This could be a turning point in the war against the Oni Agent. A chance to confirm if the Russians were as big a player in the Oni Agent outbreak as they suspected and start down the road toward getting their revenge for what they had done to the United States.
“If you all don’t have any more questions,” Smith said, “then it’s time to load up. Reynolds has your loadout lists for tonight’s mission. But you’ve got to prepare to ship everything over with us. Because once we start our campaign in Europe, we’re not stopping. You all are going to be based across the Atlantic until further notice.”
Finally. This was it. O’Neil was ready to stop running missions in his home country and taking them back where they belonged.
Right in enemy territory.
-9-
Nearly eleven hours later, O’Neil was in one of the uncomfortable jumpseats of a C-17. The vibrations of the massive engines rumbled through the bulkhead and into his bones. Throughout the long flight, he had managed to snag a couple hours of sleep. It wasn’t much, but the anticipation of what they were about to do gave him more than enough energy.
“Ten minutes,” the pilot called over the PA.
O’Neil checked over his suppressed M4A1 again, then his HK45C. He checked that every weapon and piece of gear on his person was strapped in well and every buckle and clip secure. He had over sixty pounds of gear on, from his NVGs to his plate carriers to the explosive charges in his pockets and even the Pirate Gun he wore on a sling. The modified M-79 grenade launcher was a popular addition to most of the operators’ loadouts on the team, with its sawed-off stock and pistol-grip. It packed a hell of a punch with a relatively small profile and lower weight than a normal M-79. Which was important when O’Neil had worked to shave off every ounce he could from his gear for tonight.
This wasn’t going to be a touch-and-go drop-off from a Black Hawk.
“Five minutes,” the pilot called again over the PA.
O’Neil stood, doing his best to stay upright with all the gear. The rest of the operators followed suit, clipping carabiners attached to the chutes on their backs to the line overhead.
Tonight, they would be making a HAHO drop. They didn’t want the Russians or any lurking Skulls to hear the drone of the C-17’s engines, hence the high-altitude, high opening. And if they did a low-altitude opening with sixteen parachutes whipping and snapping open, they might as well be firing off their rifles on their way down.
“Ramp!” the jumpmaster called, his voice ringing over their comms. The ramp at the rear of the plane began to lower, revealing nothing but blackness. It was damn near impossible for O’Neil to make out where the sky met the ground at the horizon, except for the scattered stars he saw.
The SEALs began shuffling toward the rear ramp as the jumpmaster waved them on.
O’Neil made a fist at Loeb, Tate, and Van, his heart thrumming faster in anticipation of the jump. It had been a few months since they had made an insertion like this, much less one with as much riding on them as tonight.
“Over target,” the pilot called over the PA.
O’Neil turned back to his team. “Masks!”
He made a gesture over his face, then turned forward again, placing his oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, breathing in deep. Then he clicked his NVGs in place, the world awash in green.
The light next to the open ramp turned green. One by one, the SEALs shuffled toward the exit and disappeared over the edge as the jumpmaster sorted the carabiners and straps left from the SEALs on the line above his head.
Loeb hit the ramp next, heels on the edge, toes hanging over, then he dropped. Van went, followed by Tate.
Finally, it was O’Neil’s turn. He toed over the edge of the ramp. Felt the wind tugging at his uniform, whipping against him. He let himself tip over the edge of the ramp as the strap behind him yanked out the smaller drogue chute. A moment later, the main chute exploded out from his pack, catching hard in the air. His harness pulled back on his shoulders and chest, and he held tight to his steering lines.
Below, dark gray masses floated over their target. A screen of clouds covered the coastline and the port city where they were supposed to land. Soon as his parachute fully inflated, he was left in a world of eerie quiet, with just the wind rippling over the chute and his gear.
“All teams, Alpha Actual,” Reynolds called over the comms. “Visibility is poor. Stay on your buddies’ tags.”
O’Neil watched the IR tags of the SEALs below him blink against the otherwise dark cover of the clouds. He pulled on his steering lines to stay closely stacked behind the others as the C-17 continued its journey eastward, returning to the UK.
For now, the sixteen SEALs were on their own, floating down deep into Skull territory. The cold air tingled O’Neil’s skin. His fingers started to go numb as he pulled on the steering lines.
That sensation only grew worse when they pierced the low-lying clouds. Each drop of freezing moisture beading across his body and gear pierced him like a thousand tiny icy daggers. He lost all hope of visibility, only able to see a couple yards in front of him. Even the blinking IR tags seemed to get lost in the hazy darkness.
Diving through clouds was terrifyingly dangerous. The risk of running into other skydivers was far too high. Normally, DEVGRU would’ve waited for the right weather. A cloudless night. A waning moon, so the enemy would have hampered visuals while they ruled the dark with their NVGs.
But the situation this mission presented had forced their hand. They could not miss the convoy.
All O’Neil could do was steer his chute and hope that every professional, experienced member of this elite team was descending as planned through those clouds. A single tangled line, a diver slamming against another diver, might result in mission failure before they even made contact with the enemy.
O’Neil watched his altimeter as he continued his descent. From above, they weren’t quite sure how deep the cloud cover was. If it was an especially foggy night, they might never escape the clouds.
They had to be ready for landing—and hope that they were indeed headed to their target alongside the Klaipėda port.
“Bravo, check in,” O’Neil called over his team’s line.
“Loeb here.”
“Tate, still floating.”
“Van.”
Even though he couldn’t see them, he took solace knowing that they were drifting through this pervasive darkness with him. He looked down at the altimeter again.
Five-thousand feet now.
Still immersed in clouds.
O’Neil went through a patch light enough that he could see a couple of blinking IR tags below. He adjusted his lines, following them.
Then they hit four-thousand feet.
More clouds.
Three thousand.
O’Neil’s heart began to race. Once they made it into the city, the last thing he wanted to do was run himself into the side of a building or get his chute’s lines wrapped around one because he couldn’t see where he was going. He might end up hanging somewhere, helpless until his team found him. Assuming the Skulls didn’t hear his tangled chute flapping in the wind first.
Two-thousand feet, still too many clouds.
This wasn’t good.
This wasn’t how this mission should start.
O’Neil remembered his first solo dive strapped down in gear. How he had let panic take him when he had fallen into an uncontrollable tumble, legs and arms spread, trying to regain a stable position, but failing.
At the time, he had jumped with an extra one-hundred-fifty pounds of gear. Might as well have strapped another human being to him.
He had pulled his chute too soon, still in that tumble, when he let the panic win. And the lines had immediately become tangled. The chute couldn’t fully inflate, and he was spinning, rapidly descending at a pace that would leave his body smeared over the target pavement.