Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) by George Wallace (different ereaders .txt) 📕

And it would be obvious to his mom, too. But the young SEAL knew his dad would not have even hinted to her what their boy was up to this day. And would not be able to tell her anytime soon. If ever. It made for some interesting moments at dinnertime in the Ward household.

The sun over Djibouti was already well past its zenith by the time all the details had been hashed out, a final plan and all contingencies and options finalized. But by the time everyone called off, it was written in stone. And pieces had already been spun into motion.

Ward and Johnston walked out of the concrete block building together, rubbing their tired eyes and shaking their heads.

Johnston looked sideways at his younger boss. “That was about as much fun as a hemorrhoid operation. Are we sure the Air Force is on our side?”

“Master Chief, you gotta look at the big picture,” Ward shot back. “They’re probably pissed we caused them to miss a tee time today. And a couple of them won’t get their beauty sleep tonight. But you have to admit, it helps to have a four-star in your corner. Admiral Donnegan listens to us and he got us everything we asked for. Now let’s find where the rest of our slackers are racked out and see if we can get everything headed toward the airfield. We don’t want to miss our flight.” Ward checked his watch then glanced up at the declining sun. “We need to get everything loaded, then be wheels-up by eighteen hundred.”

“Roger that,” Johnston confirmed. “I called over just before we broke up. Cantrell has mustered the team. They’ll meet us there.”

Ward smiled. “I knew we kept you on the payroll for something. Tell you what. Let’s find some hot chow first. My stomach’s growling.”

By the time the pair made it to the airfield, the sun had settled low in the western sky. They hustled past a flight of A-10 Warthogs arming up for the night’s mission, and then past a brace of CV-22 Special Ops Ospreys, also loading up serious hardware for a nighttime adventure. Down at the far end of the flight line, they spotted their ride waiting for them. There were two C-130 four-engine turboprops, their engines idling, waiting for orders to launch into the darkening sky. The nearer of the two squat, obese-looking aircraft—actually an AC-130J Ghostrider—bristled with ordnance and radomes that stuck out at odd angles. The black-painted bird squatted there, ready to lumber off into the sky and effectively rain down death in wide swaths.

Ward and Johnston stopped at the tail ramp of the next aircraft and swung their packs inside. Doug Broughton and Tony Martinelli were aboard already and helped them climb up into the AC-130J, Commando II. This bird, also painted black, would be their ride on the way out. Then she would serve as the airborne gas station for the rest of the armada. They had other arrangements for the trip back home.

The SEALs had no more than sat down when the stern ramp suddenly started moving, cranking up and being shut. They were on their way to what each man knew would be a very dangerous excursion, one in which their chances of surviving and returning were less than fifty-fifty. But even if they were thinking it, nobody said anything. It was part of the job each man had volunteered for when he decided he wanted to serve his nation as a SEAL.

The huge plane taxied out onto the runway, waited only a moment for remarkably quick clearance, and roared off into the night sky. As they climbed to cruise altitude, Ward went over the plan with his team once again. They would perform a HAHO (high altitude-high opening) parachute jump, emerging from the aircraft while still thirty miles away from and thirty thousand feet above the island they were aiming for. That way the engine noise would not alert anyone at their destination. The high altitude would give them plenty of time to maneuver themselves so as to land exactly on top of the big rock in the sea.

Once the first team arrived, the idea was to quickly secure the clifftop landing zone for the CV-22s and then go find the prisoners. And, of course, determine the amount and ferocity of any resistance they may encounter.

Meanwhile, the Warthogs and the Ghostrider would give them fire support, ready to take out any of that resistance they could see. Speed was just as crucial as surprise. They would need to get in and out quickly. Then they would blow hell out of anything or anyone that might be left there.

By the time they were done with the review, the Air Force jump master yelled a warning over to Ward. Thirty minutes to the drop zone.

That meant it was time for everyone to gear up and check all the equipment as best they could in the plane’s semi-dark interior. Ward examined his own gear and then Master Chief Johnston’s. Next, Johnston took a look at Ward’s equipment, and then made certain that the rest of the team was doing the same. They rarely found anything amiss, but when they did, it was something that could have caused a real problem in the middle of whatever mayhem they were about to jump into. This particular bunch had made hundreds of jumps together. They were more than aware that it only took one mistake to make a very ugly splotch on the ground.

Johnston looked at his watch and called upon his best master chief’s growl.

“All right, toads, on oxygen. If you was figurin’ on latchin’ onto your momma’s tit one last time, too damn late. About time for us to stroll.”

Almost on call, the jump master yelled out that he was depressurizing the cabin and lowering the tail ramp.

One final check on the GPS and altitude in each man’s jump computer and then