Operator Down: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  He said, “I do. And Kurt does, as well. You ready to get to work?”

  I looked at Shoshana, and she had her hands held to her face, like she’d just found out she’d won the lottery. Which she had.

  I said, “Sir, you don’t even need to ask.”

  59

  Five hours later we were back at the drop zone, waiting on contact from the aircraft. We had no way to talk to the pilot directly, but with a little bit of planning we could hear him—through our rental car’s stereo, no less. Along with the coordination measures for the jump, I’d passed Blaine an AM frequency on the end of the radio dial, which the aircraft would use to transmit in the blind. So we were all sitting in one Land Rover, waiting on the aircraft to give us a disembodied voice like some Mexican radio station skipping across the atmosphere.

  After about ten minutes of static, which was annoying the hell out of everyone in the Rover, we heard a squelch. Then, “Prometheus Pike, Prometheus Pike, this is Shadow. Looking for a rope.”

  Brett bailed out of the Rover as the pilot repeated the request. He began shining an infrared laser into the sky, weaving it back and forth like a cowboy swinging a lasso.

  The radio blurted, “Got the rope. Confirm the rope. Coming in north to south.”

  We all exited at that point, the tension growing. We couldn’t see the aircraft, but we knew the risks involved with what was about to happen.

  The radio said, “First pass away. Jumpers gone.”

  We stared into the night sky, trying to identify something that would tell us they were okay, but saw nothing but the stars. Which, honestly, I expected. We wouldn’t see a damn thing until they opened their canopies. And maybe not even then.

  We waited for three minutes, and then Brett, wearing NODs, said, “I got ’em.” He pointed away from the escarpment and said, “I got two good chutes.”

  Which was the only thing I cared about. Get past the risk of mechanical failure and the rest was up to the jumpers.

  The parachutes circled lower and lower, working turns in the sky. I could tell they were fighting the winds, Knuckles probably wondering how on earth I’d told him it was a safe DZ. They circled right above us, then turned into final approach, heading straight into the wind—and the escarpment.

  They dropped below the protection of the wall of rock and immediately picked up speed from the forward thrust of the parachute. The first jumper yanked the toggles of his chute deep, burying them to his waist in an attempt to flare the parachute, but he still hit the ground hard enough to roll into a parachute landing fall. The second one saw the damage from the first and adjusted early, landing upright.

  I ran out onto the DZ, finding Knuckles sputtering. He said, “What the fuck? This is the best DZ you could find? The fucking wind is like a tornado; then it disappears completely.”

  I pointed at the second jumper and said, “He didn’t have a problem.”

  Knuckles shucked his chute and said, “I’m about to kick your ass.”

  Instead, he fist-bumped me, happy to be alive.

  I returned the bump and laughed, saying, “Save it for the bad guys. Can you get the bundle in?”

  “Yeah. Pretty sure I can.”

  Veep came running up, saying, “Holy shit, that was some serious wind.”

  I said, “Yeah, well, not serious enough to prevent you from landing on your feet. You must be a SEAL, right? Only they could do that in this situation.”

  An Air Force Special Operations member, Veep looked at me, then Knuckles, unsure of what to say without aggravating either of us. Knuckles said, “There will come a time, Mr. Badass, when you’ll regret the disparagement.”

  I said, “Don’t make it now. You know, because of the winds.” He grimaced and I turned serious, saying, “Can you get our package in safely?”

  “Yeah. I can do it. No thanks to your planning.”

  He pushed a switch on his chest and said, “Shadow, Shadow, we’re on the ground. Give me a time hack.”

  He listened for a second, then said, “Eight minutes. He’s circling.”

  I said, “You saw the winds. Can a CARP release get the package here? Or are we going to go hunting it?”

  Meaning would the onboard computer in the aircraft be able to determine an accurate release point, or would the parachute land two mountains over?

  He smiled and said, “You know better than that.” He pulled out a device that looked a little bit like a gaming controller. “Money is no object to the Taskforce. He’s releasing a FireFly.”

  I nodded, giving a silent sigh of relief. You never knew what technology you’d get in the field, but the drop zone I’d selected would need some serious precision, and the FireFly was exactly that. Basically, some smart guy had looked at JDAM GPS-guided munitions and said, “If we can drop a bomb with that precision, why can’t we do the same thing with a parachute?”

  And they’d built one. The FireFly was a container system with a ram-air parachute coupled around a GPS guidance system that would read the winds and adjust all the way to the ground. Which would be fine in a normal situation, but ours was a little different. If the GPS computer did its job, the bundle would smash into the plateau once it cleared the break of wind, as had almost happened to Knuckles. Luckily, we could override the system.

  Knuckles touched his ear, then said, “Bundle’s away.”

  I looked into the sky and saw nothing for a moment, then caught a flash of dark against the night sky. The canopy was open, much bigger than the one Knuckles had used. Knuckles let the computer do the work as the load came to earth, looking at his screen, then back in the air. He did that repeatedly, until the bundle was about five hundred feet above the ground.

  He started working his handset, pushing the parachute to fly slower than it wanted, given the winds at altitude. He brought the bundle over the drop zone, and it sank into the lull of the protection from the mountains, causing the parachute to surge forward at full thrust, headed to the rock wall. Knuckles worked his controller, and the parachute sank to the ground like a child dropping a hanky off a table. Right in front of us.

  The container thunked hard, and Knuckles contacted Shadow, telling him the spot was good and to release the second one. Five minutes later he heard, “Second bundle’s away. I say again, second bundle’s away. Standing by for extraction.”

  Knuckles repeated his prime video game skills, and the container hit the ground right behind the first. We raced out to break them down. Inside was a veritable Jason Bourne wet dream: six Motoped Survival cycles, a complete communications package, enough cases of MREs to live for a week, high-tech beacons and other surveillance kit, and weapons. Blessed weapons.

  I withdrew a Glock 23 pistol and saw immediately it wasn’t Taskforce. With a custom stippled grip, a Trijicon RMR holosight, and a flat-black widened mag well, it was much more of a race gun than we usually used. I held it up to Knuckles and said, “SHOT Show worked out for us?”

  He said, “Yep. ZEV Tech came through. Every pistol in that case is tricked out. We’re supposed to be testing them on the range, but I figured a real-world event was good enough. I got to shoot one before I flew today. The trigger is about as crisp as anything I’ve ever fired, and it’s very accurate.”

  I grinned and said, “Looking forward to ‘testing’ it.”

  He said, “From what I’m hearing, that won’t take too long.” He withdrew the Fulton recovery system, which was really nothing more than a giant balloon attached to a wire, which itself was attached to a thick full-body suit. He said, “Where’s your man?”

  “In the vehicle.”

  Knuckles said, “Veep, let’s get this in operation while they break down the kit.”

  Veep helped him take it to the center of the DZ, then laid out the components of the kit. I went to the Land Rover and unlocked Mowgli, saying, “Time to take a ride.”

  H
e had no idea what was about to happen and looked genuinely scared. I said, “Don’t worry. You won’t be harmed, and you’ll get a hell of a story to tell your friends.”

  I brought him to the center of the field and delivered him to Veep and Knuckles. They forced him to put on the bodysuit, then slapped a helmet on his head. Knuckles said, “You ever seen a video of someone getting hoisted up by a helicopter?”

  Mowgli nodded, and Knuckles said, “This is the same thing. Just hold on to the cable.”

  Veep inflated the large balloon and let it fly, the cable snaking out of its bag as it went higher and higher. The concept was old, and a little bit crazy, but it worked. Basically, our L-100 would drop its rear ramp and fly right into the cable, capturing it with a special collection device. Mowgli would be yanked into the air, swinging behind the bird, where the cable would be snagged and he’d be winched up until he was pulled into the back of the aircraft.

  I heard Shoshana say, “What the hell is this? Who called this thing a motorcycle? More like a moped.”

  To Knuckles, I said, “You got this?”

  “Yeah. Get my bike ready.”

  I left them to their work, going to Shoshana. She’d pulled out what looked like a mountain bike with a very small engine crammed into the space between the top tube and down tube, and a small gas tank behind the handlebars. It was flat-black, with a luggage rack behind the seat, a saddlebag on the left, and a gas can on the right, making it look like it was created for the set of The Walking Dead. Called the Motoped Survival, it could be pedaled or driven under power and was robust enough to go just about anywhere but light enough to be carried over obstacles, if necessary.

  She said, “This is what we’re taking to Lesotho?”

  I said, “Yep. It’s got a four-hundred-mile range, and we can kill the engine and pedal straight past your Lesotho police station.”

  I saw Brett and Jennifer breaking out rucksacks, inventorying the gear. Jennifer pulled out a PWS MK109 long gun from a case, a piston-driven M4 derivative with an integral suppressor chambered in .300 Blackout. She slid it into the custom-built holster on the left side of the bike, then bungeed her rucksack on the rack behind the seat. Eventually, all six bikes were outfitted, looking like some Hollywood Westworld contraptions for a movie.

  Knuckles shouted, “Final pass!” And we all turned to watch. Mowgli was sitting on the ground with his legs in front of him, clinging to the cable for dear life. He turned to look at me and was jerked violently off the ground. One minute he was there; the next minute he was climbing into the sky like he was on an invisible express elevator.

  Knuckles waited until he got the call, then he and Veep came back to us.

  He said, “Successful recovery. Bird’s gone. We’re on our own now.”

  I nodded, and Brett passed out preloaded magazines for both the Glocks and the long guns. I said, “Okay, last chance at the kit. Everyone got what they want?”

  Outside of directing a bare minimum of equipment—weapons, night observation devices, an in extremis mechanical and explosives breaching capability, and communications—I’d left it up to the individual Operator to determine what he or she wanted.

  I let them dig through the containers one last time, then directed them to store anything sensitive that we were leaving behind inside our Land Rovers. While that was being done, I had Brett and Veep break down the parachutes from the containers, taking them across the stream and stashing them in the thick brush, then breaking the containers down into pieces. If we were lucky, a local would come along and simply steal them.

  The entire preparation had taken about three hours, which meant we were running into dawn, and I wanted to be through the border crossing and at a campsite we’d located on the Lesotho side before then. Even so, I was pretty damn proud of what we’d accomplished. Not too many military forces on the planet could have conducted a HALO insertion, complete with equipment, and a Fulton extraction in a single cycle of darkness.

  I directed Jennifer and Shoshana to take the equipment-laden Land Rover back to our lodge, parking it out front. The other, empty Land Rover would return with them and remain here for the duration—hopefully not getting stolen.

  While we waited, I briefed Veep and Knuckles on everything I knew. I turned it over to Brett, and he briefed our infiltration route. An hour later, now closing in on four A.M., Shoshana and Jennifer returned, and I got everyone together for a final brief and a comms check.

  I said, “Okay, Brett and Shoshana have the lead. We cut the engines at the South African checkpoint, pedal our way past them, then do the same on the Lesotho side. No lethal action. If anything happens—if we get compromised—then we evacuate and regroup. Got it?”

  They all nodded, and I said, “Brett. Your show.”

  We fired up the bikes, and they were a hell of a lot louder than I expected, like six lawnmowers attacking a small patch of grass. Brett circled his finger, and he led us out of the DZ, the night split by our headlamps. I brought up the rear, and the sight of the caravan racing toward the border brought a grin to my face.

  Missions like this were the one thing that made me feel alive, testing the boundaries of my skill. And the kit was pretty damn cool too.

  The only thing that would have made it better was if a couple of velociraptors were racing alongside us.

  60

  After entering the gate to their borrowed training compound, Johan directed the driver to the front of the barracks. He jumped out of the cab, went around to the back, and said, “Andy, have the men break down the kit. You take Chris to the medic. I’m going to find Colonel Armstrong.”

  Andy nodded and said, “I don’t think it’s broken. He’ll still be good.”

  Johan went up the steps, saying, “We’ll see,” over his shoulder. He entered the barracks and went to the office in the back, hearing voices. He knocked and waited. Armstrong came outside, closing the door behind him.

  He said, “What the hell took so long? It’s almost four in the morning.”

  “The damn driver couldn’t find the drop zone even with a GPS. He was supposed to be waiting on us when we hit the ground. We got nothing. The stand-ins you found happened to know the area, and they’re the ones who located the DZ. If that happens in Lesotho I’m going to fucking gut him.”

  “It’ll be better in Lesotho. He knows that terrain like the back of his hand, like our stand-ins did here. He won’t even need a GPS.”

  “He’d better not, or he’s dead.”

  Armstrong said, “What else is bothering you?”

  “The jump was a bit of a cluster as well. The pilot offset on the wrong side of the DZ, forcing an extra pass, something I don’t want to do over Lesotho airspace. Then Chris came in hard. He fucked up his ankle.”

  “Will he be able to execute the op?”

  “I don’t know. They’re checking him out now, but as far as final rehearsals go, this one didn’t give me a lot of confidence.”

  The door to the barracks opened, and Andy came in. He nodded at Armstrong, saying, “Sir.” Then to Johan: “Chris is okay. Bruised patella and sprained right ankle, but the doc says he can wear a brace in his boot.”

  “Can he jump?”

  “Doc said he didn’t advise it. Chris said he’s going.”

  Johan smiled and said, “Get me an up on the kit; then we’ll do an after-action review. Make sure that fucking driver is there.”

  Andy left, and Johan said, “Well, sir, I’ve got other issues to take care of. I’m going to go find that stupid pilot. Straighten his ass out.”

  Armstrong said, “Before you go, I have someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who?”

  “The new future ruler of Lesotho. Deputy Prime Minister Makalo Lenatha.”

  “Why the fuck do I have to meet him? He’s not paying the bills.”

  Armstrong scowled and said, “He
wanted to meet you. He wants to meet the man who’s going to receive him on the airfield when I bring him in. He’s been waiting up all fucking night for you to get back; now, get in there and shake his hand.”

  Johan rolled his eyes and said, “He’s going to fly in like a king after I’ve done the killing, and I have to start kissing his ass before that’s even happened?”

  “Yes. No smart-ass comments.”

  Armstrong opened the door to the office, ushered in Johan, and said, “Prime Minister Lenatha, this is Johan van Rensburg. He’s the ground-force commander for the operation, and the one who will meet us on the airfield.”

  Johan saw four security stiffs glowering at him, and a man in a suit, about five foot seven, with a narrow hatchet face. Johan took an immediate dislike to him.

  Lenatha came forward, sticking his hand out and saying, “It’s good to meet the man who will help our country get rid of a tyrant.”

  Johan shook the hand and said, “So, you’re going to bring progress and hope to the country? Or just get rich?”

  Lenatha’s smile faded. Armstrong quickly said, “Johan’s full of humor.”

  Johan said, “I am. Just try me.”

  Lenatha smiled again, weakly, and said, “So, was the rehearsal good? You’re ready tomorrow night?”

  Armstrong glared at Johan, and Johan said, “Yes. It was fine. We’ll go tomorrow night.”

  Lenatha said, “Good, good. I wish you the best of luck.”

  Johan said, “With those dumb fucks you’ve given us, we’re going to need every bit of it.”

  Armstrong grabbed Johan’s bicep and began ushering him to the door, saying, “Johan’s got some final planning to do.”

  Lenatha said, “I completely understand. I’ll see you on the airfield.”

  Armstrong opened the door, and Johan said, “You will, rest assured.”