“Let’s button up this side. We’re taking too much fire.” ***** pointed with his head toward the other side. “Safer to go through the cabin,” he added with a smile. “No need to get shot again.”
I smiled back and threw my leg up into the cabin—or tried. Wardrobe malfunction. My flight suit, now tied off with the sleeves around my waist, had sagged, catching my leg. We locked eyes for a split second, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation. ***** chuckled as he awkwardly grabbed the seat of my suit and pushed me over the edge of the bay door. Then he gave me another shove, and I half rolled across the floor, soaking up puddles of fuel. He clambered in behind me on the floor, both of us now laughing like idiots. TJ, holding guard from the front of the bird, turned around to see if we had cracked. Maybe we had a little, laughing that hard under these circumstances. It was just the tension breaker we needed, though.
Taliban fighters had now zeroed in on our big helicopter, and bullets were zipping across the rocks all around us. Despite the shots coming from all different directions, no one on our team had fired a weapon yet. Our rules of engagement said we needed positive identification. In this case, the rules made perfect sense. We might have let off some frustration firing wildly at the hills, only to waste ammunition we sorely needed to save for when the Taliban came for us in person. Without a clear point of origin for the enemy gunfire, there was no use in pulling the trigger, and we couldn’t endanger possible civilians. The helos overhead couldn’t see either—there were too many crags and caves up the hillside giving our enemy great cover.
Just then the radio crackled on the emergency channel. “Pedro one five, Shamus three four.” It was one of the Kiowas. “Pedro one five, be advised we’re RTB for refuel and rearm.”
Goddammit—they’re leaving us, too? Without air cover, the Taliban would overrun our little team within minutes. Their rockets were the only thing keeping the enemy at bay. The Kiowa pilot had to know that, because what he said next was crazy.
“If you can move your asses—fast—we’ll swing by you first and take you out on our skids.”
I looked over at TJ, who was hunched over the radio, to make sure I hadn’t imagined it. On the skids? This was Afghanistan, not Hollywood. Kiowas do not land on the battlefield, and they do not carry pilots on their skids. Kiowas don’t have extra seats, and they don’t have enough power to handle the extra weight of passengers, especially not in this heat. But maybe if they’re light on fuel and ammo . . . And what about our patients?
“Negative—there’s too many of us—and we’ve got three patients.”
“Copy that, Pedro one five,” the Kiowa pilot said. “We’ll have Pedro one six land to get your patients and PJs.”
Finally. Our sister ship was going to land. The Kiowas would take four aircrew out on their skids first, and the rest would go with Pedro 16. This might just work.
“Aircrew out first,” ***** said. “MJ—you and the Gunner jump on the first Kiowa.”
“No way,” I protested. I didn’t want to leave the others behind. Then I bit my tongue. ***** was the PJ team leader. Technically, George was in command, but he would never second-guess ******* orders. Tactical lead had fallen to ***** as soon as we had stopped flying and started acting like ground troops. He didn’t need me second-guessing him just because I didn’t want to evac first.
As much as I hated to leave my team behind, the sight of those two elegant Army choppers fluttering down to get us made me swoon. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I turned to ***** and started stripping ammo magazines and water out of my survival vest. He needed it now more than I did.
“This is bullshit, man,” I couldn’t help noting. “I want to stay here with you guys until we can all get out.”
George and I locked eyes. I could see he felt the exact same way, but we also both knew that the PJs took tactical lead in a ground scenario, and the best thing I could do for the group would be to do as I was told—not really a skill I was known for.
***** laughed as he took my ammunition, nodding in appreciation of a fellow warrior.
“I’ll see you at KAF,” he said.
I swallowed my pride and turned toward the Army chopper, keeping one magazine on me just in case we had to make another unscheduled “landing” on the Kiowa. The other PJ clipped a lanyard into my belt with a carabiner so I could lash myself to the Kiowa’s skids. It was going to be a bumpy ride.
Despite my wounds, I wasn’t feeling any pain, just adrenaline coursing through my body. I jogged out to the Kiowa with TJ, nodding at him as he pointed to the side of the aircraft he planned to jump on.
I wasn’t thinking about it at the time, but I had left some of my gear behind, including my flag. I was about to go on a combat flight without my lucky charm for the first time in my career, but TJ and I had to travel light. Despite leaving our beautiful helo behind, I was glad to have TJ with me as we boarded our new one. We hunched under the spinning rotor blades and headed for opposite skids to keep the bird balanced. I planted my right foot on the skid, swung my left leg over to sit on the metal mount that led from the fuselage to the rocket pod, and leaned my back against the helo, bracing my rifle across the pod.
I glanced back at our broken bird as we prepared to lift off. The PJs had two of our patients out, preparing to make for our sister ship. Pedro 16 had just touched down about a hundred yards away—an eternity over the rocky terrain while also under fire. I counted the two PJs and the three patients—and then, goddammit, Steve holding up one end of the litter. He should have been lashed onto the other Kiowa.
I knew him well enough to know exactly what must have happened: He’d seen the PJs struggling to get two patients and a litter across the ridiculous amount of terrain that Pedro 16 had put between them and the wrecked aircraft. Seeing this, Steve had given up his one sure ticket out to help the PJs move the wounded across the open ground under steady Taliban sniper fire. I was furious at him for putting himself in danger, but at the same time, admiration flooded over me. Admiration and worry. I was also jealous that he’d managed to convince the PJs to let him stay while I was being forced to bug out.
I looped my lanyard around the rocket pod mount, then clipped it back into my belt. I slapped the fuselage twice to say go, but the pilot was already beginning to lift the aircraft. Even a fearless chopper pilot like him didn’t want to stay more than a moment down here. I heard the difference in the rotors as the Kiowa struggled under the extra weight of two passengers it wasn’t designed for. I felt the lightening of the aircraft that meant we were about to take off.
Then all of my Christmases came at once. A tiny flame of light caught my attention from about seventy yards behind the crashed aircraft, at the Kiowa’s two o’clock position. Looking down the sight of my rifle, braced across the rocket pod, I watched a Taliban fighter’s muzzle flash, then flash again.
Finally. Point of origin! I wanted to scream victory into the rotor wash. It meant I finally had something to shoot at. I knew TJ couldn’t have seen it, though, hanging on to the other skid, with the fuselage blocking his vision. I managed to squeeze off a dozen rounds as the helo lifted off the ground. I doubted my shots could be lethal or even accurate at this range. All I could hope for was to get the enemy to duck to give us enough time to take off. If I kicked up enough dust, there was a chance the others might be able to see where my shots were aimed so they could identify a point of origin for their own weapons.
I had no radio contact with the Kiowa pilot, though, so after a few rounds, I knew I couldn’t keep firing. For all I knew, the other Kiowa was coming around or there were other friendly forces coming up. I had no choice but to save my remaining rounds in case I needed them again.
Then I had a thought that chilled me to the bone. The fact that I could finally see muzzle flashes might mean the Taliban, emboldened by the exfiltration attempt, had decided to abandon their
dug-in position and move in to finish off the rest of our rescue team on the ground.
The twenty-minute flight to the nearest forward operating base felt like hours. The wind nearly thrashed my clothes off my body as I clung to the rocket pod for dear life, but the hardest part was not knowing if Steve and the PJs had made it out. Pedro 16 blew by us moments later, too fast for me to see if my brothers were aboard.
As I glanced back down to the terrain below us, the gale-force winds slowly inched my sunglasses out of my cargo pocket, and I watched them drop off into the ether. Lashed to the outside of the bird, gasping hot desert air at 130 knots, I was struck by the absurdity and I laughed as my Oakleys whirled down to rest on Afghan earth. I pictured a peaceful ten-year-old Kandahari goat herder wearing them as he tended to his flock.
Twenty minutes later the Kiowa crossed back over the wire at a FOB called Frontenac. After dropping us there, the Kiowas would turn and burn, filling up on fuel and ammo, then head back to the crippled convoy. I had only one thing on my mind: the fate of those I’d left behind. Before the skids even touched the runway, I unhooked and jumped off. I’m ashamed to say I never even turned to salute the brave Kiowa pilots who had just saved us—I was too desperate to find out about Steve and the others.
—
I marched from the LZ onto the base, barely registering the horrified looks of the other soldiers milling around. I must have been a sight in my fuel-soaked body armor, blood crusted along my arm and down my leg, the arms of my flight suit still tied around my waist, rifle at the ready, helmet still on. Adrenaline still pumped through me even though I was back inside the wire.
A soldier stepped in my path. He had a square jaw covered with five-o’clock shadow.
“Move! I’ve got to get to the TOC,” I demanded. I was aiming for the Tactical Operations Center, marked by the telltale flagpoles, where satellite feeds and radios would tell me if our team had survived.
The soldier in front of me was opening a trauma kit. Then I saw his blue latex gloves: The Kiowa pilots must have radioed ahead that they had an injured pilot tied to their skids. I ignored him and kept walking. The medic, caught off guard, stumbled backward in front of me. Only then did I notice TJ at my side. Had he been walking along with me since the landing?
“Captain . . . Captain, sir, I have to check out these wounds. I can’t let you go until I take a look,” the medic insisted.
I ignored the “sir” and kept walking, but he continued to shuffle backward in front of me and TJ. Without breaking stride, I switched my rifle to my left hand and showed him my right arm.
“See? I’m fine. Little shrapnel, but it’s small, and I can get it out later.”
“Okay,” he persisted annoyingly, “but I’m going to have to take a look at that leg.”
Exasperated, I stopped. If the medic was going to get in my way, he’d better make it quick. I looked him in the eye and dropped my pants right there in the middle of the yard. A dozen or so soldiers had been watching our awkward dance toward the TOC, but until that moment I’m not sure they noticed I was a woman under all of that body armor and helmet. Now they stared openly—at my Hello Kitty panties.
TJ stepped up to the nearest soldier and nearly blew him down. “What the FUCK are YOU looking at?”
All of the men snapped out of their stasis and urgently rediscovered whatever activities they had been doing before my arrival. The medic dropped to his knees, seizing his chance to look at my leg wound.
“Okay—no more bleeding. You’re good to go . . . ma’am.”
Satisfied that I wasn’t in any immediate mortal danger, the medic let me keep walking, but still he danced alongside us while pulling out some pills.
“A painkiller and some antibiotics,” he said, thrusting the tablets out to me.
“No way. No dope. If our team isn’t out, I’m going back to get them.”
“I get that, ma’am, but at least take this antibiotic. You’ve got foreign body material embedded in your arm and leg. You don’t know what was on that bullet.”
Point taken. I grabbed the pill he handed to me, dry swallowing it with a quick gulp.
He sheepishly rubbed his stubbled chin, displayed a coy victory smile, and produced another tablet.
“Actually, this one’s the antibiotic.”
I nearly slugged him. I hadn’t needed a painkiller. The wounds didn’t hurt; the only pain came from not knowing about the others. If they hadn’t made it back to base, I needed to be alert enough to go back out to get them. Of course they had plenty of other crews and I wouldn’t be allowed to fly again until after the debrief, but that didn’t register with me at the time. I’d steal one of their trucks to get back out there if I had to.
I reached the plywood door to the TOC and threw it open. It squealed shut behind me and TJ. A few eyes glanced up at us, but then went straight back down to their work—they had a convoy under fire and a rescue bird down, after all. There were more important things to focus on than visitors.
“How can we help you, ma’am?” said the soldier closest to the door, without looking away from his screen.
“I only need a second, soldier. I’m Pedro one five, and I need to know the status of my patients and remaining crew.”
Everyone looked up at once in surprise, sizing up TJ and me with a stare. No one spoke, and I felt a shiver—what did they know that I didn’t? Had they been listening to our team radio for help as they were overrun by Taliban?
The door squealed again as George walked in behind us. He’d arrived on the other Kiowa skid and looked as anxious as I felt.
“Hey, did Steve and our PJs get out okay?” George asked.
A captain whose uniform looked a little too clean stood up from behind his plywood desk.
“Everyone made it,” he said.
Three beautiful words.
I couldn’t wait to hug Steve, and then I couldn’t wait to punch him.
NINE
When we got back to Kandahar after the incident, I walked toward the TOC with my gear, minus my flag and the other things I had left in the aircraft, as I always had. But something had changed. The pro super (short for “production superintendent,” the person in charge of the flightline maintainers) ran out to meet me. From my years as a maintenance officer, I knew that these guys loved each aircraft like the classic car you keep in your garage under a tarp. They knew the quirks and ticks that made each one unique, and Aircraft 118, which we had just left in the desert full of holes and drenched in fuel, was one of the best.
“Shit,” I greeted him. “I’m so sorry about 118 and all the work you guys just put into her windshield.”
He was stunned; his jaw dropped for a moment. Then he snapped out of it and gave me a big hug, gear and all.
“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m so happy to see you. Are you guys okay?”
The full impact of what had happened clearly still hadn’t hit me. Of course he cared more about us than the aircraft we’d left behind, but for some reason my mind was still in high-alert warrior mode, and until I could switch it off, I couldn’t quite comprehend just how close we had come to getting killed or captured.
The pro super started walking back with me toward the TOC, helping me carry some of my gear. When I looked up, I saw some brass heading my way. Luckily it wasn’t Colonel Johnson this time, but I could tell it was someone important from the number of people surrounding him. As he got closer, I could see the stars on his uniform and realized it was the base commander.
“Captain!” he shouted as he drew closer. “Are you MJ?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. I really didn’t want to do this now. Can I at least put down my gear and wash some of the fuel out of the holes in my arm?
He reached his right hand out and aggressively pumped my arm up and down, clearly excited that he wouldn’t have to write a letter home to my loved ones.
His hand still gripping mine, I twisted our hands around to show him my forearm wounds.
“This is where I took most of the damage, but . . .”
He jerked his hand away as if he had burned it on a hot pan.
“Uhh, it’s mostly superficial. It doesn’t hurt that bad,” I finished awkwardly, amused by the pained look on his face.
I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh—vigorously shaking the wounded arm of a pilot who had just been shot was a pretty good faux pas to make in front of his entourage.
“Well, at least you’re a good clotter.” He chuckled.
There was an embarrassed pause. This was obviously not going the way he had envisioned it. I decided to try to lighten the moment.
“Nah. I cauterized the wounds with the cigar I was smoking at the time,” I retorted.
Everyone laughed, but it was the kind of laugh where they weren’t entirely sure I was kidding. I kept walking, continuing my journey into the TOC for the debrief.
Traditionally no one outside of the crew was allowed into the debrief so that the crew could feel free to be completely honest about every aspect of the flight, including all of the screwups. But when I walked into the TOC, it was clear that this time would be different.
Usually there are only about five or ten people in the twenty-by-forty-foot TOC at a time. That day I was surprised to see about fifty people milling around, waiting to hear about what had happened to us five hours earlier. Rhys made a beeline for me and gave me a big hug. He had once told me I was like a little sister to him, and the look in his eyes when he said it showed me that he wasn’t bullshitting me.
Shoot Like a Girl Page 19