Free Reaping The Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 3) by Michael R. Hicks Page B

him. “And the scars on my face are from a grenade. So yeah, I’ve seen a little action.”
    The other men nodded somberly.  
    “But Jack,” Stoltenberg protested, his face splitting into a wide grin, “all that means is you know how to get shot.”
    ***
    The flight from Ramstein was uneventful, and Jack even managed to get a little sleep before the C-130 began its descent into Incirlik Air Base. Jack looked at his watch. It was just past 0100, or one o’clock in the morning.  
    After landing, their plane taxied to a revetment area at the northeast corner of the airfield. The crew chief lowered the ramp and ushered them out.  
    Jack led the others down the ramp to where an Air Force sergeant in a flight uniform awaited them. “This way, sir,” he said, gesturing for Jack and the others to follow.
    “Do you know what the hell’s going on?” Jack asked.
    “The pilot’ll brief you, sir. This way.”
    He led them to an Air Force Special Operations Command CV-22 Osprey, its huge wingtip rotors already spinning. The sergeant, who turned out to be the aircraft’s crew chief, guided them aboard through the rear ramp. The men quickly settled into their seats, with Jack and the other officers sitting nearest the ramp.  
    The crew chief handed them headsets and double-checked that they could hear over the intercom. Jack gave a thumbs-up. A few moments later, the engines began to howl and the Osprey lifted off.
    “Welcome aboard, boys and girls,” the pilot said. “Hold on to your hats, use the puke bags if you feel like giving back your breakfast, and enjoy the nighttime tour of Turkey’s friendly skies.”
    “Pilot, this is Major Dawson,” Jack said. “Do you have any idea what our mission orders are?”
    “I don’t know about your orders, major, but mine are to fly you and your merry band of warriors just shy of five hundred miles northeast of here to the thriving metropolis of Damlacik, which is in easy pissing distance of the border with our friendly neighborhood Iranians.”
    “Is that it?” Alvarez said, shooting Jack an I don’t believe this shit look. “You don’t have any more details on this mission?”
    “Well, if you want to get technical,” the pilot replied, “my orders are to fly you to Damlacik, where Major Dawson, as in Major Dawson personally, will receive further instructions over the radio on frequency 149.800 megahertz, and that I’m supposed to do whatever the hell you tell me to do. I think the military-speak was that you have full operational discretion. I’m fine with anything you order me to do except giving up cartoons on Saturday. That’s it. Sounds fun, huh?”
    “Yeah,” Jack grated. “A goddamn barrel of monkeys.”
    “This is very strange, Jack,” Terje said. “How can we do…whatever we are supposed to do if we have no idea what it is?”
    “It’s one of the joys of ‘need to know’ taken to an extreme,” Jack told him. “I guess we just have to hope that whoever is on the other end of the radio when we get to Damlacik has a clue.”
    Alvarez looked disgusted. Stoltenberg gave a Cheshire Cat smile in the darkened compartment and shook his head. Terje sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes.  
    An hour and a half later, the pilot announced, “We’re going feet wet over Lake Van, boys and girls, about forty minutes out from the target. We’re going to be making a low approach to keep the Iranians from painting us on their radar and getting their panties in a bunch. The ride’s going to be a bit rough once we go feet dry on the far side of the lake, so get your barf bags ready.”
    “If we were on a Norwegian plane,” Stoltenberg told him, “we’d have in-flight service and free drinks. Don’t you have any whiskey?”
    “Yeah,” the pilot told him, “but that’s only for the pilots. Passengers have to fend for themselves.”
    The pilot and Stoltenberg shared a laugh as the CV-22 pitched over and dove toward the black water of Lake Van,