Target America

60

The pilots stared out the windshield as they taxied the G-V toward a waiting midnight blue Douglas DC-3 twin-prop transport plane waiting at the end of the runway. Stenciled on the fuselage in bright yellow was the slogan “Dive the Sky!” One of the DC-3 pilots stood beside the aircraft next to a pile of parachutes and jump harnesses. The night was still heavily overcast, but the rain had ceased, leaving the air cold and damp.

Gil gave the pilot on the ground a thumbs-up. A few seconds later, the DC-3’s engines coughed and the propellers began to turn.

“Who’s C-47?” the lieutenant asked. This was the military designation for the twin-prop transport.

“Belongs to a buddy of mine,” Gil said. “A retired airborne Marine. He gives skydiving lessons now.” He looked into the back. “Gear up, men! He’s got our chutes laid out on the deck beside the plane.”

The air force captain applied the brake and killed the jet engines, and then turned around in his seat. “I seriously doubt anybody anticipated this move. I guess it helps having home field advantage.”

“We’ll see,” Gil said grimly.

He left the cockpit, accepting his .308 Remington MSR (Modular Sniper Rifle) from one of his SEALs and trotting down the stairs to greet the DC-3 pilot on the ground. Crosswhite and the other eight SEALs were quickly shrugging into their jump gear.

“Jack,” he said, offering his hand. “I can’t tell you how fucking much I appreciate this.”

“Bull butter,” replied fifty-year-old Sergeant Major Johnathan Frost. He had gray hair and a mustache, and he spoke with a Missouri accent. “Got an extra M4? I’m jumping with you guys. Bart can bring the plane back himself.”

“I can’t let you do that, Jack. You’ve got a wife waiting at home.”

“Then it’s a good thing I brought my AR along.” Frost grinned. “You can’t keep me from jumping outta my own plane, Gil.”

“Fuck,” Gil muttered. “Clancy! Get Jack an M4 outta the kit!” He turned back to Frost. “You’re an irresponsible husband, Jack Frost.”

Frost clapped him on the back. “I guess it takes the pot to call the kettle black.”

“Eat me, jarhead.”

Six minutes later, they were loaded onto the DC-3 and roaring down the runway.