He began to explain the situation, but then stopped, as if the officer on the other end had cut him off. Apparently the mission commander was watching the same feed and already knew what was happening.
“Yes, sir,” the captain said. He glanced at the screen, at Parson and Blount. Parson followed the end of the conversation he could hear: “I think so, Colonel… Affirmative… So we’re still go?… Thank you, sir.” The captain hung up the phone and said, “Boss says we know where they are tonight. We might not get this chance again.”
Dear God, Parson thought, why did I ever let Sophia get involved in this? Why did I ask her to come back here at all? She’s already done more than her share. Selfish of me. I sent for her because it would make my job easier.
He wanted to call the Talon crew and tell her not to jump. Let the shooters go without her. But now she was chopped—Change of Operational Control—to JSOC. For the purpose of this mission, she was no longer his to command. Parson had helped set these events into motion, and now he’d have to see them through and live with the results.
“Let’s saddle up,” Blount said.
It was nearly launch time for the main assault force—Blount’s Marines and the Afghans. By the time they got there, Gold and the Special Tactics Team would be observing from the knoll just to the north of the target area. Blount’s team would arrive in their Osprey and hit the bunker complex, while the Afghan troops from Rashid’s chopper would set up a blocking force. The idea, Parson knew, was to keep bad guys from getting in or out of the area during the attack. More of them were in the area now, though. Nothing for it at this point but to strike them hard and fast.
Parson gathered up his gear. He buckled on his body armor, slid his survival vest over that. Hung his NVGs around his neck. He already had his Beretta in a thigh holster, and he’d signed out an M4 carbine. He lifted the carbine and headed for the flight line.
A dozen Afghan soldiers were already seated in the Mi-17. Rashid and his crew briefed in Pashto. When they finished, Parson told Rashid what he’d seen on the Predator feed.
“This thing just got a little harder,” Parson said. “Might as well tell them what they’re up against.” No changes to the orders. Just changes to the hazards.
Rashid spoke in his own language again. Some of the troops looked scared; others looked resigned. Three began to pray.
Down the tarmac, the Osprey already had its rotors turning. Rashid and his crew strapped into the Mi-17, and Parson took a seat at the front of the helicopter’s cargo compartment. Plugged in his headset and listened to the crew’s chatter.
Though he couldn’t understand the words, he recognized the call and response cadence of starting up an aircraft. So their checklist discipline was getting better. And they probably knew tonight, of all nights, was not the time to make a mistake.
The rhythmic whomping of the Osprey’s rotors deepened, vibrated inside Parson’s rib cage. He looked outside and saw the Marine Corps bird lift off. Raised his NVGs and watched through them.
Sparkles swirled at the tips of the rotors, the corona effect of blades striking dust particles. The phenomenon appeared first as double circles. But as the Osprey climbed and entered translational lift, the glow spread down the length of the blades. On night vision, it gave the image of stars caught in a whirlwind, as if the aircraft had stirred a galaxy.
With his own rotors on speed now, Rashid eased up on the collective and twisted its grip throttle. The more time Parson spent around rotorheads, the more he appreciated their hand-eye coordination. Simultaneously, Rashid had to adjust power, change blade angle, and feed in a little torque pedal to keep the nose straight. It took both hands and both feet to keep this contraption pointed in the right direction.
Rashid nearly always flew well, and Parson hoped he could count on his Afghan friend again. Above all, Parson wanted to get to the target as quickly as possible. Gold was somewhere out in that night, maybe over the drop zone by now. And ultimately, he had put her there.
25
When her ears quit popping, Gold knew the MC-130 had leveled at drop altitude. She swallowed one more time just to make sure everything was clear. You couldn’t do this kind of work if you were congested at all. Good way to rupture an eardrum from the inside.
Gold didn’t have that problem now, so she wondered why she felt anxious. The open ducts of the unpressurized plane at high altitude let in cold air, but despite the cold, she was sweating. Then it dawned on her she was sweating because of the cold.
Cold was one of her triggers. The worst pain, the deepest fear she’d ever felt had happened during that blizzard when she was shot down with Parson.
Not now, she told herself. Deal with it later. She had to push through anxiety the way a marathon runner pushed through the hurt to reach the finish.
Reyes stood up. From this point on, she’d get her cues from his hand signals. With the rushing wind, roaring engines, and oxygen masks, talking was impossible, shouting pointless. He placed both hands at waist level, then extended his arms to his sides: Unfasten seat belts. Time to go.
Time to focus.
She switched on the light in her altimeter, mentally congratulated herself for not forgetting that step. Though Gold planned to use her night vision goggles later in the mission, she could not wear them in free fall. The manual specifically warned against it because NVGs could restrict a parachutist’s ability to find the rip cord and cutaway handle.
Gold released her seat belt and kept her eyes on Reyes. The two Marines and the combat controller did the same.
Reyes placed his right thumb on his right cheek, rotated his palm and fingers over his oxygen mask, across where his nose and mouth would be. Normally, the signal for Don your mask. But since everyone was already prebreathing through the pressure-demand masks, this time it meant Disconnect from the prebreather and go to bailout bottles.
Gold took a deep breath, held it. Unseated her hose receptacle, snapped it into the bottle connection. Exhaled, drew another breath. No resistance, no leaks. She gave a thumbs-up to Reyes and the phys techs.
Please don’t let me screw this up, she thought. The government had spent a tremendous amount of money, and she had spent a great deal of time and effort, all to prepare her for a moment like this. The lives of her teammates—and of Fatima’s brother and Aamir’s son—could depend on how she acquitted herself.
At the back of the cargo compartment, a red light blinked on. The aircrew was running their pre-slowdown checklist. Reyes tapped his left wrist with his right index finger. Held up ten fingers.
Ten minutes.
Somewhere on the ground beneath her existed the result of some of man’s worst impulses. Gold was about to head straight for it at terminal velocity. She just hoped training and instinct would take over, that her own impulses would lead the right way when she didn’t have time to think.
The luminous hands on her watch seemed to accelerate. Ten minutes melted away in seconds. Reyes extended his arm straight out to his side, then bent his arm to touch his helmet: Move to the rear.
Gold stood, shuffled with the other jumpers toward the back of the aircraft, awkward with her drop bag and other gear. The Talon’s engines seemed to sigh as the flight crew reduced power, slowed to airdrop speed. So now the crew was in their slowdown checklist. The whine of a hydraulic pump started again, shrill enough to pierce all the other noise. The ramp dropped open to wind and blackness.
Reyes moved his fist in an arc over his head: Stand by. Fifteen seconds.
The jumpers stood in a line on the ramp, Reyes in the lead, Gold next. No light shone on the ground, no stars overhead. Gold couldn’t tell if high cloud cover had moved in or if her eyes simply weren’t adjusted. Either way, she saw only darkness. As if nothing remained in the universe except the back of this aircraft. And the cold.