But the big first currently topping his list of Holy Shits—although it wasn’t a first so much as a second—was their insertion point. He was about to drop his boots on United States soil for the second time in his career. Sure, he’d practiced warfare on home ground—plenty of training missions took place within US borders. But a true insertion—an actual close-quarters battle—he shook his head in disbelief.
Operating within US borders was a violation of the Posse Comitatus Act—for him, Zane, Cosky, and Mac at least. Wolf and his crew? Hell, they didn’t appear to be operating under the umbrella of any branch of the United States military. Which meant that while this operation broke at least a dozen laws, the Shadow Mountain teams didn’t need to worry about the Posse Comitatus. Not like he and the rest of his teammates did.
Few soldiers would ever violate the Posse Comitatus during their careers. Yet here he was about to disregard it for a second time. The last time they’d stuck their necks out on US soil, they’d had them all but chopped off. You’d think they would have learned something from that lesson.
But hands down the strangest aspect of this operation was how familiar he was with the territory. He’d recognized the terrain the instant Wolf had put the first satellite image up on the big screen.
Mount Hamilton.
At just over forty-two hundred feet, Mount Hamilton looked out over Silicon Valley. He’d recognized the Lick Observatory on the satellite images. The giant white dome, which perched at the top of the mountain and was surrounded by clusters of smaller white domes and white buildings, was instantly recognizable.
The Lick Observatory—an astronomical observatory operated by the University of California—was twenty miles up State Route 130. Until this morning, he’d only seen the observatory from the ground, up close and personal. Mount Hamilton Road was a popular trek for bikers. The twenty-mile course to the top of the mountain was a gradual and scenic ascent. Once bicyclists reached the observatory, it was customary to break for lunch and a breather before heading back down to their vehicles. He’d pedaled the route half a dozen times, so he was familiar with the overall layout of their insertion point.
Not that their target was the Lick Observatory, or even at the top of the mountain. It was tucked into one of the canyons five miles up.
The satellite image had zeroed in close enough to pick up the security cameras ringing the building’s flat roof. The angle and quantity of cameras would give the bastards inside a 360-degree view of the grounds below.
Wolf stepped into the cockpit doorway again. This time he held up his index finger. Translation, one minute until touchdown.
Men stirred, checked weapons, stretched the kinks and numbness out of stiff muscles. Faith slowly sat up.
“One minute to touchdown,” Rawls told her, pitching his voice loud enough to reach her over the scream of the engine and whine of the rotor.
She nodded her understanding. He quickly checked his equipment and then hers—although all she’d been given were an NVD and the standard radio. Well, plus the vest and armor plates, which all but swallowed her, even though they’d found her the smallest size possible.
The chopper banked and dropped. The shriek of the motors eased as the bird slowed. One of Wolf’s men rose to his feet and muscled back the door, and the roar of the wind merged with the scream of the engine and the shrill whop-whop of the rotor. They’d approached from the west, out of the target’s line of sight, and were inserting into a meadow two klicks away. The rest of the distance would be covered by foot.
The bird rocked slightly as it settled on the ground—no fast roping this time around. The roar of the wind vanished, and the engine’s whine dropped to a hum. Crouching, Wolf’s men dropped from the chopper and melted into the darkness. Rawls’s teammates followed.
Rawls turned on Faith’s NVD and then his, wrapped an arm around her waist, thereby anchoring her to his side, and eased them both from the bird. Head bent, flinching from the pelting of pebbles, grass, and dirt kicked up by the rotor’s wash, Faith stumbled along beside him. Once clear of the blades, he stopped long enough to show her how to adjust the scope on her goggles.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was so thin he could barely hear it. Apparently she’d taken all the warning to maintain silence seriously.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” he said in an equally quiet voice. Sound carried, even buffered by trees, and they had no clue whether those bastards had ears out here.
“I’m holding everyone up.”
Even as thin and shaky as her voice was, he could clearly hear the self-reproach in her tone.
He gave her a quick, one-armed hug. It was true, she was holding everyone back. But then, nobody had expected anything less.
“Nobody expects you to turn into Rambo, darlin’. You’re doin’ fine.”
A soft snort came from behind them. Mac undoubtedly, since he was bringing up the rear. Zane’s and Cosky’s crisp, fluorescent-green figures were waiting ahead, about midmeadow.