Jack Du Brul - Deep Fire Rising

Dawn found him asleep on the cradle of his arms.

The morning was spent in a locked room, where Sykes went over operational details. From the satellite photographs, a detailed model of the monastery and its environs had been constructed. The model maker had gone so far as to include a flock of sheep from a children’s toy farm.

The plan was simplicity itself. The back of the monastery hung precariously over a hundred-foot-tall wall of dressed stone that divided the valley into an upper and lower section. The wall, as substantial as that protecting any castle, spanned the width of the valley, and had doubtlessly deterred generations of soldiers from attempting an assault from the rear. The surety of the wall’s impenetrability made it less likely to be guarded and thus the logical choice for Sykes’s team. Under the cover of a moonless night, the MMUs would be directed to land in the lower valley at the base of the wall. There weren’t any discernible trails from the meadow to the upper valley so Bashful and Happy would free-climb the wall, anchoring ropes for the rest of the team as they ascended. From there it would be up to improvisation and luck to infiltrate the building and find Tisa. As a precaution, each man carried his own satellite phone to broadcast the eruption date once they’d gotten it from her.

Two hours before the afternoon takeoff, the team members began to don their gear. Maybe it was because Harry’s jokes about Prince Charming storming a castle had remained fresh in his mind, but to Mercer it seemed the process was like knights suiting up in their armor. Meticulous care was given to every detail. The weapons had all been cleaned and test fired the day before. Ammunition magazines were checked for the stiffness of their springs. Batteries for their comm gear and the sat phones were fully charged. If there was even minor wear on any piece of equipment it was discarded for another.

As the men were doing this, technicians swarmed the bomber and monkey bombs doing their last-minute checks. The two pilots performed their walk-around and were ready to board through the bottom hatch.

A blacked-out van took the commandos from their barracks to the hangar. Once inside with the door closed, the men piled out of the vehicle and assembled under the enormous flying wing. The large bomb bay doors were open. Although the air force had given this plane the name Spirit of Wyoming , the crew had added a nickname. Painted on one of the barnlike bomb doors was a fluffy cloud. Extending from it was a downward-pointing hand with its index finger extended. The drawing was vague as it emerged from the cloud but grew more detailed closer to the fingertip, as though its presence was becoming more real. The bomber’s name was written underneath. Invisible Touch.

As was tradition during the preflight for this flight crew, a portable cassette deck pounded out the Phil Collins song by the same name.

Mercer eyed the MMUs. Sykes was right. They did look like coffins, especially with their lids open. The foam lining was covered in a microfiber that had the sheen of casket satin. Great.

The team stowed their gear in compartments built into the bombs, making sure straps were cinched tight and nothing rattled. Once they were set, the pilots shook hands with each commando and climbed into the B-2’s belly.

At the side of one of the monkey bombs, Sykes called his group for one last pep talk. “For the next six hours we’re nothing more than passengers who” — he glanced into the open capsule — “have about the same amount of room as folks who get stuck in coach.”

There were a few nervous chuckles.

“We’ve been working with this system for a couple of months now. We’ve all taken a tethered drop from the twenty-foot tower and know how to handle a landing. The only thing we have to worry about is the chute opening. And that’s something we face every time we go so that means there’s no difference in this op from any other we’ve ever done. We don’t have to sweat it. Once we’re on the ground we know what to do.”

“Rules of engagement?” Bashful asked.

“Take down anyone with a gun or anyone threatening you. The only person we care about is Tisa Nguyen. Snow White’s given us a pretty good idea what she looks like, but don’t take chances. Any woman under the age of say, forty, is off limits.”

Bashful raised his hand. “Even if they’re coming after us, Doc?”

“Ain’t no chica coming after you, man,” Grumpy retorted and the men laughed.

“Anything to add, Snow?”

Mercer looked around at the confident faces. “Just that these guys blew a hole in a ferryboat in Greece two weeks ago to stop Tisa from talking to me. They killed almost fifty people. Take Doc Sykes’s advice. They won’t give quarter so don’t offer it. And if one of you tags a big bastard who dyes his hair like Elvis, you earned yourself two weeks on the Caribbean island of your choice with the woman of your choice.”

“Hoo-yah!”

“Except for Bashful,” Mercer added. “You monkeys will have to get him the girl.”

With that the meeting was over. It was time.

Two air force technicians helped Mercer into his MMU. Harnesses went around his legs and waist and over his shoulders. He was asked to unbutton the fly of his black fatigues and was given an appropriately sized sleeve for the relief tube. From down the length of the hangar he heard Dopey complaining that even their biggest one was too tight.

“You don’t put it over your mouth,” Sneezy joked back.

Mercer’s helmet was jacked into a communications console and the closed-circuit television was tested. The camera was placed on the bottom of the pod and on the four-inch flat screen he saw workers bent over the other capsules like something out of a sci-fi movie. He was shown the climate controls and ventilators and the mouthpiece for a specially concocted fruit beverage full of electrolytes and minerals. Two hours from the launch, he would draw from another tube. This brew contained stimulants and natural painkillers plus something to counter the effects of altitude sickness. Sykes warned Mercer that after drinking the potion it would be best if he didn’t submit to a drug test for a month or two.

“How do you feel, sir,” the tech asked, his hand on the lid ready to close Mercer in.

“Like I’m about to be interred.”

“Then you’re good to go.”

The lid came down and a vacuum system engaged to seal the MMU. Mercer cracked his jaw to adjust to the slight change in air pressure. The television screen was four inches over his face. The lighting inside the MMU was subtle and warm, a concession to the men who had to endure them for long flights.

A minute later Mercer’s pod rattled as the special cargo lift that had come with the team on the C-17 hoisted the MMU from its cradle and trundled over to the B-2. Clamps on the bomber’s rotary launcher clasped the capsule and drew it up into the bomb bay. No sooner had Mercer gotten comfortable again than another MMU was attached and the launcher spun. It was like being a bullet as it was loaded into a revolver. The launcher was designed to carry eight nuclear bombs and had been modified to carry four MMUs. The first four went into Mercer’s side of the aircraft, and the remaining were fed into the stealth bomber’s second bay.

External power cables were attached, as were the supplemental communications lines so the men could converse during the flight. After making each man call out his status, Sykes notified the pilots on the flight deck that the men were ready.

“Status board in the green, Doc. Taxi truck’s coming now. ATC gives us priority and there isn’t a recon satellite pass for another seventeen minutes. We’ll be cruising at a classified speed and at a classified altitude. Our flight time to target is also classified. So lay back and relax. We here at Cloak and Dagger Airways wish you a pleasant journey.”