The other members of the Original Six are divided among the other two Chinooks, each leading a fireteam, with a bonus six-man rearguard fire team in a Blackhawk led by Alexei.
We’re flying what Duke calls snakeshit, or so low our downdraft will stir the leaves on the forest floor below us.
“Insertion point, sixty seconds,” comes a voice in my ear—the pilot, on the local channel.
“Ready?” I hear Duke say both in my ear and beside me.
My pulse hammers. My mouth is dry, my hands shaking. I nod my head. “Nope.”
Duke laughs. “You’ve got it, babe.” He unhooks and stands up, and I do the same—around us, everyone is doing the same. “It’ll be a quick drop to the drop to the ground. Once your feet touch, you crouch and wait for me—I’ll unhook you and then we’re weapons-free. Got it?”
My carbine is clipped to my vest diagonally. I’m having trouble breathing. “Got it.”
“Show me your hands.”
I hold out my hands—they’re trembling like a leaf. “I can’t make them stop.”
“Fear and adrenaline is totally normal.” He stands behind me and I feel him connecting us. “Did you hesitate, back in Tunis?”
I shake my head. “Not for split second.”
“Then you’ll be fine. You’re blooded. The hardest part is past.” He tugs, double-checks the connections. “You’ve undergone the trial by fire, Corinna. This is just nerves.” He holds out his own hands—I detect the slightest of tremors; he clenches his fist and shakes it out. “See? I’ve been doing this shit since I was eighteen, and I still get the shakes before I drop. It’s cool.”
I nod. “Trial by fire and blood. This will be easy compared to the fortress.”
A laugh. “That’s the spirit. Just keep your head down. Follow your instincts. If your gut tells you to hit the dirt, you fuckin’ do it.”
I feel the helo flare, hover, and then descend. Doors open, on the right and left sides near the front, and the rear. Ropes are connected. Beyond the doors, forest—pines a hundred feet tall and hundreds of years old each, towering and swaying. Daylight, blue and endless and hot. When did today begin? Where?
It’s all a blur. When, where, how, what time.
Duke moves us forward, and I’m compelled to move with him. Ahead of us, a soldier steps out and vanishes. I gulp as we reach the door—the trees are a handful of feet below the wheels, but the earth is far, far below. Shit, shit, shit.
“Tongue in, teeth together. Deep breath.” Duke, in my ear, his voice also rumbling against my chest. “Ready? Stepping out in three…two…one…”
My stomach lurches upward, and we’re zipping downward. Around me, Uncle Duke is a massive, comforting presence. Treetops suddenly replace blue sky, branches, trunks, and then I hear and feel his feet hit, mine an instant behind. The moment I feel ground under my feet, I crouch as instructed. The downdraft from the double rotors of the Chinook is powerful enough to bend the ancient trees around us.
I hear a buzzsaw somewhere—a minigun? Rotors are deafening, everywhere. Gunfire echoes.
Birds flap, escaping, cawing their displeasure.
Duke unclips us, and the ropes disappear upward. There’s a Humvee dangling from the belly of the Chinook—how did I miss that? The Chinook moves forward a few dozen feet, hovers again—the SUV is lowered, and there’s a thud of the wheels hitting dirt. Ropes and fasteners are unhooked in a flurry of practiced, concerted movements by six men, and then the giant helo is tilting away.
A bark of an engine catching, doors closing. I’m still catching my bearings, and the Humvee is gone in a skidding of tires and a slurry of dust.
“Let’s move.” Duke’s voice is calm and measured, but carries.
The sound of rotors is more distant, now. I hear the buzzsaw of the Apache’s minigun and wonder who or what is in the way of it. There’s an explosion, tremors of it shaking under our feet. Assault rifles chatter, answer.
A few booms and cracks—long-distance rifles, from Anselm and Dyani.
It’s a hot zone, right from the get-go.
We’re moving, Duke hauling me into a jog. I glance behind me—Thresh and Apollo are a couple paces behind, Thomas behind them; Thomas is in combat gear as well, his black skin sheened with sweat already, eyes hard and serious. This isn’t his first insertion into a combat zone, I can tell.
Unexpectedly, the next several minutes are boring, yet physically demanding. The terrain is brutal. It’s steep, densely treed, with a slippery carpet of pine needles underfoot, interspersed with mossy boulders and littered with the crisscrossed trunks of downed trees in varying states of decomposition. There is no straight line, no path.
Duke is point, his carbine looking like a child’s toy against his massive frame. He has the butt tucked to his shoulder, the barrel angled slightly downward, at the ready. He jogs uphill easily, head swiveling, eyes scanning. I struggle to keep up. The rifle is suddenly heavier than it seemed.
