showed. Now, looking out the windows of the transports, the Marines could see the huge Hook being flown by Gillis and Ricco.