Instinctively, Boomer slid a thirty-round plastic magazine out of a side pocket of his load bearing vest, slipped the back lip into the magazine well, then levered it forward, locking it in place. He smoothly slid back the charging handle on the right side, chambering a 5 .45mm round. His thumb flicked over the safety, ensuring the weapon was still on safe.
“Ten seconds!” Martin yelled from the right door.
Boomer stood, letting the folding-stock AK dangle on its sling and grabbed both sides of the open left door. He peered out, ignoring the chill night air blown down by the rotor wash. Getting oriented, he recognized the landing zone from the satellite imagery they’d hurriedly been fed minutes before loading at their base in northern Turkey. On time and on target.
The LZ was on a mountainside and the only way the pilots could get in close without having the tips of their blades hit dirt, was to put the nose in, touching the front wheels, while keeping the tail up in the air. As soon as the wheels touched. Boomer jumped out, landing in waist-high grass. He ran to the side ten paces and hit the ground, weapon pointing into the darkness. As soon as the last man was out, the sound of the turbines increased and the helicopter lifted and was gone, leaving a deep silence.
Boomer got to his knees and pulled a global positioning receiver (GPR) out of the top flap of his backpack. He popped up the small integrated antenna and twisted the activating key on the side. No larger than a portable phone, the GPR. fit in the palm of his hand. The small screen quickly glowed with data received from the network of satellites the Department of Defense had blanketing the planet.
By finding the best four satellites in the night sky, the GPR could pinpoint their location to within ten meters. Boomer punched the ros key and was rewarded with grid coordinates confirming that they were exactly where they were supposed to be.
Despite the visual confirmation prior to landing — and trust in the pilot’s navigating skill along with the chopper’s own GPR — Boomer had long ago learned the importance of double-checking.
“Assume means make an ass of you and me!” Boomer had heard more than once in his twelve years in the Special Forces and Delta Force, and he’d had those words confirmed on several missions. He punched the nav button and the route information he had memorized was displayed:
235 D MAG. 2.3 KILL
2.1 HOURS TOT
EL +256M STEER RIGHT
Boomer stood and turned clockwise until the bottom line changed to read on course. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the other members of his team were all accounted for, and then he moved off in the indicated direction.
They had slightly over two hours to get to their target, and it was downhill most of the way.
The team had been dropped off along a mountainous ridge line in the southern Ukraine that ran parallel to a two-lane asphalt road between the town of Senzhary and the province capital at Barvenkovo. The road was their goal.
Their target would be traveling this road between 0430 and 0530. Or at least that’s what the Intelligence dinks doing the mission briefing had assured Boomer. He himself had little trust in the wisdom of those who kept their rear end comfortably ensconced in chairs and didn’t have to live-or die — based on the accuracy of their information.
That was left to Boomer and his team. He grimaced slightly as he remembered the colonel from the Joint Chiefs of Staff office, his nametag identifying him as Decker, who’d given them the mission briefing. Decker assured them that their target would be traveling along this road.
In Boomer’s opinion, the man would have been more comfortable in a three-piece suit on Wall Street than wearing camouflage fatigues at a secret forward staging area in the mountains of northern Turkey.
Boomer especially remembered the flash of the large diamond set against black hematite in Decker’s West Point ring as he slapped the pointer on the satellite photo of the ambush area. Boomer couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn his own West Point ring. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t quite remember where the ring was. Hopefully it was somewhere in the one-room apartment he kept back at Fayetteville, North Carolina, for the few weeks in the year he was actually back at his home base.
The terrain steepened. Boomer could see the dark snake of the road ahead and below. He halted briefly, the team mimicking his actions, and did another GPR check. Checkpoint One. On course and ahead of schedule. Less than a thousand meters from the road.
“Let’s split,” Boomer whispered, the acoustic mike built into the transceiver clamped on his head transmitting the message on low power FM to the other seven men. The whisper did little justice to his normally deep voice. It was a voice that instilled confidence in listeners. An advantage for a man who led others into death and destruction.
Boomer and his commo and security men — Headquarters Element — moved to the left, the two men falling in place and covering his flanks. Captain Martin, the team executive officer, went off to the right with the remaining four team members to set up the kill zone.
The Headquarters Element scrambled down the hillside, staying hidden under the pines that covered the rock-strewn ground, until they reached a small knoll overlooking the road. Boomer crouched behind the trunk of a tree, one of his men going off to the left to provide far left flank security, the other settling “next to the team leader. Boomer scanned the deserted stretch of road fifty meters away and ten meters below.
“Bronco, are you in position? Over.” He asked over the FM radio.
“Roger, Mustang,” Martin replied.
“In position. At my mark, I’ll turn IRON for your identification.”
Boomer peered off to his right.
“Mark. Over.”
Boomer spotted the brief glow as Captain Martin illuminated an infrared flashlight — invisible to anyone not wearing goggles — then just as quickly turned it off.
“Roger, Bronco. I’ve got you. How’s it look? Over.”
“Good field of fire. Good cover. Palamino Element is at the road installing their toys. Over.”
“Roger. We’ll keep an eye open for the target. Mustang out.”
Boomer lay down on his stomach in the pine needles at the base of the tree, pulling the Russian overcoat in tight around his neck. It was cold, somewhere in the low thirties.
He looked to his lower right along the road and spotted the silhouettes of the demolitions men, Palamino Element, at work. He checked the time on the GPR: 0413. Seventeen minutes before the estimated target window. Boomer tapped the shoulder of the man lying next to him.
“Are we up on Satcom, Pete?”
Staff Sergeant Peter Lanscom nodded.
“Five by.” He handed over the small handset for the satellite communications radio.
Boomer pressed the send button on the handset.
“Thunder Point, this is Mustang. Over.”
The reply from Turkey was immediate.
“Mustang, this is Thunder Point. Go ahead. Over.” Boomer-recognized Colonel Decker’s voice.
“We’re in position. What’s the latest from the eye in the sky?
Over.”
“We’re getting live downlink from an Intelsat on your target. Mustang.
You’ve got two vehicles en route your location. A car in the lead and a bus following. Just as briefed,” Colonel Decker couldn’t help adding.
“They’re approximately twenty-two klicks from your position, moving at about sixty kilometers per hour. Over.”
“Roger. Out.” Boomer replied. He returned the handset to Lanscom.
The math was easy: twenty-two minutes, give or take a couple. Nothing to do but wait. He glanced down the road. The demo men were done.
Boomer hissed in a lungful of cold air, trying to still the churning in his stomach. The flash of white teeth was framed in the moonlight by his naturally dark skin, an inheritance from a grandmother on his father’s side who had been a full-blooded Cherokee. His black hair, a few inches longer than allowed by regulations, had just the slightest tinge of grey at the temples. His eyes were so dark as to appear black, but more unusual was the warmth they emanated regardless of Boomer’s mood. While Boomer’s overall reputation as a calm, likable individual was valued by friends and acquaintances, it mattered little to the organization that received the bulk of his time and attention.