Holding their breath, the jumpers removed their oxygen masks, quickly pulled the balaclavas over their heads, replaced the oxygen masks, and then quickly put their helmets on. The helmets had plastic face shields.

“Everybody manage to do that the way it’s supposed to be done?” Colonel Davenport inquired, almost conversationally.

Three “Yes, sir”s and two “Check”s came over the earphones.

Captain Roger F. Stevenson, Special Forces, U.S. Army, who was also lithe and a head taller than Colonel Davenport but whose skin did not require what he thought of as makeup to hopefully give the appearance that he was of the Negroid race, walked up to Colonel Davenport.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Right now, anything your little heart desires, Roger. What’s on your mind?”

“With all respect, sir, you don’t look like one of us. When you take off the balaclava, you’ll look like Al Jolson.”

“Oh, and I tried so hard,” Colonel Davenport said with a feminine lisp as he put his hand on his hip. “You’ve just ruined my whole day, Roger.”

Stevenson smiled but went on.

“One look at you, Colonel, and the sure to be unfriendly natives are going to say, ‘Who dat skinny white man wit all dat black grease on his face?’ Or words to that effect.”

“I think you’re trying to tell me something, Roger.”

“Sir, I respectfully suggest (a) that we’re prepared to do this job by ourselves and (b) your presence is therefore not necessary and (c) if anybody sees you . . .”

“That has been considered by General McNab,” Davenport said. “Who has ordered me to go. It doesn’t mean that either General McNab or I think you couldn’t handle what has to be done. You should know better than that by now.”

“Did the general, sir, share his thinking with you? Can you share it with me?”

“He used the phrase ‘If there’s a change in the orders, I want you there.’ I think he thinks we may be ordered to take out the airplane. If it’s there.”

“I know how to do that, sir.”

“I know you do. What I think he was really saying was that if the circumstances look like it’s the thing to do, we should take the airplane out without orders. And he wants me to make that decision. You shouldn’t be put in a spot like that. If there’s a flap, all they can do is retire me; I’ve got my twenty years. You don’t. And Gray Fox needs you, Roger. I’m actually getting a little too old for this sort of thing.”

“I’ll take my chances with a flap, sir.”

“You just proved, Captain, the wisdom of General Mc-Nab ’s reasoning,” Davenport said, and now there was an edge in his voice. “Think that over as we float silently through the African sky. Now, go see to your men.”

For a moment, it looked as if Stevenson was going to say something else but all that came over the earphones was, “Yes, sir.”

Stevenson walked toward the rear of the aircraft where four other men in black tights were checking—again, for the fourth or fifth time—their gear. With their balaclavas and helmets in place, it was hard to tell by looking but two of them were African American, one was a dark-skinned Latin, and the fourth Caucasian.

When the latter two took off their masks, as they almost certainly would do sometime during the reconnaissance phase of this operation, they would also look like Al Jolson about to sing “Mammy” in the world’s first talking movie, Captain Stevenson thought.

One of the modifications to the aircraft had been the installation of an airtight interior door about halfway down the passenger compartment. This permitted the rear section of the fuselage to be depressurized at altitude while leaving the forward section pressurized.

The seats had been removed from the rear section. The walls held racks for weapons, radios, parachu

tes, and other equipment, as well as an array of large bottles of oxygen.

The rear stair door had been extensively—and expensively —modified. It had come from the factory with fixed steps, for the on- and off-loading of passengers. They had been designed to be opened when the aircraft was on the ground and not moving.

Metal workers had spent long hours modifying the steps and their opening mechanisms. Three-quarters of the stairs—the part that had been designed to come into contact with the ground—had been rehinged near the foot and fitted with an opening mechanism that, when activated, allowed the steps to be raised into the fuselage.

The original opening/closing mechanism had been modi fied to handle what was now a four-step doorstep. The lowering mechanism now had enough power to force open the door into the air flowing past the fuselage at 170 or more miles per hour. It had also been necessary to reinforce the door itself to stand up against the force of the slipstream, and everything on the step that could possibly snag equipment had been faired over.

The parachutes the jumpers would use were essentially modified sports parachutes. That is, when deployed they looked more like the wings of an ultralight aircraft than an umbrella. And they could be “flown.” Instead of falling more or less straight downward as a parachutist using a conventional canopy does, the “wing chutes” could, by manipulation, exchange downward velocity for forward movement. They could travel as much as thirty miles horizontally after exiting the aircraft.

The parachutes—the wings—were larger than civilian sports parachutes because they had to carry more weight. The jumpers would take with them a large assortment of equipment, including weapons, radios, rations, water, and what they all hoped would turn out to be authentic-looking clothing as worn by native Chadians.

Tags: W.E.B. Griffin Presidential Agent Thriller
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