Rabitowski would be retiring in one month, and Colonel Edberg had been against his going on this mission. Sergeant Major Rabitowski had been adamant. He wanted to go in his assigned place with his troop. He wanted one last live mission after twenty-nine years.
He pulled out the acetated map with their flight route on it. Written in grease pencil along the route were the time hacks for the various checkpoints on the way in. A stopwatch was taped to the map. Rabitowski checked his watch. Cullen lifted the aircraft to a three-foot hover. When his second hand swept past the twelve and the watch indicated 7:54, Rabitowski indicated go and clicked the stopwatch. Cullen pushed forward on the cyclic and they were on their way.
Linders entered the officers' club and immediately headed for the bar. He was over an hour and a half late but he didn't care. He hated these formal functions. This one was being sponsored by Linders's own service, the air force, under some pretext or other. In reality, it was a chance to invite some of the politicians from across the river to come rub elbows with the brass. Linders knew the hot topic of the evening would be the B-2 bomber, and the party line would be to support that effort. He couldn't care less about the B-2 bomber. Any aircraft that cost that much was ridiculous, in his opinion, but he didn't dare voice that heresy. He was here because protocol required it.
He circulated through the crowd, nodding to acquaintances. Linders wasn't very popular with his air force cronies because as DCSOP-SO his priorities were somewhat different. He fought his own service for funding for more Combat Talon and Spectre Special Operations aircraft. Linders had a bitter appreciation for where the priorities lay: In the last air force budget, procurement of more Combat Talons was forty-fifth on a fifty-two-item aircraft priority list.
Linders's musings on the skewed sense of priority of the air force were interrupted when he spotted General Macksey holding court on the other side of the room. Why was the chairman here when he was supposed to be overseeing the operation by Delta Force? The only logical answer Linders could come up with was that the general would be returning to the war room of the Pentagon later this evening.
Linders worked his way across the room toward Macksey. He was further surprised to see that Macksey was drinking alcohol. There was no way the general would be drinking with an operation pending later in the evening. Linders elbowed his way through the crowd of sycophants and insinuated himself next to the chairman.
Macksey noticed the intrusion. "General Linders. How are you?"
Linders grabbed the chairman's elbow. "Sir, I need to talk to you privately." Macksey nodded. He led the way out of the main ballroom and into the foyer. Ignoring the people entering, he fixed Linders with a hard gaze. "What's so important?"
Linders figured the direct approach was the best. "Sir, do you know about a Delta strike this evening in Colombia?"
Macksey frowned. "The Hammer strikes have been canceled since the third one was compromised. What are you talking about?"
"Sir, Delta Force was alerted yesterday and elements of it are presently forward deployed in Panama preparing for a strike tonight."
"What!" Macksey grabbed Linders's shoulder. "Who authorized that?"
"Mike Pike came to my office yesterday with the OPORD. He said it was authorized as a continuation of your Hammer order. Since I hadn't heard any cancellation of the Hammer missions, I assumed it was part of the same mission and verified the OPORD."
Macksey closed his eyes briefly as the reality of what Pike had done sank in. He thought rapidly, trying to sort out the pieces. "Do you know when the strike is happening?"
Linders shook his head. "All I know is it's tonight. I called Pike today and asked him what time. He wouldn't tell me. He said security was being tightened."
"Where did you call him?"
"He's at the same STU-III he was for the other missions." Macksey made up his mind. He called for his aide, who was hovering out of conversation range. "George, get my car around front." He turned to Linders. "You're coming with me."
The Combat Talon lifted off the runway and its four powerful turboprop engines drilled it into the night sky. Inside the cramped cargo bay, Edberg sat as comfortably as his parachute and equipment would allow on the web seats rigged along the side of the aircraft. He wore a headset connected by a long cord to a SATCOM radio nestled in among the electronics gear in the front half of the bay. The other nine members of his team were spread out in the rear half.
This was Edberg's first live mission. He hadn't expected to get the final go. He'd anticipated another no-go and mission evaluation, especially after the haphazard way General Pike had alerted them and with the tight time limit that had been imposed.
They had an hour-and-fifty-two-minute ride to their infiltration point. The Combat Talon was going to rely on something besides its terrain-following ability for this flight. The electronic warfare people in the front were sending out a transponder signal indicating the Talon was a civilian airliner en route from Panama City to Buenos Aires, Argentina. The aircraft would fit this profile except for the brief one-minute slowdown over the infiltration point for the drop.
Edberg's ears perked up when he heard the radio come alive.
"Eagle, this is Hawk. I have lifted and am en route." Edberg checked his watch. 8:44. The HH-53 Pave Low helicopter had lifted from the USS Raleigh off the coast of Colombia on time. All the pieces were moving.
Riley waited at the base of the tree with Westland and Thompson. The Delta Force soldier had on the headset for the SATCOM. Tremont was in the tree continuing surveillance and in place for the role he would play shortly.
Thompson gave a thumbs-up. "Tiger, Hawk, and Eagle forces are all en route."
Riley turned and stared at the lit compound below. His adrenaline was starting to flow. He forced himself to calm down. They still had a while to go before things started happening. Another hour and twenty-five minutes.
Thompson pulled one of the cups of the headset off his ear. He reached into his ruck, took out two small radios with headsets, and handed them to Riley and Westland. "You know how to work that thing? We brought spares in case we found you all."
Riley nodded as he put the radio into a pouch on his vest and rigged the headset. He showed Westland how to work hers.
Thompson waited until Riley was done. "All right. You and Westland head down at 2200. You'll be able to talk, but remember that those guys coming in are going to shoot anything moving. I don't know why the old man agreed to have you two go in, but he did, so I'm not going to argue with him. I guess he figures he needs all the help he can get, plus you're a backup for Tiger if they don't make it in. The elements have been told you're going in over the wall, but you know how it gets in the dark when bullets are flying."
Thompson pulled a roll of tape from his ruck. He peeled off a long strip and wrapped it completely around Riley's chest, taking care not to seal any of his ammo pouches. With other strips he encircled Riley's wrists and ankles. For a finishing touch he put a strip around Riley's head. "That'll give you better odds of not getting shot. All the good guys will be wearing this IR tape in the same places. It'll show up like a strip of light in the goggles. Shoot anyone who doesn't have it."
Thompson removed his combat vest and gave it to Westland, who put it on. He then taped her with the IR chemical tape. Reluctantly he handed his Mossberg Bullpup to Westland. The squat weapon was only thirty and a half inches long. Thompson ran her through a quick overview of the weapon. "You got eight rounds in the tube under the barrel. As you can see, the sights are on top of the handle so it aims high. If you're going to fire from the shoulder, aim about half a foot low."