Pulse

TWENTY- ONE

Six hours after leaving the Pope, traveling at mach 2–1,522 miles per hour — the Crescent closed to within twenty miles of the USS Grant. The Crescent, named for its half-moon shape, was the world's first stealth transport plane, and while it had the potential to hold several tons of equipment, it had been converted to be used for special ops covert insertions. Small quarters with bunks could hold sixty troops, but right now, the only passengers were the five members of the Chess Team, the Crescents most frequent fliers.

The trip had been made in silence as the team slept in their personal quarters. Missions often lasted for several days and sleep was always in short order. The six-hour flight from North Carolina to Tristan da Cunha, while aggravating for King, was a blessing as the team got, in military terms, a full night's sleep. All slept fully clothed, with their gear stowed next to the bunks, ready to go at a moment's notice.

The pil ot's voice over the intercom provided the team's wake-up call. "Rise and shine, Delta. We are approaching the LZ and are descending for your jump."

High altitude low opening, or HALO, jumps were the norm for the team's aerial insertions, but they were landing on friendly territory while the sun still hung on the horizon. More than that, if they failed to land on the deck of the USS Grant, a cold dip in the ocean would greet them. While they typically relied on stealth to stay out of trouble, this time it was all about aim.

With their parachutes checked and double checked already, they strapped the packs to their backs as they exited their bunk rooms and moved to the Crescent's rear loading bay. Rook rubbed his eyes as he stepped in line behind Queen.

"Aww, the little guy still sleepy?" Queen said with a grin.

Knight chuckled as he got in line behind Rook.

"Hard to sleep with you grinding up against me," Rook said, slowly gyrating his hips.

Queen laughed and tightened the straps across her chest, accentuating the point by showing off the feminine curves hidden beneath the black jumpsuits they all wore. "Boy, if you had me, you'd still be dead to the world tired."

Before Rook could reply, the red light above the red hatch turned green. He lowered his goggles into place and took hold of the railing that led to the rear hatch. A moment later, the hatch opened. A torrent of air whipped through the cabin and pulled at their bodies. The team held tight as the door opened fully. The view through the back became solid blue as the endless ocean below reflected the darkening blue sky above. The USS Grant could not be seen, but it waited for them directly below.

King raised his hand, snapping the team to attention. His next hand signal would have them all jumping out five thousand feet over the ocean. He moved toward the rear of the plane, holding the railing as he leaned out, looking into the blue abyss. The first of the ships in the USS Grants battle group came into view. They were to jump just after passing the carrier itself, angling toward the ship's massive deck. The carrier came into view, surrounded by what looked like a fleet of skyscrapers laid on their sides. Five destroyers, two Aegis guided-missile cruisers, three guided-missile destroyers, and two supply ships hemmed in the USS Grant, which dwarfed the other ships. Unseen, two Los Angeles-class attack submarines patrolled the frigid waters below the battle group. King had been aboard several different carriers over the years, but had never looked down on one from above. The sheer size of the ships combined with enough firepower to level most of the world's nations humbled him as he gazed down.

What amazed him most was that Deep Blue had managed to retask several hundred billion dollars worth of navy assets in the time it took most people to send an e-mail. And all of it was here for them. King shook his head. Deep Blue either had a massive amount of dirt on people in power or knew how to play the military-political game better than anyone else. King decided it was the latter. Named for the chess-playing computer capable of beating the world's masters, Deep Blue had proven himself deserving of the name.

The massive carrier sat still in the ocean, displacing a hundred thousand tons of water and waiting to receive them. After just passing the carrier's bow, King closed his fist and jumped. One by one, the team followed, throwing themselves from the back of the Crescent without a second thought.

Knight, the last one to jump, met the open air with a smile. He loved the sense of freedom jumping gave him. In the distance he could make out the speck of Inaccessible Island, which hid them from any eyes on Tristan da Cunha and would obscure their approach. With arms outstretched, Knight followed the diagonal trail of the Chess Team led by King. Like a group of small planes they steered their bodies through the whipping winds toward the deck of the USS Grant.

The Grants 1,092-foot-long flight deck made an easy target, but sixteen F/A-18 Hornets locked in place provided enough obstacles to make a precision landing, dead center, important. Slamming into the side of a forty-one-million-dollar war machine was never a good idea. Not only could you do millions of dollars in damage, but colliding with a wing after a 5,000-foot drop could take a head clean off. Adjusting his fall, Knight twisted and lined up directly behind Rook's feet. Straight ahead and below he could see the rest of the team. As they closed in on the deck, Knight took hold of his ripcord and watched King's hands.

Six hundred feet from the deck of the Grant, seconds from impact and moving at terminal velocity, King made three quick jerking motions with his hand. At once, the team deployed their chutes. With a snap, the descent slowed only four hundred feet from their target. They coasted in a straight line, past the back of the ship, then swung around the bridge and headed for the main deck. The team landed as though choreographed, one at a time, pulling in their chutes quickly before a stiff breeze pulled them from the deck.

Crew with brightly colored jumpsuits — green, purple, blue, and brown, each color designating their specific jobs on the flight deck— ran out and helped collect the chutes of the most unusual deck landing any had seen. They were used to catching roaring jets, not a five-man special ops team.

A tall man with eyes as blue as the surrounding ocean and wearing a bright white officer's uniform approached King with a grin. King took note of the eagle insignia on the man's collar and the four yellow bars and single gold star on his shoulder. He offered a salute, that as a Delta operative he rarely had to do, but when in Rome… or on a Navy carrier… it was always nice to show the respect expected. "Captain Savile."

The captain returned the salute and smiled. "That was the damndest thing I've ever seen. What the hell was that bird you jumped from?"

"You might have a higher pay grade, Captain, but I'm afraid I get to keep a few secrets."

Savile laughed. "Well, considering the ship you're standing on doesn't officially exist, I won't tell anyone I saw your stealth transport if you don't tell anyone about my next generation supercarrier."

"Deal."

After the team finished freeing themselves from their parachute harnesses, Savile motioned for them to follow him. "We've got cabins squared away for you if you need some—"

"No need," King said. "We need to hit the island before nightfall."

Savile looked at the sun, just about to dip below the arc of blue ocean. "Better double-time it, then. The shorelines around these islands are deadly to approach during daylight and suicidal at night."

"Suicidal missions are what we do," Queen said as Savile opened a hatch.

Savile turned around and looked each of them in the eye. At that moment he realized his five guests had probably seen more action and taken more lives than the ships in the battlegroup and thousands of souls manning them combined — real soldiers — the kind he enjoyed working with.