Warning Order (31 page)

From the front of the plane, the last jumper slapped the man in front of him on the ass, signaling that he was good to go. The nonverbal communication was sent all the way to the rear of the plane, and when she felt the slap on her ass, she knifed her hand in front of the jumpmaster's face.

“All okay, jumpmaster!” she yelled.

The jumpmaster slapped her hand out of his face and yelled, “Stand by.”

Renee took a step forward, handed him her static line, and positioned herself in the door.

Renee's heart went cyclic, beating so fast that she thought she was about to have a heart attack as she stood staring out into the night. Her legs were shaking, and her stomach churned as the wind buffeted her face.

There was no going back now.

She was about to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, right into the middle of a firefight, and Renee was terrified.

The pilot pushed forward on the throttle to keep the C-17 from falling out of the sky just as tracer fire burned past the troop door.

“Turn green, motherfucker,” the jumper behind her yelled, and suddenly every paratrooper on the plane started going wild, working themselves into a frenzy that echoed loudly inside the C-17.

The sudden explosion of emotion gave her chills, and she let herself go, screaming in unison with the men, who held no fear of what lay outside the door.

“We're coming, motherfuckers,” the jumpmaster yelled just as the green jump light came on.

Renee stepped forward into the night sky, heaving herself clear of the C-17 with one big leap.

The jet blast slapped across her face, shooting her legs up in front of her. She tucked her head into her chest to keep her helmet from getting ripped off.

“One thousand, two thousand, three thousand,” she yelled, and then the canopy ripped free of the pack tray, slamming her to a sudden stop as it deployed above her. The risers slashed the sides of her face before snapping tight beneath the canopy. Suddenly everything was still and silent, and she was floating five hundred feet above the earth.

The C-17 was ahead of her now and disgorging jumpers from both doors. Their parachutes blossomed in the night air, defying the gunfire that erupted below.

“Fuuuck,” a paratrooper yelled as he came slicing in from her left. His feet danced across her canopy, and it began to collapse as he stole her air.

Renee had been so focused on what was going on that she had forgotten to pay attention to the fact that there were already two hundred jumpers in the air, and they were all much heavier than her. Weighed down by their gear, they began falling past her.

She felt her stomach fly up into her throat as the canopy above her collapsed completely—sending her into a free fall. Desperate, she yanked the metalic rip cord grip and let it fall free. She slapped the front of the reserve chute with the palm of her hand. The reserve chute shot out, assisted by a large spring, and immediately caught air, slowing her rate of fall dramatically.

For the second time that night, the jolt from the opening chute yanked her to a halt, jarring her body. Below, the ground rushed up to meet her. Renee hit the quick release on her assault pack and shoved the weapons case away from her body before mashing her feet and knees together and preparing for a parachute-landing fall.

All the while, tracer fire crisscrossed the drop zone. Rounds zipped past her face, cutting holes in her chute, as the ground rushed closer and closer.

The balls of her feet hit first, and then she slammed into the ground, her bent knees buckling as she shifted her weight away from her right side, and she felt her back hit the earth. Rolling her legs over her head, she came to rest in a pile of riser cord and dust. She felt a bolt of pain surge up her back but blocked it out as a sharp breeze forced her canopy open and began to drag her.

Quickly snapping her left riser release, she struggled to get out of the harness while staying below the bullets snapping overhead. Somehow, she untangled herself and quickly began searching for her rifle.

To her left, a muzzle flashed in the darkness. A massive explosion slammed into the ground five hundred meters to her north. As she threw herself onto her face, the man fired again, getting closer. Then she heard the distinctive
pop . . . pop . . . pop
of an M4 a few feet away. The shooter hit the ground with a grunt.

At last, Renee's hands closed on her weapons case, and she yanked her HK-416 free.

Smaller explosions, mixed with heavy machine gun fire, erupted from every direction. She slammed a magazine into her rifle and yanked back on the charging handle. Staying low, she pulled her NODs from beneath her shirt and snapped them into the mount on her helmet. She flipped them on with a twist of the small knob and suddenly she could see.

The scene unfolding around her was chaotic with paratroopers struggling to free themselves from their harnesses and get into action all while taking fire.

“You good?” a voice said, and on her right appeared the man who had saved her life. He paused to fire another shot into the fighter who was lying five feet away from her before moving to her side.

“Holy fuck,” she panted, trying to catch her breath.

“Alpha Team, on me,” someone yelled, swinging an infrared chem light over his head.

“C'mon, that's us. Let's go.” The man slung his ruck onto his back and jogged over to the man with the chem.

Squad leaders and platoon sergeants shouted orders over the gunfire while paratroopers grabbed their gear and worked to get their weapons into action.

“Get those fucking guns up,” a team leader commanded as Renee scooped up her assault pack and trotted toward the chem light.

An RPG screamed low across the drop zone and exploded between a group of soldiers who were just getting out of their harnesses. The flash of light temporarily blinded her, and she felt herself stumble.

“Medic,” a voice begged before a 240 Bravo opened up, drowning out his cries.

Renee's breathing was ragged, and she was already sweating hard as another formation of C-17s came over the horizon. She dropped to a knee next to the Alpha Team squad leader and ripped open her assault pack, yanking her body armor free from the bag. As she struggled to put it on, she heard the transport's powerful engines go silent in the sky above.

“What the fuck?” one of the soldiers exclaimed. She looked up in time to see one of the C-17s dipping toward the earth.

“Sarge, radio's dead,” one of the soldiers yelled as the stricken bird screamed toward the ground, paratroopers still jumping from the doors.

“Did you put a fucking battery in it?”

“Hey, we need to move, now,” Renee yelled, seeing the plane's nose angle sharply toward the ground.

It was obvious something was wrong when the second bird followed suit and began to lose altitude.

“Let's go . . . Let's go,” the team leader yelled, watching the stricken aircraft. “Follow me.”

Renee left her assault pack lying on the ground and got to her feet, her right arm still wrapped up in her kit.

“Everybody, clear the drop zone,” she yelled, running toward the airfield, which burned like an orange beacon in the night.

M
ason ducked his head just as the RPG exploded. He had just taken his eye out of the SOFLAM, or Special Operations Forces laser acquisition marker, when he saw the fighter launch the first rocket. He felt the sophisticated laser designator bounce against his helmet as it was knocked off its base.

Using his elbow, he propelled himself backward off the slight rise he had been using as an observation post right before a second RPG came screaming in. The rocket rushed over his head, so close he could hear it cutting through the air, before slamming into one of the Peshmerga's vehicles parked on the downward slope.

“Way too close,” Zeus said amid the rounds buzzing like hornets over their heads.

The Toyota pickup burned brightly as the ammo in the bed began cooking off, and Mason knew they were backlit. He could hear some of the Pesh fighters moaning in the darkness as he tumbled down to the low ground.

The radio blared in his ear, and something exploded high above the airfield.

“Hammer 21 is hit,” the pilot of the AC-130 hollered over the air-to-ground net.

Zeus slapped him on the arm and pointed to the sky, where they could see the gunship breaking apart.

“Hammer 21 is going down,” the pilot yelled, his voice losing all traces of calm.

“Aww shit,” Mason said, knowing that their mission had just gone to hell.

“That's not good,” Zeus replied, the corners of his mouth turned up in a wry smile.

“Yeah, ya think?” Mason replied.

Anderson had underestimated al Qatar's ability to mount a credible defense, and the Specter couldn't have been hit at a worse time. In the distance, Mason could barely hear the second wave of C-17s coming in over the drop zone.

Mason snatched the laser designator off the ground, knowing he had to find a better position, when he noticed that the lens was shattered. He realized the buckled olive-drab body of the designator had saved him from taking a face full of shrapnel.

“SOFLAM is done,” he said, tossing the million-dollar piece of equipment to the ground.

“Ronin 6, Steeler Base, I need you to secure the crash site—” The radio squelched loudly in his ear, the sound distorting, before going dead.

“What the fuck?” Mason asked, ducking below the rounds cracking sharply around the position they had just abandoned. He yanked the radio out of his pouch. He knew it had a fresh battery, but for some reason the radio was dead.

“My comms are down,” he yelled at Zeus.

The Libyan was on a knee, slamming his hand into the battery pack of his own radio. A frown crinkled his face.

“I just changed the damn batteries,” he said, forcing another battery pack into the radio. “It's dead,” he said a second later.

Mason raised his rifle, pushing past the Libyan, and began searching for a break in the high ground that would give him a better view of the airfield. He found a small pocket of terrain and cautiously poked his head out in time to see a large explosion on the edge of the drop zone.

It was hard for him to make out the cause of the fire until he raised the ACOG to his eye, and saw the tail section of a C-17 burning on the edge of a jumbled debris field.

“What the hell is going on?” he wondered aloud.

“Get down,” Zeus yelled, pushing him out of the way as a shadowy black object, blotted out the night sky and hurtled toward the airfield.

Mason hit the ground hard, almost losing control of his rifle. A heavy gun opened up on the dark shape. There was a thin flash of light, and his NODs were knocked askew, causing him to lose sight of the object.

A loud explosion boomed over the gunfire. It was much louder than an RPG, and by the time he got to his feet, he could already smell the distinctive odor of burning jet fuel.

“Another bird is down,” Zeus yelled as Mason refocused his night vision.

A chill ran up his spine, and his mind raced to process what he was seeing. The airfield was awash in burning fuel, and above the flames a solitary figure floated on a red and white canopy, drifting aimlessly down to earth.

Mason realized the flash of light he had seen was the pilot punching out of the bird, but he hadn't seen an explosion or anything else that would suggest that the aircraft had been hit by ground fire. He was still trying to figure out what had knocked the jet out of the sky when a group of fighters ran out into the open, their rifles raised toward the falling pilot.

D
avid was exhausted when he finally lay down to sleep. He had gotten the answers he needed but had gone as far as he could. Taking down Cage would be as easy as releasing the tape to the media, but that would accomplish only so much, and David wanted the man to truly pay for what he had done.

He lay in the darkened room, looking up at the ceiling, and realized he wasn't sure what his next step needed to be.

The way forward was going to require a great deal of planning. David knew it wouldn't take Cage long to learn what had happened to Vann and Simmons. There was no way the SecDef wasn't going to hit back. He'd just scratched the surface, and he was unsure whom he could trust. With Renee and Mason still in the Middle East, he was going to have to wait until an angle presented itself.

He wanted to go to the president, but once again he knew no real justice would be done if he did. David had spent his life defending the Constitution and the United States, but now that the country was in dire need, he was helpless to do anything other than place a call to Colonel Anderson, warning him about the EMP al Qatar had in his possession.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number to the task force operations center. As he waited for someone to pick up, he felt so very tired.

S
omeone get me these fucking comms up,” Colonel Anderson yelled, kicking his chair across the operations center.

The black swivel chair spun as it rolled across the plywood floor before smacking into the wall and flipping onto its side. Above the chair, the monitors that had been transmitting the drone feed blinked from white and gray static to a dark screen that said, “No signal.”

“Any station this net, this is Steeler Base, how copy?” the communications sergeant repeated into the radio as he flipped through the tactical command nets.

“What the hell is going on?” Anderson demanded. “Someone better tell me something. I have men dying out there.”

“Steeler Base, this is Variable 1, I read you loud and clear,” a voice replied over the speaker, attached to the side of the radios.

“Variable 1, identify.”

“Steeler Base, Variable 1 and 2 are a flight of F-15s bearing 328 degrees out of Qatar. How copy?”

“Good copy, Variable. We have lost contact with all elements in the vicinity of AO Mosul.”