Hard Contact (A Breed Thriller Book 8), page 13
16
THE THIRD DAY – LATE EVENING, KOITÍDA SOFIAS
Underway, the USS Pressley Bannon knifes through the waters of the Aegean. Ellison takes off and retraces the first leg of the route we flew earlier. We overfly Heraklio, then leave it behind, a sparkling forest of lights.
The sky is clear, an ocean of stars. Ahead of us lies Mount Ida. The peak’s cap glows a luminous blue-white in the moonlight. The landscape below is black, save for the odd light from a goatherd’s hut. To the east, the Dikti range and its dominant peak of Mount Spathi appear midnight blue against the lighter night sky. To the west lie Souda Bay and the White Mountains. The range is as striking as Mount Ida, a long series of dark peaks capped by fields of snow that glisten in the icy moonlight.
Ellison has been assigned a replacement copilot from the destroyer. The Kyrios helicopter was purchased in commercial configuration. The compartment behind the cockpit has been arranged with six comfortable bucket seats. I sit in the center, behind and between the pilots.
My helmet and NODs rest on the seat next to me. Three zippered nylon rope bags lie on the deck at my feet. I lean forward and stare at the horizon. The pilots’ faces are bathed in the dim glow of the Huey’s instruments.
“You really going to climb that cliff in the dark?” Ellison asks.
“It won’t be pitch black,” I tell him. “You’ll be surprised how much light you can get from the moon, especially if you allow your night vision to adjust. And I’m carrying NODs.”
“The wind is moderate, east-to-west,” Ellison says. “We’ll fly to the coast, then dog-leg east. I’ll put down on the beach, a mile from Koitída Sofias. They won’t see or hear us.”
I keep my expression blank, but the prospect of climbing to Koitída Sofias tickles my stomach. It’s a good case of nerves—the kind that focuses a man’s attention.
In daylight, the cliff would be little more than an interesting exercise. At night it might prove insurmountable. In theory, the two routes I’ve identified are climbable. In practice, I won’t know until I arrive and test the rock. The vertical crack in the middle is the most direct route, a single pitch. The chimney to the east looks tempting, but will require a potentially difficult traverse.
“Sure you got enough rope?” Ellison asks.
I appreciate Ellison’s banter. “Yes, sir. Three bags full.”
Climbing alone is very different from climbing with a partner. It’s naturally more risky, but one also has to carry everything up the rock himself.
Special Forces assault climbers usually work in pairs. The more skilled climber acts as “lead” and is the first to ascend the pitch. His partner, referred to as the “second,” remains at the bottom of the face. The second manages the supply of rope. He forms a belay—he holds the rope securely, so he can support the lead if the lead should fall. As the lead ascends, the second pays out rope. The lead then hammers pitons into the rock and clips the rope to the support points.
When the lead comes to his first desired objective, he builds an anchor—a strong support point. He then uses the rope to pull up the team’s equipment. Belays his second from above, while the man climbs to join him. Finally, the team haul up the rope and begin the process again.
The point is—when you lead an assault team, you leave most of the rope with your second.
“Climbing alone is tough,” I say. “You have to carry all your rope with you. I reckon the cliff and monastery are five hundred feet high. I’ve got six hundred feet in three bags, two hundred feet to a bag. Enough for the climb and a traverse if I need it.”
The copilot turns his head. Looks at the rope bags on the floor, the iron I’m carrying racked to my waist. “That gear must weigh a ton.”
I’m not carrying a rifle. The H&K Mark 23 was designed as an offensive pistol for special operations missions in close quarters. I wear it at my right hip, holstered on a pistol belt, with four spare magazines.
Where I used to wear a load-bearing vest and plate carrier, I’ve buckled on the climbing harness. The sailor who climbed the Dolomites must be small and wiry—I had to adjust the straps. Around my waist, the rack of iron. Pitons, two piton hammers, karabiners, and quick-draws. Quick-draws consist of two karabiners joined by a short cord. The chalk bag is behind my holster, close to where my right hand falls.
“The iron weighs twenty pounds. Forty-five with the rope. With weapons, canteen, helmet and NODs, I’m carrying fifty in total. The good news is—I plan to leave rope and iron behind as I climb.”
“How’s that work?”
“I carry the rope bags on my back. Instead of a second man belaying me from below, I tie one end of the first rope to an anchor. Maybe a tree, maybe spikes I pound into rock at the bottom. I climb and pay out the rope from the bag. Feed the rope through an arresting device.”
“Arresting device?”
“It’s meant to grab the rope if you fall. As I climb, I install protection. Let’s say… twenty feet up, I hammer in a piton and clip my rope to it with a quick-draw. The rope runs freely through the quick-draw’s karabiner so I can keep climbing.
“Now suppose I climb ten feet above the piton and fall off the face. I fall the ten feet to the piton and then fall ten more. The arresting device attached to my harness grabs the rope and keeps more from paying out from the bag. If the piton holds, my weight will be supported by the rope that runs from my harness to the piton, and then to the anchor on the ground.”
“So you fall twenty feet.”
“That’s right. It’s still a hard fall to take. Let’s say you climb a long way up, setting pitons every ten feet. If you fall, and the last piton you set doesn’t hold, you fall past the next one and hope that holds. Then you’ll have fallen forty feet. Either of those falls is enough to cause a severe injury.”
Climbing alone is dangerous, but not unusual. Special Forces assault climbers work in teams, but train to complete their missions alone if one is injured.
Two is one, one is none.
Until one man’s killed or wounded. There could be a battalion of mountain troops waiting at the foot of the mountain. Waiting for a route to be identified, marshaling areas marked, climbing ropes prepared. Missions must be completed on schedule, alone if necessary.
We trained to operate alone.
The flutter in my stomach changes from apprehension to anticipation.
It can be done.
Ellison puts me down on a deserted stretch of beach two thousand yards from Koitída Sofias. He promises to make one or two passes well north and east of the monastery. If the pirates hear the Huey fly upwind, their attention will be drawn to the north approach.
We hope.
The beach is thirty yards wide. The smooth sand stretches from the creamy surf of the Mediterranean to a low bluff.
One thing I can do well is ruck. Delta Force, Combat Applications Group, First Special Forces Detachment Delta. Whatever you want to call it today, the unit’s operators have the wiry strength and endurance of pack mules. I’ve completed forced marches with heavier loads. Climbing with this one will be a challenge, but not outside my envelope.
I cover the beach at a fast pace, stretching my stride. The rack of pitons on my hip rattles and slaps against my thigh. The NODs I flip up on the half-shell helmet. My eyes have adapted to the moonlit tableau, and the binocular NODs are notorious for restricting peripheral vision.
Before long, the ground becomes more difficult. The visibility is alright, but I find myself hiking on a narrow storm beach strewn with rocks. Waves from the Mediterranean have driven them onto the shore. The bluff to the north rises to a moderately steep cliff. The closer I get to Koitída Sofias and Bie Eirini, the narrower the beach will become, and the taller the cliffs.
I hike as close as I can to the wall to reduce my exposure. It’s a tradeoff. From the cliff, larger boulders have tumbled onto the beach. The closer I get to the wall, the more difficult the obstacle course. I keep my eyes on the rock and sand to make sure I don’t fall and twist an ankle. As I expected, the moonlight casts the beach and rocky cliffs into icy relief.
My thoughts turn to the odd cast of characters waiting for me at Koitída Sofias. Stein is the most familiar. We’ve known each other professionally for years. The attraction between us is beginning to intrude on that relationship. The scene this morning at Ésperos was a bit much. The behavior she displayed at the party last night was just far enough over the top to make me wonder. Stein, the woman, is far more emotional than Stein the Deputy Director.
Should I allow myself to give in to the attraction, or keep everything professional?
Stein gets a vote.
Then, there’s Hecate. We’ve slept together once, and already we’re heavily “in like.” She’s all woman, and I feel caught in her gravitational field. And she in mine. Last night was fun, but we’re from different worlds, and I doubt this will go anywhere.
The mission, the mission.
There are three others up there. Harding-James came along to recover his investment. I bet he wishes he’d stayed in London. Kyrios is something else. He’s a hardened businessman, with a charming Zorba the Greek shtick.
Those were Stingers I saw in the Grigoro Fidi’s armory. Our Sea Hawk was shot down by a Stinger. I tell myself there are no coincidences. And yet… Kyrios is right. The Afghan and Ukraine wars have scattered those missiles everywhere. I could buy one in any high school parking lot.
Could Kyrios be involved? If he is, what does that say about Hecate?
Drakos is something else. I have no trouble imagining the big Greek as a pirate. Kyrios’s father took the family fleet legitimate. I’ve heard nothing to suggest that Drakos and his family have left the smuggling business. And he took six bodyguards onto the Grigoro Fidi.
Lieutenant Morgan and his SEALs know what they’ll be facing when they hit Bie Eirini in the morning. Their mission is to recover the gold. I have to find out what’s going on with Drakos and Kyrios.
The cliffs to the north are now fully three hundred feet high and dangerously steep. A man can run up the first thirty feet at the base, but the grade steepens quickly. The limestone is black in the night. I’m feeling cautiously confident. The weather, always a concern when climbing, is fine. The sky is free of clouds, the moon is bright, the rock is dry. The land above the cliffs is dry. Plane trees are scattered far back from the edge. The rock is free of slippery vegetation.
I find myself walking straight toward a solid rock wall. The storm beach has curved to my right. I slow to a cautious walk and follow the curve. In spots the beach is so narrow that the gentle waves cream against the rocks and splash my shoes.
The wall rises vertically from the beach. I put my hand out to steady myself. Find the rock dry and hard. The consistency is good. Sometimes rock feels brittle or friable. That kind of rock will not hold iron.
Stone has always felt good under my hands. A worthy test of the strength in my fingers, wrists and arms. When I hold a rock, a rifle, or a woman in my hands, I’m reminded of my tactile nature.
Again, excitement flutters in my stomach.
I step around the curl of the wall. Come face-to-face with Koitída Sofias.
The monastery is only a hundred yards away. It lies ahead of me and to my right because the promontory juts into the Mediterranean. Bie Eirini is on the other side. Instinctively, I search the ocean for any sign of the Grigoro Fidi or the Pressley Bannon.
Neither vessel is visible. The destroyer will wait over the horizon until dawn. The SEALs can’t swim that far underwater. The latest Arleigh Burke-class carries an SDV—a SEAL delivery vehicle. It’s a mini-submarine that can maneuver the SEALs into swimming range undetected.
Grigoro Fidi is a mystery. For the first time, I wonder if I’ve guessed wrong. Perhaps Drakos and Kyrios did not take the yacht to Koitída Sofias. If not, where did they go?
I stare at the monastery. The structure stretches along the top of the four-hundred-foot cliff. The wall is sheer. I need to work my way around to the south face. There lie my climbing routes.
Cautiously, I close the distance to the base of the promontory. My clothing is dark, so I will not stand out. There are no sentries visible. The monastery is less a castle than a normal building. There are no turrets, ramparts or crenellations. Rather, it has regular roofs and long rows of windows. The windows are dark. Some rows of balconies have been recessed into the wall, supported by the structure below. Other rows of balconies protrude from the wall in cantilevers, supported by brackets. The different styles of balcony are evidence that the wings of the structure were built decades or centuries apart.
Slow and deliberate, I make my way across the base of the promontory. With every step, I check the narrow storm beach ahead of me and the walls of the cliff above. Already, I can see the walls are so sheer it will be difficult for a casual observer in the monastery to spot me. He would have to lean out from a balcony and peer directly down the face.
I adjust the weight of the rope bags on my shoulders. I’m at the foot of the south face. The moonlight is falling from high on my left. It shines on the wall, causing irregularities to cast deep shadows. I need to find the crack that stretches to the monastery. It will be my highway for at least the first two hundred feet. To find it, I need a good view of the face.
Stepping back would be ideal, but would require wading into the Med. I flip down my binocular NODs, turn them on, and adjust the focus. Looking through NODs is like staring through a pair of drinking straws. You have no peripheral vision. I focus on the wall, turn my head left and right.
The south face lights up green. I focus my attention thirty feet up the pitch and slowly turn my head, left to right. I look through the NODs and examine every feature. The wall extends a good hundred yards, west to east, and I’m standing at the western end.
I didn’t think this would be such a slow process. I walk along the base of the wall, looking down to check my footing. Every few steps, I look up and continue my scan. Force myself to be patient.
The NODs peel back the shadows. Reveal cracks and seams in the wall. The crack I’m looking for will look like a vertical tectonic fissure. In the moonlight, one side of the wall will be raised and will cast a sharp shadow across the other. Under the NODs, the shadow will open up, revealing a seam that I can follow.
I cover the wall at a British slow march. Force myself to focus on the face. Koitída Sofias glowers at me like a muscular beast. On the scree, my legs ache from fighting to keep my balance. My neck stiffens from craning it skyward.
There! In the circular green glow of the NODs, a black vertical slash extends from seven o’clock to one o’clock. I blink, flip up the binoculars, and examine the wall by moonlight. The slash is not quite a vertical line, but it definitely extends the height of the face. I flip the NODs down, examine the crack more closely. Search higher for the horizontal ledge two hundred feet up. The ledge that leads to the natural chimney.
I can’t see the ledge. Is this the right seam? Yes, it is. The ledge isn’t visible because the moonlight falls on it from the side. It casts no shadow. There is nothing to create the kind of contrast that catches one’s eye.
Time to go to work.
I flip up the NODs, step to the face, and search for a likely place to set an anchor. There are no trees on the beach, just boulders and rubble shaken loose from the wall. Greece is an earthquake-prone land. Crete has been created by a confluence of tectonic plates. It was the crashing together of those plates that created the White Mountains. I worry about the risk of falling rocks.
I decide to build my anchor on the base of the wall itself. I use two pitons, so if one fails, there is a backup. One piton I hammer into the seam, the other into a crack. I unzip my first rope bag. Secure the end of the rope to the first piton with a figure eight. Run it through the second and tie a clove hitch.
From a pocket, I draw a Prusik. It’s a length of rope tied into a friction knot. The Prusik has been in use since Austrian climbers popularized it in 1931. I use it to tie the rope into my harness. When unloaded, the Prusik allows the rope to slide back and forth. If I come off the face, and my body weight loads the knot, the knot will friction-lock and arrest my fall.
I turn, unzip my fly, and piss into the Mediterranean. Take time to drain the dragon.
The left tube on my NODs, I set to close focus. The right tube, I focus on my feet. I tighten my chin strap and make sure my helmet sits comfortably. Then, I reach for chalk and powder my hands. Check that my gear is where it should be. I flip down my NODs, pick my first objective, and estimate the amount of rope I’ll need to reach it. Flip the nods onto the crown of my helmet.
Good to go.
I step to the face and start to climb.
I climb the first thirty feet without NODs. The moonlight is fine, and it’s easy to find handholds and footholds around the seam. I hammer in a piton, secure a quick-draw, and clip in.
Koitída Sofias follows my progress with malevolent eyes.
After climbing a hundred feet, I grasp a vertical handhold in the crack, lean back, and rest my right arm. On either side of me, the wall is an ebonite slate. The moonlight shines on the ocean, as far as the eye can see. From this height, I can see farther along the horizon than at sea level. I wonder if I can see the Pressley Bannon. I see the lights of a couple of ships to the south and west.
Commander Palomas won’t let her vessel be seen. She knows the monastery is four hundred feet up. She’ll have done a quick calculation to determine how far the destroyer should stand off. I can’t see her, but it is comforting to know she is there. Already, the SEAL delivery vehicle is on the way with Lieutenant Morgan’s pathfinders.
Somewhere to my right, I hear a rattle. A rock has fallen from above and bounced down the face. The fall line is probably twenty or thirty feet to my right. I look up at the monastery, scan the face. No idea where the rock came from. I strain my ears, but hear nothing more.
