The distinctive whining of the high mounted, twin turbofan engines on the warthog deafened the covert operative as he clenched his body and braced against the wind. Operations had designed a clamp to hold him belly down to the fuselage of the A10 and had even welded on a couple of molded hand holds to grip, hand grips that were being held so tightly that the rubber was distorting color as the tank-killer screamed forward at 500 mph. The clandestine take off at a CIA airstrip on the Faroe Islands had been tough, but rushing just above the tips of the foamy waves was just as harrowing. The commando gritted his teeth and tried to focus his mind on the mission and to drown out the deafening airstream that enveloped him.
Finally, he thought, as the target came in sight: an island, remote, not on any civilian map. CIA intelligence had found it with one of its many spy satellites and had noticed awkward patterns of cargo shipping in this isolated area of the North Atlantic. U2 missions confirmed the construction of a paramilitary compound on the site and the operative known as Snake Eyes was tapped to check it out. After a month of planning and intensive training he was ready to execute his mission. With a grinding of his teeth and clenching of his jaw he rapped the canopy of the plane three times swiftly and braced himself. The pilot worked the add-on lever in the cockpit and the clamp holding the piggy-backing commando snuggly to the Thunderbolt released, sending him flailing wildly into the sky.
Snake Eyes tumbled about in the steel-blue sky, limbs a slave to the force of the wind, knowing he was so close to the surface of the frigid, torrid waters that it would feel like hitting concrete if he didn�t pull his parachute quickly. After moments of intense anxiety and struggling against the aftershock of the A10�s engines, he wrestled his hand to a pull on his back pack and tugged straight out. A black parachute popped open, caught the wind, sent him sailing higher into the air and stabilized his movement. His heart pounded in his chest as he eyed the near frozen waters below and descended rapidly.
The commando was dressed from head to toe in jet black combat gear made specifically for his person. His garment was made of a combination of Kevlar, spandex and neoprene so that it was rugged, skin tight and protected him from cold. The boots that dangled in the air were of similar construct as was the balaclava that completely covered his face and neck. Strapped onto his waist, chest and limbs were Kevlar bandoleers and belts of charcoal grey that were full of ammo and supplies. The operative armed himself with an Israeli Uzi, a trench knife and strapped to his back was a specialized fighting sword in the style of a katana save for a heaver, broader tip and raven�s head hilt. All the metal on his person was a dull black, even the blade of his sword: this commando dwelt in the darkness when at all possible.
Very shortly the tops of the waves came close to Snake Eye�s boots and he pulled another ring on his parachute to release his harness and send him plunging into the icy sea. With powerful, long strokes he swam in the frigid waters, his high-tech suit keeping him warm. Between strokes he reached up and pressed a button on the watertight visor that covered his eyes and a slight whirring could be heard in his earpiece. With a flicker of blue light he had improved his vision through science and was transmitting all he saw back to HQ. On his heads-up display the commando saw the time, temp, longitude and latitude as well as 3D hot spots of likely hostiles provided by the eyes in the sky. With a few strong kicks he swam under water and knifed his chiseled body towards shore.
The tank-killing plane hugged the ocean top gently, like a kitten, allowing it space yet letting the feline know you were there. Scarlett peered through her mirrored flight helmet like a hawk eyeing its prey and turned on her targeting system, light flickering millimeters from her pupils. Just as planned, there were guard towers near shore and then further into the woods. With a killer�s instinct and the confidence of preparedness she bore down on the throttle and the shark-faced plane screamed inland. A tender pull of her elegant gloved finger loosed a barrage of milk carton sized, depleted uranium shells that decimated a high guard tower before any alarm could be let off. Again and again she vaporized the structures on the beach with the Vulcan cannon mounted on the nose of the war-bird. Metal twisted, shale exploded and wood splintered as men ducked for cover, scurrying about like filthy rats on the windswept island.