Part 7 (2/2)
James smiled and gave Ben the thumbs-up signal. Ben returned the smile and added a wink.
James grinned.
Ben positioned himself in the door, hands on the sides of the door, ready to pull himself out. His boots were together. His heartbeat quickened. The wind howled around him.
The green light came on. James slapped Ben on the b.u.t.t and hollered, ”Go!”
Ben left the plane, boots together, legs slightly bent. He grunted as the static line pulled him up short, jerked out the chute, blossoming above him. Another grunt as the slight opening shock seemingly pulled him back toward the sky.
The ground was coming up fast.
The sky was filled with chutes.
The ground met Ben's boots. He was too heavily loaded for a stand-up landing, even with the slitted dash chutes. He rolled and popped his harness free, running, gathering up the silk, trying to keep his feet out of the shroud cords. Shouts filled the dusky air as section leaders called for their teams to gather around them.
The drop had been very nearly letter-perfect, the Rebels landing some twenty miles east of Interstate 5, between Redding and Red Bluff.
”Scouts out!” Ben called.
The recon teams took off at a run, heading west.
”Points forward!” Ben called.
The point people ran forward.
Ben waited for three minutes, then called, ”Force march, route step. Let's go!”
There was no silly, soph.o.m.oric growling or clapping of hands as the lines surged forward-this was not a game. The Rebels did not need cheerleaders. They were, to a person, professional warriors. Their arena was a battleground. The stands were filling with stars, silently watching; there would be no cheering when a Rebel died from an enemy bullet, or mine, or wire, or silent ambush. These were not paper tigers. And neither were their enemy.
Both sides were fully combat-tested.
The Rebels force-marched for fifty-five minutes, rested for five minutes, then moved out.
That was the pattern they would follow until Ben called a halt.
They halted three miles from the Redding airport at a signal from the recon teams.
Ben keyed his walkie-talkie. ”Talk to me.” ”IPF personnel control the airport.”
”How many additional people do you need to take them out?”
”None!” the terse reply came back into Ben's ear. Ben grinned. The recon team leader had sounded insulted that Ben would even ask that.
”Take them out, Sergeant. Silently.”
”Yes, sir.”
The IPF guard was bored. His boredom was about to end. So was his life. Silly having to maintain such security at this place, he thought. It was so secure a gnat couldn't penetrate their outside defenses.
He was still thinking that as a great gaping wound appeared in his throat. His blood gushed hotly down his chest. The razor-sharp knife edge withdrew and his dying body was lowered to the tarmac.
Another sentry never saw the black wire looped around his throat. He felt only the panic as air to his lungs and brain was shut off tightly.
He dropped his AK a.s.sault rifle. Other hands grabbed it before it could clatter to the cement and alert the other IPF members. be The guards on the east side of the airport were quickly and silently taken out, their bodies lowered to the ground, or to the tarmac, or to the cement. It was done with about as much noise as a soft summer breeze.
A deadly, knife-wielding, black-tinted wind.
The Rebels that stealthily performed their deadly, b.l.o.o.d.y work did not attempt to take any prisoners; they did not have the additional personnel to guard prisoners, and they knew the IPF people would go to their graves without giving up any worthwhile information.
And because of that, they died.
But the recon people knew, in all probability, their luck would not hold one hundred percent that night. And when they were discovered, the night would suddenly turn noisy and very b.l.o.o.d.y.
”Hapy-Haoer!”
a voice yelled in Russian.
And the night rocked and rolled with gunfire.
A Rebel tossed a grenade into a room filled with IPF personnel. The large fragmentation grenade blew, scattering bits and pieces of IPF personnel all about the room. The Rebel stuck the muzzle of his M-16 through the screen-less, open window and finished what the grenade had not.
Ben had started his people forward the instant he had given the orders to secure the airport. The Rebels at the point were running across the tarmac when the shouted Russian words reached theirs ears. The Rebels forced tired legs to churn a bit faster, to get them there a few seconds earlier.
”Try to contain the west side!” the recon leader shouted the order. He keyed his walkie-talkie and asked for Rebels on the north and south sides of the airfield. Box the IPF personnel in.
One IPF man made it to the radio room andgot off part of a message to the IPF headquarters on the coast, near the King Mountain Range, some one hundred and fifty miles away.
”Rebels attacking airport. Need help.
Almost overrun by-was A bullet to the head ended the message before it could be completed.
Striganov was furious.
”What airport?” he screamed.
”I don't know, sir,” the radio operator said. ”I'm contacting them all now.”
Striganov waited, and paced the floor.
At the airport in Red Bluff, the battle was almost over. The small contingent of IPF personnel were overrun by Raines's Rebels. Half a dozen very valuable cargo planes were seized along with tons of supplies: food and weapons and ammo.
Ben stepped into the b.l.o.o.d.y radio room and slipped on the headset, sitting down at the radio. He could manage a few words in Russian, and hoped the upcoming transmission was brief.
”Red Bluff!” the voice cracked out of the speaker.
”Red Bluff,” Ben radioed back.
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