Chapter 7 - Into the Tempest
At thirty-five thousand feet, the air was minus-forty degrees. Inside the pressurized cabin of the C-17 Globemaster, the red jump light cast an eerie glow over our oxygen masks and thermal jump suits. Outside, lightning fractured the black Pacific clouds, illuminating the churning ocean far below.
“Ten seconds!” the jumpmaster shouted, holding up both hands against the roaring wind as the aft ramp groaned open, revealing the terrifying abyss of the storm.
I gave the hand signal to my five operators. Without hesitation, I stepped to the edge of the ramp and plunged into the dark.
Free-falling through a gale-force storm is like plunging into a roaring turbine. Gravity pulled us toward the Pacific at over one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Rain lashed against our helmet visors like needle points. Through the night-vision heads-up display, the green altimeter ticked down with relentless speed: *15,000… 8,000… 3,000…*
“PULL!” I signaled over the short-range comms.
The black tactical parachutes deployed with a muffled snap, yanking us out of terminal velocity just hundreds of feet above the churning swells. We slipped through the crashing breakers, cutting our lines the instant our fins hit the water.
We vanished beneath the surface.
Rebreathers silent, releasing zero bubbles, we moved through the icy, pitch-black water like sea predators. Within ten minutes, we broke the surface at the base of the Devil’s Throat.
High above us on the cliff plateau sat the abandoned naval outpost, its lights flickering against the driving rain. Thermal scans revealed four armed sentries patrolling the perimeter, with the remaining rogue operators holding the twelve terrified trainees inside the concrete motor pool.
“Reed, take the eastern drainage duct,” I commanded via bone-conduction comms. “Set your charges to disable their external comms and power on my mark. Nobody hurts those kids.”
“Understood, Captain.”
I unslung my suppressed HK416 rifle and began scaling the sheer, rain-slicked volcanic rock. Handhold by handhold, muscle memory forged over two decades of black operations took over. The salt wind whipped at my back, but my grip was iron.
Within three minutes, I pulled myself over the cliff lip, melting into the shadows of a storage container.
A rogue sentry walked past, rifle slung low, complaining into his radio. “Tell Rowe the storm is getting worse. If that extraction boat doesn’t show up, we need to scrub the hostages and bug out.”
I stepped out behind him. Before he could turn, my gloved hand clamped over his mouth while my combat knife severed the wiring harness of his tactical radio. With a sharp, precise twist of his neck, the sentry went limp. I lowered him silently behind the steel crates.
May you like
One down. Seven to go.
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