“But Emma’s notes say that the plateau is around 1500 feet high. That’s high,” Andy responded.
“Relatively,” Drake replied. “Skydivers jump from over 10,000 feet. A parachute needs a good 100 to 200 feet to fully deploy, and then takes more time and distance before your velocity is slowed enough for you to land without breaking every bone in your body. Like I said, you can wear one if it makes you feel better.”
Andy sighed theatrically, and Drake held his hands wide.
“Bottom line, Andy, is that more people die from parachuting accidents than they do ballooning. Like I said, we follow the rules, we’ll all walk away smiling.”
Andy didn’t look comforted. He turned to Emma. “And what about protection?” he asked. “You said you’d be better prepared this time. We have Mr. Masterson and his colleagues; is that it?”
Emma smiled and held out an arm. “Drake, the floor is yours.”
The Special Forces soldier got to his feet and stood in front of the group. “Thank you, Emma.” He put large hands on his hips, and he seemed to fill the room. “Everything we bring is designed for self-defense purposes, and I hope we never have to use any of it. But, if we are threatened, then we must respond fast and decisively.”
He nodded to Fergus who lifted a black carry-all bag onto the coffee table and unzipped it. He handed Drake one of the objects — it was a metallic gun that looked like it was made from black plastic. It had what looked like another gun strapped underneath it.
“Cool.” Andy sat straighter, and Helen groaned.
“What I have here is a—”
“M16,” Andy shot out.
Brocke snorted. “Looks like we have an enthusiast.”
“Close,” Drake said. “I’m holding an M4 carbine tactical assault rifle. A shorter and lighter variant of the M16, and now the primary infantry weapon of the United States Marine Corps combat units.” He paused to glance at Andy. “And we will all be getting one.”
The soldier held it forward. “The M4 is a 5.56×45mm, air-cooled, direct impingement gas-operated, magazine-fed carbine. It has a 14.5-inch barrel and a telescoping stock.” He balanced it in one hand. “It weighs 6.5 pounds empty and 7.49 with a 30-round magazine inserted. The M4 is capable of firing in semi-automatic and three-round burst modes and is also capable of mounting a Heckler & Koch M320 grenade launcher.” He indicated the smaller, stubbier-looking gun attached underneath.
“Oh wow.” Andy’s eyes blazed like a school kid.
“Oh Jesus Christ, this is overkill.” Helen bared her teeth. “And I, for one, will not be going to war down there.”
“Begging your pardon.” Drake’s gaze was direct, and though he hadn’t raised his voice, the authority in the tone was like a fist slamming down on a desk. “If only one-tenth of what Ms. Wilson’s report says is there, happens to really be there, then you’ll be glad you have something more than a university degree to defend yourself.”
Helen’s eyes narrowed and she folded her arms and sat back. “Nope. I won’t be taking one, end of story. That’s your job, if I’m not mistaken.”
Drake remained calm. “Yes, we are to be your shield and the sword, ma’am. But survival is everyone’s job.”
Emma held up her hand. “We’ll all need to do training, regardless of whether we decide to take a weapon. Last time, we had a few guns, but many of us had no real idea how to use them. I won’t make that mistake again. That’s why I’ve personally undertaken extensive weapon training, taken a first-aid course, and some basic zoology, paleontology, and biology studies. But I’ll still go to Mr. Masterson’s training sessions, because he’s a survival expert, and I have this peculiar desire to survive.” She turned. “Go on, Drake, please continue.”
“Thank you.” He held up the rifle. “The M320 grenade launchers will only be attached to ex-military personal M4 rifles; however, as the unit can be detached and used independently, we will be practicing with these as well.” He stared hard at Helen until she looked away, still looking like she smelled something bad.
Drake pointed at the bag and Fergus removed what looked like some weird striped clothing, shoes, plus other smaller items.
Drake held up a shirt that had numerous pockets and flaps. “There’ll be knives and other items for survival and defense, but this will be your best buddy night and day. The digital tiger stripe jungle uniform — lightweight, cool, odor free, and damn tough as all hell. There’ll also be tactical all-terrain and water boots, with built-in snakebite protection and rapid drying. But no padding, as it absorbs water, so take these home today and start wearing them in.”
He held up some goggles. “Last but not least, old, but reliable — the Generation-3 Auto Military Spec U.S. Night Vision Goggles. They’re a little dated now, but they work, are easy to use, and they’re low-tech, meaning a lot less can go wrong. They’ll do for us.”
“May I?” Andy held out his hands.
Drake tossed the goggles to him and Andy put them on, flicked a switch, and his mouth broke into a grin underneath the plastic and rubber seals.
“Weapons training begins tomorrow morning, 9am, at the Bristolville, Grand River target range.”
“Can you make it?” Emma asked the pair of paleontologists.
Andy nodded and Helen shrugged.
“There’ll be other sessions before we depart. There’s a lot to learn and not a lot of time — call it cramming for the most important test of your life.” Drake smiled grimly.
The rest of the afternoon was spent on a few questions, getting to know each other a little more, and some trip and logistics planning. Drake headed out onto the back porch for a smoke, and Emma joined Cynthia on the couch. She looked a little wearied.
“Do you think you’re ready?” Cynthia asked.
“No.” Emma turned to her and half-smiled. “But just as ready as we can be.”
“It will have to do. Ben is waiting for you, I know it.” She reached across to take Emma’s hand and squeezed it. “I know you’ll find him.”
Emma held her small, thin hand, but kept her lips tight. She hoped Ben was there, and if he were, she would do everything in this world to bring him home. But one thing she wouldn’t do is make promises she might not be able to keep.
She patted the old woman’s hand and then stood. “And now, I’ve got to order a hot air balloon.”
Drake sat on the back step, slowly rubbing the hunting knife against the whetstone. The slow, circular rotation, over and over, made a soft hissing noise as he filed the large blade’s edge to razor sharpness.
Special Forces soldiers knew to keep their weapons in top condition, but there was something about the repetitive nature of the task that allowed Drake to think, and sometimes that wasn’t a good thing. Memories came back, not all of them welcome.
Drake hadn’t thought about big Ben Cartwright in years. The captain was a tough guy, and one of the best that he’d ever served with. If it wasn’t for Cartwright, Drake knew he’d be a pile of bleached bones somewhere out in the Syrian Desert right now.
The mission came rushing back — it was a night incursion into no-man’s land to get in behind enemy lines and find and destroy an ammunition store. There were eight of them, eight of the best of the best Special Forces, the Gravedigger Unit. Two of them were out at point, Gino Zimmer and Ron Jackson; both good soldiers, but that night not good enough.
On that night, there was no moon, and they had their quad night vision goggles in place, the eerie four lenses and their body armor making the Special Forces operatives look like armor-plated robots.