With a deep sigh, Swanson gave in and turned toward the flaring sky above the airport. The bombing and strafing had stopped, leaving behind a field of embers. “Okay, let’s get on up to the airport and have the extract birds meet us there. I’ve got an idea.”
“Of course you do,” Brandt chided.
Gibson was almost there, grinding along the uphill path with his heart beating fast and his breath hot and ragged, when he heard the sound. He stopped to listen more closely and catch his breath, thinking at first that it might be Swanson and his guys coming up behind him. But it wasn’t a four-cylinder Toyota engine; it was a multiengine heavy turboprop approaching from the east.
The plane wasn’t at all stealthy, because a brute that large didn’t have to be quiet. There were probably escorts in the sky above and in front of it, looking down for possible threats, and the crew was highly trained in flying at night and in mountainous terrain. They were unafraid, and snapped on the blindingly bright landing lights that made Gibson feel that the lowering aircraft was heading straight for his nose. It passed overhead at about six hundred feet, and Gibson saw shapes falling from it in a long trail that blossomed into strings of paratroops dangling beneath canopies.
Tilt Foster’s heart was pounding a tattoo in his chest, and his belly clinched when he stepped through the door and into the Afghan night to be greeted first by the shock of wind blowing sideways and again by the jolt when the rip cord pulled out the chute. He grabbed the toggles and looked around, seeing no one else, although he was surrounded by Rangers. It was impossible to relax when he knew the ground was down there somewhere, rushing up to crunch him like a peanut.
Luke Gibson sprinted with what little energy he had left in the tank. Then he saw the opening in the hillside, where his pilot, Pavel Gagarin, was already running the checklist and his assistant, Ivan Nagurski, was aboard the little tractor that had pulled the Huey out to the flat pad. The Russians knew their jobs well, and had gotten the old helicopter ready without being given final instruction. By the time Gibson gasped to the pad, Nagurski had disconnected external support and jumped into the co-pilot’s seat to help Gagarin set the buttons and the dials. Gibson jumped in through the open door, strapped into a canvas seat, and fitted an intercom headset over his ears.
“Where should we go?” asked Gagarin. The long rotor blades slowly began to move as the engine whined in sympathy with the effort of gears to chop the air.
“Stay low and head north for a few valleys, then land at that abandoned geological survey station for a little while. Ivan, you pull that chart that will get us to the easternmost end of the Wakham Corridor. We’re heading for China.”
Gibson recognized that one planeload of airborne troops wasn’t enough for a meaningful battle. They would have light machineguns and little mortars, good for securing a tiny place like the scoured airfield, but heavier stuff and more troops were needed to undertake any serious offensive action. That meant more troops and equipment were on the way, probably aboard helicopters and overland by trucks. The timetable for the raid had obviously been put together in a hurry, which guaranteed that things would stop running like clockwork as more people and machines became involved. A chopper might crash, a fight might actually break out, someone might misunderstand an order. The troops would hardly look up at the sound of another helicopter. And the electronic world on the surveillance plane high above was about to get very tangled, as radar blips would be flowing every which way, exiting and entering the area. That was all Gibson needed to get lost in the traffic.
The snipers slid in some rubble and covered themselves as the Rangers toppled from the sky and drifted down to the plateau. They didn’t want to exit from cover until the soldiers had some time to get organized. Popping up out of nowhere in the landing zone of a bunch of heavily armed paratroopers was a good way to draw a lot of gunfire, even if they were expected.
The soldiers dropped their heavy harnesses, and their sergeants collected small groups and organized defensive points around the heart of the field. A team of specialists got the radios going and a command post was soon up and running, with aerials marking the spot. Medics set up an aid station nearby, and a few soldiers hobbled over, or were helped, from drop-related injuries. For a moment there was absolute quiet, and the Rangers offered silent thanks for the cold landing, then hunched over their weapons, ready for anything.
The two Cobra gunships dashed overhead with floodlights nosing into the surrounding area, and then came the extraction Blackhawk and it’s twin backup, settling down at one end of the slowly expanding LZ, but inside the perimeter. Bruce Brandt raised the pilot on his own frequency, and the chopper relayed the call to the CP.
An officer and a sergeant emerged from the command center, looked around, then called out for the men near the choppers to hold their fire because three friendlies were coming in. The crew chief of the lead helicopter joined them.
Actually, the snipers were already inside the perimeter, which had surged past their hide without detecting them. Swanson, Thompson, and Brandt stood slowly, hands in the air, mysterious and shadowy figures who weren’t there one moment and, the next, they were. Swanson hailed, “Friendlies coming in.”
The officer stepped forward. “Captain Sanchez, Company B, Third Ranger Battalion,” he said, extending a hand.
“Good to see you, sir,” said Swanson. No names were given, or expected, from the operators.
“You boys been having a good time?”
“Best day of my life,” Thompson answered.
“Well, much as I’d like to hear about it we’ve got no time for chitchat. Let’s hustle you all out of here. Lot of material and troops on the way to this little spot of dirt. We’ll be moving into the village at daybreak.”
“You know to keep a lookout for our missing target?” Swanson asked.
“Fully briefed, sir,” said Sanchez. “Luke Gibson is dead meat.”
“Right, then. We’re out of here.” Swanson turned to the helmeted crew chief. “Lead on.”
“Back to the world. Warm bed, hot chow,” said Brandt, moving toward the waiting Blackhawk.
“Beer,” said Thompson, and they walked away, back into secrecy.
28
The well-coiffed network anchorwoman in a blazing red dress did the intro. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, the cable network churned out news and opinion, so there was always an anchorwoman, or an equally charming anchorman, to read the teleprompters mounted on the studio camera they faced. To be an anchor at any hour was considered a major achievement for a television news reader, and somebody was always in the makeup room backstage, preparing for the next hour.
“We have a major story developing in Afghanistan right now involving American soldiers,” said Jennifer Holland. “A single pool reporter was allowed to accompany the troop movement. We switch now to John Foster, the embedded correspondent, who is on the ground in the town of Girdiwal.” She blinked her eyes once. “John, what can you tell us?”
“Hello, Jennifer.” Tilt Foster looked weary and sweaty as he did his fourth interview in an hour. “Elements of the U.S. Rangers parachuted into an airstrip in northeast Afghanistan early this morning. Let me emphasize that I am reporting with the full knowledge and permission of the Pentagon, so we are not endangering our troops. In fact, an Army communications team is my camera and sound crew.