Blaze of Glory (32 page)

Moyer nodded. “That’d be me, sir.”

“Very good. Your gear and that of your men have a compass and GPS. You will be landing in the dark, two hours before sunup. I hear you had to leave equipment behind in the previous theater of operation. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, sir,” Moyer said.

“I’ve taken the liberty of bringing night vision gear and a few other items you may need, including the items you requested. Questions?”

No one spoke.

Boyle looked each man in the eyes, then smiled. “I’ve done a lot of missions, and part of me wishes I was going with you, but now that I think of it, I’m glad I’m not.”

Several of the men chuckled. Zinsser was new to the team but he couldn’t imagine anyone of the unit offering his spot to the captain.

The captain clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t know you personally, but I know your kind. I’m one of you. I’m going to ask a question and I want the straight skinny: Does anyone have a reason not to make the jump?”

No reply.

“I don’t have the time to ask you individually, so it’s up to you to tell me.”

Zinsser caught Rich glancing at him. He refused to return the gaze. Instead he kept his eyes on Boyle.

Boyle turned to Moyer. “It’s your team, Sergeant Major. You wanna ground anyone?”

Zinsser knew why Boyle belabored the question. They were about to board an aircraft, fly to an altitude where temperatures were well below zero and the atmosphere too thin to hold sufficient oxygen for a man to breathe, leap out the back, try to sail thirty or so miles to the landing zone, and not one of the men had more than a few hours of often interrupted sleep over the last thirty-six hours.

“No,” Moyer said. “We’re good to go.”

Boyle looked at the others. “That true, men? You’re ready to kick some bad guy butt?”

“Hooah!”

“You have fifteen minutes to check your gear and dress. Fall out.”

WEARINESS BURNED J. J. eyes, but his mind raced with the work before him. He donned the polypropylene knit undergarment to help fight the cold he was about to face, checked his chute, examined the oxygen bottle he would be carrying, and checked the altitude gauge and GPS unit. He went over what seemed like a hundred details. He did one thing none of the others in his team did. He slipped his small field Bible into the leg pocket of his ACU and sealed the Velcro flap.

Thirteen minutes later, he sat in one of the fold-out chairs along the side of the C-130. On his head rested an MICH helmet with modified mask connectors that allowed him to wear night vision goggles. An oxygen mask hung to one side. J. J. buckled himself in and attached his oxygen mask to a feed that would deliver 100-percent oxygen to his lungs, helping him purge nitrogen from his bloodstream. High-altitude jumps, especially those where the soldier opened his canopy early, forcing him to stay at high altitudes longer than a low open jump, could lead to Cassion’s Disease—decompression sickness—because of the rapid rise of the jump aircraft. At altitude, the lack of oxygen could lead to hypoxia.

The C-130 rumbled down the runway and slowly lifted into the air. The sound of the landing gear rising rumbled through the hull. Unlike a commercial aircraft, this plane was designed to carry cargo more than people, but its ability to lower a tail ramp while flying made it ideal for jumping.

The first time J. J. jumped out of a plane, he prayed all the way up and all the way down. He saw no need to change the habit now, except he felt no compulsion to pray for himself. He made eye contact with each member of his team. They had been together long enough to know what he was doing. Not one of them followed his faith; not one of them was critical of it. He looked at Moyer and prayed not only for his leader’s safety, but wisdom. Moyer returned the gaze and nodded an unspoken thank you. Rich did the same, as did the others. When he set his eyes on Zinsser, the man blinked.

J. J. prayed for something else too. He prayed for the captives, should they be alive.

He breathed the oxygen in steady inhalations. Strapped to his body was a small oxygen bottle he would use when he left the aircraft.

He took another look at the men who made up his unit—men he called friends. Jose held a photo of his family; Rich bobbed his head to music only he could hear—probably something from a musical; Pete drummed his fingers on his leg; Moyer stared straight ahead, no doubt working and reworking the plan in his mind; Zinsser stared at the door.

MOYER WAS SECOND-GUESSING HIMSELF, something he seldom did. Maybe he should have pulled Zinsser. What if Rich was right, that the man was a liability?

He studied Zinsser, noted how the man stared at the back of the C-130. Where they’d jump. Was Zinsser thinking of suicide?

You couldn’t find a much better way to end a life than to walk out of an airplane.

IT WOULD BE EASY.

Zinsser tried to push the thought from his mind, but he had to admit it was perfect. If this were a static line jump, then he would have to hook a release to a line running along the ceiling of the aircraft. The line would deploy the chute. But that wasn’t the case. Every man of the team would waddle to the open end, turn, and jump. Once he did that, he’d be in complete control of his destiny. He could lower his head and raise his feet like a diver, and take the plunge into solid ground.

Someplace in the darkness of his mind he heard gunfire . . . felt the heat of Somalia . . . and saw his now-dead friend.

Yup. No better way to end it all than stepping out of an airplane.

CAPTAIN BOYLE RELEASED HIS harness and stood in the aisle separating the port-side seats from the starboard. Moyer watched his men’s eyes shift to the officer. Boyle clapped his hands several times, then held out his arms before him. A second ticked by, and he motioned up with his arms. Simultaneously the men switched from onboard oxygen to the small metal bottles strapped to their gear, released their safety harnesses, and stood. Moyer took his place at the front of the line, followed by J. J., Pete, Jose, Zinsser, and Rich. Rich had promised to push the line forward if anyone hesitated.

Moyer doubted the act would be needed.

“Check your airflow,” Boyle ordered. Moyer checked his gauge. The tank was full, and cool air flowed into his mask.

“NVGs on,” Boyle snapped. Each man activated his night vision goggles. The inside of the aircraft went black.

Boyle said something into his headset. He stood for a moment, then the rear ramp of the massive plane began to lower. Freezing air poured in. Moyer pulled at his gloves. It wouldn’t take long to get frostbite at this altitude.

“Go on my mark.” Every eye turned to the light panel. It went from red to yellow. Moyer could hear himself sucking air and willed himself to slow his breathing.

Over the com system he heard Pete. “Hey Colt, you really gonna jump with that chute? It doesn’t look right to me.” Pete chuckled.

“Yeah, whatever, Junior. If things go bad, I’ll just take a seat on Boss’s rig. He won’t mind.”

“Can the chatter,” Moyer ordered.

The yellow light went out and the green came alive.

“Go!”

Moyer waddled forward, his leg movement hindered by the large chute on his back and the air pack full of equipment that hung down and between his legs. Every protective instinct in his mind sounded—a chorus of sirens and ships’ horns. No matter how well trained and experienced, there were moments when the rational mind said, “Sane people don’t jump out of aircraft five miles above the ground.” He took several awkward steps until he reached the end of the ramp and, in a single motion, turned on one foot and fell backward out of the C-130.

The night enveloped him.

The air, thin as it was, whipped around his mask, goggles, and helmet. It shrieked in his ears.

“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .” Six more counts until he activated his chute.

His stomach climbed into his throat. Below he could see nothing but darkness. In the sky, a fingernail moon watched him plummet. In the distance, faint lights glowed on the ground.

“. . . eight . . . nine . . . ten.” He opened his chute and felt his velocity change. It was as if a rubber band attached to his back had jerked him skyward. It was an illusion. He was still descending, but at a much slower rate.

He looked up to check his parachute. It was nearly impossible to see, but he could make out the rectangle of the steerable parachute. The purpose of a high altitude open was to give insertion teams time to find their landing zone and come in as quietly as possible. If things went well, they would land a mile south of Frontera.

The icy air bit what little facial skin Moyer had exposed. It felt like needles being shot into his skin.

Boyle’s voice pressed into Moyer’s ears. “All are away.”

“Understood, all away.” Moyer waited a second. “Report. Shaq?”

“A lovely evening.”

“Colt?”

“Here, Boss. I have you in sight.”

“Junior?”

“On Colt’s tail.”

“Doc?”

“Doin’ bueno, Boss.”

“Data?”

No answer.

“Data, report.”

Silence.

“Shaq. You got a visual on Data?”

“He went out head first, Boss. I can’t tell whose chute is whose from my position.”

Moyer’s mind raced. “Data, report.”

“Gotcha, Boss.” Zinsser’s voice. “Radio wasn’t working. Seems to be working now.”

“You okay?”

“Peachy, Boss. Just a little miffed at my radio. I don’t know why it wouldn’t transmit.”

Moyer closed his eyes. He had been certain Zinsser had chosen to do a header from the airplane. “Okay team, find the guy in front of you and follow him. We’ll be in warmer air in a few minutes.”

Moyer’s heart had pounded before he jumped. When Zinsser didn’t respond, it doubled its pace and tripled its force. For a moment Moyer thought it would break from his rib cage.

Zinsser was making him an old man.

From overhead came the decreasing sound of the C-130 heading for the border. It was a lonely sound. Moyer checked his GPS, then his compass. He pulled on his rig, and his stomach confirmed the digital information from the compass. He had successfully changed direction.

At 20,000 feet he made another adjustment. Every few minutes he called for a report, and each team member reported. When he dropped below 5,000 feet, he knew he was coming down a full mile away from the town, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t land on someone’s barn. He found a clearing surrounded by trees and steered his parachute toward it.