Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [49]
“How far to the ground?” Jackson asked, trying to speak calmly through his clenched teeth.
“Can’t say for sure, sir. The electronics have crapped out on every level. Best thing is to try to get a visual.”
The odds of anything visual did not look good, not when each viewport and canopy was utterly masked by the howling fury of the storm. But there was nothing else for it. Lights blazed in all directions, powerful landing lamps designed to brighten even the darkest environments. Here they showed little or nothing except the raging storm.
In the end, it was the proximity sensors—the one piece of electronics that seemed capable of penetrating the dense curtain of that churning atmosphere—that saved them. A howling alarm clanged, and Grafton immediately pulled back on the stick, bringing up the bow as the engines pushed, working hard to halt the craft’s plummeting descent.
Then they crashed. The impact was bone-jarring, and Jackson painfully bit his tongue as the boat came to a sudden halt. There was still that blinding whiteness outside, but it was clear that they no longer were moving.
“Tommy, come in. This is Mikey. Do you read? Tommy, come in!” the radioman repeated, clutching his mike as if it were the last remaining link to civilization, even to humankind in general.
But there was only that churning storm.
Eleven: Ambush in Ice
“Everybody check in,” Jackson ordered. “Any broken bones?”
A series of “Negative” replies crackled through his communicator. The cabin lights were on, and he could see all of his men moving out of their seats. The two pilots were working with instruments at the front of the drop boat while the gunner climbed into view, emerging from his low front turret. The SEALS, meanwhile, unstrapped themselves from their seats and picked up their gear, checking each piece for damage. Jackson heard a certain amount of muted cursing and grousing, but he was pleased to see that despite their dire straits, there was no sign of panic among the members of his Team.
“Grafty? I take it we’re not driving anywhere from here?” the LT asked Coxswain Grafton.
“Sorry to say, sir, I don’t think so. We took some structural damage on the gear and knocked the crap out of our port thrusters. I’ve got some battery power, but I wouldn’t trust the rockets even if I could get ’em to fire. I’m pretty sure there are some fuel leaks out there, and we don’t want to blow ourselves up.”
“No, I guess we don’t,” the lieutenant replied. “Do you think you can get the canopy open?”
“Looks like we’ll be able to, LT. I figured I’d wait till the last minute, since it doesn’t look too nice out there,” the coxswain replied.
“We’ll be moving out on foot. You and your crew better come with us. We’ll get you outfitted with some firepower.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Grafton replied. All three navy crewmen wore pressure suits, unarmored versions of the heavier SEALS Mark IV suits, so they would be able to survive in that environment. Though they lacked the rigorous training and physical fitness regimen of the Teammates, they wouldn’t be carrying anywhere near as much gear, so Jackson hoped they’d be able to keep up.
Anyway, there wasn’t another alternative. Chief Harris took care of arming the boat’s crew, giving each of the two pilots one of the spare VP90 pistols, high-powered handguns firing 10-mm rounds, their accuracy enhanced by a laser spotter attached just above the barrel. The weapon could be set to semi- or full-automatic firing, but Harris encouraged the swabbies not to use the latter setting unless they wanted to use up all their ammunition in the first ten seconds of firing. Next, the chief was able to dig up a spare G15 for the gunner.
Jackson already was turning to the next order of business. “Any idea where Tommy came down?” he asked the coxswain.
“Well, off to the port side somewhere, sir,” Grafton replied. “But it could be a hundred yards or ten klicks for all we can see through this shit. Excuse me, this crap.”
“‘Shit’ will do,” the lieutenant agreed,