The trucks arrived together behind the helicopter and the troops boarded by squads. The first thing Chavez noticed was the 7.62mm minigun on the right side of the aircraft. There was an Air Force sergeant standing next to it, his green coveralls topped by a camouflage-painted flight helmet, and a massive feed line of shells leading to an even larger hopper. Ding had no particular love for the Air Force – a bunch of pansy truck drivers, he’d thought until now – but the man on that gun looked serious and competent as hell. Another such gun was unmanned on the opposite side of the aircraft, and there was a spot for another at the rear. The flight engineer – his name tag said ZIMMER – moved them all into their places and made sure that each soldier was properly strapped down to his particular piece of floor. Chavez didn’t trade words with him, but sensed that this man had been around the block a few times. It was, he belatedly realized, the biggest goddamned helicopter he’d ever seen.
The flight engineer made one final check before going forward and plugging his helmet into the intercom system. A moment later came the whine from the helicopter’s twin turbine engines.
“Looking good,” PJ observed over the headset. The engines had been pre-warmed and the fuel tanks topped off. Zimmer had repaired a minor hydraulic problem, and the Pave Low III was as ready as his skilled men could make it. Colonel Johns keyed his radio.
“Tower, this is Night Hawk Two-Five requesting permission to taxi. Over.”
“Two-Five, tower, permission granted. Winds are one-zero-niner at six knots.”
“Roger. Two-Five is rolling. Out.”
Johns twisted the throttle grip on his collective control and eased the cyclic stick forward. Due to the size and engine power of the big Sikorsky, it was customary to taxi the aircraft toward the runway apron before actually lifting off. Captain Willis swiveled his neck around, checking for other ground traffic, but there was none this late at night. One ground crewman walked backward in front of them as a further safety measure, waving for them to follow with lighted wands. Five minutes later they were at the apron. The wands came together and pointed to the right. Johns gave the man a last look, returning the ceremonial salute.
“Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” PJ brought the throttle to full power, making a last check of his engine instruments as he did so. Everything looked fine. The helicopter lifted at the nose a few feet, then dipped forward as it began to move forward. Next it started to climb, leaving behind a small tornado of dust, visible only in the blue runway perimeter lights.
Captain Willis put the navigations systems on line, adjusting the electronic terrain display. There was a moving map display not unlike that used by James Bond in Goldfinger. Pave Low could navigate from a Doppler-radar system that interrogated the ground, from an inertial system using laser-gyroscopes, or from navigational satellites. The helicopter initially flew straight down the Canal’s length, simulating the regular security patrol. They unknowingly flew within a mile of the SHOWBOAT’s communications nexus at Corezal.
“Lot of pick-and-shovel work down there,” Willis observed.
“Ever been here before?”
“No, sir, first time. Quite a job for eighty-ninety years ago,” he said as they flew over a large container ship. They caught a little buffet from the hot stack-gas of the ship. PJ came to the right to get out of it. It would be a two-hour flight, and there was no sense in jostling the passengers any more than necessary. In an hour their MC-130E tanker would lift off to refuel them for the return leg.
“Lot of dirt to move,” Colonel Johns agreed after a moment. He moved a little in his seat. Twenty minutes later they went “feet wet,” passing over the Caribbean Sea for the longest portion of the flight on a course of zero-nine-zero, due east.
“Look at that,” Willis said half an hour later. On their night-vision sets, they spotted a twin-engine aircraft on a northerly heading, perhaps six miles away. They spotted it from the infrared glow of the two piston engines.
“No lights,” PJ agreed.
“I wonder what he’s carrying?”
“Sure as hell isn’t Federal Express.” More to the point, he can’t see us unless he’s wearing the same goggles we got.
“We could pull up alongside and take the miniguns -”
“Not tonight.” Too bad. I wouldn’t especially mind…
“What do you suppose our passengers -”
“If we were supposed to know, Captain, they would have told us,” Johns replied. He was wondering, too, of course. Christ, but they’re loaded for bear, the colonel thought. Not wearing standard-issue uniforms… obviously a covert insertion – hell, I’ve known that part of the mission for weeks – but they were clearly planning to stay awhile. Johns hadn’t heard that the government had ever done that. He wondered if the Colombians were playing ball… probably not. And we’re staying down here for at least a month, so they’re planning for us to support them, maybe extract them if things get a little hot… Christ, it’s Laos all over again, he concluded. Good thing I brought Buck along. We’re the only real vets left. Colonel Johns shook his head. Where had his youth gone?
You spent it with a helicopter strapped to your back, doing all sorts of screwy things.
“I got a ship target on the horizon at about eleven o’clock,” the captain said, and altered course a few degrees to the right. The mission brief had been clear on that. Nobody was supposed to see or hear them. That meant avoiding ships, fishing boats, and inquisitive dolphins, staying well off the coast, no more than a thousand feet up, and keeping their anticollision lights off. The mission profile was precisely what they’d fly in wartime, with some flight-safety rules set aside. Even in the special-operations business, that last fact was somewhat out of the ordinary, Johns reminded himself. Hot guns and all.
They made the Colombian coast without further incident. As soon as it was in view, Johns alerted his crew. Sergeants Zimmer and Bean powered up their electrically driven miniguns and slid open the doors next to them.
“Well, we just invaded a friendly foreign country,” Willis noted as they went “feet dry” north of Tolu. They used their low-light instruments to search for vehicular traffic, which they were also supposed to avoid. Their course track was plotted to avoid areas of habitation. The six-bladed rotor didn’t make the fluttering whops associated with smaller helicopters. Its sound, at a distance, wasn’t terribly different from turbopowered aircraft; it was also directionally deceptive – even if you heard the noise, it was hard to figure where it came from. Once past the Pan American Highway, they curved north, passing east of Plato.
“Zimmer, LZ One in five minutes.”
“Right, PJ,” the flight engineer replied. It had been decided to leave Bean and Childs on the guns, while Zimmer handled the dropoff.
It must be a combat mission. Johns smiled to himself. Buck only calls me that when he expects to get shot at.
Aft, Sergeant Zimmer walked down the center of the aircraft, telling the first two squads to unbuckle their safety belts and holding up his hand to show how many more minutes there were. Both captains nodded.
“LZ One in sight,” Willis said soon thereafter.
“I’ll take her.”
“Pilot’s airplane.”
Colonel Johns orbited the area, spiraling into the clearing selected from satellite photos. Willis scanned the ground for the least sign of life, but there was none.
“Looks clear to me, Colonel.”
“Going in now,” Johns said into the intercom.
“Get ready!” Zimmer shouted as the helicopter’s nose came up.
Chavez stood up with the rest of his squad, facing aft to the opening cargo door. His knees buckled slightly as the Sikorsky touched down.
“Go!” Zimmer waved them out, patting each man on the shoulder to keep a proper count.
Chavez went out behind his captain, turning left to avoid the tail rotor as soon as his feet were on the dirt. He went ten steps and dropped to his face. Above his head, the rotor was still turning at full power, holding the lethal blades a safe fifteen feet off the ground.
“Clear, clear, clear!” Zimmer said when he’d seen them all off.
“Roger,” Johns replied, twisting the throttle again to lift off.
Chavez turned his head as the whine of the engines increased. The blacked-out helicopter was barely visible, but he saw the spectral outline lift off and felt the dirt stinging his face as the hundred-knot downwash from the rotor subsided, and stopped. It was gone.
He ought to have expected it, but the feeling came to Chavez as a surprise. He was in enemy territory. It was real, not an exercise. The only way he had out – had just flown away, already invisible. Despite the fact that there were ten men around him, he was momentarily awash in a sense of loneliness. But he was a trained man, a professional soldier. Chavez grasped his loaded weapon and took strength from it. He wasn’t quite alone.