Free Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) by T.S. O'Neil Page B

protective headgear with eye protective visors, and individual bullet resistant vests. 
    The Blackhawk had flown directly from Bogota, where the CN Unit was undergoing MOUT training, as its four external extended-range fuel tanks negated the need for refueling prior to reaching their LZ. The pilots wore NVGs supplied by the SF c adre, but serious limitations in the ability to accurately perceive depth made the devices a mixed blessing. 
    The Blackhawk was an export version and as such lacked most of the modern electronic enhancements that increased situ ational awareness, such as a Forward Looking Infrared Thermal Imager (FLIR). To compensate for this shortcoming, the SF master sergeant carried a small handheld infrared camera in a pouch on his load-bearing vest. The camera allowed him to spot heat signatures from behind covered locations― he could literally see through walls. 
    The copter circled the island once and located the yacht.
    While the Blackhawk hovered, the master sergeant brought the IR Scope to his eye and scanned the boat. He noted that the engines were cold and he noticed no other heat signatures. He spoke into his microphone and a few seconds later, the crew chief opened the right side troop door and kicked out a heavy rope. Two troopers filed towards the thick white line, gripped it with heavy gloves, and descended to the dock. Once they were both on the ground, they quickly disappeared on board.
    The Blackhawk continued towards the center of the island and the pilot selected the FOB’s slightly overgrown airstrip for a landing zone. The young pilot slammed the Blackhawk down hard enough to earn a withering look from the chief warrant officer, and reactively shrugged his shoulders as if to apologize. 
    Michael and Ramos were alerted by the distinctive, rapid, throaty wump of the Blackhawk’s arrival. Blackfox jumped to his feet and stared off in the direction of the noise.
    “Marines?”
    Ramos shook his head, “No, we use mostly UH1s for transport. Aside from you gringos, the only one with Blackhawks is the Counter-Narcotics Brigade.”
    “We need to go,” said Michael while shaking Char awake. 
    “Why? They are probably just doing some training,” said Ramos reassuringly. 
    “If you want to stay, then stay. Maybe they can drop you off in Turbo, but we’re leaving.” Char awoke and heard enough to know things had taken a sudden turn for the worse. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his bag. 
    “Okay, we go,” said Ramos. 
    They all heard the distinct high-pitched whistle of illumination flares rocketing skyward.
    “Bad news,” said Char.
    “Tell me something we don’t know,” answered Michael. I nstinctively, they hit the deck, while Ramos took shelter beneath the crawlspace under the cook shack, opened the trap door, and boosted himself inside. 
    Char and Michael looked at each other as if to say, “No shit” and quickly followed. They silently hunkered down below the four-foot walls of the hut and watched the slowly descending flare flood light through the tall screen windows. 
    No voices betrayed the raiding party’s presence, but there was the sound of soft footfalls on the hard packed earth that surrounded the C-Huts. The team approached the FOB with the SF master sergeant in the lead. He scanned the buildings as they approached and aside from the still smoldering grill, found no other heat source. 
    He began scanning the sides of each plywood building, looking for a heat signature that indicated the presence of their prey. 
    Michael heard a soft explosive pop followed by a loud one and assumed the raid party was systematically using small explosive charges to blow the padlocks securing the C-huts, then throwing in a flash-bang grenade to stun any defenders.
    Ramos duck walked over to Michael and whispered som ething. An intense murmured negotiation ensued, punctuated by several softly spoken curses in both English and Spanish. 
    “Don’t worry, Michael, no one gets