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For a long moment, Hendricks and Joquin stood and stared into the white oblivion, unable to believe what they had just witnessed. Almost as if mesmerized, Hendricks spoke into the intercom on his oxygen mask. "Captain, they're gone."
Brannon lost no time in easing the throttles forward until the airspeed instruments read two hundred knots, half the C-17's cruising speed. The cargo door was closed and the oxygen system in the cargo bay replenished. Stafford's next act of business was to switch to a secure frequency and radio the U.S.
South Atlantic Command Headquarters to report that the jump went as scheduled. Then he turned to Brannon.
"I hope they make it," he said quietly.
"If they do, it will be because you sent them out into a blast of air a good two hundred and fifty miles an hour less in strength than our normal cruising speed."
"I hope to God I didn't give them away," said Stafford, without remorse. "But it seemed certain death to subject them to such an explosive gust."
"You won't get an argument from me," Brannon said somberly.
Stafford sighed heavily as he reengaged the automatic pilot. "Not our responsibility any longer. We dropped them right on a dime." Then he paused, staring into the ominous white clouds that whipped past the windshield and obscured all view. "I pray they all get down safely."
Brannon looked at him askance. "I didn't know you were a praying man."
"Only during traumatic times."
"They'll make it down," said Brannon, with a sense of optimism. "It's after they hit the ground that hell could break loose."
Stafford shook his head. "I wouldn't want to g
o up against those guys that just jumped. I'll bet their attack will be a walk in the park."
Stafford had no idea how dead wrong he was.
The radar operator in the security building headquarters next to the control center picked up a phone as he studied the line sweep around his radar screen. "Mr. Wolf. Do you have a moment?"
A few minutes later, Hugo Wolf walked briskly into the small darkened room filled with electronic units. "Yes, what is it?"
"Sir, the American supply aircraft suddenly reduced its speed."
"Yes, I'm aware of that. Our radio intercepted a message from them saying they were having engine trouble."
"Do you think it might be a ruse?"
"Has it strayed from its normal flight path?" asked Hugo.
The radar operator shook his head. "No, sir. The plane is ten miles out."
"You see nothing else on the screen?"
"Only the usual interference during and immediately after an ice storm."
Hugo put a hand on the operator's shoulder. "Follow her course to make sure she doesn't double back, and keep a sharp eye for a hostile intrusion from the sea or air."
"And behind us, sir?"
"Now, who do you think would have the powers to cross the mountains or trek over the ice shelf in the middle of an ice storm?"
The operator shrugged. "No one. Certainly no one who is human."
Hugo grinned. "Exactly."
Air Force General Jeffry Coburn laid the phone back in its receiver and looked across the long table in the war room deep beneath the Pentagon. "Mr. President, Major Cleary and his unified command have exited the aircraft."
The Joint Chiefs and their aides were seated in a theaterlike section of a long room whose massive walls were covered with huge monitors and screens showing scenes of Army bases, Navy ships, and Air Force fields around the globe. The current status of ships at sea and military aircraft in the air were constantly monitored, especially the big transports carrying the hastily assembled Special Forces from the United States.
