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“Fucking Australian psychopath…,” Animal mutters under his breath. But then again, he did just key his mic switch, so the whole aircrew just heard his sentiment.

Lego and Messy do a good job of hiding it, but I still detect the unease in their voices, and in Animal's, too, which serves to fuel my own trepidation. I breathe in deeply, trying in earnest to quell the sudden feeling that I'm in over my head.

 

42

By the time we finally refuel and everyone is seated, it's close to 0400. We have almost one and a half hours of flying time to get to
Twister,
but we should still arrive under cover of night.

My thoughts spin in circles for the next hour, about a number of things. The wink Animal received from Jonas, for one. Jonas's expression? Confident. Cocky. In a far better mood than Eric or Animal. All I know is that I'll be happy to get him off this aircraft and on his way.

I also think about the fact that I haven't spoken with Eric once through the radio he gave me. But then, there really hasn't been a need. We've been speaking as we normally would through our discreet aircraft frequency.

And right now, I don't know where his aircraft is physically. There's every chance he's still back at the first drop point, searching for a submarine, or even engaging Surface Unit 2. Amazing. He's coordinating two hostile boarding missions and handling all the complexities involved with prosecuting a submarine at the same time. This is multitasking in the extreme.

But you wouldn't know it based on Eric's voice. He continues to calmly supply our headings and this, in turn, calms me. I'm already envisioning the return to Jebel Ali and a visit on the quarterdeck from a different person this time.

“What are you smiling about?” Animal asks.

“Oh, nothing, sir. I'm just ready to have this night over with.”

“You got that right.”

Naturally, because I'm ready to be done with this flight, the transit proceeds as if we're trapped in molasses. Worse, it's dark now. Really dark. The half-moon that lighted our way since we departed Jebel Ali has just dropped below the horizon. There is absolutely nothing to see or refer to that gives any indication we are moving forward. For the SAS squad, the cover from a moonless night is exactly what they want. For the pilot—one without night vision goggles—it's not so great.

I occupy myself with the visualization of the approach. Just like shooting free throws with an invisible basketball, I see in my mind's eye the fast rope as I want it to occur, which usually leads to a rapid-fire transition over the deck.

When the time finally comes, the hour approaching 0530, the sky is just beginning its early-morning transformation. A veil of blue replaces the unforgiving black, although the sun has yet to make its appearance over the horizon.

“All right, guys,” Animal says. “This is going to need all your focus. If anything's going to happen with this mission, it'll happen here. Mess, be ready on the .50 cal. There's a good chance we're gonna need it.”

“Roger that, sir,” Messy says.

“Set on the rope, Lego?”

“All set, sir.”

“Martin, you set aft?”

“Standing by,” Jonas says.

“Five five, six seven, you're one mile,” Eric says. “Give me an ops normal when you're done and then buster out.”

I hear the urgency in his voice. Get out of there, basically.

“Six seven, five five, wilco,” I say.

“I've got the wake,” Messy calls.

“Roger, I've got it,” I say, picking up the whitewater trail that leads to the ship.

As we look ahead, the dark silhouette of a massive-sized, multi-deck yacht ekes into view.

“Holy smokes, will you look at that!” Messy says.

This ship looks almost as large as the frigate in our battle group—at least five stories high. But the details I need are lacking. She's not running any lights and I squint to find the flight deck.

“Sara, do you have the deck?” Animal asks.

“Not yet.”

“Lucky day,” Animal says. “It's smack on the back end, just like we've practiced.”

“Yeah, lucky,” I mumble. “Okay, I've got it now.”

The external worries that I normally shut out begin to gain traction. Training is … well, training. I've done some pretty fancy flying at night and with not much in the way of references, but no one has ever shot at me in the process. Eric knew what I might face and was terrified at the prospect. I start to wonder for the first time ever, only thirty seconds from the drop, what will be waiting. Will they have gunmen standing at the ready, weapons aimed at the flight deck, or more accurately, at the pilots and crew hovering over it?

Since I left the worries until so late, I have only one thought to still them.
In, out, and done.
Just like training. If you can get in and out expeditiously, you minimize time spent presenting yourself as a target. Just do it.
In, out, and done.

“Okay, ma'am, ease it up and begin your flare,” Lego says.

We're about thirty yards from the ship when I begin to slow, simultaneously spinning to the left, bringing the helicopter perpendicular to the superstructure.

“Right thirty, right twenty…,” Lego calls as we begin to fly sideways.

I look to the right, out my side window, the hairs rising on the back of my neck. This flight deck is micro-sized, probably used for small corporate helicopters only. But then, I have to remind myself we're not landing here, so it doesn't matter.
Just stay smooth on the controls. You'll be done and gone in twenty seconds.

“Right ten…”

Now that I'm sideways and slowing down, I pull up on the collective lever that allows me to stop my rate of descent.

The number-two engine spools up quickly, too quickly, emitting a loud whining noise.

“Right five, rope's out…”

I'm listening for the number-one engine, waiting for it to kick in and relieve number two.

“Over deck, first man out…”

Something's wrong.…

“We lost number one!” Animal shouts.

The rotors are slowing. The second engine is trying to take the load, but it doesn't have enough power to keep us up. We're sinking!
Holy crap!

The low rpm warning horn blares in my helmet and there's nothing I can do except make a last-second positional correction, moving the aircraft a touch to the left. A sick queasiness spreads through me as I watch the tips of the rotor blades clear the superstructure by mere inches, dropping into a space never designed for an aircraft as large as ours.

“Last man out—pull up, pull up, we're dropping, shit, we're dropping!”

“Landing—” is all I can get out before we slam hard on the deck. The last members of the SAS squad run out from under the rotor arc and disappear into the dark recesses of the ship.

“Holy fuck!” Lego says.

I glance over to the engine gauges. The tachometer reads zero, but everything else reads good. No caution lights, either.

“Sara, keep it turning!” Animal shouts. “Mess, stay on the .50 cal! Lego, check the cowling, tell me what you see! I'll cover you!”

“On it!” Lego says.

Animal yanks out his radio cord and scrambles out of his seat, pulling the 9mm from his vest in the process. I'm left looking at the superstructure of the ship, realizing I'm probably the easiest target that has ever presented itself to a waiting gun. Holy shit.

“Ah, fuck!” Lego says. “We busted an oil line!”

“Can you fix it?” Animal says from one of the crewman's radio lines in the back.

“Yeah, but we're gonna need to shut down.”

“Fuck!” Animal says.

“Give me ten minutes, sir.”

“We don't have ten minutes! Can you do it in five?”

“If I have Mess to help me, then yeah, five minutes!”

“Okay, do it!” Animal orders. “But stay up on your long cords so I can talk to you.”

“We're on it!” Lego says.

“Sara, shut down and get back here ASAP!”

I kill the remaining engine, stop the rotors, and crawl to the back, past the main cabin door. Animal has manned the .50 cal.

“Here, you take this,” he says, swiveling the butt of the machine gun to me. “I'll cover from the rear.”

He runs to the aft ramp, sidearm in hand, and peers out the back. I grab the machine gun and point it at the superstructure. The main cabin door is to my left, the gun protruding through the window that lies adjacent to it.

I've only fired a .50 cal a handful of times in my career and only at non-moving cardboard cutouts. But I've stripped and cleaned hundreds of these weapons. I'm hoping that will count for something now.

I quickly scan the ship structure in front of me. On navy ships, I'm used to looking at the metal doors of an aircraft hangar once we've landed. But here, I see a row of floor-to-ceiling glass windows. They span almost the width of the flight deck, leaving room for walkways on either side so passengers can move forward along the outside railings of the ship.

Just above the level of glass windows is a patio with … lounge chairs? I blink in the low light. Yep. Six lounge chairs with overstuffed cushions and an awning overhead. I'm unable to make out much more from this vantage point.

I take a chance and sneak a look behind me, peering through the windows to where Lego and Messy stand on the other side of the aircraft. They're covered in engine oil, their faces periodically illuminated by their flashlights that flicker through the engine compartment.

I turn back to face the windows, scanning across the deck and then up to the patio above. I don't see anyone.

And it's quiet.

Actually, it's too quiet.

“Sir, forgive me for asking a stupid question, but doesn't it seem awfully quiet to you? I mean, for landing on a hostile ship and all?”

“You've just read my mind,” Animal says.

“What the…,” Lego says.

“What is it?” Animal asks.

“Sir, you're not gonna fuckin' believe this! The line's been cut! The oil line's been fuckin' cut!”

“What?”

“Holy crap, Kyle,” Messy says. “Look at this!”

“Oh, my fuckin' god…,” Lego says.

“What now?” Animal says.

“Sir, did you ever get an oil pressure caution light?” Messy asks.

“No.”

“How about the oil pressure gauge?”

“It read normal,” he says.

“Wait, that's imposs—” I start.

“That's because someone cut the wires to the indicators,” Messy says.

“That son of a bitch…,” Animal says in disbelief.

“What?” I say. “What's happening?”

“Lightning was right…,” Animal says, more to himself than any of us.

“Right about what?” I ask.

“Lego, Mess, get that oil line patched up as fast as you fuckin' can!” Animal says.

“We're almost there, sir!”

And then, like a slow-motion sequence in an action film, two shots ring out from the dark.

Animal jerks back and falls in a lump on the ramp. I swing the mount to the origin of the gunfire, but I'm yanked backward, my arms pulled behind me. The bracingly cold shaft of a gun barrel presses into my neck.

“That's a good girl,” Jonas says. “Let's just stay nice and calm.”

 

43

At the rear of the aircraft, Collin and Bartholomew usher Lego and Messy into the cabin at gunpoint.

“Now, before we proceed further, I believe Romeo is awaiting your ops normal call,” Jonas says.

I hear a small moan. Animal is trying to move. He lies at the top of the ramp, in a crumpled heap near the side bulkhead.

“You are going to turn on the battery,” Jonas says, “and you will give a proper ops normal call. If there is any deviation whatsoever, guaranteed you'll have a front-row seat as I finish off Mr. Amicus,” he says, pointing to Animal's wounded form.

Oh my god. Animal …

Don't shake, Sara. Just do this. Stay calm.

I step into the passageway that leads to the cockpit and reach up to flip on the battery switch that's secured to the overhead console. But my hand is shaking so badly, I can't get the switch.

Breathe, Sara. Breathe.

I try again, supporting my right arm with my left, and finally turn it on. I reach over and key the mic on the cyclic control stick located in front of my seat.

“Shadow Hunter six seven, Sabercat five five, ops normal, four souls, zero plus three zero fuel, over.”

“Five five, six seven, copy ops normal,” Eric says. “State plans for fueling, over.”

I look back at Jonas, and he shakes his head in warning.

“Six seven, five five, Kuwait International, over.”

“Five five, six seven, copy,” he says, sounding relieved.

Jonas reaches past me and flicks the battery switch off.

Pulling back into the main cabin, Jonas turns to Lego and Messy.

“Now, Mr. Legossi, Mr. Messina, you are going to finish the repair to the oil line and you will do so in a timely manner, as we have a schedule to keep. We need to be airborne in fifteen minutes.”

He looks up, his attention turned to the men now entering the aircraft from the far aft ramp, all of Middle Eastern descent. They're carrying several crates between them that they begin loading into the aircraft. They walk right past Animal without a glance.

“Oil line?” I say. “But how would you know—”

“Because we cut it, lovely lady. That's how I know.”

“But why?”

“I doubt you would have bothered to land otherwise,” he states matter-of-factly.

“What if we can't repair it?” Lego says.

“Ah, your reputation precedes you. This is well within your capability to repair … and repair quickly.”