PART FOUR:
BLACK MARK
Chapter 50
The C-17 Globemaster’s wheels bit into the runway and rumbled for a few seconds, before the massive aircraft rapidly and unnaturally slowed from the reverse thrust of its four over-powered turbofan engines. The sudden deceleration pushed Farrington into Dihya Castillo to his right. Jared Hoffman knocked into him from the left; a victim of the same, seemingly impossible physics prank played by the aircraft’s engines.
The behemoth taxied smoothly for a few minutes before coming to a stop. Farrington looked forward to getting off this thing for however long it took to refuel. Despite its impressive size, the two-story, windowless cargo bay felt like a flying tomb. He might reconsider the flight crew’s offer to sit on the flight-deck level, where he’d have a chance to see the sky. They had a long flight ahead of them to Africa, their destination still up in the air. Literally.
The Gabonese government had apparently been less than receptive to the idea of allowing a U.S. military transport to land at their air base in Libreville to “refuel.” The current plan was to covertly parachute a small group into the farmlands southeast of the city along the aircraft’s approved route to the United Nations Base at Entebbe International Airport. The group would link up with CIA-friendly assets and make arrangements to receive the rest of the team when they filtered into the area on private flights. The plan was far from ideal, but it got some of them on the ground in the target area as quickly as possible to start the search for Reznikov.
After the aircraft remained stationary for several seconds, the C-17’s loadmaster, seated in a sturdy flight chair next to the flight deck stairwell, released his harness and gave them all a thumbs-up. Farrington unbuckled the far less serious-looking strap holding him into the jump seat. The loadmaster opened the crew door on the forward-most, port side of the cargo bay, close to his station.
The team milled about the section of the hold they had claimed, groggy from the eight-hour leg of the flight. Farrington could sense they were ready to press their feet on terra firma and breathe some fresh air before they were sealed up again. The DEVGRU operators stuck together toward the rear of the hold, like they had for most of the flight. The SEALs had neither been openly disdainful, nor subtly disrespectful toward Farrington’s team, they merely stuck to themselves. He hadn’t expected an ice cream social. They had been assigned to babysit Farrington’s team, and it clearly wasn’t a choice assignment.
“If your team wants to breathe some crisp middle-of-fucking-nowhere Atlantic air tinged with aviation fuel, they can stretch their legs on the runway!” the loadmaster yelled. “Just keep them near the stairs and out of the refueling crew’s way so we can get out of here.”
“Which side do they use to refuel?” asked Farrington.
“That side,” said the loadmaster, pointing toward the starboard side of the cargo bay.
Farrington nodded at the U.S. Air Force technical sergeant, turning to face the bulk of his team nearby. “Stick close by. There’s nothing to see out there anyway. This place is literally in the middle of nowhere.”
The group mumbled and nodded, at least half of them immediately moving toward the hatch leading out of the aircraft. He stopped Aleem Fayed on the way by. “Make sure they don’t wander.”
“Got it,” said Fayed. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”
“They topped off in Buenos Aires, so I’m thinking twenty to thirty minutes. I’ll meet you out there in a few. I need to update Sanderson.”
“What’s there to update?”
“That they didn’t fly us to Guantanamo Bay.”
The seasoned operative shook his head and laughed, heading over to organize the pack gathering at the door. Fayed led the Middle East Group, which comprised at least a third of the task force put together by Sanderson for this operation. Given the final destination, any skin tone naturally darker than Farrington’s tan bought you a ticket on this flight. The entire South-Central America group, minus Munoz and Melendez, had also been sent.
Not that operatives from either group would blend right into the Libreville population. Far from it, in fact. The quick-fused mission exposed a significant weakness in the Black Flag structure. They had only two operatives who could walk through the main Libreville market without drawing immediate attention. Andre Luison, a French-Creole descended operative attached to the European Group, and Jon Holloman, a former Special Forces soldier with two years of intense German language training from the Defense Language Institute in Monterrey, California. Needless to say, they’d both parachute into Gabon tonight.
Castillo remained in her seat, rubbing her temples, an empty airsickness bag between her knees. Farrington patted her on the shoulder, nudging her forward.
“Get some air,” he said.
“I don’t feel like moving,” Castillo groaned.
“You need to walk those rubbery legs. You’re hitting the ground later tonight.”
“Pain in the ass,” she muttered, pushing off the seat.
Farrington grabbed her arm before she plopped right back down. She didn’t look well, a slight film of perspiration visible on her face. He might have to reconsider sending her with the advanced party if she didn’t come around.
“Sure you didn’t eat something sketchy earlier?”
“I didn’t eat for more than six hours before our scheduled departure. I get airsick. Every time. I’ll be fine.”
“I need you steady when you hit the ground,” he said.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, shaking his hand off her arm.
Castillo headed for the door with most of the team, leaving him with Jared Hoffman, who would most definitely not be part of the parachute team. He was somehow whiter than Farrington. Hoffman, aka Gosha, was the Russian Group’s sniper, and one of Farrington’s most reliable operatives.
“She looks like shit,” Gosha quietly commented.
“I don’t have another sniper that doesn’t glow like a fluorescent light.”
Gosha smirked. “Funny. Never thought I’d be discriminated against for being too white.”
“You can file a complaint with HR when we get back,” said Farrington. “She says she’ll be fine.”
“Shaky hands make a useless sniper.”
“There won’t be any sniping when they land. Not right away. I need to make a call.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Not going outside?”
“What for?”
“Good point.”
Farrington walked toward the door, taking the satellite phone out of a cargo pocket. The loadmaster flipped switches at his station, looking up from his work and glancing past Farrington. A loud mechanical whine cut through the deep hum of the engines, drawing Farrington’s attention toward the back of the cargo bay. He caught some movement behind the vertical ramp, which was immediately noticed by the SEALs.
“Any reason you need the ramp open!” one of them yelled over the noise.
The loadmaster either ignored the question or didn’t hear it. The SEAL walked closer as the ramp started to descend.
“Hey! What’s up with the ramp?”
“Fresh air! I get to sit here and balance fuel while everyone else takes a break,” replied the loadmaster.
The SEAL shook his head. “At least dim the fucking lights! I don’t need my picture on the cover of Newsweek magazine.”
“Whatever,” mumbled the sergeant. “It’s not like anyone’s watching.”