Eyes of the Hammer (The Green Berets) (19 page)

Riley glanced over at Westland, the CIA agent. She seemed visibly impressed with Eyes One's proficiency with their weapons. After zeroing, Riley had led his team through their basic close quarters combat firing drill with both the pistols and the automatic weapons. They had practiced firing on the move and from stationary positions. Firing while doing forward rolls and wilting left and right. Firing when pivoting left and right and 180 degrees. Then they had done the same with the automatic weapons, firing from both the hip and shoulder.

"What do you think?"

Westland shifted her attention to Riley. "It seems like the members of your team are pretty well trained in how to use their weapons. How's everything else going?"

"We're ready. As ready as we can be. You have anything new from your end?"

She shook her head. "Nothing new. Kind of like the calm before the storm, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. Nobody likes waiting. I'll be glad once we take off." He looked at the agent. "I thought your little commentary in the latrine was a nice touch. It certainly hit home on a couple of these guys."

Westland laughed. "I thought I'd fight fire with fire. I've always been kind of direct about things."

"It worked, although you and I both know some of these guys are too dumb or ingrained in their ways to change."

"I'm used to it."

Riley considered the woman. This was the most he'd talked to a woman in a long time. He kind of liked it. "How'd you get picked for this assignment anyway? Seems like the CIA would have pulled some guy out of one of their in-country teams down south."

Westland looked at him. Riley knew she was trying to figure out how much to tell him. He had always found that CIA people tended toward the side of paranoia.

"I've been pushing to get a field assignment for a long time. I think this job is a test so they can decide whether or not I deserve it."

Riley snorted. "Deserve it. Hell, some of the bozos I've seen running around in the field make the Keystone Kops look good. From what I've seen it's usually the opposite—you've got to prove your ability in order to get stationed over at Langley."

He watched her studying the members of Eyes Two test-firing their weapons. "Are we what you expected Special Forces soldiers to be like?"

"Am I what you expected a CIA agent to be like?"

Riley laughed. She wasn't going to give an inch. "Actually, yes and no."

"That's my answer, too, then. Yes and no."

Riley decided to persist. "I'm basing my answer on having worked with agency types before. I say yes because you strike me as competent and I have found most of them to be reasonably competent, although you have your share of losers just like we do. I say no because you don't have the attitude problem I found in a lot of them. The 'I’ve-got-a-secret' attitude. The 'I’m-better-than-you' attitude. You seem willing to work with us, rather than in competition with us. More interested in mission goals than agency goals."

He could see that he had her full attention now as she worked out her reply. "To be honest, I've never worked with Special Forces before. I've heard other agents really complain about it. They say you all think you're too good—and they say you're not as good as you'd like to think you are."

"Have you found that to be true with us?"

Westland shook her head. "Overall, no. There's some of that. More with the captain and the other team than with you and your people."

Riley nodded. He appreciated her honesty, and his ego was boosted by her last comment. It occurred to him that maybe she didn't have the typical macho attitude of most agency types because she was a woman. He silently laughed at himself. Brilliant thinking. He pointed toward the firing line. "Want to fire off some rounds? What kind of piece do you carry?"

Westland reached under her sweatsuit jacket and produced a 9mm Browning Hi-Power. Riley was impressed. A good weapon. He had half expected a snub nose revolver or some other worthless side arm. Riley led her over to the left side of Eyes Two. He could sense his team members watching them. He knew she could sense it, too. He pointed to a silhouette target twenty-five meters downrange. "How about that one?"

Westland nodded and took up a solid firing stance, legs slightly spread, one just in front of the other, a good two-hand grip on the weapon. She raised her pistol and fired nine rounds in rapid succession. Riley smiled. Every round a hit centered on the chest area of the silhouette.

"Good shooting. If I may make a suggestion though?" Westland nodded. "Go for the head. Every person who can afford it is wearing a vest now. Unless you got a hot load, say maybe Teflon slugs in that thing, you aren't going to stop someone wearing body armor. You'll put someone down for sure with a head shot. And if you're gonna shoot someone, you want to put them down. No shooting to wound or any of that crap you see on TV. Shoot to kill and make every shot count."

Westland nodded and reloaded her gun. There was one more thing Riley wanted to know. "I saw you practicing some sort of kata or taegeuk yesterday. Have you had martial arts training?"

"I have a brown belt in aikido."

"That's good. You look like you're in good shape."

Westland's head swiveled around. Riley put his hands up. "Hey, relax. I'm not trying to hit on you. I respect anyone who keeps themselves in shape." He laughed. "Regardless of whether they're a female agent or a woman agent."

Westland visibly relaxed. Riley smiled. "As well trained as you are, you ought to go with us, but I'm sure that wouldn't go over big with the powers-that-be."

Westland looked at him strangely. "That's one of the best compliments anyone has paid me in a long time."

Riley noticed Powers staring intently at the two of them. "Excuse me." He walked over to his team sergeant.

"Your eyeballs are gonna pop out of your head if you look any harder, amigo. What's up?"

Powers presented him with an innocent face. "What do ya mean 'what's up?' "

"I mean why were you staring at me?"

"Hey, come on, partner. I've known you for almost two years now and I haven't seen you spend more than ten minutes talking with any woman. Just kind of curious, is all." He nudged Riley. "She is kind of cute in her own way."

Riley rolled his eyes. "Give me a break. Professional curiosity is the only reason I'm talking with her." He noticed Eyes Two finishing up. "Let's get on back and get ready to go."

1:30 P.M.

The inside of the C-130 was spacious enough to hold several cars end to end. The team would have plenty of room for the ride. Sitting in the center of the aircraft was a complex of tanks and hoses that represented the team's oxygen console. Riley walked up to Powers, who was looking over the device.

"Everything hooked up?"

Powers nodded. "The oxygen console checks out fine. I've coordinated with the loadmaster and he's set on our procedures."

Riley looked around the interior of the C-130. The oxygen console squatted in the middle of the cargo bay. The team's rucksacks and parachutes were tied down near the ramp. Riley decided to go up front and do a last check-in with the pilots and navigator prior to takeoff. He made his way past the other members of the team who were lying on the cargo webbing seats hung along the skin of the aircraft, trying to get some rest. It was going to be a long night.

Riley climbed the steep stairs on the left side of the plane into the cockpit. There was only one pilot there and the navigator. "How you doing? Anything new?"

The pilot, a major, turned in his seat. "The copilot is over at base operations getting an update on weather along the flight route. Everything looks good."

"How's the route in look?"

The navigator looked up from his charts and pointed. "I've got a flight route that basically goes from here to Key West to Panama and then along the northeastern coast of Colombia. The high-altitude release point we were given is here," he pointed on his map, "just outside of Cartagena, still over the ocean."

Riley nodded. "That's it. If we can see the lights of the city we'll be good to go. Our drop zone is southeast of Cartagena, about fifteen kilometers from the city limit. What do you estimate for winds aloft down there?"

The navigator looked at his clipboard. "Presently they've got eighteen knots to the west. I've offset your HARP based on that to right here." He pointed.

Riley pulled out some of the satellite imagery. "I make that right about here on this." The navigator nodded. "All right. Let me get back with my guys and I'll update them on the release point. If you get any changes en route, let me know."

The pilot checked his watch. "We'll be cranking her up in another thirty minutes."

6:00 P.M.

The whine of the four turboprop engines peaked. With a slight jolt, the airplane started rolling. Riley looked across the aircraft at Powers, who met his eyes in the dim light let in by the few small, round windows. Powers gave him a thumbs-up. The plane picked up speed and the nose lifted. Wheels up and on the way.

GULF OF MEXICO

6:16 P.M.

A tapping on his shoulder snapped him alert out of an uneasy sleep. Riley peered up at the loadmaster leaning over him. The man pointed at his watch and yelled in his ear. "You told me to wake you at an hour and fifteen out."

Riley checked his watch. Time to get ready. He unbuckled his seat belt and walked across the plane. He grabbed Powers's arm to wake him and then yelled in his ear, "Time to rig."

Powers started rousing the people on his side of the plane. Riley and the loadmaster went to the back of the plane and undid the cargo straps holding their parachutes and rucksacks. They passed out the parachutes, a main and reserve to each. Each man claimed his own ruck.

Riley and Powers buddy-rigged each other. Riley went first, putting on a one-piece thermal suit over his jungle fatigues and combat vest and zipping it up. Then Powers helped him slip the main over his shoulders and settle it on his back. Riley reached down between his legs as Powers passed a leg strap through to him. "Left leg," Powers yelled above the roar of the engines.

"Left leg," Riley acknowledged as he hooked the quick connector snap on the proper side.

"Right leg."

"Right leg." Riley hooked in his other leg strap and then crouched, tightening down both straps as hard as he could. A loose strap could have painful consequences during the shock of the parachute opening.

Powers helped him rig the reserve over his belly, attaching it to D-rings on the front of the harness. Before tying it down, Riley rigged his submachine gun behind the reserve, cinching it in place. His rucksack was hooked underneath the main parachute in the rear so that it dangled behind his legs. It made walking difficult, but it put the ruck in a position where it wouldn't interfere when Riley tried to get stabilized after exiting the aircraft.

Riley tightened the rest of his straps and then turned to Powers, putting his hands on his helmet, signaling he was ready to be jumpmaster inspected.

Swaying in the aircraft, Powers quickly ran his hands over Riley's equipment, starting from his head, working down the front and then going to the back, again working top to bottom. He never let his hands get in front of his eyes as he methodically worked his way around the gear. His tugs and yanks were comforting to Riley. A good jumpmaster made the jumper all the more confident in the reliability and proper rig of his equipment.

Finished, Powers tapped Riley on the rear and gave him a thumbs-up, signaling he was good to go. Riley waddled to the side of the aircraft and with great difficulty sat down on the cargo netting that passed for seats. He watched as Powers inspected the rest of the team one by one.

For jumping, Lane had disassembled the massive Haskins gun into two pieces and placed it in a canvas weapons container. Holder had done the same to the SAW machine gun. Powers rigged the weapons containers on the jumpers' left side.

After finishing with the team, Powers had the loadmaster help him rig. He then checked his own gear as much as possible. He staggered over to Riley and talked him through those checks that he couldn't see for himself.

The entire team now sat, three to a side, with the oxygen console between them. The entire process had taken almost thirty minutes inside the swaying aircraft. Riley checked his watch again. Another forty-five minutes to drop.

9:16 P.M.

Powers gestured to the console. Each team member hooked the hose leading to his mask to an outlet. When he saw they were all breathing off the console, Powers gave a thumbs-up to the loadmaster, who had hooked into an outlet in the side of the plane.

They felt their ears pop as the pilot began depressurizing the inside of the aircraft. The temperature dropped as the cargo bay heater struggled against the thin, cold air coming in at altitude.

They'd stay on the console until they stood up for the jump, at which time each man would switch to the small oxygen bottle on his rig. The bottle held only twenty-five minutes' worth of air, so it was best to hold off switching as long as possible.