Read Online Operation Southern Cross - 02 by Jack Shane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Shane
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They were standard-issue Nightstalker helicopters. High-tech cockpits, powerful engines, airframes jammed with secret stuff, including the latest in weaponry.
Considering what they’d gone through in the past few days, their aircraft were in pretty good shape. One Black Hawk’s engine was heavily damaged from shrapnel over El Tapos. Another’s primary flight controls had been blown away by a small shoulder-launched missile. And every copter had some bullet holes in it. Autry’s own DAP had so many perforations that, when Cronin flashed a light on one side of it, several dozen points of light came out the other. Bottom line, they had a couple hundred more holes to fill. Every ship was battered, but still airworthy.
Captain Eliot poured more Jack for them—it even made the Lex ’s coffee taste good. Autry was slowly climbing to cloud nine. Despite some unexpected twists, the unit had successfully completed two missions in less than a week. And as in past operations, what had gone on before was already heading for the scrap heap in his mind. There was an instant “been there, done that” element to all special ops. What was that spy’s name again? Superfly ? And Pablo Escoban ? Autry could barely remember who he was.
Best of all, now he was sure he’d make the meeting with his wife. But before that, Autry was looking forward to some more immediate gratification: sleep. By his order, XBat would spend the fifteen-hour trip up to Pensacola in the racks, snoozing. As it was, he could barely keep his eyes open now.
Eliot had just finished pouring out the last of the Jack when the door to the mess swung open. Everyone looked up to find Mungo standing in the doorway, staring back at them, laser beams for eyes. Autry knew exactly what Mungo was thinking. The booze. The flakes. The coffee. Here was another party he hadn’t been invited to.
Everyone stiffened in their chairs. Mungo was a walking buzz-kill and he was working his magic now. He ignored the empty bottle on the table and laid a packet of photographs in front of Autry. He was acting as if he and the XBat CO were the only ones in the room.
“What are these?” Autry asked him.
“The photos from the El Tapos raid,” Mungo replied. “Good close-ups on some of the guys we greased. More pictures of others we didn’t. It looks like our celebrity spy made it away OK. All pretty standard stuff. Except…”
“Except what?” McCune asked.
Mungo pulled one photo from the stack. It showed a building that the unit had blown in two right on the edge of the Wild West town. It wasn’t a barracks as a lot of the other buildings turned out to be. It was a warehouse. There were stacks of cardboard boxes and wooden crates within, some of which were on fire, but some that were not. And the mystery was what was in those boxes.
They were filled with arctic wear. Parkas. Boots. Gloves. Even ski poles and skis.
“What the fuck is that stuff doing down there?” McCune asked boozily. “They’re in the tropics…”
Mungo just shook his head.
“You tell me ,” he said.
IT TOOK AUTRY FIFTEEN MINUTES TO MAKE HIS WAY two levels below to the carrier’s executive officer’s cabin. The whiskey was doing the walking for him by now, that’s why he got lost twice. He eventually found the place, though, and when he opened the door, it looked better than a room at the Ritz. Four gray walls, a porthole and a bed. Finally, a place where he could lie down, close his eyes and just go to sleep.
This he did, as soon as his head hit the dirty pillow. He immediately started to dream about his wife. At their old home near Hunter Airfield in Georgia. At the beach, on their honeymoon. At the school dance where they’d first met. Then she was lying beside him in bed, smiling and gorgeous, backlit by a technicolor rising sun. She was about to say something to him, when suddenly her words were drowned out by a horrendous sound. It was so loud, even in sleep Autry blocked his
Considering what they’d gone through in the past few days, their aircraft were in pretty good shape. One Black Hawk’s engine was heavily damaged from shrapnel over El Tapos. Another’s primary flight controls had been blown away by a small shoulder-launched missile. And every copter had some bullet holes in it. Autry’s own DAP had so many perforations that, when Cronin flashed a light on one side of it, several dozen points of light came out the other. Bottom line, they had a couple hundred more holes to fill. Every ship was battered, but still airworthy.
Captain Eliot poured more Jack for them—it even made the Lex ’s coffee taste good. Autry was slowly climbing to cloud nine. Despite some unexpected twists, the unit had successfully completed two missions in less than a week. And as in past operations, what had gone on before was already heading for the scrap heap in his mind. There was an instant “been there, done that” element to all special ops. What was that spy’s name again? Superfly ? And Pablo Escoban ? Autry could barely remember who he was.
Best of all, now he was sure he’d make the meeting with his wife. But before that, Autry was looking forward to some more immediate gratification: sleep. By his order, XBat would spend the fifteen-hour trip up to Pensacola in the racks, snoozing. As it was, he could barely keep his eyes open now.
Eliot had just finished pouring out the last of the Jack when the door to the mess swung open. Everyone looked up to find Mungo standing in the doorway, staring back at them, laser beams for eyes. Autry knew exactly what Mungo was thinking. The booze. The flakes. The coffee. Here was another party he hadn’t been invited to.
Everyone stiffened in their chairs. Mungo was a walking buzz-kill and he was working his magic now. He ignored the empty bottle on the table and laid a packet of photographs in front of Autry. He was acting as if he and the XBat CO were the only ones in the room.
“What are these?” Autry asked him.
“The photos from the El Tapos raid,” Mungo replied. “Good close-ups on some of the guys we greased. More pictures of others we didn’t. It looks like our celebrity spy made it away OK. All pretty standard stuff. Except…”
“Except what?” McCune asked.
Mungo pulled one photo from the stack. It showed a building that the unit had blown in two right on the edge of the Wild West town. It wasn’t a barracks as a lot of the other buildings turned out to be. It was a warehouse. There were stacks of cardboard boxes and wooden crates within, some of which were on fire, but some that were not. And the mystery was what was in those boxes.
They were filled with arctic wear. Parkas. Boots. Gloves. Even ski poles and skis.
“What the fuck is that stuff doing down there?” McCune asked boozily. “They’re in the tropics…”
Mungo just shook his head.
“You tell me ,” he said.
IT TOOK AUTRY FIFTEEN MINUTES TO MAKE HIS WAY two levels below to the carrier’s executive officer’s cabin. The whiskey was doing the walking for him by now, that’s why he got lost twice. He eventually found the place, though, and when he opened the door, it looked better than a room at the Ritz. Four gray walls, a porthole and a bed. Finally, a place where he could lie down, close his eyes and just go to sleep.
This he did, as soon as his head hit the dirty pillow. He immediately started to dream about his wife. At their old home near Hunter Airfield in Georgia. At the beach, on their honeymoon. At the school dance where they’d first met. Then she was lying beside him in bed, smiling and gorgeous, backlit by a technicolor rising sun. She was about to say something to him, when suddenly her words were drowned out by a horrendous sound. It was so loud, even in sleep Autry blocked his
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