observation

Despite my protagonist being a CIA Global Response Staff security contractor, or "scorpion," I have yet to actually write about him bodyguarding a CIA case officer in a hostile environment. Maybe this needs to change in a future book...

Scorpion: Rogue State - Chapter Three

The jumpmaster said something, but Avery couldn’t hear a word over the howl of the C-130’s four giant turboprop engines. The jump light in the back of the darkened cargo hold continued to glow red, still over ten minutes out from their release point, and none of the other contractors reacted to the jumpmaster, so Avery thought it couldn’t have been too important. 

Breathing the tinny air through his oxygen mask, Avery resumed checking his rig, making sure the various straps and laces were tight and secure on his web gear and harness. He’d already done so twice before takeoff and once after, obsessively and thoroughly, but one could never be too cautious, not if the alternative meant splattering against the desert at fifty-three miles per second.

A former Airborne Ranger, Avery had jumped out of plenty of planes, but HALO—High Altitude, Low Opening, freefalling for over thirty-thousand feet—was different and always instilled some level of dread. At least the ordeal always ended quickly, as it only took two minutes to freefall that thirty-thousand feet.

HAHO—High Altitude, High Opening—would have been more appropriate for this type of insertion, allowing the element to glide nearly as much as forty miles from their release point to their drop zone, but that would have left them exposed in the air for a much longer duration of time, substantially increasing the risk of detection by one of the two Saudi Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS) platforms, American-supplied Boeing E-3 Sentries, that were constantly on patrol over Yemen.

Avery preferred HALO anyway. Although far more intense, it greatly reduced the time spent floating through the air. The “airborne” part of Airborne Ranger had never terribly appealed to him, and in retrospect he sometimes wondered what his younger self had been thinking when he fought to get into Ranger Selection and Assessment, which, upon graduation, meant Airborne School, all those years ago.

Without warning, the pilot popped a crack in the hatch to depressurize. The temperature in the hold dropped instantly. The outside air would be somewhere in the -20°F range. Even through the thermals he wore beneath the heavy Nomex flight overalls, Avery felt the frigid bite of the cold throughout his body. His fingers even started to go numb beneath his gloves, so he flexed and squeezed them to keep the blood flowing. His goggles frosted over a little, partially obscuring his already limited vision.

Perched next to Avery on the uncomfortable, flimsy, red mesh seating, Sam and Gomez were likewise silently performing redundant ritualistic checks of their equipment and rigs, unfazed by the cold. Hix sat motionless, possibly asleep, with his head resting back against the vibrating bulkhead.

They were all equipped with short-barreled AKS-74Us rather than the usual SOPMOD M4A1s, HK416s, or UMPs with advanced optical sights that would identify them as American special operators. Yemen was awash with Soviet-made weapons.

Gomez, a trained sniper, carried ad Dragunov SVD marksman rifle, chambered in 7.62mm, with a PSO-1 telescopic sight. This was his first “deniable op” using non-standard kit, and, though he’d trained on the Dragunov at Harvey Point, he’d expressed his displeasure with the weapons Streib had procured for them.

In response, Avery had told him, “All the more reason to make sure we stay out of a gunfight, right?”

Avery wasn’t one to shy away from a fight, but his idea of a perfect op was one where he could get in and get out without firing a shot. Shooting tended to complicate matters and attract any number of undesirable parties.

Minus the parachute rigs and Nomex suits, which would be promptly disposed of in the desert, all of their gear was foreign-sourced. Their encrypted radios were Czech-made. The GPS tracker they’d rely on to lead them to the target was the product of Israel’s Elbit Systems. Even their rations were Russian. They would even switch to local dress once on the ground. Additionally, the gear was all sanitized, all traceable serial numbers removed.

Each man also carried plenty of dollars, euros, and Yemeni rials to bribe, barter, and buy their way out of any trouble.

The multi-ethnic makeup of the element would further help disguise their origin. Gomez was Salvadoran. When he first came to work for the Agency as a contractor, he’d been forced to have his tattoo of the Marine Corps Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblem removed from his deltoid, where there was now just light scarring.

 Sam would obviously have no trouble passing himself off as an indig.

Avery’s dark hair, tanned and weathered face, unkempt black hair, and shaggy beard did not bring to mind one’s image of an American soldier.

Hix was more fair-haired, but his Arabic was better than Avery’s, and he knew the local dialects.

International mercenaries were running ops all over Yemen and the Horn of Africa these days, on behalf of a variety of state and non-state actors. Latin American mercs were especially common in the employ of the Saudis and Emiratis. Even if caught, no one would have cause to link Avery’s team to the Agency.

The cargo hold was otherwise empty, even though the C-130 was ostensibly delivering aircraft parts from Camp Lemonnier to al-Adeid Air Base in Doha, Qatar. At least that was the flight plan the air force had filed with the Saudis, who controlled Yemeni airspace. Somewhere near the midpoint in the flight, the pilot deviated slightly from course to deliver Avery’s stick on target.

Finally, the tailgate slowly lowered to the hiss of hydraulics. The roar of the engines instantly grew louder as a torrent of cold air filled the cargo hold. The pilot cut speed to lessen the gap between jumpers when they exited the aircraft.

Following the jumpmaster’s hand signals, Avery and the others disconnected their masks from the plane’s oxygen supply and plugged into the individual tanks on their harnesses. Then they stood up and shuffled into line before the open tailgate, moving past the crewmen whose harnesses were tethered to the bulkhead. Edging toward the ramp, they shifted somewhat clumsily on their feet, burdened by the heavy weight of the chest packs and the bags tethered between their legs, stuffed full of weapons, ammo, and equipment.

First in line, Avery saw nothing but a cold black void below an expanse of stars. A cold blast of air whipped against him.

The jumpmaster carefully looked over each man, watched the seconds on the onboard clock tick by, then slapped Avery on the back.

Avery stepped off the tailgate and threw himself out the back of the aircraft, tumbling face first into space, hurtling through the air, feeling for a second like he’d left his stomach behind, with Sam, Gomez, and Hix scant seconds behind.

For a second the roar of the engine rocked Avery’s ears and pounded inside his head, but the sound faded quickly, replaced by the sound of the air whipping past him, as the aircraft disappeared from sight somewhere in the black masses of clouds.

Clearing the turbulent slipstream, Avery immediately adopted the stable position, pressing his hips down to create an arch in his back, making his arms and legs symmetrical, with his elbows and knees bent, head up and facing into the horizon.

A light sheen of frost and tiny ice crystals formed over his Nomex, from the moisture of the clouds.

After twelve seconds and about 1,500 feet of freefall, he reached terminal velocity, 174 feet per second. He didn’t feel like he was falling, though. The sensory illusion was such that he felt more like he was floating weightlessly in place, and if it weren’t for the instruments strapped to his forearm, he’d have no idea he was even moving, but that would soon change.

There was nothing to see; total darkness all around, so he concentrated on the altimeter and GPS module. He didn’t even bother looking up at the stars overhead. He knew plenty of guys who enjoyed the adrenaline rush, the exhilaration of freefall, and who liked to relax and enjoy the ride. Not Avery. He hated every second of the experience. He wouldn’t relax until he was back on the ground, intact.

The infrared strobe light attached to the back of his harness was flashing, a beacon visible only to the other jumpers through their night optics. They’d be spaced about seventy feet apart in the sky, and they’d try not to become scattered too far apart on the way down, which was sometimes easier said than done, but fortunately there were low crosswinds tonight and they were all experienced with HALO.

Avery broke cloud level at roughly 10,000 feet, and the veil of darkness was lifted. Below, he saw shadowy, indistinct masses of land formations and a few scattered clusters of lights that denoted villages to his left, south.

As he continued to fall, topography grew increasingly delineated. He recognized land features, including the stretch of empty highway in front of him, from the satellite overheads he’d studied during the pre-mission prep work. Once acclimated, he adjusted his course and steered closer over to the landing zone.

And now that he had an unobstructed view of the desert floor rushing toward his face, he was removed of any illusion that he wasn’t falling.

His parachute deployed automatically at 3,000 feet, abruptly jerking him upright, giving his whole body a forceful jolt, especially in the groin, instantly reducing his rate of descent to twenty-five feet per second as the static lines went taught. He released a gasp when the harness snapped hard into his crotch, and he felt aches spread throughout the rest of his body from the blunt opening shock.

Looking up and listening carefully to the sounds around him, he checked his lines and risers and verified that his canopy had fully and properly unfurled and inflated, with the airfoil free of cuts or holes, because the tiniest laceration could quickly spread and collapse the entire canopy. Such a mishap at this altitude left one with precious little time to deploy the reserve.

But Avery had a good full and expanded canopy overhead and he was sailing smoothly through the air now. Gripping the toggles on his risers, he controlled his direction, staying away from the highway.

Glancing down, his boots were parallel with the desert terrain whipping by less than a mile below. He kept his eyes open for movement. They were supposed to be fifteen miles from the nearest village, which was on the other side of the low mountain ridge to the north, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility of landing right on top of an enemy patrol or bandits, or even civilian travelers.

Then something caught his eye, and he swore.

He was at 2,360 feet when he spotted the four figures, in flowing white thobes and turbans, guiding a pack of goats, slowly traversing the terrain to the west, less than a mile away. One goat pulled a wooden cart covered by a tarp.

Fuck knew what they were doing out here or where they were going at this time, but they could compromise the mission.

That was a problem because Avery sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to kill a bunch of noncombatants tonight. Plus, civilian or not, there was a good chance they were armed, because this was Yemen.

Fortunately, though, even if these nomadic goatherders happened to look skyward, Avery and his compatriots would be practically invisible until they were right over the goatherders.

Avery pulled his toggles and banked sharply to the left. Holding the flight pattern in a line above and behind him, with seventy feet between each man, Sam and Hix caught the sudden course change and followed suit.

Avery steered the element away from the goatherders, slipping behind their backs and increasing the gap from them to over a mile.

Bleeding off altitude quickly, Avery scanned the terrain, found his intended landing zone, and aimed for it. A nice flat open patch of heavily shaded land clear of dunes. At seven hundred feet, he squeezed his brakes, cutting his speed by half.

The ground came up at him fast now.  Lots of rocks, he noted as he drew closer. He’d have to look out for those, because now was not the time for a broken foot or sprained ankle.

Avery drew a deep breath, made his body tight, bracing himself. Descending to the desert floor, he stepped smoothly out of his landing, pulled off his helmet, and ripped off his oxygen mask to take deep breath of fresh air. The canopy deflated and collapsed behind him. He disconnected the lines and snapped his rifle off his vest. He brought his AK-74 into his shoulder and swept his surroundings.

Several seconds later Sam hit the ground fifty feet to his right.

Hix landed seventy feet back.

Where the fuck was Gomez? Avery thought looking around.

Finally, over a hundred feet away, he spotted another figure making landfall, his parachute canopy collapsing behind him and blowing off the ground. The former Marine disconnected from his rig, collected his chute, and hustled over to the others, who were scanning their surroundings, making sure they were alone.  

“Everyone good?” Avery asked softly, his voice barely rising above a whisper when Gomez reached them.

Sam nodded.

Hix flashed a thumbs-up as he sorted through his gear.

   Gomez looked a little haggard, breathing heavily. He shook his head. “My fucking chute tore. I had to pop my reserve at, like, two thousand feet. Scared the fucking shit out of me, man.”

Hix rolled his eyes as he reached for his tin of chew tobacco. “That’s why they shouldn’t send Marines to Airborne School.”

Gomez extended an upright middle finger in the former Green Beret’s direction.

Avery found nothing humorous in the situation.

“Shit.” He looked into the direction of the wind, which blew toward the mountain ridge. He tried to visualize where the nearest population centers were and in what directions they lay. Their chances of recovering the parachute where next to impossible. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

“FIDO?” asked Hix. Fuck It, Drive On. An old Ranger adage.

“FIDO,” said Avery. “Best we cover our tracks and get underway.”

They took a few minutes to gather their bearings, scan their new environment through night scopes and binos, and waited and listened.

The desert temperature was in the forties but it felt warm compared to the freezing temperatures at the top of the troposphere. There was a strong breeze and they could smell the burning tobacco from the goatherder’s pipes. Nearly everyone in Yemen smoked.

Satisfied no one saw them, they wordlessly collected their parachutes, bundled them, and stuffed them back into their containers. Moving swiftly and silently, they changed out of their Nomex and into Arab dress. Cotton and wool keffiyeh headdresses with colored patterns to denote local tribal affiliation. Shawls to conceal their faces. Thobes and bisht cloaks over their plate carriers, with slits cut into the folds of the loose-fitting garments to allow for easy access to their weapons.

The garments looked weathered, raggedy, and well-worn, and smelled of dokha, a type of tobacco widely smoked in Yemen. Streib’s people had made sure that Avery’s crew would not only look the part but smell it, too. That’s why Avery liked working for Streib. She had a good eye for detail and never missed a thing.

Next, they probed the ground, finding malleable soil to dig in and bury their discarded Nomex and HALO gear, which also lightened each man’s load to more comfortable levels.

Satisfied that all was in order, Avery selected the Israeli-made handheld GPS locator and got a reading, confirming they were right where they needed to be. They still had a lot of ground to cover and short time in which to do so. They set out at a measured pace, hiking southwest across the rugged land, under the night sky in a diamond formation, each man alert and covering his quadrant, with Avery taking point.

___

On the other side of the mountain ridge, the Yemeni militiaman in the back of the roving technical detected movement in the still night.

Putting a FLIR monocular to his eye, the Yemeni caught sight of the billowing shape blowing across the ground a hundred meters ahead and called out to the driver, who accelerated, turned off the road, and cut across the desert toward the mystery object.  Along the way, his compatriots in the truck’s bed scanned their surroundings with their rifles and the heavy onboard machinegun.

These militiamen were members of a Sunni tribe allied with the Saudi-UAE ground coalition. They routinely patrolled the rugged outbacks of Yemen in search of terrorist caravans and weapons smugglers.

When the technical braked to a stop, the militiamen jumped down from the bed, with one staying on the machinegun to cover them. Three spread apart and took up defensive positions. The fourth man walked forward, picked up the parachute, and examined it for a second before holding it up and calling out to his compatriots. The parachute was torn. Moisture on it suggested it had not been long laying in the desert. The wind betrayed what direction it came from. 

After a brief exchange among the militiamen in Arabic, they piled back into the technical, turned around, and headed back in the opposite direction at speed. After executing a broad sweep over the surrounding terrain and finding no signs of life, they decided to return to camp immediately and show their discovery to the American “advisers” stationed there.