"That's my point, Eric. We're getting older, the missions are getting more dangerous, and because of our success rate, we're pulling the impossible duty. We're the best so we get the worst."
Eric? Rich seldom called Moyer by his first name. "We've beat the odds before and we're not that old yet."
"I know. I don't want you to think I'm whining here. I'm just trying to explain what's bugging you and me." He sat back. "If you think it's bad now, wait until the next mission. I have a theory; worry is like mercury poisoning: it builds up over time."
Moyer considered Rich's comments. He couldn't deny the truth in them no matter how much he wanted to. "So what's the answer, Shaq?"
"We do what we do, we do it better than anybody else, and then we keep doing it until we become anchors to the team."
"Then what?"
"Then we go fishing and spend our evenings at the barbecue."
Moyer smiled. The image of standing in his backyard burning pork chops drove away the emotional shadows. "Man, that sounds good."
"Don't it though?"
THE GULFSTREAM LANDED AT Elmendorf Air Force Base just outside Anchorage, Alaska, and taxied from the concrete runway onto the tarmac. Through the small window by his seat, Moyer saw a canvas-topped truck—an old Army "Deuce and a Half."
"So much for the first-class treatment," Rich said.
"You were letting the good life go to your head anyway." Moyer released his safety belt before the corporate-style jet came to a full stop.
"That's an unsafe thing to do, you know?" Rich had a cheesy grin pasted to his face.
"You didn't even fasten yours." Moyer stood.
"You know me. I like to live on the edge. Besides, I'm pretty sure it won't be an unlatched seat belt that gets me."
J. J. stepped to Moyer but faced Rich. "It's all that pizza you eat. Now that'll kill you sooner or later."
Rich's grin faded. "Listen, little man, I've seen you down a few pounds of pizza."
J. J. shrugged. "Danger is my middle name." He turned to Moyer. "Speaking of pizza . . ."
"Sorry, kid, they didn't give us enough time to follow tradition."
Whenever possible, the team met for pizza the night before deploying on mission. It had become a custom. Pizza before; pizza after.
"Doesn't seem right." J. J. leaned and peered through a window. "Are they kidding us? Black Jack Pershing rode in that, didn't he?"
"You were expecting a limo?" Shaq took to his feet. "Man up, Colt."
"What? Didn't I just hear you complaining about the same thing?"
Rich gave the weapons expert a punch in the shoulder. "The extra stripes on my uniform give me the right to be capricious."
"You're not wearing your uniform—capricious? Did you just use the word capricious?"
"Leave it alone, J. J., Rich has a right to be inconstant if he wants."
"Inconstant? Who are you guys and what did you do with my team leaders?" J. J. turned and started forward. "Heads up, guys, we have crossed over into the twilight zone."
The Gulf Stream came to a gentle stop and a few moments later the second officer emerged from the cockpit and opened the door. Although it was May and summer was just a few weeks away, cold air rushed into the cabin. A man in an Air Force ABU jogged up the stairs. Moyer guessed he was only a couple of years out of high school. The moment he entered the confined space of the aircraft, he removed his blue garrison cap.
"I'm looking for Sergeant Major Moyer." His voice had a nasal twang.
"Clear the aisle." Moyer pushed past the men of his unit. "I'm Moyer."
The young man held out his hand. "It's good to meet you, Sergeant Major. I'm Airman First Class Quentin Allison."
"Quentin? You take much of a ribbing for that name?"
"You have no idea, sir." He had an innocent smile. "I'm your driver, although it won't be much of a drive. You'll be airborne again in a few minutes. If you'll follow me, please."
Airman Quentin didn't wait for a response. He donned his cap and headed down the retractable stairs.
"Let's not keep the man waiting." Moyer stepped into the cold Alaskan breeze.
Quentin stood at the back of the vintage truck and opened the fold-down rear gate.
"I gotta ask," Rich said. "I know times are hard all over, but is the Air Force so strapped it can't afford something a little newer?"
"What, you don't like Betty?"
"You named the truck?"
"Of course. She's a beauty, isn't she? A group of us got her from a military surplus store. The guy who sold it to us said she was used on one of the Pacific islands during the war."
"And you believed him," Shaq said.
"No, sir. Not for a minute. We've been restoring her for the last two years. Parts are a tad hard to come by."
"I imagine so." Moyer took in the box lines of the old truck. "You've done a good job with her."
"Thank you, sir. You'll be happy to know she's Army." The airman motioned to the back. "If you wouldn't mind. Your kit arrived about an hour ago. I'm told someone named Colonel Mac had them prepared in Yakima and flown here. I'm supposed to tell you to check your gear before liftoff. I imagine you already planned to do that."
Shaq nodded. "You got that straight." He turned to his team. "Mount up."
As promised, the field kit rested in front of the wood benches lining the inside of the personnel carrier's bed. Name tags attached by hook-and-loop strips identified each kit. Six small duffle bags sat next to the rucksacks. Strapped to the kits were fresh weapons.
Crispin was the last in the truck before Quentin slammed the truck gate closed and inserted metal pins into the lock brackets.
The diesel engine coughed to life and Moyer could smell the oily exhaust. He didn't want to admit it aloud, but he was enjoying the experience. How many soldiers had ridden in this old beast? Most outdated military equipment was sold to third-world countries, scrapped, or sold through surplus stores. He admired those who gave their free time to keep representatives of former technology running.
A UH-1N Twin Huey rested on a helipad at the end of the tarmac, its rotors already slicing the air as the pilot warmed the engine.
The truck pulled to a stop. Quentin appeared five seconds later and released the gate so Moyer and the team could exit. "There's your ride, Sergeant Major. First Lieutenant Dan Blain is your pilot. There are three other crewmen, but I'll let him make those introductions if he wants."
Moyer shook hands with the man again and lowered his head to avoid the rotor blast. The unit followed him. As he neared the side door, a voice shouted over the sound of the engine and wind blast. "Let me take that."
Moyer looked up at a short man in a flight suit extending a hand. Moyer lifted his kit and duffle and handed it to the crewman. The man then helped Moyer aboard. The movement was repeated for each team member. Moments later, everyone was strapped into the jump seats.
The stout man leaned close to Moyer's ear. "Welcome aboard, Sergeant Major. I'm the crew chief for this little jaunt. Please confirm all your team is aboard."
Moyer gave a thumbs-up. "Affirmative. We're good."
"Very good." The man pulled a plastic bag from one of the pockets of his jumpsuit. The bag held soft, orange earplugs. "I think you might appreciate these." He passed the bag around, then moved the microphone close to his lips. "We're good to go, Lieutenant."
The craft lifted off before the crew chief finished the last syllable.
NINETY MINUTES PASSED WITH little discussion. Talking above the noise was too difficult. Moyer sat with his eyes closed, trying to think about the mission ahead. The most difficult moments of any mission were being shot at and waiting for the mission to start. Both could get on a man's nerves.
The crew chief approached. Moyer pulled the earplug from his right ear. "Have you been briefed about the next stage?"
"You're to drop us off on a Navy ship."
"Correct, but there's a catch. It's not just any Navy ship."
"What's t
hat mean?"
"We'll be dropping you on a DDG-1000, Zumwalt-class destroyer."
"And that's a problem?"
"Unlike most surface ships, the DDG-1000 has a special hull design. You'll see what I mean in a minute. The problem is this: There's no landing pad."
"Then how do we get aboard?" Moyer didn't like where this was going. He had made many high-altitude-low-open and high-altitude-high-open parachute jumps, so leaving a perfectly good aircraft was nothing new, but he had an idea there was a twist in this.
"You're going to have to rappel to the deck."
"No problem. We've done plenty of rappelling."
The crew chief grinned. "Onto a pitching, rolling ship?"
"Um, you got me there. It's okay. We've been bumped around before."
"Well, there's another itty-bitty problem."
"And that is?"
"We are in the North Pacific. The waaaaay North Pacific. That means the water is cold. You don't want to fall in."
"And if I do?"
"You got maybe ten minutes before you go to the great, big Army base in the sky."
"Ten minutes?"
"Maybe ten minutes. Probably less since you won't be wearing a survival suit."
Moyer frowned. "Aren't you a ray of sunshine."
"I try." He motioned to the other men. "I'll pass the message. We're ten minutes out, so it's time to suit up. I'm afraid we will have to do this quickly. If we linger we'll go bingo fuel, and as good as this baby is, it floats like a brick."
"Understood, but I'll tell the men."
"If you want, we can lower you in a basket."
"Ain't gonna happen." Moyer popped his safety harness, made sure his men were looking at him, and pantomimed unbuckling a seat belt.
His team understood. The men released their restraints and reached for the duffle bags. Five minutes later they were garbed in their uniform MultiCam designed to blend anywhere; no emblems, no patches, no name tags.
He motioned for the men to huddle. Each removed one earplug. "We're going to rappel in."
"Nice," J. J. said.
"Our landing zone is a moving deck on a new destroyer. That's the good news."
"What's the bad?" Shaq furrowed his brow.
"The water. Fall in and you're a soldier-sicle."
"I take back my 'Nice.'"
"Shaq, you take lead. Colt, you follow."
J. J. nodded.
"I'm sure we'll have help on the deck, but we may need you two to help when we winch down our gear."
"Why not just rappel with our kit?" J. J. asked.
Moyer studied his weapons expert. "Um, because they don't float so well, and if you're wearing them—"
"Understood, Boss."
"Doc, you follow Colt; Junior, you follow Doc."
"Got it, Boss," Pete Rasor said.
Moyer turned to the newest member of the team. "I'll push Crispin out the door."
"New Guy needs a nick, Boss," Rich said. "It's tradition."
Crispin crossed his fingers and chanted, "Please let it be a cool name, please, please, please."
"Make it quick," Moyer said. "Suggestions?"
"Punch."
"Judy."
"Punch and Judy."
"Shep."
"Momma's Boy."
"Peach Fuzz."
"Come on, guys, I'm going to be shackled with this nick for a long time." Crispin looked worried.
J. J. put a hand on the man's shoulder. "He's right. How about Lassie?"
The crew chief patted Moyer on the shoulder. "Sixty seconds out."
"Understood." Moyer turned to Crispin. "Since you're our go-to surveillance guy, I hereby dub you . . ." Several moments passed.
"Come on, Boss. You're killing me here."
"Hawkeye."
"Yes." Hawkeye pumped a fist.
"I don't know, Boss." Shaq attempted to look serious. "What's it mean when a man is more worried about his nickname than swinging from a rope over frigid water?"
"It means he has his priorities straight." Moyer stepped to the side. "Line up, gentlemen. It's time to get some fresh air."
"Do you think the rope will hold Shaq?" Hawkeye flashed a wide grin.
Shaq grinned too, then seized the front of the man's vest so fast Moyer barely saw it. A half second later, Hawkeye was nose to nose with Shaq.
"I'm sorry, young man, I'm having trouble hearing over all the noise. What did you say?"
"I . . . I said that watching you work will be the pinnacle of my training."
"I guess I did hear it correctly." Shaq let go.
Not even the engine noise could drown out the laughter.
The crew chief opened the side hatch and double-checked Shaq's carabiner. Moyer stood to the side and peered out the hatch. Below, a pale gray, angular ship sat low in the water, rolling in large swells. "It looks like a Civil War iron side."
"That she does, Sergeant Major. She's a beauty. You are lucky men."
"Yeah." Shaq moved to the open door. "That's me. Lucky." He looked down, flashed a cheesy grin, shouted, "Tallyho!" and stepped into the air.
THE COLD BREEZE OF the North Pacific, heightened by the pounding rotors of the helicopter, slapped at Moyer's face, making his skin feel as if he were staring into an open oven. The irony of cold making his skin feel burned wasn't wasted on him.
He slowed his descent as he neared the rolling deck of the strange-looking destroyer. On deck were four sailors and one soldier. Shaq stood out of the way, but Moyer had no doubts the man could reach him in seconds. From his perch in the helicopter, Moyer watched Shaq help each team member to the deck safely.
The wind was a problem. The same gusts whipping up the waves were pushing Moyer around like a tiny spider on a thin strand of web. Moyer could control the speed of his descent but not what the wind did to him.
He began to swing perpendicular to the ship's beam. The swing turned into a wide circle. Moyer spread his legs to slow the motion, but it did little to help. He looked up at the helo. It was bouncing, buffeted by the increasing wind.
Continuing his descent, Moyer tried to focus on the ship's deck. The sailors wore survival suits and life vests, each was tethered by a line to the deck. Shaq moved a few steps closer to the designated landing spot marked off by the position of the sailors. One of the crewmen motioned for Shaq, who wore no safety line, to move back. Moyer assumed the man was telling him to get inside. Shaq shook his head. The sailor stepped close and got in Shaq's face. Even thirty feet above the deck, Moyer could tell the sailor was shouting, perhaps to be heard above the sound of rotors and screeching wind. Most likely he was trying to intimidate Shaq.
"Don't do it." Moyer couldn't hear his own voice.
Shaq pointed to the landing spot and said something. The sailor moved back to his spot; Shaq held his.
As Moyer approached the deck, the circle his body was inscribing in the air widened, a function of the ever-lengthening line that tethered him to the helicopter above.
Twenty-five feet.
Twenty.
Fifteen.
This is going to hurt.
Ten.
Five.
Moyer swung over the frigid green waters, circled in front of the bow, and careened toward the port side.
A sailor stepped forward and extended his arms in an attempt to take hold of the human pendulum. Moyer's momentum knocked the man backward onto the deck. The man slid several feet along the wet surface until he reached the edge of the deck, his feet hanging above churning water, saved only by his tether.
A second sailor attempted the same move and received the same punishment.
Again Moyer swung over the churning ocean, around the bow, and back to the deck. The first sailor was on his feet again, arms spread. His face told Moyer all he needed to know: He was looking for another knockdown.
The man closed his eyes.
Great.
Shaq took two steps into the arena, pushed the sailor aside, and stood in Moyer's path. The
sight sickened him. Shaq wasn't tethered. Moyer's impact could send the big man over the edge.
Moyer waved him off.
Shaq shook his head.
The impact felt like running into a brick wall. Arms clamped around Moyer with rib-breaking force, but Moyer's forward motion continued, driving Shaq backward, his feet sliding along the deck.
Six feet along the deck later, Moyer's feet were down. In seconds, Shaq had freed him from the line and was moving him to the superstructure near the middle of the ship. They ducked through a hatch and into the warmth of the destroyer.
A sailor led them toward the bridge.
The adrenaline in Moyer's body acted like jet fuel on a fire. "Of all the stupid, boneheaded, irresponsible things to do. Were you trying to get both of us killed?"
A voice came from behind them. "That was the dumbest, most unprofessional thing I've ever seen anyone do." Racially laced curses filled the air. Moyer turned his head to see the sailor he unintentionally knocked to the deck.
Moyer stopped midstep, turned, and raised a finger. "Last time I knocked you down it was an accident. I hear one more bigoted word from your yap and I'll put you on the deck and make sure you never get up. You read me?"
The sailor's face reddened but he said nothing more. Moyer returned his attention to Shaq. "Where was I?"
"Irresponsible."
"That's right. What kind of knucklehead does that? You let the sailors do their job and we do ours. Is that clear?"
"Yes. And you're welcome."
Moyer did his best to stoke the coals of his outrage, but the fire went cold. "That was pretty cool. By the way, your nose is bleeding."
"A small price to pay to be the hero in your life."
"Get Doc to look at that. I don't want to explain to your wife that I brought you home uglier than you left."
"Will do, Boss."
The mouthy sailor moved past them. "If it's not too much bother, gentlemen, the captain hates to be kept waiting."
"To the bridge?" Moyer asked.
"Not a chance. You're not cleared to see what's up there. He'll meet you in the chow hall."
Fallen Angel Page 5