Chapter 64
OASIS ONE, SAUDI ARABIA
PITCH pull in ten.”
But he still tightened his seat belt each time the crew chief called out the final ten seconds before the aircraft lifted to a hover.
He’d come to think of the ritual as his good luck charm, and if the enemy activity section of the GO/NO-GO briefing had been any indication, tonight he’d take all the luck he could get.
“Pitch pull in five.”
The words crackled over the aircraft’s intercom system.
With the helicopter’s twin jet engines howling at full power, communication without the aid of the headset Coleman was wearing would have been close to impossible. But rather than reply using the boom mic resting against his lips, Coleman simply gave the crew chief a thumbs-up.
Takeoffs were notoriously busy as the pilots ran through their checklists, air mission commanders coordinated between aircraft, and various ground forces team leaders performed last-minute checks on their men and equipment. Coleman didn’t want to clutter up the airwaves with unnecessary chatter.
Besides, he’d have plenty of talking to do once the operation started.
“Who the hell is that?”
Coleman looked from the operation’s timeline and brevity code words on his kneeboard to where Elvis was pointing.
Since he’d volunteered to liaise between Coleman and the troop commander who would be controlling the Delta Force reconnaissance elements, Elvis had become his shadow.
Even now, the Army commando was strapped into the seat next to Coleman’s, where he’d been reviewing his laminated map denoting the observation post hide sites occupied by the Unit recce teams inserted along the convoy’s anticipated route of travel.
Except that Elvis was now focused outside the helicopter.
Coleman flipped down his night vision goggles, and the murky darkness transformed into varying shades of green. The indistinct blob that had caught Elvis’s attention resolved into a kitted-up figure.
A kitted-up figure running toward the helicopter.
“Sir? The pilots said we’re adding one more pax to the manifest.”
Coleman swung the boom mic into position over his lips. He had a feeling that whatever was going on would require more than just hand signals on his part to reply.
“Who’s the additional passenger?” Coleman said.
The crew chief shook his head. “Not sure, sir. The pilot said something about a spook?”
The crew chief framed that statement as a question, as if asking whether Coleman had any idea what was going on.
He did not.
What he did know was that the straggler was going to cause the flight of three Chinooks and two Black Hawks to miss their takeoff time.
While the couple-of-seconds delay could certainly be made up for by an increase in airspeed during flight, not taking off on time was a bad way to start an operation.
More than that, it was a bad omen.
Like not tightening your restraint harness prior to pitch pull.
Coleman considered ordering the pilots to depart without the straggler.
Between the Air Force strike package and the Tomahawk cruise missiles en route to their respective air defense targets, this operation was already complex as hell.
That some agency prima donna couldn’t make pitch pull on time, to say nothing of attending the final mission update, the mission briefing, the sandbox rehearsal, and any of the other plethora of coordinating meetings that had taken place in the last seventy-two hours was not his problem.
As the assault force commander, he would be well within his rights to leave this pissant on the landing zone.
He didn’t.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Coleman held his tongue as he tracked the straggler’s rolling gait.
A lot was riding on the mysterious agency asset who was supposedly embedded with the Iraqis transporting the chemical weapons.
According to the OPLAN, JSOC was responsible for communications with the CIA and would pass along the asset’s real-time reporting to Coleman.
That briefed well, but as Coleman knew from experience, communication systems had minds of their own.
Especially COVCOM systems. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to have an agency liaison in the empty jump seat next to him.
Assuming the jackass ever made it to the helicopter.
As if he could hear Coleman’s thoughts, the straggler picked up his pace.
With a burst of speed that was more impressive for its effort than results, the figure swung his arms and pumped his legs into an all-out sprint.
Or what would have passed for a sprint if Coleman’s grandfather had been the one doing the running.
Whoever this guy was, he’d clearly been around the block a time or two.
Or ten.
The straggler ducked beneath the Black Hawk’s rotor disc without breaking stride and climbed aboard the helicopter. The crew chief reached over to help the man get strapped in, but the assistance wasn’t needed. With quick, deft motions, the straggler clipped his shoulder harness into the lap belt.
Then he tightened the straps.
Coleman felt himself nodding in approval.
This wasn’t some desk jockey who was looking for a front-row seat to the action.
Despite his tardiness, the straggler seemed to know what he was about.
Coleman’s supposition was further confirmed when the straggler turned to the crew chief and motioned for a headset.
After sliding the earmuffs over his head, the man positioned the boom mic and toggled the transmit button on the intercom cord.
“Sorry for the delay. I’m ready to go.”
The straggler’s gravelly voice suggested a more than passing acquaintance with cheap cigarettes and cheaper booze.
Coleman flipped up his night vision goggles.
He couldn’t see much of the man’s features in the dim lighting emanating from the pilot’s flight instruments, but what he could make out matched the straggler’s voice—craggy features, a lined face, and eyes that had seen it all.
Definitely not a desk jockey out for a thrill ride.
“Tell the pilots to go,” Coleman said.
The crew chief bobbed his head.
A moment later, Coleman’s stomach lurched as the Black Hawk shot into the air.
The bird’s nose dipped as the pilots tried to make up for lost time by increasing the aircraft’s airspeed as quickly as possible.
Wind swirled through the helicopter’s open doors, causing Coleman’s pants to snap and crackle in the breeze.
After a couple of seconds, the helicopter assumed a more level attitude and the pilot announced the time to the first checkpoint on the ingress route.
Coleman compared that data to the timeline attached to his kneeboard.
The flight was still behind schedule, but at their current speed, the aircraft would make up the delay by their next checkpoint.
Everything was going according to plan.
Swinging his boom mic away from his lips, Coleman leaned over to the straggler.
“Who are you?”
“Stan Hurley. I’m your agency liaison.”
Coleman frowned. “The flight manifest never mentioned any agency personnel. Why the change?”
“Because there might be some trouble with our asset.”