Page 107 of Spymaster

The American team leader bought dinner for everyone and then spent a good two hours with the crew going over weather conditions, wind speeds aloft, altitude calculations, and other equations. He was one of the most thorough “customers” they had ever given a ride to.

“Thirty seconds!” the jumpmaster yelled.

The team had already double-checked each other’s gear and then had checked again. Standing at the ramp with their wingsuits, low-vis helmets, night-vision goggles, and oxygen masks, they looked spooky—like four dark superheroes out of some postapocalyptic comic book.

“Ten seconds!” the jumpmaster yelled.

They were all assembled near the edge of the ramp now. The wind was practically deafening, and it was much colder than it had been a few feet back. Technically, they were about to jump into Russia.

Harvath raised his gloved fist and gave everyone a bump. He’d be the last one out in case anything went wrong.

Ashby would go first, followed by Palmer, then Staelin, and finally Harvath. Had they clumped together, they might have created a significant radar signature. So instead, they were to take different glide paths to the same broad drop zone.

In their packs, they carried suppressed pistols, radios, individual med kits, a ton of cash, maps, and some compact, very high-tech equipment. President Porter, Bob McGee, and Lydia Ryan had wanted to ensure that they were as self-sufficient as possible.

“On the green!” the jumpmaster yelled, pointing to the light near the ramp. “On the green!”

Harvath glanced one last time at the infrared lights on the backs of everyone’s helmets. They were all working. He’d be able to track them all the way down.

“Five, four, three, two, one!” shouted the jumpmaster as the light turned green. “Go! Go! Go!”

One by one, the team dove, headfirst, off the ramp at the rear of the aircraft and tumbled through the bitterly cold night sky.

Quickly righting themselves, they extended their limbs, spread-eagled, and began to glide.

Harvath, like the other team members, watched the computer strapped to his wrist. It provided a range of important data, including altitude, speed, direction, and distance to target.

He had jumped with a wingsuit a handful of times before, but had done so in relatively controlled environments without much gear. The added weight they were now all required to carry had been a big source of back and forth with the flight crew, as they tried to decide where and when to green-light the team to jump.

Sailing through the moonless pitch-black, the only thing Harvath could see through his NVGs were the lights on his team’s helmets as they floated through the darkness ahead of him.

Per the course they had charted, they anticipated being in Lithuanian airspace for several minutes before they crossed into Kaliningrad’s.

Looking at his wrist, he did a quick bit of math. There’d be an alarm reminding them when to pop their chutes, but he didn’t want to depend on a computer. That wasn’t how the OSS would have done it.

Adjusting his trajectory, he continued to glide. There was absolutely no other feeling in the world like it.

He continued to check his speed, stunned at how fast they were moving. The pilots had said there would be a favorable wind, but this was amazing.

A minute and a half later, he looked at his wrist and saw they were about to cross into Russian airspace.

Ahead, he could see each helmet already curving left. They were all precisely following the flight path. According to NATO analysis, there was a gap in Kaliningrad’s radar system. By hitting it one at a time, they could slip through the crack without anyone knowing. Harvath followed their lead and adjusted his course to match.

The altimeter spun wildly, like a countdown clock on speed. The drop zone was coming up fast.

They had picked a spot that had “looked good,” but that could have, for all they knew, belonged to some trigger-happy Russian farmer. According to the Lithuanians, it was a rotating livestock pasture that wasn’t currently being used.

Giving his altitude and location one last check, he flared his wingsuit to help reduce his speed and popped his chute. The large black canopy burst into the air and unfurled above him.

He grabbed the toggles and steered himself in just as the alarm on his wrist computer vibrated. Below him, he marked the positions, and speeds, of everyone else. All of their chutes appeared to have deployed, and they were expertly navigating the final distance to the ground.

Just before he reached the grass, he pulled down on the toggles and flared his chute, slowing himself down as he had done with the wingsuit.

Bending his knees, he touched down and jogged forward to dissipate the energy of his landing.

It was textbook. Perfect, even. As his canopy collapsed behind him, he did a quick visual check to make sure everyone else had landed safely. They had.

Wriggling out of his harness, he felt something soft underfoot. Looking down, he saw what it was—cow shit.Freshcow shit.

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