But they did not even have the good luck of bad weather to help them on this one.
White had reported that they needed to be no higher than one hundred feet to go under the radar from the Gagarin-class radar ship. One hundred feet would have seemed like a mile to Fell and Watanabe right now, because they were flying their CV-22 in full airplane mode only thirty feet above the Baltic Sea. The plane’s engine nacelles swiveled down to full horizontal, so the helicopter rotors were now airplane propellers. Aided by the high-resolution infrared scene projected onto their helmet-mounted sights by the AAR-50 thermal-imaging navigation set, and by their AN / APQ- 174 multimode terrain-following radar, the tiny warplane streaked inbound, changing course every ten to twenty seconds, skirting as far as possible around the growing number of vessels they picked up On radar. In OVER WATER mode, a tiny beam of radar energy measured the distance between the CV-22’s belly and the water, and a warning light would illuminate if the distance dipped below twenty feet.
The pilot was responsible for keeping the aircraft a safe distance above the water — no autopilot in existence had the precision to hold such a low altitude. Flight and sensor information was electronically projected onto Fell’s helmet visor, so he didn’t have to look down into the cockpit for vital information — a fraction of a second’s distraction could kill them all. As long as there were no sheer obstructions such as ships or towers in the flight path — the radar altimeter did not look forward, only downward— they were safe.
That is, if flying less than a wingspan’s distance above the water at four miles per minute could be considered safe.
The plane was to drop the MSPF team about ten to twelve miles from the coast, but obviously the closer to shore they could get before running into hostile detection systems, the better. In their case it was not hostile Soviet radars — it was the huge number of boats that kept popping up on radar. But there was an “obstacle” to contend with — the port town of Liepaja, now only fifteen miles away. The piers and warehouses along the coast were so bright now that they threatened to destroy their night vision — and if they could see the town, someone could well see them. They managed to get closer than ten miles to shore before encountering boats they could not safely circumnavigate, but the closer they got to shore, the harder it was to avoid them.
“All right, I think we’ve gotten as close as we can get,” Fell told Watanabe. “I can’t go far enough around these sonsofbitches. If they get an eyeball on us, the game is up. Alert the team and get the cargo doors open.
Watanabe made the interphone calls. The glow from Liepaja was so bright now that it created glare on the CV-22 PAVE HAMMER’s windscreen.
“Christ, it feels like the whole world can see us up here,” Fell muttered on interphone. “Double-check switches, Martin. If we make one squeak on the radio or forward-looking radar, they’ll pick it up all the way to fucking St. Petersburg.”
Watanabe carefully checked to see that all the radio switches were on STANDBY or RECEIVE, the APQ- 174 was not in TFR mode, all other radios that could transmit a signal were in STANDBY, such as the instrument-landing system, and that all exterior lights were off.
The AAR-50 infrared scanner showed the area around them was clear for at least eight miles, the optimal range limit for the FLIR. “Clear on cargo doors.” As Watanabe hit the switch to open the rear cargo ramp, Fell rotated a small switch on his control stick, which rotated the engine nacelles on the wingtips of the PAVE HAMMER and transformed the bird from a conventional turboprop plane to a helicopter, and the CV-22 began slowing from two hundred and fifty to only thirty miles per hour.
In the back of the cargo section of the aircraft, the ramplike cargo door lowered and a blast of frigid air washed over the MSPF team waiting in the back. The team was ready: they had a large twenty-foot rubber boat, called Combat Rubber Raiding Craft (CRRC), or “Rubber Raider,” complete with a 75-horsepower gasoline engine and extra fuel tanks, waiting in the open cargo hatch. The team was dressed in “Mustang suits”—black nylon water suits that protected the wearer from the cold, provided flotation, sealed out water, and allowed much more mobility than divers’ wet suits. Their weapons, radios, and other gear were sealed in black waterproof bags slung around their shoulders.
When the signal was given, the MSPF team members picked up the boat by its rope handles and ran out the cargo ramp into space, dropping into the ice-cold water below. The weight of the Marines on the handlines kept the CRRC from flipping over, and they began pulling themselves into the boat, stabilizing it against the hurricane-like turbulence from the CV-22’s rotor downwash. Seconds later the CRRC’s outboard engine was started, team members loaded and checked their MP-5 submachine guns and .45-caliber automatics and, with Lobato providing directions from a compass and from his intense advance study of the area, they raced off for shore.
Aboard the CV-22, Sergeant Brown reported that the Marines were safely away, and Fell wheeled his plane westward once again and sped away from shore, staying below fifty feet but carefully avoiding all boats that popped up on his FLIR sensor. At that same time, Watanabe relayed a single message on the command channeclass="underline" “Teviske,” which meant “Motherland” in Lithuanian, the signal to Paul White and the rest of the assault team that the Marines were headed ashore.
Marines, especially Recon or special-operations teams, never fought alone. No matter how big or how small the team was, Marine Corps infantry units were always supported by a command, air, and logistics element. That simple “go” message would send the rest of the players into action:
As PAVE HAMMER returned to the Valley Mistress for fuel and to rearm with a two-man assist team, a Marine Corps KG- 130 aerial-refueling tanker began its takeoff roll from Sandefjord Air Base, south of Oslo, a NATO training base where the U.S. Marines had established a Northern Europe operations center. Flying along with the KG- 130 was a CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter-a huge transport helicopter — with a reinforced rifle platoon called a “Sparrowhawk” on board ready to assist Gunny Lobato’s team if necessary. Watanabe’s message also alerted other detached members of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Force in Denmark and Germany that the operation was in progress and that intelligence and planning teams were standing by, waiting for word on the team’s progress and preparing alternate plans of action.
The U.S. Air Force also had a support network.ready to go, with even more firepower than the Marines. Launching from Rhein-Main Air Base in Germany and under command of the Air Force Special Operations Command, was an MC-130P special-operations tanker aircraft — designed to refuel other aircraft at low altitude and over hostile territory or near a target area — accompanied by two F-16C Fighting Falcon fighters. Carrying mine dispensers, rocket pods, and antiradar missiles as well as air-to-air missiles, the heavily armed F-16s could assist the Marines on the ground to break away from hostile ground units, or they could clear the skies if the Soviets decided to scramble fighters against the rotary-wing aircraft. Additionally, the MC-130H COMBAT TALON aircraft from England, code-named WILEY COYOTE, and its fighter escorts from Norway, would begin their rendezvous orbit near the southern tip of the island of Gotland, ninety-six miles west of Liepaja, ready to pick up RAGANU and take him to safety. The Valley Mistress itself would dispatch several small, innocent-looking power boats-armed to the teeth by COBRA VENOM Marines — into the Baltic to act as a safety recovery team in case the CV-22 was damaged during its egress.