Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [62]
Jack had learned helicopter assault tactics in the Army, and he'd used those skills on many Delta Force missions. Swinging on a fast-rope wasn't a problem for him, though he knew it would be a lot tougher from a moving aircraft.
"Listen, Fogarty, I can do this." Jack's tone was sure.
"Your job is to get me over that truck."
"Weehawken is two minutes ahead. After that it's the ramp and the tunnel," Fogarty's copilot warned.
Fogarty grunted. "Okay, Bauer, you win. Get ready to move when I give the signal. We'll reach the ramp in approximately two minutes. After that, you'll have about a minute to make your descent before we'll have to pull up."
Bauer nodded. "Do it."
Adrenaline feeding his veins, Jack slipped a new clip into the Glock, then tucked the weapon into its holster. The few doubts he had burned away as he focused on the details, inspecting the fast-rope on the chopper. Because it wasn't anchored to the ground, the fast-rope had to be thick, heavy, and long to prevent it from being jerked around by the tremendous down draft from the rotors. This rope looked good. It was at least fifty millimeters in diameter and it was more than one hundred feet long — more than sufficient for a descent.
Gloves were essential in a descent like this, otherwise friction could strip his palms raw. Fortunately there were gloves and knee pads among the chopper's stores, though Jack could find no helmet — not even a hockey-style head protector like the ones he'd worn in Delta.
"Bauer, we're beyond the last overpass and dropping now. Get ready to move," Captain Fogarty warned in Jack's ear.
Jack inhaled, his heartbeat slowing as he took control of his breathing and his impatience, focused on his actions. The chopper's sudden descent made his stomach lurch. He ignored the discomfort, clipped a deadweight to the end of the rope, and tossed it through the open door. The cord quickly unspooled to a length of sixty feet. He locked the winch, slipped the gloves over his hands, and seized the thick cable.
Jack could see the truck now, its shape outlined by four dim lights on top of the trailer.
"Go! Go now," Fogarty cried.
Still clinging to the rope, Jack stepped out of the helicopter. He dangled for a moment, the rotor blades throbbing above, the traffic roaring below, the pilot's voice lost in the howling maelstrom.
Buffeted by the merciless downdraft, Jack waited for the chopper to line up over the vehicle. Then the rope began to spin. Without hooks or a safety harness, there was nothing to hold Jack to that lifeline but the strength of his grip. Now the wild movement threatened to throw him off. And the spinning would only get worse the longer he hung there.
Captain Fogarty swooped low and positioned the chopper directly over the speeding truck. Still twisting in the wind, Jack aimed his feet at the swaying silver trailer far beneath the soles of his boots.
Finally, Jack eased his grip on the rope and began the descent...
* * *
9:20:29 P.M. EDT
Interstate 495, at the Weehawken Exit
New Jersey
Inside the rumbling trailer, the members of the Warriors of God cult heard the rotors beating over their heads. Farshid Amadani — the Hawk — felt three pairs of eyes watching him expectantly, waiting for him to issue a command.
"Have they found us, Hawk?" one man asked, his voice trembling with emotion.
"They found us at the stadium, my friend. It was only a matter of time before they tracked us down," the former mujahideen replied, his tone resigned.
The throbbing intensified as the helicopter descended upon the rumbling truck. Inside the frailer, the air was hot and suffocating, tinged with the chemical taint of explosives.
"Turn out the lights," the Hawk commanded.
In a moment, the interior of the cavernous frailer was plunged into darkness. Amadani used a dim emergency flashlight pulled from his black utility vest to climb the stacked crates of C-4. He moved with caution, careful to avoid the crisscrossing detonation cords.
In the dull glow of