by Jack Murphy
Jumping at 12,000 feet, they froze at the high altitude before they pulled their rip chords at 4,000 feet. With parachutes stolen from the Army's Golden Knights demonstration team, it was a little awkward when it came to rigging equipment. They wore the parachutes over their plate carriers and secured weapons under the chest and leg straps. Additional equipment had to be jerry-rigged as carefully as possible.
They were right in the center of the airplane bone yard that Pat had told them about. The rusting hulks of 747 jumbo jets all the way down to private Lear jets littered the desert all around them.
“You okay?” Aghassi asked as he carried his own chute over to him.
“It is never enough to kill me, just enough to hurt really, really bad,” Deckard complained.
“I hear you.”
Up ahead, Nikita got to his feet and dusted himself off while Pat unclipped him from the parachute. They looked none the worse for wear.
“How was your first jump?” Deckard asked Nikita.
“Cold.”
“Have you seen Kurt?” Pat said.
“Shit,” Aghassi said. “No, we haven't.”
Just then they heard someone shuffling up behind them. The four mercenaries struggled to free their rifles and chamber a round from the magazine. Putting their weapon into operation should have been the first order of business once they hit the ground, but this wasn't exactly a traditional jump.
“Ich bin lebendig,” Kurt said in his native German.
“What?” Aghassi asked, relaxing now that they knew it was their missing team mate.
Under the moon light, Deckard could see Kurt's hands twitching slightly.
“You okay? You're shaking like a French soldier.”
“Fuck you. I came down on my reserve chute. I didn't have silk over my head until I was five hundred feet off the ground.”
“What happened?”
“The main canopy had a total malfunction so I had to cut it away at 3,000 feet. Then the reserve had cells on it that started to collapse on me. I had to tug the toggles and mess with the suspension lines the entire way down.”
“Next time we pack our own parachutes,” Deckard said.
“Agreed.”
Stashing their parachutes in one of the empty airplanes, the mercenaries moved out. The airfield in the distance was partially lit, guiding them in towards the objective area. If The Arab and his gang were on Area 14, they had to locate them and maneuver to contact as soon as possible. Not only was dawn hours away, but it was only a matter of time before the command and control node for the entire gun running and death squad operation figured out what was going on after Militar No. 3 was destroyed and the Ft. Bliss G3 Communications facility had gone dark.
Sticking to the shadows created by a massive passenger aircraft, the mercenaries weaved their way towards the airfield, keeping landing gear or loose aircraft debris between them and their target to help conceal their movement. Nearing the edge of the airfield, they crawled forward to get eyes on.
There were two large aircraft hangars next to the runway, no control tower, and a series of trailers that looked to be used as housing units. What really caught all of their eyes was the compound next door to the far hangar. Surrounded by a high barbwire fence was a box shaped building with an antenna farm on the roof. A tall communications mast rose from the roof alongside various High Frequency antennas, and satellite dishes.
Nikita passed Deckard his HK 417 sniper rifle so he could take a closer look. Using the ten power scope, he scanned the security features for a moment before passing the rifle on to Aghassi.
“What do you think? Those look like active alarm systems inside the perimeter.”
“Yeah, it's an overlapping system of bi-static microwave sensors,” Aghassi replied. “The transmitters are those dishes you see in the gravel. They send out the microwave frequency to the receivers. If they detect a minute difference between the sender and the receiver it will trip the alarm.”
“And bring down God only knows what.”
“That has to be our priority target,” Kurt added. “That's the nerve center for this logistics system we have been back tracing.”
“Tracking down The Arab will have to wait,” Deckard agreed. As bad as he wanted him, killing a General was always going to be more important than killing a foot soldier. This was a war and targets had to be prioritized.
“If we manage to bypass the sensors, what kind of security is on the door?”
Aghassi moved the sniper rifle to take a closer look.
“Bio-metric lock. Looks to be both thumb print and face scan.”
“Can we get passed it?”
“With time and proper planning.”
“Neither of which we have,” Pat muttered.
“We will have to improvise something,” Aghassi said as he handed the rifle back to Nikita. “It might work.”
“I see a two man roving patrol moving around the far hangar right now,” Deckard said, squinting as he looked across the runway.
“And a third having a smoke break over by the housing units,” Nikita said as he looked through the scope.
“What does he look like?”
“All three of the guards look like Arabs as near as I can tell.”
“Alright, here is the new plan,” Deckard said. “We are going to have to improvise some kit if we are going to get into that command and control center undetected. Kurt, go back to the parachutes and cut lengths from the suspension line that we can use as tethers. I'm going to find the rope. Pat, you find something we can use as a grappling hook and a way to muffle the sound when we throw it. Aghassi, you get together whatever you need to get through the biometrics system. Nikita, find a firing position somewhere in one of these airplanes where you can give us cover fire if need be.”
“Roger that,” Pat said, picking up on what Deckard was planning.
“And try not to get killed.”
Nikita slipped into the fuselage of an old Boeing MD-80, finding a port for his sniper rifle through a rectangular window that was missing the clear plexiglass. Settling in, he scanned Area 14 for targets and waited.
Kurt Jager jogged back to where they had dropped off the parachutes. His Samruk issued Ka-Bar fighting knife made quick work of the 550 chord suspension lines that secured the parachute to the harness. He cut enough safety lines for each of the mercenaries before moving back to the rendezvous point.
Deckard and Pat evaded the two man guard patrol with Nikita informing them about enemy movements over their radio. The padlock on the door to the hangar was easy to pick and they were soon inside the dark interior. Using red lens pen lights, they each rummaged through the boxes of discarded airline equipment and garbage.
Pat had the shock of his life when he ran into a drab colored military van with Cyrillic lettering across the side. Area 14 was apparently being used as a staging ground for covert operations all over the world.
Eventually the former Delta operator found a large metal hook that would normally be used to attach to a tow strap. Locating some rubber matting, probably torn up from the floor of an airplane, he sliced it into pieces and wrapped it around the hook before securing it in place with some string.
Meanwhile, Deckard found a couple of ropes in the corner of the hangar. Some were dry rotted, but when he tied the others together with square knots he ended up with a long enough length for what he had in mind. Looping the rope back on itself, he flung it over his shoulder. Linking back up with Pat, he headed out to meet the others.
Outside, Aghassi crept closer to the command and control center. He had to admit to himself that he was stumped. The fingerprint reader could be bypassed, but without knowing who had access to the building he was at a loss to figure out how to get by the face scanner.
As luck would have it, he was crouching in a ditch nearby the facility at exactly four in the morning which turned out to be a shift change. A white Ford Escort pulled up to the gate. A slight man emerged from the vehicle and was buz
zed in on foot. He scanned through the biometric locks and went inside. Knowing what was happening, Aghassi scrambled through his Kifaru Koala pouch for his digital camera.
When the relieved night guard opened the door and headed to the Escort, Aghassi was ready. Zooming in on the man's face as closely as he could he began snapping pictures. He was a young guy, probably in his thirties with slightly graying hair and a doughy face. A Rear Echelon Mother Fucker if ever there was one, Aghassi knew.
The Escort took off down the runway and disappeared into the night, heading back home or back to a security hub elsewhere on Area 14 or one of the many other areas established on the former nuclear test site. The former ISA operator scrolled through the pictures on his digital camera and breathed a sigh of relief.
He nailed it.
“You are clear,” Nikita's voice came over the radio. “The guards are moving over to the housing area.”
From his firing and observation position, Nikita instructed the four mercenaries on where the enemy was going and where they were coming from.
“Roger,” Deckard replied.
The mercenaries climbed out of the ditch and skirted around the runway, heading for the far hangar. There was a metal ladder attached to one side that would allow them to climb up to the roof. One by one, they slung their weapons and began the climb. Hand over hand, their boots vibrated off the metal rungs as they tried to be as silent as possible. Deckard brought up the rear and was halfway up when he heard Nikita's warning over his radio.
“The roving patrol is on its way back. They are on my side of the runway now but will see you if you don't get to the top in another minute.”
Deckard and Kurt were the two still on the ladder and both now stopped trying to be quiet and rushed up the side of the hangar. Their legs and arms were burning by the time they got the top. He was glad that he had Kurt cut safety lines because after all he had been through, he felt like he was losing dexterity.
The four mercenaries stayed low to avoid being spotted by the patrol and crept across the top of the hangar to the side that faced the Command and Control facility. From the edge of the hangar, the communications mast on the target building was a good thirty feet away. It was a long distance, but it was still a security design flaw in putting the mast so close to the hangar. It was a flaw that the mercenaries would be more than happy to exploit.
There was one exterior flood light that needed to be taken care of before they began to infiltrate.
While Pat was tying their half-assed grappling hook into their half-assed climbing rope, Deckard got on the radio with Nikita.
“Has the patrol passed you yet?”
“Yes, they have moved on into the aircraft graveyard.”
“Can you do something about the flood light in front of the building?”
“Roger,” Nikita replied. “Wait one.”
A few seconds later the flood light popped and blinked out as a silent sub-sonic bullet shattered the bulb inside.
“That works, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Deckard turned to Pat.
“Who is going to give it a go with this contraption?”
“I played baseball in college,” Pat informed him. “That's why I got a good grenade arm.”
“You went to college?”
“For six months.”
“Well, take a shot at it. If you miss and the hook crosses through the path of those microwave transmitters below we are fucked but no pressure or anything.”
“Some of us like the pressure,” Pat said as he rotated his arm, warming up his shoulder.
Grabbing the hook, Pat wound up, feeling the weight in his hand for a few mock practice throws. Kurt tied off the free running end of the rope around a fixture for a lightning rod at the edge of the hangar roof. Bolted firmly in place, it would be able to support their weight.
Thirty feet away was the three sided communications tower with antenna and satellite dishes hanging off the side. Pat took a deep breath. Stepping forward with one foot, he overhanded the metal hook through the night sky. The mercenaries winced as the hook passed through one of the metal cross bars and thudded off the side of the mast. It made noise even with the rubber padding.
Kurt slowly retracted the rope and as if by magic the hook snagged on the metal cross member.
There was the ghost of a smile on Deckard's face.
“Who owes who a case of beer now?” Pat boasted. “I gots some skills.”
Kurt carefully untied the knot around the lighting rod fixture and retied it using some mountaineer knots to make the rope as taut as possible. The former GSG-9 commando then handed out the 550 chord lengths he had cut. Aghassi was going across first. He used the chord to tie a loop through his belt and then across the rope bridge which would act as a safety line if he slipped and fell.
The mercenaries had constructed the rope bridge across thirty feet of empty space, crossing over the microwave sensors and barbwire fence below. The drop was about forty feet, enough to kill you in and of itself. Aghassi looked somewhat less than confident as he felt the rope creak and strain under his weight. Laying on top of the rope, he attempted to commando crawl across but with his AK-103 and other combat equipment making him top heavy, it was not long before he slipped and was dangling under the rope, holding on with his hands and feet crisscrossed over the top.
Grunting his way across the rope, Aghassi crossed the chasm and pulled himself onto the communications tower. Wiping his face with the sleeve of his uniform, he was visibly tired. Kurt went next, tying himself into the rope and them shimmying across. Aghassi was already climbing down the tower to the roof of the command and control building.
The other mercenaries pulled security, watching for signs of enemy activity. If one of their own was spotted on the rope, the climber would be helpless while he was taken apart by gunfire.
Kurt managed to commando crawl across the top of the rope the entire way, with one bent knee and ankle locked into the rope while the other leg hung underneath to help him keep his balance. Not bad for a guy who was medically discharged from the German military after a rappelling accident.
Once on the other side, Pat tied his tether in and started across the rope.
“Shooter-One?” Deckard said over the radio.
“All quiet here.”
“Let's hope it stays that way.”
When Pat was almost to the other side, Deckard tied in and waited until Pat came off the rope and scooted down the tower to join the other two mercenaries. As he began his commando crawl, Deckard got that sinking feeling. It wasn't just a fear created by vertigo, the rope really was stretching to its limits as he was now the last man across. With the loss of dexterity, he had a hard time maintaining his grip. His forearms were also about torqued out. As he reached out with his hands, he pulled himself forward with his ankle resting over the top of the rope.
Every movement was a struggle. The Oaxaca campaign had taken him well over his threshold. How much longer he could hold out, he had no idea. There was little experience in the world in pushing this hard or coming this far. They had traveled into the unknown.
“Six, freeze right there!” Nikita's warning came over his headset. “Two guards just came from behind the far side of the hangar. They are walking towards you between the chain link fence and the hangar.
Without forward movement to help stabilize him, Deckard's body slowly rotated off the top of the rope where he hung upside down underneath. With his plate carrier and rifle hanging off his body, it was simply too difficult to maintain his balance.
In the darkness, he could hear voices in Arabic advancing below him.
He tried to lock his fingers around the rope, securing them in place like a vise but knew that he was slowly losing purchase as his grip gave way. His gloved hands slipped so he tried to regain a better grip but was unable to clench his hands around the rope.
The improvised tether tied around his belt and the rope saved him from falling. It pulled t
ight as he hung upside down with his arms out. His feet were crossed and locked into the rope.
Gravel crunched under approaching footsteps. As blood ran to his head, Deckard heard their voices as one lit up a cigarette. The words were in Arabic.
“No one knows what happened in Mexico?” one of the guards asked the other.
Deckard was struggling to stay alive but picked up the gist of the conversation.
“It just exploded. It might have been an accident but no one knows. Maybe someone was smoking in the ammo dump again,” the other guard said, grabbing the lit cigarette out of his partner's mouth. The smoker laughed as he grabbed it back and took a puff.
“I just can't wait to get out of this place.”
“No kidding. They are talking about sending the entire group to Syria in a few weeks.”
“I've heard the rumor.”
The guards were passing right under Deckard as he hung helplessly. Nikita might be able to get off a shot if he were compromised but not before the guards filled him with lead. Feeling movement across his neck, Deckard panicked. The sling on his AK-103 rifle was sliding right over his head.
Swatting out his hand, he managed to hook it through the sling just as it was about to fall through the night and land beside the guards. Deckard closed his eyes as he hung on to the sling, the rifle swinging below him.
“I think they have another group working Syria already and just want to send us for the final push. Once Syria falls to the Brothers then we will be going into Iran.”
“If Allah wills it.”
The guards moved on, turning around the corner of the hangar and out onto the runway.
“You are clear,” Nikita said, letting out the breath that he had been holding.
Deckard managed to get the sling back over his head and shoulders. He had to use his forearms as hooks, bending at the elbows and throwing them over the rope. His hands were next to useless at the worst possible moment. Inch by inch, he moved like a caterpillar across the rope to the communications tower.