There’s the sensation of descent, my stomach lifting, lurching, and then a kind of softer, slower silence, the roar of the engines lowering. Another few minutes of what feels and sounds like maneuvering, accompanied by a pronounced rocking, and then there’s a lurch and a steadying.
“Open cargo bay,” comes the command from the cockpit.
Duke is the first one out of his seat, jogging to the end of the bay and slapping a button that sends the bay door to lowering itself with a mechanical whine. Daylight streams into the bay, illuminating the rest of us as we stretch tight muscles. I hear the engines still powering down, the propellers slowing. I hear other rotors—helicopters. Voices.
Descending the ramp, I find us on a narrow spit of land in the middle of a choppy blue sea. There’s a stiff, cold wind, and a decided chill in the air. The spit angles away and vanishes in the distance—I can just barely make out what might be a larger mass of land way, way in the distance, looking more like a faint blue haze than anything.
Waves crash ceaselessly and noisily. There are at least a dozen helicopters in a long row along the beach, ranging from battered but well-kept Gulf Storm era Blackhawks to Russian Mi-8s, as well as other models I don’t recognize—there are three Chinooks, as well, among them.
“Quite an operation going on here,” Apollo says, beside me.
“No shit.” I spy Alexei nearby and go to him. “Where are we? I know Puck said…Baka? Buku? I don’t remember.”
Alexei gestures at the blue haze in the distance. “Chilov. Is an island fifty kilometers from Baku, Azerbaijan. We are on a faraway part of island from the people and the airfields and oil fields. Is like your Hawaii or Alaska, with big island and other parts not so big, far away, in the ocean. Here, is no eyes to see, and there is moneys paid to make sure no one is look for you, no one sees us come, no one sees us go. Pay enough money, someone is always agree to look another way.”
Apollo gestures at the helicopters. “And those? Who are they all?”
Men come and go from the helos, dressed in a wide variety of outfits, from quasi-military to traditional Arabic garb to Indian clothing to plain western blue jeans and T-shirts and ball caps.
“All people who are hating Spaulding as much as we do. He makes many enemy. When Harris calls his many friends to say we go after this shitbrain piece ofdick, Spaulding, many have come forward to help be part of killing him.” Alexei points at the Chinooks. “These are for us.”
As we’re speaking, three more helicopters arrive, flying in formation—and these are not support aircraft for carrying personnel, nor are they meant to confuse our numbers. These are for assault, bristling with rocket launchers and mini-guns and all sorts of deadly gear.
I can’t help but laugh. “Apaches? Uncle Harry brought in fucking Apaches?”
Alexie laughs with me. “Nyet,these are from Raze. Is good to have friends with big money and high connections,da?”
Apollo just watches as the trio lands at the end of the lineup. “This is going to be really something.”He looks at me. “How does someone even go about getting ahold of those? Much less the armaments for them? I dealt in arms, and I could not procure those.”
I just shake my head, laughing. “I have no fucking idea, Apollo. Between Daddy, Harris, and Raze, there’s an unholy shitload of money and connections. If you’re willing to pay enough, you can get anything…” I gesture at the Apaches. “Clearly.”
* * *
The next houror so is a whirlwind of activity. The gear piled on the cargo plane is distributed among the Chinooks and a couple of the other personnel movers, while the SUVs are hooked up to be hauled by the Chinooks. Men are assigned to squads and fireteams, divided among the aircraft, and then there’s one more final briefing. It’s informal, all the men crouching near Uncle Harry, who has never looked so badass.
He’s in a black jumpsuit, a flight helmet under his arm, several sidearms holstered on his chest, wearing mirrored aviators and calf-high combat boots. Usually he just flies in whatever he feels like wearing—this is the first time I’ve seen him in actual flight officer gear.
The rest of the men are equally kitted out—this is no half-ass team of rookie mercs, this is a hand-picked outfit comprised of the most elite and battle-hardened warriors anywhere on the planet. In company such as this, Apollo and I are the odd ones out. I’m still in jeans and the T-shirt Apollo got me at the gas station, what feels like a millennia ago. Granted, in the process of getting ready for this briefing, I was given an armored vest and a combat helmet, as well as a full-size M-4 carbine; the pistol I’ve had since the fortress is holstered on one side of my vest, and my HK submachine gun is clipped on the other. So, all things considered, I feel more badass, simply by virtue of being geared properly. But still, the men around me have all seen far more combat than I have—in the case of my uncles and Alexei, decades more experience.
I can tell Apollo is considering similar feelings. “Fish out of water, huh?”
He snickers, nods. “More like a fish swimming with sharks.”
I elbow him. “Hey, we’re at least barracuda, right?”
Harris eyes us, a warning on his face as he begins his briefing. “All right gentlemen—and Rin. We all know what we’re here for—Richard Spaulding. He’s holed up in a mountain stronghold in Iran—we’ve gone over the plan at length, so I’m not going over it again, except in brief. Pilots, you know your routes. Chinook pilots, get as low as you can. Rin, Apollo—you’ve never been taught how to fast-rope or abseil from a helo, so you’ll be clipped to Duke and Thresh, respectively for the descent. Apollo, I’m sorry, I know it might be embarrassing, but that’s the way it has to happen. We can’t afford the risk, and you have one working arm.”
“Understood,” Apollo says. “No arguments here.”
“Great. Drivers, you’re working in tandem with the assault pilots, and you’ll have a small contingent of infantry. Your job is to clear the road and draw fire. Assault pilots—engage with care. There will be alotof friendlies on the ground, so be sure of your targets. Infil teams—we’re going uphill, through the forest, with an unknown number of possible defenders and positions, with unknown combat capacity. In short, our intel as to what to expect on the ground is essentially nil. Point men, your heads have to be on a fucking swivel. Rearguard, you too.” Harris scans the group. “The rest of you pilots, just follow along and descend like you’re letting down troops. If you’ve got someone with you and you want to take some potshots at the stronghold, go for it. Just don’t get in our way. Therewillbe air support in the form of some F-16s flying a holding pattern in case Spaulding manages to get away. But with the Apaches, I don’t see that happening.” Another pause. “Anselm and Dyani are out there somewhere, and even I don’t know their exact location, I just know when we reach the insertion zone, Lear as comms operator will patch them into us. Anselm is code name Ghost, and Dyani is code name Deerdancer; I don’t see this happening but I prepare for all eventualities—they’re both carrying smoke in case they get overrun. Ghost is yellow smoke and Deerdancer is red. Pilots, if you get that code, pop smoke yellow or red, or you see it, you respond and extract at all costs.”
There are assents all around, and Harris slaps his helmet on.
“Well, then. If there are no questions, let’s go get this asshole.”
* * *
There’s notmuch to see, on the inside of the Chinook. It’s a lot like the inside of the cargo plane, actually, just smaller and equally as noisy. Apollo is on one side of me, Duke on the other, and Thresh on the other side of Apollo; Thomas is with us, as well. The rest of our team is comprised of A1S members from the central HQ in Colorado and the training hub in Montana, so I don’t know any of them. They’re all former Special Forces, hardened, experienced—none of them are green or new or young, these are all men who have had the hesitation bled out of them, the resolve and instinct honed to a razor point.
