Chapter 1
Iraq, 1992
Thirty thousand feet above the choppy waves of the Persian Gulf, the lumbering Hercules transport plane opened its aft ramp. A biting wind whipped across the metal deck of the Herky Bird and turned scattered water drops into tinkling cubes of ice. His heart racing, Ensign George Anders sucked in a quick breath. The metallic taste of oxygen rolled across his tongue, past his dry throat, and down into the pit of his stomach where fear and nausea tormented with equal fury.
As the giant plane banked to the east to line up with the drop zone, ominous storm clouds chased the four-propeller craft along its path. Resembling broken shards of glass, distant slivers of lightning sliced jagged lines across the smooth surface of the squall line. Below the plane, a barren desert sprawled to the edges of the world and waited for death. Waited for decay to return the fallen to its domain.
A voice crackled in George’s ear as Commander Dan Davis sounded off an order.
“Stand by for HAHO.”
George’s adrenaline surged.
Calm down. It’s just a routine HAHO.
Not true. There was nothing routine about jumping from an airplane six miles up. Unlike HALO jumps, where chutes were opened near the ground after a thrilling free fall, a High Altitude High Opening jump meant pulling the cord in timed intervals—within a few seconds after leaving the plane. It also meant leaping into frigid air chilled to fifty degrees below zero. And at that altitude the air thinned to damned near nothing. That meant wearing a self-contained rig with a mask, regulator, and O2 bottle. Without it, George knew he’d lose consciousness and die long before he hit the ground.
“Drop zone in five,” Davis said over the com line. “Pilot says we’re going to hit some turbulence from that storm behind us, so pucker up your sphincters.”
Davis was old school. Battered and scarred, he was tougher than a short kid in East LA but smarter than most MBAs when it came to staying alive. His massive frame, bundled inside his jump suit, made him look like a WWD wrestler modeling a new line of body armor.
Petty Officer “Jolly” Mackenzie was even bigger. In the seat across from Davis, also bulk-bundled, he was the unchallenged winner of the team’s “he-man” award. That, and every other contest requiring brawn. To Jolly’s left, Petty Officer “Bulldog” Sandoval looked like an out-of-place midget. Since he was just five foot ten inches tall and 180 pounds, it was a wonder the boy had ever made it through Navy SEAL training. But he could wolf down more chow and burp louder than anyone on the team, which had to count for something.
“Okay, boys,” Davis barked, “let’s get ready to dance.”
George had made only a couple of HAHO jumps before, and both had hurt like hell. On those exercises, when his body hit the jet stream, at a brisk 180 miles per hour, he’d had only two seconds to line up correctly and ensure a stable “chest to ground” posture before opening his chute. Still, even with a perfect line-up, the shock of his chute opening, and the screeching halt from 180 to zero in about a half-second, had almost taken his head off.
God help the poor guy who’s not in position when his chute opens.
You could easily get tangled in your line and die. Or you could have your O2 mask ripped from your face and die. Or you could have your neck broken in the snapping wind and die. Or you could just die.
“Got my money on Tom Glavine and the Braves for the opener,” Jolly keyed over the com line. “Six to zip over Houston. That’s my prediction, and I’m stickin’ to it.”
A sports fanatic, Jolly had been an All-American linebacker at Colorado State and later played for the Oakland Raiders before blowing out his knee and misaligning his nose. At four inches over six feet and 210 pounds, the big bald guy had put the fear of God into more than one opposing quarterback during his two seasons in the pros.
“Ain’t no way, Jose,” Bulldog drawled through a mouthful of chewing tobacco. “It’s gonna be six to zip all right, but my boy Pete Harnisch is pitching the no-hitter in game one. Houston’s going all the way this year. That’d be my predilection.”
“Dream on, Bulldog,” Jolly snarled. “The Astros don’t have any power hitters. What did Caminiti hit last year? A whopping two-fifty-three? Paaaleese. The Braves are gonna blow these wimps away. Right, Ensign Anders?”
George keyed his mic. “I just want one of those dirty water dogs.”
“Dirty water dogs?” Jolly said.
“Yeah,” George clicked back. “You know. One of those stadium hot dogs they soak in boiling water for twelve hours before they slap ’em on a bun and lather ’em up with chili?”
Jolly nodded. “Oh yeah, now that’s almost worth missing a homerun over.”
Though Jolly’s face could not be seen through his HAHO headgear, George knew the big guy was licking his lips with wild passion.
“Hey, Commander,” Bulldog said. “You got to be rootin’ for the Astros, too, right?”
Davis raised his chin. “I’m with Green Boy. Just give me a dirty water dog.”
George shook his head. Davis had been calling George that name for the past few months, ever since he’d been assigned to the team. Ever since the team had been given this suicide mission. Rumor was that Davis called all new guys by that handle, at least until they earned the right to gain a new one—usually by killing somebody. Though George’d soon have that opportunity, he wished for nothing more than to return to his normal life as a Navy linguistics expert in San Diego. Unfortunately, fate had devised other plans.
“Hey, Bulldog,” Davis said over the com line. “You are gonna spit out that chew before we drop in on this dance, right?”
“Well hell, Commander,” Bulldog said. “It was just startin’ to taste good. Besides, chewin’ before a drop brings me luck.”
One of the pilots cut in over the line. “Commander Davis?”
“Davis here.”
“We’ve got one hell of a tail wind from that storm behind us,” the pilot said, “pushing our ass right out of the safe speed zone for a HAHO. Your call, sir. What do you want us to do?”
“What’s the air speed now?” Davis asked. His voice sounded gravely in George’s headset.
“Three hundred over the ground,” the pilot answered. “I’ve got the power back and flaps all the way down, and we’re still pushing an airspeed of over two hundred.”
“Line us up,” Davis said, without hesitating. “This mission can’t be cancelled. We’re jumping no matter what.”
George imagined the pilot in the cockpit shaking his head in disbelief. He wasn’t alone.
“Jolly,” Davis said, “you’ve got point. Stand by to lead us out.”
In a HAHO jump, the first one out of the plane had nothing do with rank and everything to do with experience. George knew that Jolly had logged the most HAHO jumps on the team, so it would be his privilege to lead the team off the ramp.
“Hooyah!” Jolly yelled over the com line. “Let’s see if you boys are bad enough to stay on my six.”
“Be more of a challenge if your ass wasn’t so wide,” Davis said.
Knowing that levity was the best cure for fear, George tried to smile but could only muster a small grin.
After making a few final adjustments to his O2 control valve, he donned a pair of thermal glove liners and then outer gloves that locked at the wrist with Velcro. The C-130 jerked and dropped several hundred feet through the air as a wind shear hit head on. The brief sensation of weightlessness caused George’s stomach to flutter.
“Whoa, sheet howdy!” Bulldog howled. “Anybody got another quarter?”
“Sorry, Bulldog, I’m fresh out of quarters,” Jolly said. “But you can come over here and ride on my lap for free.”
“No way, Mutt Face,” Bulldog said. “Not unless you put on some makeup I ain’t.”
“Safeties on, boys,” Davis reminded the team. “Let’s not shoot each other in the ass.”
“I gotta take a leak real bad,” Bulldog announced.
“That’s it,” said Jolly. “No way I’m jumping in front of this guy.”
“One minute to green light, Commander,” the pilot keyed.
“Okay, ladies, you all know the drill,” Davis said. “Any asshole that misses the LZ answers to me . . . and it won’t be pretty. Use your GPS to hook up if you’re separated. Radio silence and hand signals once we’re on the ground.”
Slashing hard through the opened ramp, the battering tailwind threatened to swat the team out the back of the aircraft. George stood and lined up single file behind the others. The red light near the door changed to green. Without a word, Jolly ran off the ramp into the night. Davis and Bulldog followed. George sprinted behind Bulldog and jumped headfirst into the jet stream.
The initial blast of air hit him like a blow from Evander Holyfield. If George hadn’t been in proper position, the flow off the underside of the giant plane would have sent him spinning end over end. Well aware that the tolerance for error was just about zero, George figured his heart rate was probably above a million beats a minute. A slight lean to the left or right and the resulting out-of-control flat spin could prematurely end his mission. And his life.
Though he’d mentally prepared for the chute opening, the sudden mid-air stop all but pushed his feet up inside his head. After getting through the negative G effect, George double-checked his MT-1X canopy and looked around to ensure he wasn’t going to cause a four-car pileup. Glancing at the altimeter on the control board, just above his rucksack, attached to a harness between his legs, he verified that he was now at 24,000 feet and falling slow.
As the last scintilla of day turned to dusk, the storm on the horizon appeared closer. The world below moved to black as scattered gray shadows brushed away the last bits of crimson and orange and ushered in the evils of the night. After almost an hour of falling, George checked his altimeter. Two thousand feet off the deck. A gust of wind hit him square in the back, fluttered his chute, and sent a chill down his spine...........
