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Authors: Mack Maloney

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BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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Ryder and Gallant climbed up into the old chopper's cockpit. At first it seemed to have so many levers and dials, it was like they were seeing double. It made the Transall-2 look like the space shuttle. But while everything original was very old, they were surprised to see the control panel had three laptops connected to it by cable wires and modem strips—a shoestring adaptation of a modern flight computer. There was also a GPS device hooked up for navigation, a heads-up display for both pilots, and a bank of TV monitors carrying video transmissions from small cameras placed strategically around the old copter. It looked ancient, but some very high-tech additions had been made inside the S-58.
But still there was the question of flying it. Finch's three-ring binder helped them locate most of the crucial controls: the power systems, steering, and so on. They'd both learned how to fly an enormous Kai seaplane during their last operation in the Philippines. But the Kai was a relatively new design. The Sky Horse had been built approximately the same year Gallant had been born. It would take the best of pilots days, if not weeks, to learn how to fly the copter properly.
Trouble was, Ryder and Gallant had less than a half hour to accomplish the same thing.
 
 
Meanwhile, down below, Fox, Puglisi, and Bates were helping install some even more unusual additions to the old copter. Finch had wheeled in a large wooden box wrapped in red metal strapping. His weed clippers broke this binding to reveal three .50-caliber M-2 machine guns inside, huge weapons still used by many militaries around the world today.
The three team members helped Finch set up one of these guns in the helicopter's nose, bolting it to a rigid brace set in a hole cored out right below the elevated flight deck. The two other enormous guns were then put on swivel mounts attached to either end of the left-side cargo door. The swivels gave both guns nearly 180-degree fields of fire, but they could be taken off quickly, for hand-held use too. Their attached ammo belts seemed to go on for miles.
Fox asked, “Where did you ever get these?”
Finch smiled slyly. “Let's just say ‘our mutual friend' told me they might smell like shamrocks.”
They finished bolting the third gun to its movable stand. “This is a lot of firepower,” Finch told them. “No one will expect you to have anything more than a squirt gun aboard this chopper, if that. You'll surprise a lot of people, if you have to.”
Fox examined the M-2s and just shook his head. “If they catch us, we'll get life in prison just for these guns alone … .”
No one disagreed with him.
 
It was about 1:00 A.M. when they finally pushed the old chopper out onto the cracked, weed-strewn airstrip. Things had moved quickly. The copter was fueled up. The machine guns were cleaned and readied. What little gear the team had of their own was stored onboard. But they were still at least two hours behind schedule.
After a few false starts, Ryder and Gallant finally managed to get the aircraft's prestart systems running. Fuel pressure up. Engine oil heated to proper temperature. Batteries holding even. Gyro in place and balanced.
Gallant pushed the starter—and the engine behind them burst to life. No rattle, no roll. Barely a noise. Both pilots watched in amazement as the control indicator needles all climbed in unison, almost like an orchestra timed to the engine's increasing RPMs. Once engaged, those four droopy blades straightened right out and started spinning with a controlled frenzy. Incredibly, they were almost silent, too.
The attached laptops lit up with a myriad of colors now, showing them readouts on just about everything onboard. These visual displays helped identify more newly added equipment around them. A high-powered radio receiver promised to let the pilots monitor all sorts of communications from miles away. A FLIR set would allow them to see very far in the dark. The onboard video monitors would allow them to see above, below, in front of, and behind the copter. They had a weapons panel that would allow the pilots to fire the .50-caliber gun in the nose. They had flare dispensers, hard-points to attach bombs, even large inflatable pontoons attached to the landing gear struts that would allow them to set down on water if they had to.
Ryder and Gallant were simply amazed. But even bigger surprises were about to come.
The computers automatically raised the power up to takeoff speed. Their improvised flight computer screen flashed a message indicating that one push of the key enter button would lift them off. Ryder and Gallant just shrugged and Gallant hit the magic button.
Suddenly they were airborne.
 
To those on the ground, it was an astonishing sight.
One moment, the big chopper was idling quietly, the huge rotor blades creating a mighty downwash. In the next, the aircraft literally jumped into the air. The power was startling, yet the helicopter itself remained amazingly quiet.
They watched as the copter translated to forward flight. Suddenly it shot forward almost as if it were jet powered. It went over their heads, turned right, and soared way out over the ocean in just a matter of seconds. It continued a wide
bank, circling back over the base once before streaking out toward the water again.
Then the helicopter began a very steep, very fast climb. It went up not unlike a Harrier jet, all power and exhaust. It climbed so high, so fast, those on the ground quickly lost sight of it as it disappeared into the clouds. They waited. Five seconds, ten seconds, twenty …
Suddenly they were besieged by a great whoosh of wind and spray. An instant later the huge chopper went right over their heads no more than 30 feet off the ground. It had come at them from behind, but they hadn't seen it or heard it until it was practically on top of them. The ghosts hit the deck; that's how sudden the copter's appearance had been.
The aircraft then banked sharp left, back out over the ocean, and, incredibly, nearly went completely over, showing an agility matched only by the latest supercopters of the day, like the Apache, the Commanche, or the Euro-copter Tiger. It soon righted itself, turning the corner sharply, and began to climb again.
This time, though, it swooped up to about two thousand feet and then went into a sudden hover. It turned 360 degrees on its axis, displaying amazing agility, before coming back down again and pointing its nose out toward the open sea. Suddenly there was a huge flash of light. For an anxious moment or two, those on the ground thought something had gone wrong. But no—Ryder and Gallant had simply engaged the big .50-caliber machine gun in the nose. The resulting pyrotechnics lit up the sky like fireworks.
It went on like this for the next ten minutes. It was almost dreamlike, the big chopper flashing all over the sky like some futuristic flying machine. Finally, it came in for a landing, touching down in front of the small crowd of observers with barely a thump, the only noise being the remaining weeds getting stirred up by the huge rotors.
The pilots shut everything down and climbed out to meet the small contingent of elderly men—now forever known as the “Doughnut Boys”—who'd been watching along with the ghosts.
“Who are you guys?” Gallant exclaimed to them.
Finch was also there. He replied for the group. “They are simply good Americans,” he said. “Just like we were told you were.”
Gallant was still shocked, though. “But how were you able to get that piece of—”
“Running like a top?” one of the men finished Gallant's sentence for him. The others just laughed. The joke certainly was on the two pilots.
Finally one of the group stepped forward, took a picture from his wallet, and showed it to the pilots. It was a photograph of an X-15. One of the most advanced aircraft ever built, it was a rocket plane that could actually fly to the edge of space.
“I just helped rebuild one of these,” the old guy told him. “For NASA. They're going to start flying it again to test parts for the new shuttle design. But that's just a hobby. I worked for Lockheed Special Projects for years.”
He turned to his colleagues and started pointing. “And this guy helped design the F-117 Stealth plane. This guy worked on the F-22 Raptor. This guy helped design the
Apollo
capsule. This guy worked on the Osprey.”
On and on: This guy retired from advanced designs at Boeing. This guy from the Jet Propulsion Lab. This guy former Air America.
Then the spokesman patted Gallant on the shoulder.
“So don't worry, my friend,” he said. “We did a good job on your chopper. In fact, ‘our mutual friend' thought you'd appreciate the concept.”
The concept?
Ryder thought. Yes—something
was
beginning to sink in between his ears. When the ghost team was first assembled, they'd been given a very plain-looking, very rusty containership as their ride to war. But the floating hulk actually had billions of dollars of high-tech, top-secret combat and eavesdropping equipment hidden onboard.
Now they had this old helicopter. It looked ancient, harmless even, on the outside. But inside it was packing a punch.
And it could fly fast and quiet. And it could see and hear for miles and do many other things as well.
“How?” was all Ryder could say now.
“You really don't have to know ‘how,'” the elderly man told him. “The real question is ‘why?'”
Again, the ghosts were puzzled for a moment.
“We have something for you,” the old guy said. “Might explain some of it.”
The Doughnut Boys gathered around the ghosts. This was the first time the team members really got a good look at them. They were big and short, tall and skinny. Bald, glasses, red noses. But they were clearly not just mechanics but rather aeronautical geniuses with resumes listing employers from NASA to the Lockheed Skunkworks.
“We really shouldn't go into too much detail with each other,” the head Doughnut said. “True, we're all from deep security environments. But once you've ‘gone underground' it's best not to know too much about what your friends are doing. But we can tell you this: we know where you are going and what you have to do.
“And we just wanted to say thank you. For what you've done before. At Hormuz. At Singapore. In the Philippines. We wanted you to know we appreciate it.”
He had something in his hands. It was in a simple paper bag. He reached in and came out with a crude but crisply folded flag, at least six feet long. It had 13 red and white stripes like a typical American flag, but instead of the field of stars there was a picture of a coiled snake, with the words “Don't Tread On Me—Ever Again” embroidered underneath it.
“My only son was killed in the Pentagon on September Eleventh,” the old guy went on. “He was helping rescue his office mates when he died. The wife of a man he saved sewed this together for me, stayed up for two days and two nights doing it, for his memorial service. I know it's not the prettiest flag in creation, but it meant a lot to us then, and it means a lot to me now.”
He retrieved a handkerchief, wiped his eyes once, and then blew his nose.
“This is a great country,” he went on. “But only because its people are great. It's a brave and fair and moral and honest country, too—but only because a great majority of its people are. This country is not about its politicians or its corporate presidents or its movie stars or its nutty generals. It's about the guys fighting in Iraq because they feel it's the right thing to do. It's about the guys dying in Afghanistan trying to find the rest of those pukes. It's those cops and firemen who died that day in New York City. It's about those people who crashed that plane in Pennsylvania so it wouldn't hit the White House. The world
has
gone crazy, but that doesn't mean this country has to be pulled down with it. At times like this, it's up to us to step up to the plate and try to fix things.”
He looked back down at the flag.
“I've been holding on to this for a special occasion,” he went on, fighting off another sniff. “And now that I know about you guys, and what you've done and who you really are, well … will you take it with you?”
Ryder and Gallant were speechless. All the ghosts were. Their sad, miserable, aching backs suddenly straightened a bit. The wind had come back to their sails. Ryder shook the guy's hand.
“Sure we will, pops,” he said softly, taking possession of the flag and handling it with reverence. “It will be our honor … .”
 
It was time to go.
It seemed to Ryder that between their two visits to Cape Lonely he'd been living atop the cliff for weeks. Added up, though, they'd only been at the base a few hours combined.
There were a few more items Finch had for them that were loaded aboard. A cardboard box full of uniforms to replace the ones Finch had given them when they first landed. These opened the box and saw that these were newer, even darker versions of the uniforms the original team members had worn during their heyday in the Persian Gulf. They even
had the unit's patch sewn into the right-hand shoulder. It showed an image of the World Trade Center towers, with the Stars and Stripes behind it, the letters
NYPD
and
FDNY
floating above it, and the group's motto,
We Will Never Forget
, floating below.
BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
6.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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