Ian Slater - World in Flames

“Won’t be any,” said Aussie. “It’s a surprise, remember?”

“If there are searchlights, et cetera,” the RSM happily corrected himself as he walked, or rather shuffled, beneath his 110-pound pack, between the two rows of ten men each which formed David Brentwood’s B Troop, the plane carrying A Troop a quarter mile ahead, that carrying C, the same distance behind.

“Wish he’d sit down,” said Aussie. “Stop motherin’ us. Givin’ me the bloody pip!”

“He is conscientious,” said Schwarzenegger.

“Hey, Dave,” Aussie asked Brentwood, his voice rising above the sound of the engines’ rolling thunder. “What d’you reckon? Think there’ll be a reception party?”

“We know there will,” put in Thelman. “SPETS — two companies.”

“Aw,” said the Aussie dismissively, “I don’t mean them. Bastards’ll be asleep time we make the big jump. Well past their bedtime. No, I mean the AA boys. Think they’ll be onto us when we make the jump?”

“You’re a cheery son of a bitch,” said Thelman.

“Not talkin’ to you, Thelma. Dave — whaddya reckon?”

“Possible,” commented David, who, having been one of those who, picked at random, had had his gun jam during the dry runs through the “house,” was now checking his Ingram MAC submachine gun, The nine-millimeter short weapon, which on a quick glance looked like an Uzi, its pistol grip doubling as the housing for a thirty-two-round magazine, had a barrel only half the length of the Uzi, with a folding stock and effective range of fifty meters. This was less than the Uzi’s two-hundred-meter range, but in close-quarters “housecleaning,” it was considered more than adequate by the SAS troops. And the Ingram’s shorter range was more than compensated for by its overall weight of 1.6 kilograms, less than half that of an Uzi. Besides, the SAS liked the American gun better because it produced a wider spray pattern — much preferred in general housecleaning than in the terrorist/hostage ops, when a wider spray was as likely to cut down a hostage as a terrorist. Above all, in an operation of this type, the American-made Ingram inculcated what the SAS liked best about the American disposition — the desire to get things done quickly — achieving a rate of fire of over eleven hundred rounds per minute, twice the number that the ubiquitous Uzi could deliver in the same time.

“Bad weather is in our favor going in,” commented the RSM reassuringly. “Play merry hell with their radar, and no way they’ll hear us over all this ruddy thunder. Anyway, these Talon II transports have more electronic countermeasures gear and infrared gear than you can shake a stick at. Besides, we’re too high.”

“How about the weather over the target?” asked Thelman.

“Clear, so the pilot tells me,” answered the RSM. “Don’t worry, lads. You’re in luck.”

“ ‘You’re in luck!’ he says,” commented Aussie laconically, throwing his head up, pushing his helmet back against the cargo net, and turning first to Thelman on his right, then Schwarzenegger to his left, and then back up at the RSM. “You going home then after we jump? Return flight, is it?”

“All right,” said the RSM. “We’re in luck. Suit you better?”

“Then, matey,” said Aussie, suddenly producing a small indelible pencil, the flash of lightning reflected from the heavy cloud cover illuminating the bizarre contrast between his dark camouflage paint, green khaki uniform, and pink tongue. “Put your money where your mouth is. Come on, you blokes. I believe the sarge. Four to one says there’s no reception committee.”

“You’re crazy!” said Thelman. “Goddamn nuttier than a fruitcake.”

The RSM feigned disgust, but whatever else he was, the Aussie was an entertainer. And whether the men realized it or not, by being willing to take wagers about what kind of interference they might expect over the drop zone, the Australian and his outrageous obsession with gambling kept the others— eighteen, not counting the RSM, in Brentwood’s troop — from dwelling on their own fears. Even the taciturn Brentwood, the RSM noticed, who had seemed unduly subdued, more so than most of his men and not a good sign in the man leading the troop, couldn’t help but shake his head at the Australian’s willingness to bet on anything. The RSM flicked the Aussie’s indelible pencil. “Where the hell did you stash that?” he asked, for there didn’t seem to be a spare centimeter in the 110-pound pack they were carrying.

The Aussie lifted his right magazine pouch, showing a piece of blackened sticking plaster which he’d used to attach the pencil. “All right — step up the ladder,” the Aussie called out to them. “Who’s game?”

“A quid there are no lights on us,” said Cpl. “Choir” Williams, a stout Welshman of tough mining stock who, in addition to his standard troopers’ load of eight of the SAS’s own ‘“flash-bang” magnesium stun grenades, was also carrying three French light and disposable Arpac antitank launcher/ missile packs.

Hopefully they wouldn’t need them, but if they came up against Russian armor during their withdrawal, Rye wanted them to have something other than the normal heavy antitank weapons, given the fact that they were already loaded to the hilt with abseiling — grappling — equipment as well as ammunition and grenades.

“Hey,” said Choir. “Are you marking my bet down then, Aussie?”

“Sorry, sport. A quid — hardly worth the trouble. I’m looking to retirement. Minimum bet ten quid — or you Yanks, twenty-five bucks. Aw — I’ll be generous. Twenty bucks.”

“Up yours!” said Williams. “With brass knobs on.”

“Promise?” said Aussie.

“Twenty for me,” said Schwarzenegger, “No reception committee.”

“Okeydokey, Fritz, you’re covered.” With that, Lewis licked the indelible pencil and carefully entered the bet on the palm of his left hand.

“What if you lose your mitt?” said Thelman.

“Morbid, Thelma. Very morbid. I won’t be losing anything.”

The amber light came on and they heard the pilot’s voice. “Twenty minutes to the drop zone.”

“Right, lads!” said the RSM. “Final check.”

David squeezed his canvas side holster until he could feel the Browning nine-millimeter’s hard outline. At the same time his left hand, beneath his right, felt the light but strong Kevlar “Sportsman” crotch protector. He was sure that if he was going to be hit anywhere, it would be there. He thought of Melissa and Stacy and let his memory of Lili evict them from his mind as he flipped up the cover on his compass watch, holding his arm up, the signal for everyone to synchronize. From now on, nine minutes to target, he, not the RSM, was in total command of Troop B.

President Mayne’s idea of going to Camp David was, as his press aide Paul Trainor knew, militarily unwise. The shelter there wasn’t as good as that below the White House, and it was farther from Andrews, where, in the event of a “nuclear exchange,” the president would need to go to board NEACP—”Kneecap,”—the national emergency airborne command plane. But politically, the president going to Camp David was a smart ploy. All three evening news networks— despite the lead stories of deepening gloom about the possible escalation of the war in Europe because of “the Korean situation”—showed the president smiling, confident, even relaxed, waving, as he stepped aboard the presidential chopper on the south lawn, heading off to spend the weekend at Camp David. Another bevy of television reporters was on hand to watch him being piped aboard Camp David, it being a naval establishment — the cameras still showing Mayne smiling. Above all, from the moment he left the White House, alighted from the chopper, and entered the bulletproof limousine which soon eased to a stop in front of the Aspen Lodge, he conveyed the impression that the president and commander in chief of the United States had matters firmly in hand.