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

the team casually strolled toward the ramp. The light up on the right side of the ramp—the one that had been flashing red—changed to green. The jump master gave the signal for them to go ahead and get their collective asses out of his airplane.

As if walking over to the Navy exchange store to get a gedunk, the SEAL team members walked nonchalantly single file off the end of the lowered ramp and immediately fell away at gravity’s command, one by one, into the blackness of a Middle East night.

Ward plunged earthward for only five seconds before he opened his chute. He saw the black air-foil-shaped ram-air parachute open above him. So far, so good. He could just make out Master Chief Johnston a little higher up with his chute also deployed. The rest of the team was lost in the darkness. Ward then checked his jump computer and tugged on the steering shrouds to bring the chute around and onto the pre-programmed drop course. The computer showed his landing point was still many miles away and that he had fifteen minutes on this course before he reached the clifftop.

“Team Lead, Team Second,” Johnston growled in his earbud. “We’re all stacked up behind you.”

“Roger, Team Second,” Ward answered with his throat mike. “On course, fifteen mikes to LZ.” He heard the double click of an acknowledgement from the master chief. Time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride for a few minutes before the real excitement started. He felt around his combat harness to make sure everything was easily accessible. Nothing had shifted in the jump. Felt normal.

Far better than many jumps he had experienced in his career. Leaps into the midst of thunderstorms, getting tossed around like a hailstone. Jumps into jungle, where there were few open spots to settle into and a risk of hanging yourself high in a tree. Jumps into the ocean, knowing the chute and heavy gear could take you down like a cement block. The best? The time he had delivered the game ball for the Navy and Notre Dame game. Perfect. Right on the fifty-yard line. Two steps and he handed the pigskin to the referee while the crowd went crazy.

Of course, tonight’s landing zone had its own unknowns. Wind. Rocks. Gullies. Fanatical dudes wielding serious firepower.

Ward flipped down his night vision goggles. The NVDs reduced the world to shades of greens and grays, but the island now popped clearly into view, even though it was far below him and still quite a few miles to the southeast. He gave a quick tug on the steering shrouds to fine-tune his course and make allowances for a brisker-than-expected crosswind at this altitude.

Fifty-yard line. Two steps. Hand the ball to the referee.

The island got progressively closer until finally the ground rushed up to meet his boot treads. Ward stumbled and rolled—not his best landing but it would do—then came up to deflate his chute, pull the chute release, and grab his M-4. The rest of the team dropped silently in behind him.

Ward was on the top of a rugged, barren rock pile, the terrain familiar from all the images he had studied. Thirty feet to his right, the drop was almost vertical to the water, shimmering in the starlight a couple of hundred feet below. Just like around the rest of the plateau except the west side, where a steep, rocky trail descended all the way down the face of the cliff to a narrow shelf just above the water’s edge. There, a small, rickety pier ran out into the water a short distance from the shelf. If the prisoners were on the island, they had to be somewhere down that trail. And inside one of the caves in the island’s rock face.

Ward waited as the rest of the team spread out over the small plateau, searching for any threats. Keep low. Advance in short, fast spurts of movement. Make sure it was safe for the Ospreys to come in and set down on the very limited real estate up there.

Johnston eased down next to where Ward knelt behind a small boulder.

“Not much up here, Skipper. Just enough space for those birds to squat down one at a time. We sure need to minimize any fire their way. Otherwise, that’ll make extract a lot of fun.”

Ward nodded.

“Yep. You are a whiz at stating the obvious, Master Chief. We need to do all we can to keep it from being a hot LZ by then. May as well raise the curtain on this little show. Have Hall call the birds in. Have him, Martinelli, and Dumkowski stay up here to give us some cover. It’s time for the rest of us to move downslope. Ready for showtime?”

“Born ready, Skipper. Let’s do this shit!”

Ward did not hesitate. He simply dropped over the top and started moving quickly down the trail. His earbud hummed.

“Team Lead, Jason. Birds five mikes out. Puff and four hogs ready to roll in hot.”

Hall was reporting that the Ospreys—the aircraft bringing the second SEAL team to the party as well as serving as everyone’s ride back home, including the rescued prisoners—was now five minutes out. The Ghostrider and the flight of four Warthogs were orbiting the area, just far enough away to not raise any alarm from the bad guys but ready and able to strike quickly and effectively.

Ward double-clicked his throat mike to confirm his man’s report. Johnston passed him to take point while he talked.

Johnston, now leading the trio of SEALs, eased around a rock outcropping that obscured the next leg of the trail. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there was a burst of what sounded like AK-47 fire. A couple of rounds smashed into Johnston’s chest, slamming him to the ground as if he had been struck by a truck.

Ward clearly saw the flash from the AK-47's muzzle. A single figure, lying behind some rocks alongside the trail, clearly visible through the SEAL’s night-vision