CHAPTER 13
Southern New Hampshire, January 3
“I introduce to you the Raptor Glider,” said Barrett, holding up one of seven sleek graphite black sets of man-sized jet wings that were lying on the grass. “You guys are going to be trying them out today.”
“Sweet,” said Spartan, her eyes wide in glee and anticipation.
It was hours before dawn, and the night was crisp, cold and bracing. Morgan was standing abreast with the entire Zeta Division tactical team, the ones who had given him backup in Budapest. They’d been choppered out to a hidden airfield that Morgan calculated must have been somewhere in southern New Hampshire. Going out of the way was a hassle necessary to keep secrecy, but Barrett’s revelation of their purpose there today had made it all more than worth it.
“Now, these babies will get you into a combat zone at over one hundred miles per hour with the stability and control of a bald eagle,” said Barrett. “It includes a compartment for equipment, including two guns, a large one and a handgun, and your basic survival gear. There’s also room for an oxygen tank for high-altitude jumps. The helmet has a heads-up display that gives you your environmental info, like altitude, temperature, and wind speed, with GPS capabilities. I’ve also fully integrated it with our system, so I can overlay whatever is necessary for the mission—is anyone actually paying attention to me?”
Morgan and the tac team laughed and jostled one another as they put on the jump gear and examined the new equipment.
“All right,” said Barrett. “Go ahead and play with your new toys. I won’t bore you with all my talk.”
Morgan picked up the wings and examined them.
“Ever made a HALO drop before, Morgan?” Bishop asked. Bishop was the tac team leader and alpha dog. He was tall, standing stiffly and nearly a head higher than Morgan, and black, with a shaved head and dark brown eyes. He had a leaner frame than Morgan, but still thickly muscled. A former Navy SEAL, Bishop was every bit as well trained and seasoned as Morgan. But in Black Ops, Morgan had always worked either with a partner or alone. He lived by suspicion, while Bishop had had to trust his ten-man SEAL team absolutely. And while Morgan was fiercely loyal to the few and worthy he counted among his friends, Bishop was a company man, through and through.
“Plenty in training and a couple in the field,” said Morgan. “I can’t say it’s my favorite thing in the world, but on occasion, it’s the only way to go.”
“Are you kidding me?” said Spartan, who was farther ahead in strapping in the wings than anyone else. “There is no rush like flying through the air. I’m not talking about the namby-pamby floating-like-a-cloud bull crap. I’m talking flying headfirst towards the ground, like a—like a goddamn ballistic missile on the heads of the enemy.”
Spartan was the only woman in Zeta Division tactical. She was as tall as Morgan. She had buzz-cut light blond hair and hazel eyes. Her face wasn’t exactly what Morgan would call classically beautiful, but she had a brassy, happy-go-lucky disposition that had been instantly compelling to Morgan. Supposedly, Bishop himself had handpicked her. Frustrated by the lack of opportunity for women in Special Ops in the Armed Forces, she’d decided to go an alternative route. And the truth was that she’d proven herself twice over to be as tough and coldly efficient as any of the men standing around that night.
“There goes Spartan again, talking like she swings the biggest dick around here,” Morgan said with a grin.
“Bigger than yours, you little bitch,” she said, returning his grin.
“Why don’t you whip it out and we’ll compare.”
Diesel was half an inch shorter than Morgan with a lighter frame, but still strong as a bull and fast as a racehorse. He was Latino, with brown skin and thick, short black hair. He was their engineering expert, working explosives, locks, and computers whenever the need came up. Morgan knew how to pick a lock or set up a time bomb, but it was a thing of beauty to see the speed and deftness with which Diesel’s fingers moved as he played with anything that involved moving parts.
“Settle down there,” said Bishop. “Rogue, how’re you doing?”
It was only then that Morgan noticed the final member of their team. Barrett was helping him with his harness, and he seemed to be a little pale. Rogue was a master sniper. He and Morgan had once spent hours squaring off at a shooting range, trying to determine who the best long-distance shooter was. The match had come to a draw after a couple hours, when dusk began to set in. They’d had to call it in spite of each of them having a nearly irresistible competitive streak. Left to their own devices, it would have gone on all night.