Brewster had positioned himself on the right side of the cargo bay near the bulkhead, talking into his microphone. By the sound and feel, it was obvious the plane was decelerating, preparing for the cargo door to open, preparing for the SEALs to jump.
He turned and walked near Grant, pulling the mouthpiece away. Leaning toward Grant, he said, “Sir, time to get ready. The door will be opening in five minutes,” he indicated by automatically holding up five fingers.
“Roger that,” Grant responded, then he signaled the team.
Almost in unison, they adjusted their helmets and goggles, pulled up the rubber aviator masks that had been hanging around their necks, and tightened the straps. Finally, they cranked on the O2 and checked the levels. Looking at Grant, they each gave a thumb’s up before standing.
Grabbing their rucksacks, they moved closer together, then attached their rucksacks to the ring on their reserve chutes. Grant looked at his men one more time before giving Brewster a final thumb’s up.
Brewster fingered the microphone, speaking to the flight deck. Standing by the controls, he started the process of lowering the cargo door. A high-pitched whine was heard as the hydraulics slowly began lowering the door. Wind and engine noise became more intense the wider the door opened. Pressure and temperature inside dropped quickly. The cabin was pitch black, except for a few small red lights.
The plane made an almost unnoticeable turn to port, and immediately leveled off. In the distance, looking to his right, Grant could see the western edge of a city, probably Palermo.
Finally, the whine stopped. Brewster walked along the right edge of the ramp, then got on his knees, making an inspection.
Grant and the team inched their way closer to the opening, walking awkwardly because of the rucksacks hanging low.
Brewster stepped closer to Grant, pointing to lights below, lights from the hill town of Enna. The town seemed to rise out of the blackness from the country surrounding it. He tapped Grant on the shoulder, getting his attention, then he held up two fingers. Two minutes to jump.
The SEALs checked their oxygen levels again, adjusted the straps of their aviator masks one last time, and mentally processed the mission.
They kept their eyes on Brewster, who glanced at his watch then held up one finger. One minute to jump. The SEALs separated, with Grant in front.
Getting final confirmation from the flight deck, Brewster folded his right arm across his chest, and in one swift motion, swung his arm out to the side, pointing to the exit, the signal for the SEALs to jump.
Diving head first and within seconds of one another, they fell into the emptiness, feeling the tremendous rush of cold air pressing against their bodies. Ten seconds later they each pulled a ring, releasing their black, RAM air chutes.
Brewster stood near the edge of the ramp with a pair of NVGs, watching and waiting until all chutes opened, declaring quietly, “A good jump.” He notified the flight deck then walked over to the bulkhead and pressed the switch. The ramp started lifting, and at the same time, the aircraft began accelerating.
From the flight deck Colonel Cummings confirmed Brewster’s message then said to Flanagan, “Let’s head to Naples, Dean.” The C-130 responded to the controls, and with its left wing dipping, started a slow, wide turn, on a heading that would take it to its refueling stop, leaving a fiery Mount Etna behind.
They started maneuvering in the light wind, using the toggles to adjust their direction, finally coming together to form up in a stack, with Grant in the lowest position. It was up to him, using the GPS, to set their course, to guide the team to the LZ.
The lake just southeast of them finally came into view, and northeast was Mount Etna, spewing smoke and orange fire, looking formidable, ominous. Thick waves of red hot lava spilled over the mountain’s ridge, flowing slowly downhill, melting anything in its path. Grant thought in amazement, Freakin’ Mother Nature!
He glanced at his altimeter on the top of his reserve chute, then he started looking for more landmarks. He spotted Motta. The winds were still good. Finally he saw their objective: AFN!
Zeroing in on the church ruin, he pulled down on the toggle, steering more to the left, breaking away from the team. They took his lead and one by one broke away, leaving plenty of room between one another.
His altimeter showed one hundred feet. And then at fifty feet, he pulled down on both toggles, causing the chute to begin stalling. With his knees together and slightly bent, he pulled down a little more, then finally, at ten feet, he pulled down hard on both toggles. The chute stalled and he touched down.
The team landed all in close proximity to him. They unhooked their rucksacks from their reserve chutes, then, foregoing the normal figure-eighting of the shroud lines, they quickly gathered their chutes then rushed into the church ruins.
“Everybody okay?” Grant asked.
They all nodded and responded in unison, “Yes, sir.” Since they already had their green cammies under their jump gear, they were able to change quickly.
Grant looked at his watch. His immediate concern was whether or not Naples was able to contact someone in Motta. “Eric.”
“Yes, sir?” Lewis answered, as he was strapping on his weapon.
“Take… ” He stopped abruptly, snapping his head around, hearing a small branch cracking.
They all grabbed their weapons and took cover behind the stone wall. Grant motioned with his .45, sending Simpson and Lewis to the opposite side.
They honed in on the sound coming from the front of the church. Grant had his weapon in his right hand, holding it close to his cheek.
The movement stopped, and they heard a voice in a loud whisper. “Captain Stevens?”
Still being cautious, Grant responded, “Come on in, slowly, with hands up.”
Doing as he was told, the man came through what was, at one time, a doorway. He was of medium height, in his early thirties, wearing jeans and a University of Missouri sweatshirt and baseball cap. He stopped short, staring with eyes wide at seven men pointing weapons directly at him.
Grant stepped closer. “And you are?”
“My name’s Wagner, Keith Wagner. I was asked to bring these to Captain Stevens.” He reached behind him and lifted a cloth bundle off the ground.
Grant holstered his weapon and with a smile, extended a hand to Wagner. “I’m Grant Stevens, sir. We’re sure grateful to you.” He motioned to Russo. “Vince, take the package, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Russo responded, reaching for the bundle, giving a quick smile to Wagner.
Grant looked around the edge of the door. “You didn’t walk here, did you?” he questioned with surprise in his voice.
“Oh, no, no. I’ve got an old Jeep, but thought it best to park farther up, off the road.”
“Thanks for taking the precaution, Keith.” He turned to Moore. “Ray, get one of the radios and set the frequency. Keith, I don’t expect that we’ll be needing your services again, but I’d like you to keep this with you. Do you know how to use it?” Wagner nodded. “Would you be willing to let us, shall we say, borrow your vehicle if the need arises?”
“It’d be my pleasure, Captain! Oh, by the way, I packed some food in that bundle, just in case you hadn’t eaten.”
Grant hadn’t even thought about food, until this moment, when he heard his stomach rumbling. “Appreciate it, Keith. Oh, one more thing. Any chance you could store our chutes and jump gear?”
“Sure. Just load them in the jeep.”
Grant motioned with his head, and the team took the cue.
“One more thing, Keith. Are any others in town aware of your being asked to help us?”