Many props to Lakewood for his excellent beta work as usual. Any remaining complaints or errors are my own fault and should be directed to my own idiocy.
I am in the market for at least one, maybe two new beta readers. An attention to quality, detail, and mechanics are primary traits, and canon knowledge is a major plus. If you're interested, E-mail me at my address in my profile.
On with the show!
9: The Supplication of a Dead Man's Hand
24,000 feet over the Sinai Peninsula
September 9th, 1981
9:30 AM
The whipping of high winds kicked the MITHRIL agents in the face despite their protective gear. Combined with the backlash of the Hercules' propellers, the slowly opening cargo door sucked air from the cargo bay with the force of a small tornado. Were it not for the securely fastened carabiners that the agents hooked to notches in the bulkheads, they would be ripped out as well.
"We'll be over the drop zone in forty seconds!" the jumpmaster, also secured into place, shouted out once the cargo door had motored fully open. His voice was muffled by the oxygen mask he wore and the blustering, blowing windblast crashing through the big C-130 cargo hauler.
The MITHRIL agents were a little woozy, having had only five hours' sleep on the ground after an eighteen-hour flight to the American Air Force base on Diego Garcia island in the Indian Ocean, where—thanks to a codeword to the air traffic controller, a generous handful of cash to each of the ground crew members, and an isolated hangar—their Hercules had been refueled, refitted, and disguised in Israeli Air Force markings and equipment. Another twelve hours in the air in the noisy, barely-pressurized cargo bay of the C-130 were not exactly conducive to a relaxing trip, and their mission still had yet to begin.
"Yo, did I mention I hate this part?" Mark yelled over the din.
"For the past day and a half, not counting jet lag," Kenji shouted in reply. "Gef, are you sure he has to be conscious for the jump?"
"We didn't bring a spatula and plastic bags with us in the loadout," she joked. "This'll have to do."
"Thirty seconds!" the jumpmaster called.
"You ever do a HALO jump with the equipment before?" Kenji turned to Gef.
She shook her head. "Just with personnel, but never with a vehicle."
"Twenty seconds! Stand to position!"
The three operatives stepped to the joint of the cargo door, just sitting at the edge of the split between air and metal.
"If we get crushed by that big mofo', I just want the both of y'all to know that it was a blast, and Kenji, I ain't lettin' you out of that Fourex you owe me."
"I'll trade it in for those five hundred lira you borrowed from me on the Strokov assassination."
"That bastard had it coming! You tellin' me you're gonna make me pay for the can of Coke we spiked to off the fucker?"
"If you're going to make me pay for the beer, then you bet I am!"
"Ten seconds! Move to the edge!"
The operatives unlatched themselves from the carabiners, freeing their secure restraints. They were free to move around the C-130, but they made their way to the very edge of the cargo ramp.
"Five seconds!"
"See you when we get back!" Gef snapped off a quick wave to the jumpmaster.
A loud buzzer sounded on a signal from the cockpit, switching on a bright green light on the inside of the cargo bay.
"Clear to jump! Go!"
Kenji went first, taking two quick steps off of the cargo ramp and falling into the bright, cloudless sky.
The rush of wind drowned out his hearing despite the military-spec noise protectors. Not even heavily sound-buffered and reinforced ear protectors could drown out the sound of a human being swiftly accelerating under the power of gravity alone. As he plummeted towards the earth, picking up speed and blown around by high-altitude winds, the roaring of the sky sounded like a horde of chariots, forcing him out of their domain.
As he turned to look behind him, Kenji saw the C-130 slowly fading away, flying off and growing farther in the distance. Gef was a few yards behind him, and Mark was quickly catching up; he had tucked his arms and legs close to his body and shifted himself to point downwards, accelerating towards the other agents. In just a few seconds, the operatives had matched their positions and were spreading across a twenty-foot line.
The heads-up altimeter in Kenji's helmet spiraled downward rapidly as his oxygen mask struggled to keep up with his breathing. Free fall is the best part, he thought, forcing himself to stop gritting his teeth in anticipation. You have to relax. Prepare yourself. Loosen your limbs, but keep them close to your body. Down to eighteen thousand feet.
The altimeter had spun down to eight thousand feet after what felt like only a minute of free-fall, and the agents spread their distance from each other by forty feet each. A quick spread of their arms and legs acted to brake their downward fall, and after enough time, they had slowed to just roughly a little more than a hundred and fifty miles per hour and roughly steady.
Itclicked down even more, though, winding to five thousand feet... four thousand... three thousand... two thousand...
They pulled the ripcords on their parachutes at a precise moment, just when the altimeters ticked below 1,995 feet. The 'chutes deployed with CO2 charges, kicking out of the backpacks with a hard shove of compressed gas. The canopies rapidly expanded and billowed to their full swell, the nylon lines taking up the slack of the sudden deceleration.. Painted robins' egg blue on the underside and desert tan on the top, they were barely visible except for a very highly trained eye or a lucky lookout.
Kenji grabbed a hold of the canopy handles dangling above his head and rapidly pulled hard on the right handle, dumping air out of his parachute and entering into a lazy right turn. He oriented himself with Gef and Mark, who were a little late to pop their parachutes and gain control. When he saw the two canopies against the desert, he let out a sigh of relief; his altimeter had shown him at 780 feet. It was only a few seconds between a safe descent and far, far worse, given the speeds at which they had been falling.
Mark and Gef landed almost simultaneously; they flared their 'chutes at the last possible moment to dump the air out of the canopy and billow out the fabric. Their first action, after making sure that neither had any injuries or were blowing away in a sudden gust, was to gather and bury the parachutes. It wasn't long before Kenji landed and helped with their efforts, which was much appreciated; the hot desert sun was beating down on the agents and their folding-shovel labors.
"Okay, that's done," Mark wiped his brow as he tossed one last shovelful of sand onto the impromptu hiding spot. "What about the rest of it?"
Gef pulled on the black strap that ran across her chest, securing her field pack into place; another pull on another strap brought her MP5 submachine gun around to her front. A quick pull on the charging handle chambered the first round, and after checking the sights' alignment, she set the safety on the weapon and let it fall slack on the strap.
Mark and Kenji finished similar checks on their respective weapons: a Hydra grenade launcher and a scope-equipped G3 assault rifle. Everyone examined their field packs for loose or missing items.
Just as they finished, the droning sound of the C-130's propellers echoed over the desert again.
"There's the rest of the drop," Kenji called out, pointing east. The Hercules was barely a hundred feet over the ground and a mile off; it seemed to leap across the terrain as it dipped up and down to hug the ground.
Gef pulled the ring from a marker grenade and threw it as hard as she could towards a relatively level sand dune. In a few seconds, the grenade began to billow out voluminous clouds of blue smoke, and the transport plane made some minute adjustments in its heading and altitude.
Just as the transport zoomed overhead, its engines roaring with effort, a large tan object flew out of the cargo door, and its braking parachute immediately pulled out the large descent 'chute.As the tan nylon unfurled, the shape of a battered old Jeep, clearly marked with the IDF's blue Star of David logo, became visible. The low-altitude drop was a little bit hard, and the jeep landed a few inches into the sand, but other than that, it was intact. The MITHRIL agents buried the last parachute and checked the equipment as the C-130 banked northbound for the military airfield outside Tel Aviv.
"Looks like we lucked out," Gef observed, checking the Mark 19 automatic grenade launcher that was pintle-mounted on the jeep. "The IDF only has a handful of these in the test-bed pool for the new SpecOps troops."
"MITHRIL's got a truckload of American Express cards," Mark joked. "Kenji, ain't no way you're drivin' this one."
"Fine by me." Kenji tossed Mark the keys from the jeep's glovebox as Gef stepped into the rear of the jeep, charging the Mark 19. "So long as you don't get us killed, it should be clear sailing all the way to the Leapfrog crash site."
"So where to?" Mark started the engine and the jeep kicked to life; it seemed like it had seen quite some service judging by the wrenching sounds as it shifted into gear.
"Head north," Kenji checked their coordinates on a portable GPS receiver and compared them to a map of the area. "We're a few kilometers shy of the site."
"Any updates from HQ on the SATCOM?" Gef called over the roaring engine.
"We'll know when we get there, but I doubt anyone has any ideas as to what the devil happened to that leg."
Mark cast a quick glance up at the cloudless sky, shimmering from the heat rising off the desert sands. He could feel the granules and particles brushing his face from the rooster-tailed kickback of the jeep; they spiraled in the air from its jerky, swift movements.
It's been hot down here forever, Mark thought, already feeling beads of sweat trickle on the dark brown skin of his furrowed brow. Let's hope we can cool things down a little before it really boils over.
Somewhere east of St. Helena, CaliforniaThat same time (11:30 PM local)
The flight to L.A. had landed on time, and the short-hauler flight to Sacramento was delayed after a three-hour emergency repair. By the time he had landed and picked up his car, an inconspicuous Cutlass sedan, from the long-term parking lot, it was well into the California night.
Richard drove most of the way with his window down and his elbow lazily hanging out, the radio playing a nameless jazz song.
The extra couple hundred bucks for the cassette player was worth it, he thought, tapping his fingers on the fiberglass body panel of the drivers' door. I make this drive too damn much, and it's lonely without my Thelonius Monk.
The rolling hills of the wine country were shadowed, black masses, occasionally broken by the lights of a house or vineyard. The cloudless night was punctuated by a waning crescent moon, bright enough to drown out nearby stars, but dark enough to make the high-beams necessary.
It wasn't long before the Cutlass took a left into a dirt driveway, marked only by a modestly carved wooden sign:
Drifting Snow VineyardsSt. Helena, California
Fine Napa Valley Wines
The dirt driveway led past rows upon rows of redwood-supported wine grape vines. He slowed down so the engine wouldn't drown out the crickets that were always chirping in the vineyards, a homey sound that he always held close.
The chardonnay grapes should be ready to pick soon, he noted with a quick glance off to his left. That is, if Paco and the crew managed to get the '77 merlot shipment out to the bottlers early. No miracles, but it'd be nice to have the room in the aging basement...
He managed to fill his mind with the trivial points of the wine business until he drove the Cutlass up to the small white ranch house on the overlooking hill. It wasn't really a hill, more of a knoll, but the darkened windows provided sweeping views of the vineyards and valleys in the daytime.
The Cutlass reclaimed its space in the two-car garage, and Richard closed the door quietly as not to disturb the house. He didn't even bother turning on the lights as he hung his keys on a small rack. The jingling metal keys went on the "His" rack; the "Hers" rack already held the keys for a well-worn Honda sedan.
Good, he thought with a smile. She's home.
In the darkness of the house's master bedroom, he fumbled with properly hanging the gabardine wool pants and jacket of his suit on their hangars and simply brushed his teeth in his boxers and tank-top undershirt.
I look like a wreck, don't I, guys? He smiled as he brushed his teeth with one hand, picking up a small, framed photo in another.
There was a rustle of movement from the master bedroom; even though he was careful not to make too much noise and to close the bathroom door before turning on the light, some stealth maneuvers simply couldn't be detected.
"Sorry if I woke you, Kiriko," Richard said apologetically as he rinsed the toothpaste out of his mouth. "The damn plane got held up."
"It's no trouble, Richie," a soft, sleepy voice replied as he felt a pair of slim, feminine arms wrap around his stomach, hugging him gently from behind. "I just missed you, that's all."
Kiriko Sonoma stepped to his side, her blue nightgown undulating over her body as she kissed her husband on his as-yet-unshaven cheek. She smiled at him as he yawned deeply, worn from a day's worth of travel and business, her almond eyes bright despite the late hour.
"How are things going around here?" he asked as he turned off the bathroom light, following his wife back to the bedroom.
"Oh, just the usual." She slipped back under the down comforter of their darkened bedroom, leaning against Richard's toned chest. "The boys got the shipment out yesterday in record time, the zinfandel needs another seven months in the oak and at least a year in the mahogany. Oh, I managed to increase the carrying capacity for the Boxer cannon prototype as well."
"Yesterday?" Richard shifted onto his side to face Kiriko. "I didn't think it'd be done until this afternoon."
"You always underestimate them," Kiriko teased, poking his chest, then tracing lazy circles on the nape of his neck with her finger. "Paco, Andres, and Esteban love working for us. They still can't get over the fact that I bring them lemonade in the afternoons."
"I think I might start to get jealous," Richard chuckled.
"Oh, don't worry. I have enough weapons in the sub-basement to make sure they play nice."
"You really managed to raise the Boxer cannon's mag capacity?"
"Mmm." She nodded, her shoulder-length black hair tickling Richard's chest. "Twenty rounds at the current size. It was just a matter of standardizing a stagger pattern for the cartridges, like a handgun, while maintaining the velocity shaping of the shells themselves."
Richard shook his head. "You never stop thinking, do you?" He stroked her hair gently, kissing her forehead deftly.
He could feel her cheeks form a smile on the skin of his undershirt. "I don't mind doing this if it's for you, sweetie. I know you wouldn't do anything undue with them."
"I just wish you didn't have to, that's all." He sighed, running a hand through his well-groomed dark hair. "You've been doing this all your life... I just wish that we didn't have to worry about this, that we could settle down with our little old winery. Maybe we could clear the western fields, plant some wild grass, get some cows in... we could make our own cheeses, start another business..."
"Come on, Richie." Kiriko lifted herself up on an elbow, the curves of her body barely clinging to the satiny nightgown, her silhouette ethereally lit by the glow of the crescent moon through the window. "You and I both know that you would never be happy with that. Besides, it's not like we don't have enough money, with more coming in every day."
Richard sat up, leaning against the headboard of the old mission bed. "It seems so futile sometimes, that's all. That government mule only wanted to grab the plans and go. He knew what they were for, he knew what they could do, and he knew how they came into existence. He just wanted to slap them onto the Patton and send it off to war."
An awkward silence hung between the couple for a moment as Kiriko reached over to embrace her husband. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders in response, squeezing her back gently.
"It really won't ever end," he ventured. "It never ended, and there's not a damn thing they'll ever do to stop it."
"You knew that when you first met me, Richard," Kiriko whispered, almost steely with conviction and determination.
"Yeah..." Richard nodded, now holding Kiriko in both his arms. "So we'll probably end up having to go ahead and take one last business trip."
Kiriko nodded. "I figured. I sent the briefcase out last week to the drop box in Beijing. The shipping container left San Diego yesterday."
Richard touched his wife's chin, pulling her close to deliver a kiss.
"I love you, Richard," she squeezed his hand to her cheek. "Through all of this, I always have and I always will."
She didn't feel the tear that rolled down his cheek. She didn't see the other tears that welled up in his eyes, just as easily as he didn't see the ones welling in hers.
"I love you too, Kiriko."
"We'll be back in the swing of things soon enough," she whispered to him, almost like a promise. "I know you too well. Everything's ready and moving into position. We'll put an end to the Scimitar and the Patton before MITHRIL can even field them. I'm sure our friends will help see to that."
To be continued...