Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(99)

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Chapter Twenty




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AFTER THIRTEEN YEARS and hundreds of insertions, Rawls had identified certain similarities no matter the mission. There was the edgy pressure that knotted the belly and shoulders. Not fear so much as a low-grade tension where preparation gave way to anticipation. After all of the planning, monitoring, and assessing, the green light was finally given and all that groundwork was about to be put to the test. There was the cramped, silent flight where legs and feet fell numb, where bodies were buffered by bone-rattling vibrations, where equipment checks were rampant and the smell of jet fuel overpowered everything. There was the deploying into darkness and unfamiliar territory. Sure, the satellite images often provided reference points, but the insertions themselves took place in unfamiliar, often alien landscapes.

Until today . . .

Rawls silently shook his head, his arm tightening around Faith’s frail body. Oh, the tension was there, only this time that edgy pressure butted against fear. Not fear for his safety, or any of the other experienced warriors silently stretched out in the helicopter, but fear for Faith.

Although everyone’s vulnerability had gone up exponentially when Wolf and Cosky had flatly refused Kait’s appeal to join the mission. They’d vehemently opposed Kait’s inclusion, insisting that William and One Bird were fully capable of handling any injuries, and that her inclusion was unnecessary and a potential distraction. Cosky and Wolf’s intense reaction had reinforced just how dangerous this mission was.

But Faith didn’t belong in this dark, dangerous world either. She was as ill-equipped for this operation as Kait was. She had no business being on this helicopter, awaiting the one-minute prep call for insertion.

A couple minutes earlier, Wolf had appeared in the cockpit doorway and held up his right hand, all five fingers splayed. The universal five-minute warning. The interior of the bird was murky, the only light piercing the darkness was the rosy-red digital displays in the cockpit. The ruddy burn had burnished the big Arapaho’s hand until his fingers looked rimmed in fire.

Faith had stiffened in his arms even more. With a deep breath he’d pressed a comforting kiss to the top of her head. Rather than the smothering stench of jet fuel, the scent of strawberries and raspberries washed over him.

The scent was coming from her hair. He recognized it from the past two nights he’d spent in her bed. And like any good hound dog, his dick had imprinted on that particular combination of berries as something to celebrate, which it was currently doing with an enthusiastic salute.

Another first—the first time in his military career he’d dropped into hostile territory with an erection. A wry smile curved his mouth even as the tension cinched another notch tighter.

But the big first currently topping his list of Holy Shits—although it wasn’t a first so much as a second—was their insertion point. He was about to drop his boots on United States soil for the second time in his career. Sure, he’d practiced warfare on home ground—plenty of training missions took place within US borders. But a true insertion—an actual close-quarters battle—he shook his head in disbelief.

Operating within US borders was a violation of the Posse Comitatus Act—for him, Zane, Cosky, and Mac at least. Wolf and his crew? Hell, they didn’t appear to be operating under the umbrella of any branch of the United States military. Which meant that while this operation broke at least a dozen laws, the Shadow Mountain teams didn’t need to worry about the Posse Comitatus. Not like he and the rest of his teammates did.

Few soldiers would ever violate the Posse Comitatus during their careers. Yet here he was about to disregard it for a second time. The last time they’d stuck their necks out on US soil, they’d had them all but chopped off. You’d think they would have learned something from that lesson.

But hands down the strangest aspect of this operation was how familiar he was with the territory. He’d recognized the terrain the instant Wolf had put the first satellite image up on the big screen.

Mount Hamilton.

At just over forty-two hundred feet, Mount Hamilton looked out over Silicon Valley. He’d recognized the Lick Observatory on the satellite images. The giant white dome, which perched at the top of the mountain and was surrounded by clusters of smaller white domes and white buildings, was instantly recognizable.

The Lick Observatory—an astronomical observatory operated by the University of California—was twenty miles up State Route 130. Until this morning, he’d only seen the observatory from the ground, up close and personal. Mount Hamilton Road was a popular trek for bikers. The twenty-mile course to the top of the mountain was a gradual and scenic ascent. Once bicyclists reached the observatory, it was customary to break for lunch and a breather before heading back down to their vehicles. He’d pedaled the route half a dozen times, so he was familiar with the overall layout of their insertion point.

Not that their target was the Lick Observatory, or even at the top of the mountain. It was tucked into one of the canyons five miles up.

The satellite image had zeroed in close enough to pick up the security cameras ringing the building’s flat roof. The angle and quantity of cameras would give the bastards inside a 360-degree view of the grounds below.

Wolf stepped into the cockpit doorway again. This time he held up his index finger. Translation, one minute until touchdown.