Through the opening Fisher could see nothing but a carpet of black water and the distant twinkling lights of the Bahamian mainland.
“Ramp down and locked,” Bird called.
At the bulkhead control panel, Redding checked the gauges and nodded confirmation.
“Surface conditions?” Fisher asked.
“Sea state one, low chop. Winds five to seven knots from the northeast.”
“Give me a two-minute warning.”
“Will do.”
Redding’s voice came over his earpiece: “So, tell me again, Sam: Why do you hate this thing?”
The “thing” in question was a covert insertion vehicle known as a Skipjack. Essentially a one-man IKS ( Inflatable Kayak, Small) equipped with a silent electric motor, the Skipjack was enclosed in a bullet-shaped shell of reinforced fiberglass designed to make the IKS aerodynamic, allowing it to be launched from aircraft and skip along the surface at sixty knots before the shell peeled away from the IKS and sank to the bottom.
Insertion is often the diciest part of any mission, especially an airdrop of any kind. Most enemy radar stations, while immediately suspicious of low-flying unidentified aircraft, don’t push the panic button until the target dramatically slows down and/or drops from radar for thirty seconds or more, which could, for example, indicate troops fast-roping from a helicopter.
The Osprey, traveling at 125 knots, could drop off radar without reducing speed, eject the Skipjack, and climb back to altitude within twenty seconds. To radar operators that appeared as nothing more than an inexperienced Cessna pilot who’d lost some altitude before correcting.
There were few things Fisher feared, and none of them involved work. His problem with the Skipjack was the seemingly endless twenty or thirty seconds after it was disgorged from the plane. Being strapped like a piece of luggage inside the IKS and unable to control his fate went against his every instinct.
“I don’t hate it,” Fisher replied. “It’s just not my favorite ride.”
“Sam, can you hear me?” Lambert’s voice.
“Go ahead.”
“The FBI’s on to the Duroc . They’ve got a team landing in Freeport City in twenty minutes. The Bahamian Navy’s got a boat waiting for them.”
“How much time do I have?”
“They’ll probably intercept within seventy minutes. You need to get aboard, get some answers, and get out before then. Remember, you don’t exist—”
“—and we’re not doing this. I know. I’ll be in touch.”
Fisher climbed into the Skipjack, which was locked to the deck by four ratchet straps, and strapped himself in.
Bird called, “Descending through five hundred feet. Target on radar. One minute to drop.”
Fisher felt the Osprey bank again as Bird bled off altitude. The drone of the engines changed pitch. Strapped into the IKS with the Skipjack’s shell around him, Fisher could only see the outside world through a small Plexiglas view port.
“Where’s my target?” he asked.
“We’re coming in astern and close to shore. When you hit the water, they’ll be a mile off your port bow. Current heading, three-two-zero; speed, eight knots. We’re passing through two hundred feet. Hold tight. Go on green.”
“Roger, go on green,” Fisher replied.
Redding knelt beside the Skipjack, patted Fisher once on the shoulder, then sealed Skipjack’s roof over his head. The Osprey’s engines went to half volume.
“Eighty feet,” Bird called. “Ten seconds.”
The Osprey began trembling as its own prop wash reacted with the ocean’s surface. Through the port Fisher could see mist swirling around the end of the ramp.
“Five seconds.”
Above Fisher’s head, the bulb turned yellow.
Then green.
In his peripheral vision he saw Redding pull the master release toggle. Fisher felt himself sliding forward.
HITTING the water was like being rear-ended at a stop-light. He knew it was coming, was braced for it, but still the impact took his breath away. He was thrown
“Ramp down and locked,” Bird called.
At the bulkhead control panel, Redding checked the gauges and nodded confirmation.
“Surface conditions?” Fisher asked.
“Sea state one, low chop. Winds five to seven knots from the northeast.”
“Give me a two-minute warning.”
“Will do.”
Redding’s voice came over his earpiece: “So, tell me again, Sam: Why do you hate this thing?”
The “thing” in question was a covert insertion vehicle known as a Skipjack. Essentially a one-man IKS ( Inflatable Kayak, Small) equipped with a silent electric motor, the Skipjack was enclosed in a bullet-shaped shell of reinforced fiberglass designed to make the IKS aerodynamic, allowing it to be launched from aircraft and skip along the surface at sixty knots before the shell peeled away from the IKS and sank to the bottom.
Insertion is often the diciest part of any mission, especially an airdrop of any kind. Most enemy radar stations, while immediately suspicious of low-flying unidentified aircraft, don’t push the panic button until the target dramatically slows down and/or drops from radar for thirty seconds or more, which could, for example, indicate troops fast-roping from a helicopter.
The Osprey, traveling at 125 knots, could drop off radar without reducing speed, eject the Skipjack, and climb back to altitude within twenty seconds. To radar operators that appeared as nothing more than an inexperienced Cessna pilot who’d lost some altitude before correcting.
There were few things Fisher feared, and none of them involved work. His problem with the Skipjack was the seemingly endless twenty or thirty seconds after it was disgorged from the plane. Being strapped like a piece of luggage inside the IKS and unable to control his fate went against his every instinct.
“I don’t hate it,” Fisher replied. “It’s just not my favorite ride.”
“Sam, can you hear me?” Lambert’s voice.
“Go ahead.”
“The FBI’s on to the Duroc . They’ve got a team landing in Freeport City in twenty minutes. The Bahamian Navy’s got a boat waiting for them.”
“How much time do I have?”
“They’ll probably intercept within seventy minutes. You need to get aboard, get some answers, and get out before then. Remember, you don’t exist—”
“—and we’re not doing this. I know. I’ll be in touch.”
Fisher climbed into the Skipjack, which was locked to the deck by four ratchet straps, and strapped himself in.
Bird called, “Descending through five hundred feet. Target on radar. One minute to drop.”
Fisher felt the Osprey bank again as Bird bled off altitude. The drone of the engines changed pitch. Strapped into the IKS with the Skipjack’s shell around him, Fisher could only see the outside world through a small Plexiglas view port.
“Where’s my target?” he asked.
“We’re coming in astern and close to shore. When you hit the water, they’ll be a mile off your port bow. Current heading, three-two-zero; speed, eight knots. We’re passing through two hundred feet. Hold tight. Go on green.”
“Roger, go on green,” Fisher replied.
Redding knelt beside the Skipjack, patted Fisher once on the shoulder, then sealed Skipjack’s roof over his head. The Osprey’s engines went to half volume.
“Eighty feet,” Bird called. “Ten seconds.”
The Osprey began trembling as its own prop wash reacted with the ocean’s surface. Through the port Fisher could see mist swirling around the end of the ramp.
“Five seconds.”
Above Fisher’s head, the bulb turned yellow.
Then green.
In his peripheral vision he saw Redding pull the master release toggle. Fisher felt himself sliding forward.
HITTING the water was like being rear-ended at a stop-light. He knew it was coming, was braced for it, but still the impact took his breath away. He was thrown
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