Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(78)

As the bird settled on the ground, he expected Wolf’s men to rise in anticipation of departing the cramped interior. But nobody moved. The rotor slowed, slowed even more. Still no movement from anyone in the bird. The engine died, and blades went still.

But nobody moved a f*cking muscle.

What the hell?

Cosky shifted, shook Kait awake, and started to rise to his feet, only to slowly settle back with a puzzled frown as Jude turned his head and said something to him.

As his lieutenant’s gaze searched out his own, Mac could read the same questions in those flat gray eyes. Where the hell had they taken them and what the f*ck were they waiting for?

Wolf suddenly rolled his head toward Mac and opened his eyes. “We aren’t there yet,” he said, as though he’d read Mac’s mind.

Okay . . .

“We’re refueling?” he asked. It was the only thing that made sense, but he didn’t hear any people or machinery outside.

“Not exactly,” Wolf murmured, facing forward again and closing his eyes.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. The * was just f*cking with him now.

Suddenly an intense whining hum came from outside. The bird started to drop. The sensation was unmistakable. They were sinking. He stretched again and looked out the cockpit window. Sure enough, he couldn’t see the mountain peaks anymore, just a wall of green trees in the distance. Frowning, he pressed his palm against the wall, but the vibrations from the engine were gone. So was the roar from the rotor. The chopper wasn’t descending under its own power. Shifting slightly so he could see out the cockpit windows without craning his neck, he watched the bank of trees give way to pitch black.

That blackness obscuring the windows wasn’t coming from night, more like a glossy wall. They were sinking into a tunnel or shaft or something similar, and from the hum beneath them and the sensation of moving, they were obviously still descending. It was like being in another elevator.

The drop down seemed to take forever, a minute at least. Maybe two. And then a clang sounded. With a jolt, the bird stopped moving. More clanging from outside, along with the roar of laboring equipment and the shout of voices.

The men camped out along the walls came alive. One of them unlocked the sliding door and forced it open. Mac winced as bright light flooded the dark interior of the craft, temporarily blinding him. By the time his eyes adjusted, Wolf’s men were lined up and disembarking. All he could make out between the huge bodies bristling with weapons and equipment was the dull gray of concrete.

He waited until the last of Wolf’s men hopped off the chopper before rising to his feet and following them to the door. Before disembarking, he took a moment to survey his new surroundings.

He’d been right about the concrete. Apparently Wolf had flown them to a garage. At least that’s what the facility looked like—a giant, cavernous, domed, underground parking facility . . . for aircraft. Slowly he dropped down to the concrete floor and stepped aside so Cosky could disembark.

The place was huge—absolutely immense. It needed to be, considering the size and volume of the aircraft it housed. Not just helicopters either. Hell no—there were plenty of planes too. He spotted a C-12F Huron light transport/evac plane as well as a Raytheon for surveillance. And Jesus Christ, that looked like a motherf*cking Grizzly 11 airbus in the far corner.

Whomever the hell Wolf worked for, they were armed to the teeth.

Vaguely aware that Cosky had hopped out beside him and then stopped to stare, Mac took a couple of steps forward. As far as he could tell, there didn’t appear to be any hangar doors to this place, so how the hell did they transport the planes to the runway?

The memory of that mechanical hum flashed through his mind, along with the accompanying sense of sinking. They’d obviously landed the helicopter onto some kind of lift, and then the lift had retracted, lowering the craft underground. It would be easy enough to employ the same technology on the planes. They must have a runway nearby; from there they could taxi the planes onto their lifts. He looked up to find the ceiling was intact. A door must swing into place once the machine was lowered.

Jesus Christ, the engineering behind this facility was astounding.

Cosky let out a long, low, appreciative whistle. “I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

A kid with bright orange hair and a thunderstorm of freckles bustled over to them. His stained overalls were at least two sizes too big for his thin frame and marked him as a grease monkey.

But what he lacked in size, he made up for in attitude. “Hey, Commander, good to see you didn’t blow this one up too. Beniinookee is threatening to deduct the last one from your paycheck.”

At first Mac thought the kid was talking to him, but it quickly became apparent the guy was focused on Wolf.

So the big bastard was a commander too, but from what branch of military? Or was he even with the military?

It was past time to get some of his questions answered. And he’d start with the simplest, but most crucial one.

“Where the hell are we?” he demanded, the question directed at the orange-haired kid since Wolf had proved annoyingly vague in the helicopter.

The grease monkey turned to him with lifted eyebrows and something close to a smirk. “Mackenzie, isn’t it?” But he immediately turned back to Wolf. “You know a pool started on whether you’d actually bring them back against direct orders, but the pool was dropped after a day or so because nobody would take the odds against it.”