Section 8 Read Free Page A

the well-worn handle of the machete and whipped the blade out and down. The razor-sharp blade sliced into the foot high grass—and through something else.

Jenkins leaned over and picked up the still wriggling body of a beheaded snake. "Very deadly," he commented as he tossed it aside. "Got to watch out for bad things in the grass."

Vaughn stood still for a moment, then followed his team sergeant. Without another comment they continued on to the helicopters. Jenkins slapped Vaughn on the back as he turned for the second bird while Vaughn turned toward the first. But then Vaughn paused and reached out, grabbing his brother-in-law by the arm and pulling him close.

"Hey, Frank," he whispered harshly. "This is the last mission for you. Don't do nothing stupid."

Jenkins smiled. "For sure, Jim. You watch your own ass. Linda will—" The smile was suddenly gone, and he didn't complete the sentence. The two stood awkwardly for a moment, then both of them nodded and turned toward their respective aircraft.

What Vaughn didn't mention was the promise he had made his sister to keep her husband out of any last mission—a promise he had known he couldn't keep as soon as he made it, because Frank Jenkins wasn't the type of man to be held back from doing his duty. But Vaughn had made the promise to give his sister peace of mind. She'd lost her first husband in the terrorist attack on the Pentagon on 9/11, and it was a testament to her love for Jenkins that she had married him though his job put him on the front line on the war against terrorism.

Reaching his helicopter, Vaughn scanned the other four birds and got the pilots' attention by circling his arm above his head, indicating it was time to power up. He climbed onboard the aging UH-1 Huey and sat on the web seat directly behind the pilots, facing outboard. Another Delta Force man took the seat next to him. Vaughn's MP-5 submachine gun dangled over his shoulder and he put the designator pack on the floor between his legs.

The turbine engine above his head came to life with a loud whine. Vaughn checked his watch again. Three minutes before liftoff. Even though the aircraft were Filipino, the pilots were Americans, and like Vaughn, dressed in unmarked uniforms. They were from the elite Nightstalkers of Task Force 160, the best chopper pilots in the world. All the pilots selected for this mission were old warrant officers, as most of the newer 160 pilots had never flown a Huey, being brought up on the more modern Blackhawk. Vaughn grabbed a headset from a hook over his head and placed the cup over his ears so he could listen to the crew on the intercom.

"One minute," the pilot announced.

Vaughn looked up. He knew the pilots were ready to hit their stopwatches and would lift off on time. This entire mission depended on everyone doing their job at exactly the right second. The Filipino commandos filled out the rest of the space on the web seats in the chopper. In addition to the Delta operator on his left, there were two American "advisors" in the rear of each chopper to complement the Filipinos.

In fact, the Americans were running the show, and Vaughn was the senior U.S. Army man. A Filipino colonel was technically in charge of the commandos and the raid, since it was taking place in his country, but the older man had declined to participate, claiming it was more important that he remain behind to "supervise." Even though there was nothing to supervise. There would be no radio communication at all. The last thing anyone from here to Washington wanted was a recording of American voices in combat operations in a place where they weren't supposed to be.

Vaughn opened the backpack and pulled out a bulky object that looked like a set of binoculars piggybacked onto a square green metal box, with a glass eye at the front end and a small display screen on the rear. The manufacturer called it "man portable," and at thirty-two pounds, Vaughn supposed it was, but it was an awkward thing to