Without Sanction by Don Bentley

Author:Don Bentley [Bentley, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller
ISBN: 9781984805119
Google: -JDODwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B07SSQ22G4
Goodreads: 51257535
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2020-03-03T06:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SEVEN

An hour later, I was alone in a closet-sized mission planning room, prebreathing oxygen from an oxygen console. An Air Force physiological tech, or fizz, sat in the metal chair across from me, monitoring my vitals. Right now the tech’s job was fairly simple, but in another thirty minutes, his presence might make the difference between life and death.

The metal folding table in front of me was covered with maps, but at this point, they were more decorative than necessary. I’d verified the winds aloft, both current and predicted, every thousand feet from the surface up to twenty-five thousand. I’d planned my route, double-checked it, and then borrowed one of Fitz’s jumpmasters for a second look. Everything checked out. I had the necessary landmarks, headings, and altitudes memorized and the azimuths and GPS coordinates programmed into my jump board. I’d helped one of the Unit riggers pack my chute, stacking the canvas cells on top of one another, ensuring there was no fold or roll in the canopy’s nose or tail. In other words, the chute was rigged for a quick opening, which I would need.

Now there was nothing left to do but wait for the sun to set and hope that Syria’s fickle winds didn’t vary too much from the forecast. To say that this operation didn’t have much of a margin for error would be kind of like saying that the bottom of Niagara Falls was a little wet.

At first blush, the unexpected Assad offensive had left me with one hell of a problem. I could no longer travel by road to meet Einstein, since the Russians were strafing anything that moved. Helicopter insertion was out as well. Colonel Fitz could risk transiting through Russian-controlled airspace only once—on the way to rescue Shaw. But the rescue could happen only after I’d met with Einstein, verified his bona fides, and obtained Shaw’s location.

These constraints had left me back at the drawing board.

Okay, that wasn’t true. They had actually left me hoping that the Air Force weather forecaster, who looked all of seven days out of high school, was better at predicting the winds aloft than he was at growing a beard. I needed a way to slip past the Russian air force patrolling the Assad-controlled sector where Einstein wanted to meet.

Since the Army aviators couldn’t fly me, I’d have to fly myself.

If someone were to google the acronym HAHO, they would find dozens of cool pictures. These images would undoubtedly feature special operators wearing oxygen masks, and an assortment of impressive gear, as they glided across the sky beneath perfectly inflated parachutes. As I could attest, scores of otherwise intelligent young men had been seduced into becoming Rangers, SEALs, or Green Berets after seeing these recruiting-brochure-worthy HAHO pictures. In fact, the casual observer might come to the conclusion that the men depicted in these pictures were having the time of their lives.

And in this conclusion, the casual observer couldn’t be more wrong.

A HAHO—High Altitude, High Opening—jump was an infiltration

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