Bailey stopped next to a service lift used to load bombs into the internal bay of the B-2 and other aircraft. Sitting on the lift was two black cylinders that resembled sleek coffins. An air force technical sergeant opened one of the rounded containers for them to view. Inside, there was padding, but instead of the white satin of a coffin, this interior was entirely black. There were tubes and a mask at one end of the structure. Both ends were rounded.
Fisher’s mouth seemed to hang open.
The pilot who had flown Fisher across the Pacific came out from a back room, fully dressed in flight gear, and stopped alongside the coffin. “You boys ready?” the pilot asked.
“Ready for what?” Fisher said, confused.
“Where’s the oxygen connection?” Jake asked the pilot.
The pilot leaned over and pointed to a receptacle near the head of the container.
“And you’ve done this before?” Jake asked.
Bailey took the question. “That’s classified. Let’s just say it’s been thoroughly tested.”
“Whoooh…” Fisher said, his hands up in protest. “You mean to tell me you put people in here?” He glanced over his shoulder at the B-2 and then back to the other men. “Then drop the bastards like bombs?”
The pilot smiled.
Bailey said, “That’s the idea.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Fisher yelled. “Flyin’ across the ocean on a Goddamn air mattress is one thing, but this—”
Jake checked over the inside of the container more carefully. “Let me guess. Altimeter chute release.” Then he moved down to the end of the container, where he suspected the feet would go. “What you use to cushion the fall.”
“You got a smart one here, Stan,” the pilot said. “It’s basically a collapsing spring. You hit the ground and this outer case pretty much disintegrates around you. It’s made from a tempered Plexiglas.”
“So all that’s left is the chute, a few pieces of cloth, and a couple of fittings,” Jake said.
“Exactly,” Bailey said.
Fisher swished his head from side to side. “No fuckin’ way. What if the chute doesn’t go?”
“Then you’ll never know what hit ya,” the pilot said.
Now Jake was a bit confused.
“What’s wrong, Jake?” Bailey asked him.
“How do you control this to the drop zone?”
“Satellite guidance,” the pilot said, pointing to slits along the upper end of the black container. “Control fins pop out of here after it drops; GPS satellite controlled. Once it reaches the set altitude, the drogue chute deploys to slow you down, followed closely by the main chute, and then you’re in a free fall.”
“And trees?” Jake said.
“It could be a rocky fall. But there’s an inside release if you get tangled. You pop this, take a look, and then release the chute. You’re cushioned for a drop of at least thirty feet without the chute. Shouldn’t happen, though. We’ll aim for a nice opening. Low winds. You should be fine.”
Jake put his hand on the colonel’s shoulder. “The Agency better have a nice chunk of money waiting for me in my account.”
“Already been taken care of, Jake.”
“You in, Fisher?” Jake asked him.
“Like I have a choice? Sure the Agency will say it’s entirely up to me. Then I say hell no and I end up in Duluth. Fuck that. How far is it to Russia?”
“About a thousand miles by air to your drop point,” the pilot said.
“Why not just fly commercial?” Fisher asked. “A little beer and peanuts. Lousy food.”
“No can do,” Bailey said. “First, the schedule wouldn’t get you there until morning. By then the Asian woman could have made the drop and boarded a plane to damn near anywhere. As you know, she killed a bunch of folks back in the States. And second, we don’t want anyone knowing you’re on your way. Somehow they found out you were at the Seoul airport. You could be tracked all the way into Russia.”
“And we can’t fly a military plane in without filing a flight plan and getting major clearance,” Jake said.
“Exactly.”
“But with the stealth bomber,” Fisher said. “Nobody sees us coming.”
“Right,” the pilot said. “We slip in, drop you two off, literally, and continue on to Alaska. Hell, we don’t even need fly over rights.”
Jake looked at the containers one more time. “These must cost a good chunk of money for a one-use system.”
“They’re a bargain,” Bailey said. “We can drop a SEAL team into any location, they take out a target or capture someone, and then we set up extraction. It’s what we need more of in these times. Human intelligence. Folks on the ground. Even our smartest bombs can’t compare to that.”
Jake had to admit that was a helluva deal. Yet, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a Guinea pig. Regardless of his old friend’s recitation of the familiar classified argument, Jake had a feeling they would be the first to use these flying coffins. Chimps notwithstanding.
46
Feeling like a man in his own grave, Jake shifted his body sideways to keep from cramping. The idea of enclosing him in that human bomb, at first, had seemed quite absurd. Put into practice, the idea became almost laughable, and he wondered how in the hell they would lock someone into these contraptions for longer than the two-hour flight they were on before being dropped from twenty thousand feet?
The air force technicians had locked them into the pods, lifted them into the internal bomb bay of the B-2, connected the oxygen and heating tube, and then towed the aircraft outside. He remembered the strange sound and rumbling as the jet engines turned over; he felt the slight bounce of the craft moving down the taxiway; he experienced the surge of power as the B-2 lifted off; and then there was the almost tranquil sensation of cruising flight.
He felt that now. Like he was floating.
In the briefing before their departure, Bailey had equipped them both with cold weather clothing, helmets with communications, goggles, and, most importantly, his favorite handgun, the Czech CZ-75 in 9mm, with three extra clips. He moved his left arm against the gun now, strapped between his biceps and ribs. Bailey had also returned Fisher’s 9mm Beretta to him.
Jake had no idea what was in store for the two of them. They had gotten briefings and words of encouragement from the pilots for the past couple of hours, but they had been silent for the past fifteen minutes. He guessed they had to be getting close to their drop zone.
He wondered how Fisher was doing one rotation up on the rotary bomb rack. Jake had explained that he would be the first to go, but the Agency man had not been comforted much by that fact. He had gone screaming and kicking into the darkness of the pod.
“You boys still with us?” It was the pilot, Major Cox, on the headset.
There was heavy breathing in his ear. “Get me the hell outta here,” Fisher said, almost out of breath.
“Maybe a little valium next time,” Jake said. “How long?”
“Two minutes ‘till the drop. Oh, one more thing.”
“Not a surprise,” Fisher yelled.
“Once you drop,” the pilot continued, “you’ll feel a stream of air into the case. That’s normal. You won’t be on oxygen anymore, so we had to have a way to give ya some air. It’s awfully thin up here.”
“What about the cold?” Jake asked.
“Yeah, you’ll get cold for a while. But that’s why we gave you those clothes.”
Jake guessed the two minutes were almost up. “Anything else?”
“Enjoy the ride.”
“Right,” Fisher said. “That’s gonna happen.”
Suddenly, the sound of hydraulics moving echoed through the bomb bay, along with the gush of air. Then it happened. That sensation of floating was replaced by Jake’s feet pointing downward, and he was lunging through the air in the position of an Olympic luger.