The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 28





On board HC-130 Broadway 1

12,000 feet above the Gulf of Aden

Sixty minutes from the drop, the HC-130 went black. A pair of green bulbs cast the only light over the PJs to preserve their night vision.

Thirty minutes out, Wally ordered them to don chutes. The navigator came down from the flight deck to brief him and Doc on the drop zone and his DKAV release point calculation.

Winds aloft had been measured at up to twelve thousand feet. Averages had been taken on the direction and velocity of the winds at four different altitudes, coming out to eighteen knots at 210°. The HC-130 would climb the last six thousand feet ten minutes from the target and take a final measurement. Since the LZ was a moving platform, Valnea’s speed and direction had been factored in, as well.

The navigator spread a map for Wally and Doc. In the emerald glow of the cargo bay, he set a finger to an X drawn over the Gulf of Aden, forty-four miles north of the Somali coast. This was where the freighter, if it did not deviate, would be when the PJs popped their canopies. Another mark a quarter mile down-range showed where the LZ would be when the jumpers landed.

The navigator ticked the release point 2,800 meters ahead of the ship, heading 215°. Doc and Wally checked his figures and agreed.

The navigator folded the map to return to the cockpit. He shook hands, shouting, “Good luck. O2 in fifteen.” The plane would soon be climbing to jump altitude, where the team and flight crew would switch to oxygen.

Wally strapped into his own chute. Doc conducted his jump-master inspection, tugging on every container’s belts and buckles, confirming the route and security of all lines. When he was done, Wally checked Doc’s rig.

The team conducted a last test of their communications. Every PJ broadcast loud and clear to the others. Weapons were secured, NVGs turned on and off, helmets thumped like footballers. To maintain surprise at the LZ, the night jump would be made without chem lights. Ten minutes out, the signal came from the cockpit to switch to oxygen. The team strapped masks across their noses and mouths, twisted open their bottles. They settled in the seats along the fuselage. Staying on his feet, Wally thumbed the intercom talk button.

“Any questions?” He checked his watch. “Robey’s team is under canopy.”

No one wisecracked about the young LT.

Wally looked over Doc, Quincy, Dow, Mouse, Jamie, all seated along the fuselage. They were laden with weaponry as much as medicine. His gut clutched to think he was commanding a search-and-destroy op, something he’d not done in over ten years. He put hands to his hips and could figure nothing to say. These men were all professionals, capable and committed. They needed no pep talk to do the job. But what if something happened, and later he recalled how he’d stood here silent? What if there were things he should have said, and didn’t?

“Let’s focus, stay cool, and do what we can. One thing I know for sure. We can do a shitload.”

It wasn’t eloquent. It would have to do.

“Anybody want to pray, let’s take a second.”

Wally watched his team’s eyes above their oxygen masks, glad to see everyone’s lowered brows. He left them to it. The green bulbs went out, leaving the cargo bay lit only by the red ready light marking the final minutes before the jump.

“Hoo-ya.”

The team belted out, “Hoo-ya!” maxing the intercom.

Behind Wally, the loadmaster punched a button. The HC-130’s ramp whined, parting from the fuselage at the top. The panel descended until it leveled with the floor, opening the rear of the aircraft to the air. Wally walked closer to the edge, taking handholds against the jiggling floor and whipping wind. Beyond the lowered door, beneath the silhouette of the HC-130’s tail, the night spread spangled and clear. Far below, somewhere on the water three and a half miles down, the Valnea’s pirates ran for home. Hiding somewhere on board, LB watched the sky.

Bathed in red, Wally gave his PJs the thumbs-up to rise and join them.