It took the men twenty minutes to put their chutes on, hook their rucksacks up underneath their reserve chutes in front, rig their weapons, and stuff their swim fins underneath the waistband of their parachutes and secure them with a safety line. Then they sat back down and started their wait. Johnson could feel the change in atmosphere inside the aircraft. The adrenaline was beginning to flow.
“Should be due north of us,” Skibicki said.
“Track will be from left to right.”
Boomer twisted the focus on his night vision goggles and surveyed the ocean. The cresting waves were glittering green lines with sparks flying off as the spray pounded the rocks. The ocean beyond was a greenish-black slate out to the horizon where stars glittered brightly in the computer enhanced image.
He and Skibicki were hidden in the sand dunes of Kaena Point on its north side’. The small Coast Guard lighthouse was to their right rear and unmanned as Skibicki had said.
Five hundred meters inland, the ground swooped up precipitously to Puu Pueo, the beginning of the mountain chain that was the backbone of the west side of Oahu.
“Do you think they’ll come ashore here?” Boomer asked.
“I wouldn’t,” Skibicki replied. He pointed with the muzzle of his Calico. “The shore here is rocky, and as you can see the waves aren’t very gentle.. They’d get pounded pretty bad trying to swim in here. If those two bundles they’re jumping are boats, I think they’ll go one of two ways: east and try to beach somewhere opposite Dillingham Air Force Base, which is an old abandoned airfield on the inland side of the Farrington Highway that runs along the coast there. The only problem with going that way is that the mountains are very steep and if they are trying to go inland, they got one hell of a climb.
“The other possibility is that they go south,” Skibicki continued, pointing to their left, and then to their rear, where the coast came in.
“Lots of beach they can land on.
Also, that’s the best way to eventually get to Pearl. Hug the west coast all the way around, then along the south, and into the harbor.
They could take a couple of nights to make the move and do it without getting spotted if they’re very careful. Going around clockwise to the east they’d eventually have to round Diamond Head and pass Waikiki — not exactly the most secure way.”
“The message said the RP for the jumpers would be marked by IR strobe,” Boomer noted.
“I don’t see anything out there.”
“Normally the strobe would actually be at the RP,” Skibicki said.
“However, in this case, they might track the aircraft from land and flash an IR strobe when the aircraft is at the RP. I got the impression that their was just a safe signal that the jump could proceed. Hell, those damn Talons got such good navigating equipment that they’ll release those jumpers within ten feet of the planned RP.”
Skibicki pointed at the mountains.
“If I was running this drop, I’d be up there somewhere, almost on level with the aircraft.”
Boomer glanced down at the glowing face of his watch.
“We’ll find out in twenty minutes.”
Four hundred meters to their right rear, on the other side of the lighthouse, two figures carrying rifles moved silently through the darkness, the snout of their night vision goggles centered on the lighthouse, beyond which Boomer and Skibicki lay.
“Charlie Papa Fourteen at my mark,” the navigator said.
“Five, four, three, two, one. Mark.” He checked the numbers on his screen.
“We’re two seconds ahead of schedule,” he announced.
“Roger,” the pilot said.
“What about electronics?”
His answer came from the countermeasures officer in the front half of the cargo bay.
“I’m getting atmosphere bounces off the radar from the International Airport but we could go up another six hundred feet and they wouldn’t have a clue we were here. No sign of ships or other aircraft.”
“All right,” the pilot said.
“Johnson, we’re twenty minutes out.”
In the rear of the plane Master Technical Sergeant Johnson relayed the time until drop to the jumpmaster, who turned to the other men seated on the web seats and extended both hands, fingers spread wide.
“Twenty minutes!” he screamed, repeating the gesture twice to give them the visual count.
The jumpmaster then turned to the two rubber Zodiacs and checked the cargo chutes rigged on each, hooking their static lines to the steel cable — one of which ran the entire length of the cargo bay on each side, ending far in the tail well. At loading, Johnson and his assistant load master had placed the Zodiacs in position, one on each side, nose facing the rear. Each boat rested on a metal pallet, and the attaching points for the cargo chutes were on each corner of the pallet.
The boat was attached to the pallet with cargo webbing, all centered on one quick release inside each boat so that once in the water, the pallet would release and sink, leaving the boat floating on the surface. The forty horsepower engine for each boat was tied down inside. The pallets were held to the inside of the aircraft with one length of cargo webbing attached to the back of each pallet, tied to an 0ring on the floor of the aircraft.
“Ten minutes,” the pilot’s voice announced in Johnson’s headphones. He gave the information to the jumpmaster who again relayed it to the jumpers.
“Break the chem lights,” the jumpmaster instructed Johnson. He obliged by cracking the two chem light sticks taped to each Zodiac — one on the prow, one on the stern.
“Six minutes.” This time the routine changed. The jumpmaster stood and hooked his own static line hook to the right cable, just behind the hook for the right boat. He then turned to the men.
“Six minutes!” he called out extending five fingers on one hand and one on the other.
“Outboard personnel stand up!” he yelled, pointed to both sides of the aircraft, then gesturing up with his palms.
Six men on his side of the aircraft and seven on the other stood, holding onto the side of the aircraft for support.
“Hook up!”
Each man unhooked his static line snap hook from where the jumpmaster had placed it on the carrying handle of the reserve parachute over his belly and attached it to the steel cable, open end facing out. The jumper then slid a slender metal safety through a small hole in the hook, insuring that the snap hook could not reopen.
The jumpmaster curled his fingers, thumb to forefinger, and moved them back and forth.
“Check static lines!”
Each jumper rechecked his hookup to the cable, then traced the yellow web of the static line as far as he could until it disappeared over his shoulder, making sure that it was clear and free. He then checked the man’s in front from where it appeared over his shoulder to where it disappeared into the pack closing tie of the parachute itself. The last man on each stick turned to face the front of the aircraft and had the next-to-last man check his. An improperly routed static line could cause the jumper great difficulties after exiting the aircraft and lead to him being hung up and battered against the aircraft.
Johnson felt his weight thrust slightly forward — he knew that was the aircraft slowing down from almost 300 miles an hour, to jump speed of 125 knots, and that the plane was three minutes out from the drop zone.