Part 1 (2/2)

”Get ready!” The rappel master extended his arms to the front, clenched his fists, and pointed his thumbs upward.

Grant forgot the anguish his body was sending his way and started the process of exiting the craft. He re-checked his equipment, then made a final check of his hookup, rappel seat, and snap link.

”Throw rope!”

Grant looked below the craft. The slight opening in the trees showed a small clearing. He tossed his deployment bag out and away with his guide hand, aiming for the opening. The rope disappeared through the trees. He would have to trust that it reached the ground.

What a cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k.

”Rope okay,” he shouted to the rappel master, hoping it was. Either way, he knew he would be leaving the helicopter. Their earlier briefing left no doubts that this rappel would take place, regardless of the conditions.

”Position!”

Kneeling with his brake hand in the small of his back, Grant turned his body ninety degrees so he faced the interior of the ancient UH-60. He then placed his heels on the edge of the helicopter doorway and leaned out into an L-shape. His feet were shoulder-width apart, his knees were locked, and he was perched on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet.

The sergeant inside the helicopter made a final inspection of the connections, then extended his right arm and hand toward Grant.

”Go!”

Grant reacted at once. He flexed his knees, jumped backward, and threw his brake hand out at a forty-five degree angle, letting the rope run through both his brake and guide hands. He immediately closed his legs, supremely aware of the trees below. The last thing a soldier wants is to take a branch in the groin when dropping at a rate of eight feet per second.

Within moments, Grant pa.s.sed safely between the tops of several large, towering trees. The relief at having pa.s.sed the upper branches was not insignificant and he started his initial braking action.

Seconds later, his feet hit the ground and he cleared his rope.

Three minutes after touching down, Grant heard Staff Sergeant Coleman calling his name. The tw.a.n.g of his team leader's north-Georgia drawl cut through the jungle. He was not happy one of his charges was missing. Throwing his better judgment and common sense out the window, he grabbed the nearest large leaf, made a single pa.s.s across his backside, and yanked his pants up.

”Where the h.e.l.l you been?” his team leader asked when he stumbled out of the jungle back into the clearing. The rest of the team was already saddled up and ready to beat feet to their destination point.

”Um, sorry, sergeant,” Grant offered. ”Had to go.”

”Well, how'd evahthang come out, troop?” The jibe got jeers from the rest of the team, but Grant ignored the comment. It was nothing new to the youngest member of the group. In the month since joining Sergeant Coleman's team, he had learned to enjoy the good-natured ribbing that went along with being the newb.

Without a word, he took his place near the end of the file. Only Sergeant Burns, who would cover the rear during the hours-long march, followed him.

The tiny clearing sat within the ghost of an old logging road. The road had been reclaimed long ago by the jungle; a thin, obscure path leading east and west was all that remained.

Lieutenant Hoffman, a newly pinned first lieutenant, sat apart from the enlisted soldiers. He had his map spread open and was scanning it like it held the keys to the universe. Grant supposed that in some ways it did. This was also his first mission with the team, and Staff Sergeant Coleman kept glancing toward the untried officer with apprehension. He appeared to be waiting for the lieutenant-finally gave up.

”We ready, sir?”

The young officer looked up, seemingly surprised that the rest of the team was a.s.sembled and ready to go. He hastily wrestled the map into his pack, ignoring the preset folds and creating new ones as he rushed to get himself together. He lifted his pack onto his back as the rest of the team watched. Once the cargo was settled into place, he gave a curt nod to his lead NCO.

”Let's move out, Sergeant Coleman,” he ordered. The command was accompanied by a forceful wave toward the pathway leading east-the direction the team was already facing. Coleman nodded in reply and turned his attention back to the team.

”Any questions a'fore we move out?”

He received none, which was good. Grant knew the veteran soldier hated repeating himself and would expect the briefing he provided them before they boarded the UH-60 to suffice.

Their mission was fairly simple. Make their way to a nearby village and observe activity. According to recent intelligence, the village was being used as a regional headquarters and supply location for enemy forces. If they validated the report, they were to call in for air support and then hightail it out. All of this was to take place without the enemy ever knowing they were in the area. Stealth was the name of this game.

”A'ight,” he drawled. ”Five-meter intervals. Stay alert. Hostiles are out there.”

The ten highly trained soldiers, fully armed and carrying as much ammunition and supplies as they could shoulder, set out on a brisk, easterly course. The dark, clammy heat of the jungle floor swallowed them within seconds.

Despite the headache and the continued wrenching in his stomach, Grant was content. While most men would be miserable, the weight of his pack, the view of his fellow soldier's back in front, and the feel of the rifle in his hands comforted the young soldier. He was part of something larger than himself. The men weren't his friends-he had not known them long enough for that-but in some strange way, they were his family. Without exception, they would look out for him if the s.h.i.+t hit the fan.

In return, he would give his best for them.

An hour into the trek, Grant's back burned with the familiar ache that accompanied toting sixty pounds of gear. Numbness would not set in for at least another couple of hours. His feet and legs felt good, strong. Experience and training told him he should be able to maintain this pace, with this weight, for a dozen or more hours without a break.

Unfortunately, his guts told him something else entirely.

He would have to stop and relieve himself again.

Soon.

Grant gathered up his courage and closed the distance between himself and the man ahead of him, PFC John Lyons. Although they were technically the same rank, Lyons had been with the team for six months and had seen other missions and was due for a promotion soon.

”Yo, John. I gotta drop out for a minute.”

”Dude. We just started,” Lyons threw back over his shoulder.

”Not tired. Gotta go again.”

”Dude, didn't you just go back at the drop point?”

”Yeah,” Grant conceded. ”Doesn't matter. I've gotta drop out for a minute.”

”What the h.e.l.l is going on, you two?” Sergeant Burns demanded from behind. He had closed the gap between them. ”Keep your mouths shut and maintain your intervals.”

Burns was not pleased and Grant could not blame him.

”Sorry, Sergeant,” Grant explained. ”I gotta fall out for a minute.”

”Another c.r.a.p?” Burns asked knowingly. ”You sick, Justice?”

”I guess so, Sergeant,” Grant admitted. ”Headache. Stomach pains.”

The contentment he felt at the start of the march was evaporating into embarra.s.sment over his inability to meet the team's expectations.

”You got the runs, or is this a one-stop deal, Justice?”

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