***
Forty minutes later, the captain came over the radio again. “Sir, we’re minutes from drop off. I suggest you get ready.”
“Thank you, Captain. And thanks for the ride.”
“No problem, sir. Good luck.”
“Yeah right,” I mumbled.
Stick jockeys always acted like they had brass balls, but I knew the only time they’d actually grow a pair and jump out of their own aircraft was when it was shot up, on fire, and dropping out of the sky like a flightless bird. And even then I questioned if they would. Jumping out of airplanes in the middle of the night during a bad storm was generally reserved for the certifiable. And people like me, of course.
The entire trip would have been far easier had I been allowed to land with the plane and walk off the ramp onto solid ground, but not today. America may have possessed military bases on the Italian peninsula that I could have used, but my trip required slightly more discretion than even your regular black op. My plane would remain on its scheduled route, but not before taking a slight detour toward my drop point.
I heard a sudden whirring noise, and looked to the rear of the plane, noticing the rear door begin to open, revealing a gaping maw into the dark void beyond.
I tried to repress the chill I felt trickling down my spine.
Getting to my feet, part of my parachute reassuringly bumping against my ass, I made my way to another member of the crew standing near a light mounted on the hull. It was currently illuminated in red, but when it turned green, I would jump.
High Altitude Low Opening jumps were nothing new. The first were performed by the Air Force way back in the sixties, but that didn’t mean they were easy. Currently, we were traveling near our maximum altitude of around forty thousand feet. As a result, I had to carry my own oxygen supply with me on the way down. In fact, I had been sucking on a tank of one hundred percent pure oxygen for the past half hour to help ready my circulatory system for the quick transition to the surface.
Moving to the end of the craft, I bumped my head on the ceiling. Glaring at the low hull, I swore about my height for the millionth time since joining the military. I was just shy of six and a half feet, which left me feeling cramped in practically any aircraft and pretty much ensured I’d never be a fighter pilot.
I was still rubbing my head when I made it to the crewman at the tail of the plane who attached a carabineer to my belt, securing my small go-bag on a rope so that it wouldn’t get in the way. He patted me on the shoulder and threw me an okay sign with his hand, indicating all was ready on his end. I returned the gesture with a thumbs up, and pulled on my helmet, brushing brown hair out of my eyes. Always the rebel, even as an officer, I kept my hair slightly longer than military regulations permitted.
I shifted my oxygen mask for a more comfortable fit and slid my helmet’s visor into place, blinking a few times when a digital readout projected itself on its interior. The heads up display was just one of the fancy new Future Force Warriors items slowly being redeployed by the U.S. military. My HUD displayed numerous mission critical details in bright, blue lettering scattered around every inch of the display. It boasted items such as a clock, compass, altimeter, barometer, targeting information, GPS, and night vision capabilities. Satisfied each of its functions were working properly, I bent my legs and waited for the light.
It wasn’t long before it turned green and the crewman shouted, “Go! Go!”
I leapt into the abyss.
Free falling, I quickly picked up speed. I let myself fall in a dive for a while before I allowed my arms and legs to spread out wide in a position that would allow my body to generate enough resistance against the wind to slow me down. I glanced at the upper right hand corner of my visor which displayed my altimeter. I watched as the meters quickly ticked away toward zero, waiting for it to indicate when I was low enough to open my chute, but still high enough to not end up as a red stain on the ground. Content I had plenty of time to burn, I tried to relax and allow myself the pleasure of enjoying the view. High enough to almost see the curve of the Earth, I used my time to watch as dawn slowly crept from the East toward the inhabitants below and the storm we had just passed through tried to meet it from the West.
It was moments like these when I really loved my job.
I couldn’t let myself get too distracted sightseeing, however. I was already losing sight of the Mediterranean as my descent took me directly over land, alerting me that it was time to start paying attention to my altimeter. I would still have to wait until I was low enough to spot an infrared beacon before I could accurately locate my exact destination, somewhere north of Rome.
After a few more minutes of free fall, I pulled my chute open, bracing myself as I was jerked in my harness. As the parachute opened, I reached for the toggles dangling near my head, and it wasn’t long before I was in complete control and safely making my way to the ground.
Activating my HUD’s night vision, I glanced around in search of the beacon. Under normal eyesight, infrared was effectively invisible, but night vision had no trouble picking up the pulsating strobe that flashed brightly in the infrared spectrum. I spotted it with little trouble, about a mile to my left, and slowly began my turn and descent toward it.
Nearly dirt side, I relaxed my knees and exhaled before I hit the surface. Rolling twice, I came to a stop and punched down my billowing parachute before it could lift me back in the air. Securing the cord and fabric back in its pack, I took a moment to compose myself.
I shook my head to loosen my helmet’s grip and leaned over to grab my go-bag which rested next to my feet. The small single shoulder-hoisted rucksack held only a few soldierly essentials: my American military ID, a small multi-tool, survival kit, SureFire flashlight, SIG Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistol with two extra magazines, digital camera, a roll of duct tape, toiletries, and an extra pair of socks. The rest of my gear and possessions had been shipped to my destination earlier to ensure I would be ready for duty as soon as possible.
Turning around, I spotted a compact black car parked next to a dirt road that snaked off into the mountains. Standing next to it was a robed man and a full bird American Army colonel.
My attaché to Rome, I presumed.
Reaching the car, I stopped and saluted crisply, “Lieutenant Commander Jacob Hunter reporting as ordered, Colonel.”
“At ease,” the man said, lazily returning my salute. “My name is Colonel Reynolds. I will be your liaison with the Vatican until you have formally transferred to your new unit. When that time comes, you’ll be on your own.”
I nodded. “Understood, Colonel. I was briefed by the President before I left Washington.”
Reynolds returned the gesture. He knew as well as I did how unique our situation was; one that had required the highest clearance level available, and had also been overseen directly by the Commander in Chief. A request from the Pope was not to be taken lightly these days. He carried tremendous influence and political clout, and considering the current geopolitical situation, his title was just as influential as it had once been centuries ago.