At a thousand feet the onboard computer released the drogue chute to ease the shock of the main parachute deploying a moment later. As the MMU drifted downward, the range finder switched to secondary mode and began searching for the flattest place to land within a three-hundred-foot target area.
The strain of the chute billowing open came as sweet pain. Mercer took his first deep breath since the initial release and felt the adrenaline spike subside. He let go of the handgrip and heard it clatter down toward his feet. The closed-circuit screen flushed green as night-vision enhancers activated. Details on the ground were hard to make out, but even the murky glimpse was a welcome relief.
As his view resolved, Mercer could feel the MMU make adjustments to his flight path by controlling the ram-air parachute. In a moment he saw a flat plain immediately below his feet. It drifted out of view as a crosswind caught the pod, then came back as the computer made automatic corrections.
Sykes had trained him not to watch the landing to prevent himself from tensing. He closed his eyes at what he thought was the last second and had to wait almost fifteen more before shock absorbers at the bottom of the MMU touched down. As designed, the pod fell onto its back and the chute rigging was sheered away so the yards of black nylon couldn’t act as a sail and drag him across the landscape.
Mercer flipped a protective cover off the button that opened the pod and mashed it with his fist. The seal maintaining pressure in the pod hissed and the door opened slightly. A cold wind exploited the tiny opening and whipped the hatch all the way open. The first breath of the icy mountain air seared his lungs. Mercer coughed.
He unsnapped his harnesses and rose unsteadily. Around him he saw a monochromatic world of grays and the outline of steep mountain cliffs. If not for the tough grasses growing along the rocky valley floor, the scene could have doubled for a crater on the moon. The air temperature was in the low thirties, yet he would occasionally feel the warm caress of steam from a geothermal vent.
A figure loomed out of the darkness. “You okay, Snow?” It was Grumpy. He had already donned his equipment and cradled his M-4, the stripped-down assault version of the M-16. Night-vision goggles covered half his face.
“Yes, just a little shaken.”
“Don’t sweat it. That was one hell of a ride. Get into your gear, we’re moving out.” He turned away quickly.
Mercer grabbed his arm. “Hold it, did everyone make it down safely?”
Grumpy didn’t look at Mercer when he said, “Sneezy’s chute tangled. He’s dead.” The noncom shook off Mercer’s hand. “This op better be worth his life, man.”
“It’s worth all of ours,” Mercer said to Grumpy’s back as he vanished into the darkness.
MONASTERY OF RINPOCHE-LA WESTERN TIBET
Sykes took the news of Sneezy’s death by ordering Sleepy to cover Dopey as he worked on each MMU to activate their self-destruct mechanisms. Now that they were on the ground, the mission took precedence. Grieving for the fallen man would come later. He led the team northward toward the monastery’s back wall, about a quarter mile from where the MMUs had dropped in a cluster.
Mercer expected to have trouble breathing at twelve thousand feet and knew his lack of altitude sickness symptoms like headaches, dizziness and pulmonary distress was due to the drug cocktail he’d consumed on the flight. The black fatigues he’d been given also protected him from the near-freezing temperatures and the wind that was beginning to shriek down the valley, corralled by the mountains and vectored like a jet into his face. Because of the constant streamers of steam that blew from the geothermal vents ringing the valley, his night-vision goggles could not gather enough ambient light. He left them dangling around his neck as he ran, exposing the area around his eyes to the biting cold. Soon his skin was numb.
The wall at the rear of the monastery was made of smooth river rocks mortared together with primitive cement. Through the streaming haze of steam high above them, they could see a portion of the building’s pagoda-style roof. With curt hand gestures, Sykes fanned out his men to cover the climbers as they unlimbered their rope and equipment. Mercer took a position on the far left flank, tight against where the stone wall met the cliff. He donned his night-vision goggles and scanned the top of the wall and the surrounding rocks, which had hundreds of crags that could easily hide observers. The barrel of his M-4 followed the smooth motion of his eyes.
In the center of the towering wall Bashful and Happy, whose real names were Bobby Johnson and Bruce Morrelli, were ready to start their ascent. They’d studied it for ten minutes, mapping their route with the practiced eye of professional climbers. They would scale the wall independently, carrying coils of rope and the necessary gear to secure the lines once they reached the top. Each also carried a silenced Beretta in case a sentry wandered by. Every member of the team was competitive to a fault, driven to surpass their comrades at all costs. But when it came to a mission, they knew this wasn’t a game and the two men began the climb with caution and little thought to the progress of the other.
As if gravity didn’t apply, Bashful and Happy seemed to float up the wall, their arms and legs in constant motion as they exploited the tiniest flaws in the mortar for finger- and toeholds. Mercer, who had done some climbing out of necessity rather than recreation, had never seen anything like it. In minutes they had traversed half the distance to the top and he had to force himself not to be distracted by the display. He turned away and checked his surroundings again. His weapon’s safety was off, though he kept his finger clear of the trigger guard.
“Doc, this is Dopey.” Mercer heard the voice over the hearing-aid-sized speaker in his ear. “MMUs are rigged. Three hours and fifty minutes to bingo. Sleep and I are on our way in.”
“Roger, Dope,” Sykes replied.
Bashful reached the top of the foundation wall a moment ahead of Happy. There was a squawking flurry as he rolled over the cornice. The men on the ground tensed as several owls exploded into the night. Bashful remained out of view and Happy froze a foot below the ledge. The seconds dragged.
“All clear,” Bashful finally called over the tactical radio.
Happy finished his climb. They scouted the area immediately around them for five minutes to satisfy themselves that the birds hadn’t alerted anyone before using a muffled nail gun to drive spikes into the stone. They secured pairs of carabiners for the ropes and a moment later the thick lines tumbled to where Sykes waited.
“Grumpy on line one, Snow on two,” Sykes ordered. “Dope, what’s your ETA?”
“I’m fifty yards behind you, Doc.”
“You’re on rope one when Grumpy hits the top. Sleep, you take two when Snow’s secure.” As he spoke, Sykes clipped Bashful’s and Happy’s combat equipment to the ropes so they could be hauled up.
Mercer had been issued special clamps that would allow him to climb the rope as easily as ascending a ladder. He clipped them to the line, took a moment to stare up the rock face and marvel at the skill of the two commandos. To him the wall was as smooth as glass and angled near ninety degrees.
“Move it, Snow,” Grumpy prodded.
Mercer looped the clamp’s strap under his foot, lifted his leg and applied slight downward pressure for the clamp to bite. He stepped up, repeated with his other foot and was instantly two feet off the ground. He slid the clamps strapped to his wrists upward, took another step with his right foot and quickly found his rhythm. The thirty pounds on his back would have become an issue had the climb been higher, but he could take the added strain for a hundred-foot climb.
To his left, Sergeant Lopez, a.k.a. Grumpy, was twenty feet higher on the rope and climbing like a machine, his legs pistoning in perfect synchronization. Mercer didn’t even try to keep up.