Glass surrounding a brick.
Chapter 11
"Five minutes out," Scorch's voice announced through the headset.
"Roger," J.T. echoed from the metal belly of the plane. "Five minutes out."
J.T. stared at the red light posted in the cargo hold, then readied the hatch for the jump. A void of air swirled outside, soon to swallow the four jumpers waiting to hurtle out of his plane. Pitch night. Nothing but ocean below as they flew off the coast of Charleston.
Scorch flew as aircraft commander, Joker as copilot since Bo was out of commission. Their pilot's need-to-know status on these surveillance flights was low. No questions asked, they would fly the routes provided and go through the motions of a training flight as directed. His role in back handling divers and equipment called for more briefing.
Four divers stood, checking equipment, readying for their static line jump, J.T. acting as jumpmaster for the three DEA agents and Spike. The fourth DEA agent who'd been scheduled was currently curled up in the hospital, most likely in the fetal position, thanks to a bout of food poisoning.
Given the DEA's pre-standing LOA—letter of agreement—with the OSI regarding this case, Max "Spike" Keagan had been able to step in as a last-minute replacement. Spike's diving skills and inside work on the case from the Air Force angle made him a natural choice for a quick replacement on the crucial mission.
Regular surveillance flights were still netting the same information without pinpointing that critical last link. The drugs were unloaded from the spare tires, then taken off base. The lieutenant from the transportation squadron always drove the same route to the same place at Shem Creek. Parked in the same lot out of sight and waited until a shrimp trawler pulled up.
Undoubtedly, the drugs were being loaded onto that boat. Problem was, the boat never did anything unusual afterward. No long trips. No rendezvous with another craft.
Besides, boats usually brought drugs to shore. Strange all the way around.
Thus the divers. The two pairs would drop into the harbor for close-up recon, and hopefully discover what the hell was going on.
"Sixty seconds," Scorch called.
"Roger, sixty seconds," J.T. repeated for the benefit of the jumpers who weren't on headset.
Geared up in a black wet suit, diving tanks, flippers, parachuting gear, Spike stared back at J.T., waiting.
Time to finish this.
J.T. nodded.
"Ten seconds," Scorch called.
"Ten seconds." J.T. listened, counted down, watched the standby light change to—
Green.
"Go! Go! Go!" He gave the first in line the traditional slap-on-the-ass signal to jump.
One, two, three, four, Spike and the other divers launched into the darkness.
J.T. struggled not to fight against the darkness. Only a slight haze permeated the hood the Rubistanians had placed over his head, but it sure as hell blocked the ability to see where they were taking him.
The very reason the Rubistanians had done it.
He kept reminding himself these soldiers couldn't know for sure who they'd captured from the warlords' caravan. Of course they would have questions and concerns about foreign military on their soil. And now that they were in official hands, chances of getting out alive were a helluva lot stronger than a couple of hours ago.
Rubistanian and American relations might be strained, but they weren't outright hostile. Rubistan didn't want to be the next Iraq.
Steady. Focus on images of Rena's face. Think about getting home. Return alive with honor.
Brusque hands guided him out of the jeep. He heard others move with him. His three crewmates?
"Stay calm," Scorch whispered. "Be low-key. Remember your training. Everybody here?"
"Roger," J.T. answered.