He looked at the glowing face of his watch, and grunting, rolled to his feet. Five years ago, he told himself, you didn’t grunt like that.
* * *
Lieutenant Jerry Marovitch led his two squads in ranks to the Bell Commando, the “whisper craft” that waited, warmed up and ready on the short-takeoff strip. It could make a miles-long glide approach, drop troops from under a thousand feet, and not have to draw on engine power for another mile and a half, even given the elevation of this drop zone. Great for inserting people undetected.
He and his men had all jumped many times—qualifying jumps, training jumps, and recreational sky-diving—but none had seen combat. Tonight they just might. Not a full-fledged military encounter, but a firefight. Quite possibly with casualties, depending on the weaponry, quality and attitude of the people they’d confront.
Whatever, he told himself. What we won’t do is embarrass ourselves.
He had no doubt of the outcome. He had all the advantages: surprise, and satellite info hardly short of real-time. The terrorists would be either captured or shot, depending on whether they surrendered. The OH-6G would be on hand immediately after the jump, with high-resolution night viewers. And if it came down to it, a sponson-mounted 7.62 Thrasher, and variable-proximity, anti-personnel Bummers. From a bit farther away, the noisier Blackhawk could arrive within minutes to pick up prisoners and casualties.
And if somehow the satellite data were in error, and they needed more muscle, there was a 6HD standing by on a ready pad at Carson. It could deliver the rest of the platoon within half an hour, and haul plenty of prisoners and casualties.
What he really had on his mind, though, was not casualties or prisoners or the outcome of the fighting. He was worried about any and all of the unforeseeable goofs that might occur in a maiden action. For this was the baptismal mission of the president’s new, secret, anti-terrorist platoons, and he was in charge. He remembered the World War Two stories his grandfather had told, about the snafus in upper echelon planning and aerial delivery that his old unit, the 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion, had had to overcome by dint of blood and sweat, from North Africa to Germany. The cost of doing things for the first time, things no one had done before.
This couldn’t be that bad. The risks were less military than political. But if something went wrong, and the story leaked, the president’s enemies would be on it like a Rottweiler on a pet rabbit, and his own career would be in deep shit.
* * *
Lute realized they were in the soup shortly after they’d crossed the fence onto the Ranch. A voice called for them to stop where they were and throw down their weapons. It sounded electronic, a hand-held loud-hailer. Lute hit the ground instantly, knowing intuitively the voice was backed by firepower.
“We have you in our sights,” the voice continued, “and will not hesitate to shoot. Either comply or be killed.”
Lute scanned the ground. Whoever they were, they had to be pros, and well trained. Airborne rangers, probably. They’d taken advantage of a topographic undulation about eighty yards ahead; had probably been watching through a periscope. Now, through his goggles, he could see where they were, but not any targets. They’d have instructions to bring in prisoners if possible, otherwise corpses.
The question was, what would it take to start the shooting? They hadn’t fired when their quarry hit the dirt. That was hopeful. What was less hopeful were the penalties provided for in the Anti-Terrorism Act, a minimum of twenty years in a federal penitentiary, with no time off for good behavior.
“What now, Koskela?” Sarge murmured.
“That little draw off to our left,” Lute answered quietly. “It’ll give cover. Whoever wants to can stay here.” It was only forty yards or so. Just near enough to be tempting.
He counted softly to three, then all but he broke for it. It took a second or two before gunfire erupted. Lute stayed for perhaps three seconds more—hopefully the ambushers had their full attention on the others—then crawled off in the opposite direction, expecting to draw fire momentarily. After the first twenty seconds he began to hope. A minute later he came to another shallow draw, and rolled into it.