Chapter 74 - The Tempest Drop
The rear cargo ramp of the MV-22 Osprey lowered into a raging wall of freezing Pacific air.
At twelve thousand feet, the ocean below looked like a churning cauldron of black slate, illuminated only by intermittent flashes of cloud-to-water lightning. The wind howled against the carbon-fiber fuselage, screaming with the force of an offshore squall.
I stood on the edge of the ramp, fully clad in a drysuit, tactical combat rig, and an MC-5 free-fall parachute system. Beside me stood Lieutenant Miller, the team leader for DEVGRU’s Red Squadron, his eyes grim beneath his night-vision goggles.
"Surface radar shows the *Caspian Ghost* two miles ahead, bearing two-four-zero," Miller shouted over the roar of the twin tiltrotors. "She’s a converted deep-sea icebreaker—reinforced double hull, automated defense turrets on the superstructure, and a crew of ex-mercenaries who don't care about the Geneva Convention. Landing on that deck in this weather is going to feel like hitting a bucking bull on concrete."
"Then don't miss the superstructure," I replied, pulling down my high-altitude oxygen mask and checking the seal.
The green jump light on the bulkhead flashed to life.
"Go! Go! Go!" Miller yelled, tapping my shoulder.
I plunged backward off the ramp into the void.
The sensation of free-fall was instantaneous and brutal. The freezing air battered my body, the rain hitting my tactical visor like lead shot. Below me, the Pacific expanded rapidly, a vast expanse of white-capped swells rising like mountain ranges in the dark.
I locked my limbs into an aerodynamic spread, my helmet display feeding me telemetry: altitude eight thousand, speed one hundred and forty knots, distance to target 1.4 nautical miles.
Through the gloom, the dark silhouette of the *Caspian Ghost* emerged. She was an imposing beast of black iron and rust-streaked steel, plowing through the towering swells like an armored wedge. Spray exploded across her bow in massive white plumes, washed over the foredeck by waves that could crush an ordinary craft.
"Three thousand feet. Stand by for deployment," my tactical computer chimed.
At fifteen hundred feet, I pulled the ripcord.
The canopy opened with a violent snap that wrenched my spine. The howling gale instantly caught the fabric, swinging me horizontally across the boiling surface of the water. Fighting the steering toggles, I aimed directly for the flat expanse of the vessel's rear helipad.
The ship’s automated defenses suddenly came alive. A dual-barrel 30mm CIWS turret near the bridge turned with a metallic shriek, firing a stream of tracer rounds into the sky. The red fireballs ripped through the clouds hundreds of yards to my left—aimed at the Osprey, entirely blind to the six human shadows dropping silently through the storm.
Fifty feet. Thirty feet.
The stern of the ship bucked upward violently as a forty-foot wave crested beneath it.
I cut the steering toggles, flared the canopy, and slammed boots-first into the diamond-plate steel deck. I hit the surface running, rolled beneath a cargo tie-down cleat, and punched the quick-release harness before the wind could drag me over the side into the churning wake.
Behind me, five more canopies collapsed onto the deck. Miller and his men were down, weapons raised, suppressors gleaming in the rain.
I drew my customized Sig Sauer MCX Rattler, flicking the selector switch from safe to semi.
"Deck secure," Miller signaled via throat mic. "Breaching charges on the engine access hatch."
May you like
"No charges," I replied, racking the charging handle. "I know this ship’s layout. Clara pulled the blueprints from my personal terminal in Tahoe. The access trunk to the command deck is right under our feet. Let's go meet my father."
***
