Sierra Six

under plated ceramic body armor that was housed inside load-bearing vests.

 

Additionally, each man wore two parachutes: a main chute on his back and a reserve in front, low, cinched around his midsection. Oxygen masks were snapped tight to their faces, with two small tanks strapped just as tightly to their bodies.

 

The men were already consuming bottled O2 even though they were still on the ground. Tonight's mission would begin with a HAAM, a high-altitude airdrop mission-a leap from the Hercules at twenty-eight thousand feet-and breathing from the tanks now would eliminate the risk of nitrogen buildup from the rapid change in air pressure as the men descended.

 

These six were ordinarily a talkative bunch, but as team leader of the tiny unit, Zack demanded a strict decorum before an operation. All extraneous conversation had ceased as soon as they'd arrived on the tarmac; no one shouted through their rubber mask about what was to come.

 

They all just waited, heavily laden statues in the night.

 

Eventually the aircraft's loadmaster came down the ramp and then made his way over to the group. He looked around for a moment, obviously for some indication of who was in charge.

 

Zack Hightower, virtually identical in dress and load-out to the others, took a single step forward.

 

The loadmaster shouted, "Sir, you can board whenever you're ready."

 

Zack answered back through his mask in an easygoing tone. "I'm not 'sir,' chief. Just call me Bob."

 

The loadmaster was in his forties, thick and brawny. He nodded; he understood what was going on. "Thought you fellas were Special Forces." It wasn't really a question, and he received no response. "Sweet. To be honest, we don't get a lot of ops like this. Doubt anyone in the Air Guard does." He shrugged. "I mean, this is just a milk run. For us, I mean. Can't imagine what you guys have planned."

 

Zack stare