Masters of War by Chris Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

straight through five of them. A nickname, and a little piece of Regimental history, had been born. This evening, though, the guys looked almost identical, in their multicam and helmets with NV goggles perched on top. The five-klick tab was long enough that they didn’t want to be wearing plate hangers, though their CamelBaks full of fresh water were essential.
    The loadmaster appeared at the tailgate of the Sea Knight, bulky headphones covering his ears and a mike at his mouth. With a wide sweep of his arms he indicated that Danny’s patrol should embark.
    ‘Let’s go, fellas,’ Boydie yelled over the noise. The four men jogged up the tailgate as the marshals cleared the deck ready for take-off. Danny nodded a greeting as he passed the rear-gunner on his way into the belly of the Sea Knight. Each member of the patrol removed his bergen and stowed it at his feet. Danny took a seat with his back to the side wall – Tommo to his left, the door-gunner to his right – and lightly clutched the webbing behind him while connecting his radio to the aircraft comms system. Five Bellies and Boydie, sitting directly opposite on the other side of the black cylindrical long-range fuel tank – it looked like nothing so much as a massive rubber sausage – did the same. The loadie’s voice came over Danny’s earpiece, a gravelly Midwestern drawl. ‘We have thirty seconds till take-off . . . three-zero seconds till take-off.’
    The tailgate remained open. The rear-gunner was hunkered over his Minigun looking like he was about to lay down fire on the aircraft carrier itself. Through the opening, Danny could just make out a marshal in a yellow jacket receding from the LZ. The pitch of the Sea Knight’s engines rose, and with a low judder the chopper lifted slowly up from the carrier. It made a forty-five-degree turn so that it was heading towards land, and then gained speed.
    With each member of the patrol hooked into the comms system, ordinary conversation was out of the question. The flight would be conducted largely in silence as each man prepared himself mentally for the op. Danny had other preparations to make too. He bent down and removed a small GPS unit from the top of his pack, along with a roll of gaffer tape. Boydie had designated him lead scout. They’d already entered into the GPS units the coordinates of their expected LUP and OP as waypoints, as well as two emergency RV locations in case they were bumped. If the guys got into a contact and scattered, each man would know where to head: make your way to the first RV, wait out for an hour and, if no one arrives, head for the second RV and wait out for another hour, before walking back on a bearing for the original drop point.
    Hope for the best, plan for the worst.
    Now Danny took the opportunity to tape the GPS unit securely to the body of his M4 – easy to locate without having to fumble for it in the darkness, and easy to read even while holding your weapon. He double-checked the rest of his gear. His Sig 9mm was clipped across his chest and his belt kit contained extra ammunition – he’d elected to stock up on this at the expense of full rations as they didn’t intend to be on the ground for more than twenty-four hours. Two flashbangs, two frags. A black-handled utility knife. Also a couple of personal items: a dented, burnished Zippo lighter with the letters ‘SB’ engraved in fussy copperplate. And a second knife, its five-inch blade narrower than that of the utility knife but just as sharp, its handle fashioned from ivory. There weren’t many kids who’d receive a gift like that on their thirteenth birthday, but there weren’t many kids who had Taff Davies as a godfather. ‘A man always has need of a good knife, kiddo,’ he’d said. Danny remembered it like it was yesterday.
    He looked through a small window just to his right. It was almost fully dark now, but the reflection of the moon on the water, combined with the lights from the Sea Knight