Gant checked his watch and said, "We're going to run into daybreak if this takes much longer."
"I'm surprised we got here as early as we did. Good thing we caught the cross-country red eye," Twiste said with a smile.
Gant appreciated a few moments of levity before the action began, but no amount of joking could cover up the fact that soon it would be dawn over south Florida. They might make it to the crash site before the sun came up, but not by much.
"I suppose I had better wake them," Gant sighed.
Twiste nodded at the snoring Franco and told Thom, "You know, I could slip him a sedative. Keep him out for the whole mission."
"I thought you physicians were to do no harm."
"Now wait a sec, technically speaking I'm your science officer, so don't lay that Hippocratic oath on me. Besides, I'm thinking of unit morale here, sir."
As usual, Thom could only shake his head. Still, they would reach their staging area soon, where they would transfer people and gear off the plane and onto choppers for a ride even further south. That meant the time for relaxation had come to an end.
Major Gant reached over to the wall and flipped a switch. Rows of bright light shot on to a chorus of groans and grunts, topped off by Sergeant Franco replacing his horrid snore with a groggy, "What the fuck?"
"Listen up," Major Gant started while a video screen displayed an aerial photograph behind him. "Six hours ago an Aegis-class destroyer engaged an unidentified object over the Gulf of Mexico. The squids disarmed the warhead, which means no big boom."
The team perked up. Any mental cobwebs from lack of sleep dissipated.
"The short version is that we’ve got an intact vehicle on the ground. This is not a recovery mission. What we have here is a search and capture."
Gant let that sink in.
"That was six hours ago, sir," Captain Campion said. "Are we getting here too late?"
"The Air Force has been buzzing the site since impact. Image data from an Eagle Eye UAV that swept the target area twenty minutes ago indicated a downed craft with one occupant on foot."
"Why wouldn’t the idiot bug out?" Franco asked.
Gant replied, "The crash site is remote, inside the Everglades National Park. It may think that it’s safe or out of sight."
Twiste — who stood at the front of the cabin not far from Major Gant — said, "I would think its natural instincts would be to stay in close proximity to its vehicle, particularly if it has any hopes of being recovered."
"But there is no sign of additional intruders," Gant hastily added.
"Reminds me of the Manitoba crash," Campion mumbled loudly enough to be heard.
The major continued, "A regiment of army infantry is currently quarantining the area. They have established a five-mile perimeter. A cover story will take care of any press. Something about an Air Force cargo plane crash and plutonium."
Gant turned his attention to the aerial photograph displayed on the screen.
"Gentlemen, we got lucky. The crash site is dry from weeks of drought. Instead of swamp, we are heading into tall, dry saw grass. But there is plenty of the swampy stuff to the south and east." The major ran a hand across the photo, pointing out a road and tiny dots representing structures. "The army has deployed to the north, blocking off the access roads and trails. They evacuated any campers and park workers. They have not entered the target zone. That is our job."
Most of the soldiers focused their eyes on their commanding officer and the aerial photograph he referenced. Campion and Franco alternated their attention between the major and their wrist computers.
"I want two fire teams. Franco, you take Bravo. Your job is to secure the crash site and prep for extraction. The Navy has a Jolly Green Giant coming in to hoist the vehicle out. That is your responsibility. Get it out quick, with no mess."
"Yeah, sure, cleanup duty again."
"Campion, you run Alpha team. You are my flushers. Push the target west to the coordinate designated Catcher's Mitt. We have a new toy from tech that should help out."
After a nod from Gant, Twiste explained, "It's the new net Taser. Based on the remains we recovered from Manitoba, we've designed a weapon that will deliver an intense shock to the target's nervous system. We believe this will incapacitate the creature, allowing for a clean capture."
Gant pointed at Galati. "Sal has been training on the weapon. Are you ready to go, soldier?"
"Piece of cake, chief. It's pretty cool and all, kind of reminds me of this type of underwater spear gun that we were using back when—"
"Okay, then you are ready to go," Gant cut short another of Sal's stories.
Franco jumped in, "Hey Galati, if you're off with the major that means you and Wells can't hold hands through the scary parts. You going to be okay with that?"
Jupiter Wells answered for Galati, "I got something for you to hold, Biggy, and you'll need both hands."
"I ain't your—"
"Now is not the time, gentlemen." Major Gant quieted the cross talk and looked to Van Buren, whose name and sideburns had earned him the team's most unique nickname. "Mr. President, you will be our eye in the sky, using the infrared to track the target right to us for intercept."
Van Buren nodded.
Gant finished, "We were all pulled out of bed and thrown on a cross-country flight in the middle of the night. I know you are tired and more miserable than usual. But you need to focus. This is our job, gentlemen."
Stars sparkled over a landscape of cypress trees, mangrove swamps, and patches of unusually dry marshlands.
The Everglades were a leftover from an era long before man, long before cities, long before the campers and canoes that crisscrossed its acreage during tourist season. From alligators to ibis, the Everglades marked time at a pace so slow it mocked man’s rise from primate to predominate. It was a sanctuary, where the ancient could hide in the fantasy of a world still young.
A Seminole chief named Osceola once used the Everglades to hide from the armies of the white man. Now those armies returned to capture another fugitive of a much different nature.
A small MH-6 "Little Bird" buzzed over the landscape, its lights and whirling blades spoiling the quiet night. Behind it came two more intruders: larger UH-60 Blackhawks that dwarfed the buzz of the MH-6 with their thunderous turbo shafts.
From his the shotgun seat in the smaller chopper, Gant looked at the landscape stretching toward the horizon. Off to his right, in the distance, he spotted rows of lights: torches, flashlights, and headlights from the army troops deployed on the northern perimeter.
In the distance to his left moonlight shimmered across the swampy waters of the mangrove marshes — a natural obstacle nearly as foreboding to their quarry as the soldiers to the north.
In between the jaws of the trap sat a wide stretch of dried marsh and mud, punctuated by tight groups of trees and layered with vast tracks of tall, dry grass.
The Blackhawks held in tight formation behind the leader. Gant barked his orders via a secure radio channel. "I want this thing on ice, not tits-up. Bravo team, secure the crash site and prep for extraction."
Franco’s voice acknowledged, "Roger that."
Gant ordered, "Bravo team, go."
The rear Blackhawk banked hard and swooped south.
"Alpha team. Proceed to map designate niner-niner and deploy. Intel indicates target has moved into that area. You’re our foxhound, Captain. Push our friend west by northwest right at ‘catcher’s mitt.’ You copy?"
"Ten-four, we copy. Alpha team, tallyho."
The remaining Blackhawk gained altitude then arrowed southwesterly, moving Alpha team to its insertion point.
Gant turned to the pilot, who was on loan from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) out of Hunter, Georgia, and said, "Okay, Nightstalker, I need to get to the map coordinate designated ‘Catcher’s Mitt’ A-SAP. Punch it."
The nose of the MH-6 dipped as it gained momentum and sliced through the night a few feet above the tallest cypress trees.