Joint Task Force #1: Liberia Read Online Free PDF

putting hurt animals out of their misery also applied to overweight ‘gasping for breath’ aviators.”
    “Didn’t he have the first woman SEAL on that mission?”
    Holman nodded. “Yeah, Heather J. McDaniels, but all my friends call me HJ. Lots of gossip that she was the reason a certain two-star SEAL admiral retired early.”
    “I recall he tried to rig it so she would be thrown out of the SEALS?”
    “We’ll never know,” Holman said, shaking his head. “Lots of things go on in the Pentagon that never come out of that five-sided building. Some of the greatest intellectuals you’ve ever met are in there. Just ask them; they’ll tell you so.”
    The familiar sound of jet engines drowned out Holman’s last words. The two officers peered below at the flight deck. The four fighter aircraft maneuvered by pairs to the center of the flight deck on the USS Boxer . The jet engines wound down from the test, and on the nose of each of the small fighter aircraft propellers turned.
    “Just isn’t right,” Holman said, reaching in his pocket, pulling out the cigar, and pointing at the aircraft.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Upmann replied, with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “I kind of like the new fighter aircraft. Sleek,” he drawled. “Use less gas—”
    “It’s called aviation fuel, butt-hole.”
    “And the pilots are so different. Wouldn’t you agree, Admiral?”
    “Oh, screw you, Leo, and the rest of the surface-warfare community. You are enjoying this way too much. And since I am the one in charge, I do not want them called fighter aircraft.”
    The engines revved up on the first pair, drowning out Leo’s reply. They watched in silence. A moment later, the four aircraft were airborne. Holman lifted his binoculars and watched the transformation. A short burst of black exhaust from the jet engines showed the flyers shifting from propeller to jet power. He couldn’t see the front of them, but knew small hydraulics had withdrawn the propeller blades into the nose of the prototypes to reduce drag and to protect them. Without the propellers, the aircraft wouldn’t be able to land on the USS Boxer when they finished their mission.
    As the aircraft circled higher and the noise faded, a cough caught his attention. He lowered his binoculars. Standing halfway inside the bridge was the ship’s Communications Officer, Lieutenant Commander Rachel Grande. Her rich brown hair was pulled tight and upward into a bun before disappearing beneath the khaki garrison cap. It pulled her eyes into apermanent expression of surprise and at the same time highlighted those light blue eyes.
    “Morning, Rachel,” Admiral Holman said. “And, what do we owe the pleasure of your visit this bright, summer afternoon off the fine beaches of North Carolina?”
    “Morning Admiral; Captain Upmann. Sir, I have an urgent PERSONAL FOR message for you from the Director of Operations, Joint Forces Command, Norfolk, Virginia,” she replied.
    Dick noticed the usual smile missing. Their eyes locked briefly, long enough for him to see the concern that had replaced the normal mischievous look that resonated within those blue eyes. The fact that she was the only blue-eyed Mexican-American he had ever met passed through his thoughts also.
    Dick took the envelope, ripped it open, and read the message. Finished, he handed it to Leo. He lifted his binoculars, twisted the focus slightly, and scanned the beach while Upmann read the message. From the south, four V-22A Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft approached the far end of the beachhead. They ascended several hundred feet as they passed the shoreline, and Dick watched as they split off into two pairs and continued inland. The exercise scenario called for the beach landing to lure the opposing forces forward. Then, once they were “bunched,” the airborne part of the operation would circle and land Marines behind them, cutting off the enemy from his supply lines, splitting enemy forces apart, and then