Part 36 (2/2)

Biggus nodded his head, then backed off from the sub. He raised one hand, palm up. Overhead, the controller of the gantry saw and pulled back on a stick. The Chinese woman wearing the night vision goggles had had a lot of practice, both in port at Manaus and on the way here. With a whine, the sub began to rise, the cables lightly vibrating under the load. A different whine began as the gantry's arm was rotated outward.

Once the sub was clear of the deck, Thornton scrambled to the gunwale and watched it descend to the water. When it touched and sank a bit, the cables grew slack. The sub began to pull sternward, building up a small wake. Simmons matched speed and the cables grew slack. From overhead, the Chinese woman released them at the points where they'd held the sub.

”I'm just p.i.s.sed I can't go,” Thornton repeated, in a whisper, as the sub turned away and began its lonely journey to the harbor. He began to turn away, then suddenly turned back to catch a last glimpse of the Namu, whispering again, ”Good luck, boys.”

Good luck, boys, Stauer thought, as he watched the Namu eased over the side. His anxiety level was high, though no one could tell it from his face. Indeed, it had gone up, rather than down, with each separate launching. And it would go up still more until the last man was recovered, back on the s.h.i.+p, and heading away.

It was part of the price of command and one of the reasons so comparatively few people could be commanders.

Nothing more I can do about it at this point, Stauer thought, not so much dismissing the Namu and her crew as compartmentalizing them into the part of his mind labeled, ”Beyond your control.”

Stauer looked down at a number of aircraft, idling on the flight deck. Besides, I've got more immediate problems.

D-2, MV Merciful Merciful, Indian Ocean, rounding the Horn of Africa

The moon was just beginning to peek over the ocean to the east. The gantry was rolled all the way back, as far as it would go, towards the s.h.i.+p's superstructure. PSP-perforated steel planking-was laid out between rows of containers lining either side and virtually the full length of the s.h.i.+p forward of the gantry. The forward mast was long dropped.

On the PSP the eight light, single engine, short take off and landing aircraft belonging to the group idled. Two of these weren't, strictly speaking, needed for the current lift. They were there, however, a.s.sembled and crewed, to serve as backups should one of the six designated airplanes for this part of the mission fail.

Always nice to have a back up, Terry Welch thought, looking at the two extras, sitting directly under the gantry. At the same time, unconsciously, he patted the reserve parachute strapped across his stomach. It occurred to Welch that any comfort he derived from having a reserve chute was possibly false comfort; he and his men were going to jump so low that a reserve chute might activate, if at all, only after they had been driven several feet into the ground.

Vibrations ran through the PSP. Whether that was from the airplanes or from the engines straining below to bring the s.h.i.+p up to full speed for the launch, neither Terry nor any of the men cl.u.s.tered around him could tell.

”It's really overkill,” said McCaverty, the lead pilot for the mission, glancing down and around at the PSP.

Terry hadn't heard over the ma.s.sed roar of the engines. ”What was that?” he asked.

McCaverty pointed down at the planking, then ran his finger forward toward the bow to where the steel disappeared in the darkness.

”We don't need this much,” he shouted into Welch's ear. ”At the s.h.i.+p's speed, and with the light loading, we could launch in half this s.p.a.ce. Or less.”

”Does it hurt any to have the extra safety factor?” Terry shouted back.

”Well . . . no,” McCaverty admitted with a shrug. ”But it isn't needed.”

”I'll take it, anyway.” Again, Welch's hand unconsciously stroked the reserve.

Again, McCaverty shrugged.

A member of the s.h.i.+p's crew began trooping the portside line of aircraft. ”Launch point in thirty minutes,” he announced, quietly, as he pa.s.sed each group or individual. He said the same to Welch and McCaverty as he got to the forwardmost CH-801. Then the crewman turned to walk the line of planes on the starboard side.

”Load up?” McCaverty suggested.

”Yeah,” Terry agreed. Even though it was thirty minutes to launch his heart began to beat a little faster.

”Need a hand getting to the plane?” the chief pilot asked.

”Getting to it, no,” Terry said, beginning the awkward, overladen shuffle to the door. ”Getting into it? Yes.”

The team consisted of twelve men, two per aircraft. Yes, in theory the planes could have lifted three each, plus the pilot. In practice, though, it was just too cramped with three men, fully equipped for both parachuting and combat, to exit the things easily. And where ease of exit meant speed of exit, and speed was rather important, two would have to do.

McCaverty checked that both Welch and his other pa.s.senger, Little Joe Venegas, were strapped in for the take off. Ordinarily, this would have been the job of a crew chief. Since, however, the table of organization, such as it was, was quite skimpy in some areas, he had to do it himself. Oh, sure, the Mexicans could have done it, but they were busy getting ready the rocket and machine gun pods that would be the next load for most of the aircraft.

McCaverty's was only the third bird to actually start its engine. He was first in order of lift off, even so. He looked to the side and saw two conical lights come on. One of the s.h.i.+p's crew-though the light allowed past the opaque cones was faint, the pilot thought it might be the same one who'd pa.s.sed the word to begin loading-signaled by holding them straight overhead and parallel to each other: a.s.suming control. In reply, McCaverty gave a little gas to the engine: You got it.

Apparently satisfied with that, the ground guide began walking toward a spot on the center line of the flight deck. The pilot duly followed, then stopped-except for aiming the plane toward the bow-when the guide crossed the lights over his head. The lights moved off to the side with McCaverty's eyes following.

”All my life . . . ” McCaverty whispered, as his eyes followed the lights, ”all my life I've wanted this . . . just this . . . this feeling of impending . . . crisis . . . this sense of plunging into danger.”

One of the batons twirled, then pointed toward the bow. With a half-maniacal cackle of unadulterated glee, McCaverty pushed the throttle forward. The plane vibrated, lurched, and then began to move down the ad hoc air strip. Long before it reached the end of the strip the pilot felt the thing begin to lift, the force pressing him down into his seat.

As the plane left the Merciful behind, McCaverty could be heard singing-well . . . trying to sing- ”Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys . . . ”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE.

Why join the Navy if you can be a pirate?

-Steve Jobs

D-1, Yemen

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