A New World: Untold Stories

by O'Brien, John

  “Oh, four star facilities I see. You guys get all the cool stuff,” I say with a grin.

  I motion for Jim and Steve to break their dogs over at the designated latrine area and ensure at least one of them has an entrenching tool to scoop poop and bury it.

  While they are away, I check over the supplies we brought down with us to make sure it all made it. Our version of packing light is anything but. We each carry five pounds of dog food along with three gallons of potable water in addition to our normal load out. We are supposed to be resupplied in a couple of days, but you never know how things will go until they happen. At a pound and a half of food each day per dog, it gives us a little wiggle room just in case.

  After the guys get back, I take Oefje over to the latrine area and let him do his thing. I don’t know why, but he always seems to have to take a crap after we get down. Better on the ground than in the air, I guess. After making a deposit in the hole dug by Steve, I cover it and head back to the others.

  Grabbing our gear, we make our way over to where we can safely stow it and stake out the dogs while we get everything settled and make ready to head out. Miller gives us a rundown of where everyone is, along with call signs, and makes suggestions about where we should set up based on their observations. I look over the maps and wind readings, deciding to send my guys out where the PJs suggest, and make arrangements to be relieved in about four hours. Jim and I set out, leaving Steve and Marco at the command center as a reserve. It wasn’t long before Jim and Ringo earned their supper.

  Sitting at my post I hear Mac call out to me, “Kilo one, Kilo three, I’ve got possible contact about three hundred meters out.”

  “Copy three. Keep me advised if anything develops,” I respond.

  Scanning the area with my night vision goggles, and watching my dog, I keep an eye out for any uninvited guests who may want to crash the party. The tension of conducting this type of operation is taxing on the handler just as much as on the dog. The dog is only concerned about his surroundings, I have to worry about the surroundings and the dog. He’s never let me down, but we all have bad days, the dogs included.

  About an hour after his first report, I get another call from Jim. “Kilo one, I have confirmed contact about two hundred meters from my position at a bearing of about 270. It looks like we have somebody watching us.”

  “Copy three; I’ll pass it on to the PJs,” I respond.

  Great, they know we’re here now. I wonder how long they’ve been out there?

  “Papa ground, Kilo one. Kilo three is reporting a contact two hundred meters from his position bearing 270 degrees,” I report.

  “Kilo one stand by.” The radio goes silent for what feels like an eternity as I wait for the PJs to get back with me. “Kilo one, let your handler know I’ve got a team coming up behind him to assist, over.”

  “Copy, will relay now.”

  Switching the transmitter over again, I relay the message to Jim so he knows not to shit his pants when somebody suddenly materializes behind him. We’re already keyed up from being on post and it wouldn’t be good to give the enemy something to laugh at us for, though I suppose it could help point them out; just shoot at the laughing bushes.

  Huh, that could work.

  “Kilo one, Kilo three. My PJs have arrived and are assessing the situation,” Jim radios. “I’ll call back when I know more.”

  “Copy three,” I reply.

  I quickly return to scanning my area and put the excitement on the other side of the perimeter to the back of my mind. I have my own section to guard and my guys are both professionals who know their jobs well. While I am concerned for their safety, I have to trust them to do their jobs; to not give them that would be an insult. It’s kind of like a parent letting their kids go out on their own. You can’t hover over them, but you still worry.

  The radio suddenly crackles in my ear, sending an electric jolt through my body from the build-up of tension. “Kilo one, Papa ground, your relief is on its way out.”

  I glance at my watch and see it has been four and a half hours since we set up shop. I look over my shoulder toward the east and see the tell-tale glow of an approaching dawn.

  “Copy ground. I’ll relay to Kilo three,” I reply. “Any word on the contact?”

  “Affirmative Kilo one. Report to the com station when you get in,” he answers.

  After a few brief moments, Oefje suddenly perks up and swivels his head to our rear at the sound of someone approaching. I grin knowing it was one of my super stealthy PJ counterparts trying to sneak up on me. I let my dog know it’s okay and continue to look outwards while he watches my back. I hear a low growl emanate from his chest and I know my relief is near.

  “Come on out, I’ve got him secured,” I whisper in the general direction my dog is looking.

  After a few moments, I see Miller making his way to my spot with a look of disappointment on his face.

  “I was downwind of you. How did he know I was there?” he asked.

  Pointing at my dogs head, I reply, “You forget about his built in radar dishes. He heard you coming before you even started my direction. Next time wear sneakers.”

  Miller shakes his head and places himself in the hide Oefje and I just vacated. We head to the command center. Once back, I secure Oefje on his stake chain, and then give him his chow and some water. I verify Jim has returned and make my way towards the makeshift command center where I meet up with others from the PJ team that I haven’t met yet.

  Lieutenant Dunham is the ranking officer, but he is hardly in command. It’s not a lack of respect, it’s about time in the field. These guys operate differently than the rest of the Air Force; rank doesn’t mean anything until you’ve proven yourself in the field. For this mission it would seem that I’m reporting to a Master Sergeant Brady.

  “Morning, Sergeant,” I say, extending my hand. “Staff Sgt. Pete Collins, Lead handler.”

  “Morning. Call me Skip,” he says, returning my handshake. “I have that report you wanted on the contact your handler had last night. It would seem we’ve had an audience. From the looks of things, he had been there a day or two before you guys showed up and pointed him out.”

  “Glad we could be of service. Local or someone more nefarious?” I ask.

  With a look that says he is less than pleased, he says, “Seems to us that he was in for the duration. We found a notebook with our observation locations and how many of us are here. It doesn’t appear that he has relayed any of this to anyone as he didn’t have a radio, and we saw no signs of anyone else having come to visit. Right now, he looks like an opportunist looking to make a name for himself with the local warlords.”

  Reaching into his cargo pocket, he pulls out a map of the area. “Our next priority is to get twenty five hundred feet of hard packed dirt marked out for our new runway. To do this, we’re going to need to expand our perimeter out to about three thousand feet to the north and south. For now, we can keep our east and west lines, and extend those when the forty fours get here. The sooner we get this strip secured, the sooner we get more feet on the ground. Right now it looks as though we’ll have the strip laid out on paper by mid-day. After that, we’ll take you and your teams out with us to secure the area and clear out the structures here and here,” he indicates on the map where a small abandoned village stands near what will be the north end of the runway. “If all goes well, and Murphy doesn’t show up, we’ll have to sit watch tonight and our reinforcements will be here in a hair over twenty four hours. At least that’s the plan.”

  Looking over the areas on the map, I can see what will become Uncle Sam’s newest airbase marked out. It will be cozy, but it’s only temporary, operating long enough to set up a new forward operating base for the Marines. This could all be done with cargo drops and choppers, but that takes longer and the jarheads are not known for their patience. This also allows for more building material to be brought in at the onset to create what passes for a secure camp in these parts. />
  “Unless you have anything for us between now and the clearing phase, I’m going to have my teams rest up and get ready for it,” I say still looking over the map. “If anything changes give us a holler and we’ll check in.”

  Nodding his head he says, “Sounds good. See you this afternoon.”

  I leave the command center knowing we have a long day and night ahead of us. Luckily, we have a few hours of downtime. Arriving back at our campsite, I secure Oefje and begin to fill in Steve and Jim.

  “Right now we have some time before we go out again; probably this afternoon. The PJs are working on setting up the runway and will be calling for us to secure some buildings near the north end once they’ve got them inside the perimeter. After that, we’ll come back here, wait for nightfall, and head out again. Steve, you’ll be with me for the building searches. Jim, I want you here on reserve and ready just in case something pops up. Tonight it will be you and Steve on the perimeter and I’ll start the clean-up process in preparation for our relief tomorrow. Oh, and Jimmy, I might have volunteered you for some point work once they start working their way to the north end near the village,” I say with a sheepish grin.

  With a light hearted groan, Jim gets up to check his dog who is lounging a dozen or so feet away from us. After he leaves, I look over towards Steve who is doodling in the dirt and ask, “What’s on the menu for this evening, Cookie?”

  Reaching into his ruck, he pulls out a brown MRE package and tosses it at me with a grunt. “Looks like ravioli in meat sauce, bon apetit!”

  “Thanks. Check on Marco, get some grub, and then catch some rack time. We still have a ways to go and Lord only knows what these PJs have in store for us later,” I say.

  I really have to give the MRE folks some credit. They are a lot better than they used to be. I remember when there was no chemical heater in them and they came in your choice of five flavors. At least now they don’t taste too bad warmed up.

  After checking on Oefje again, and making sure he’s been fed, watered, and secured properly, I head over to my patch of dirt and try to get comfortable. With the rising sun, the temperature starts to climb, making sleep difficult. The good news, if you want to call it that, is this is autumn so it shouldn’t get much above ninety in the shade.

  It seems as though I just drifted off when I’m nudged awake by one of the PJs with a serious look on his face. “Brady wants you and your guys at the command post ASAP. We think we have a situation brewing.”

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I nod. “We’ll be there in five or less. We need to get the mutts around.”

  With a nod of his own, the PJ is up and making tracks back to the command center. As he goes I lean over and wake Jim. “The PJs have something and need us. Wake Steve, grab your dogs, and meet me over there.”

  Before standing, I look over toward the dogs and see that all three are on edge for no apparent reason. Watching them for a moment, I can tell there isn’t a real focus for their attention, they just seem to be sensing something we can’t. I really hate it when they do that. It usually spells more trouble than I care to deal with. I scan the horizon once more, then retrieve Oefje and head to the meeting area where Skip is prepping the briefing.

  “My handlers will be here in just a moment. What’s up?”

  Rubbing his tired eyes, he says to me, “We don’t know. We’ve been given the order to pack up operations and bug out. The choppers are supposed to be here in two hours to pick everyone up.”

  “Damn. I was kinda looking forward to checking out those ruins too. Any indication about the what-fors?” I ask.

  “Nothing. All we’ve gotten is a message to pack up and prep for pick up. Whatever it is, they want us out fast if they aren’t even going to wait for nightfall. As it stands right now, we’re just as in the dark as you,” He states while watching the other dog teams approach behind me.

  Turning toward my handlers, I motion for them to take up positions where they can hear the briefing and still be able to watch the surroundings. I don’t like the way the dogs were acting and I’m not taking any chances. Maybe I’m just paranoid, but I learned the hard way as a young handler to listen to what your dog tells you. It was a lesson that damn near cost me my life.

  Looking about the area, Skip takes a silent headcount to verify that everyone is here that should be, then begins the briefing. “Gentleman, about twenty minutes ago we received a com telling us to pack up our toys and go home. I tried to get a clarification and received nothing further other than a pick up time when the helos will be here to haul us away, and an abandon in place order for anything non-essential. It seems they want us out with as little fuss as possible.” Pointing to me he says, “You guys pack light anyways, but don’t bring anything you can’t live without. If it doesn’t fit in your ruck, leave it.”

  At this exact moment, for some reason, Oefje turns and looks straight at him as if he understands what was just said.

  “Well, I suppose you can bring the dogs if you want,” he says while returning my dogs gaze with a half grin. “I’d ask if anyone has any questions, but I have no answers to them, so just get to it. Our ride will be here in about an hour.”

  Briefing over, I turn to my handlers. “You heard the man, let’s get packed up. I don’t know how packed the choppers will be so just stow the body harnesses and we’ll put them in on leash. Pack up our trash and meet back here. I’ll stay and watch the command post, then grab my gear when you get back.”

  With a nod, both men and their dogs turn, and jog back to our campsite.

  I’ve been playing this game for a fair number of years now so nothing should surprise me, but I also know Uncle Sam has a hard on for completing missions. That paranoid tingle is beginning to flare up as I stand watch over the command post. There is absolutely nothing I can gain from worrying about it, so I stand and try to forget the fact that I really need to pee. Glorious isn’t it? I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on things and all I can think about is how I didn’t take a leak when I first got up.

  About ten minutes into my newfound hatred for anything wet, the guys return with their gear leaving me to fetch mine, but not until after making a pit stop first. Bladder relieved, I head over stow my gear. Oefje is lying near me, watching my every move as though I have a third eye or something.

  “Yeah I know partner, we just got here and you didn’t even get to chew on anybody yet. Well, the day is still young, and we have a helicopter ride coming up so maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  Always the chatty one of us, he yawns and lays his head down on his paws.

  “Yeah, thanks for the help packing. You didn’t break a nail or anything did you? No? That’s good. You are such a bitch when it comes to your pedicures. C’mon, let’s hit the puppy potty again before we head out. I don’t want you whining that you have to pee half way there,” I say as we make our way to the latrine area.

  Gear packed and ready, I head back to the command center to await the extraction. This is almost as bad as the jump. On the way down, you worry about what’s going to be there when you land. On the way up, you are worried about getting shot down before getting out of Dodge. The good news is, all indications are that nobody knows we are here to begin with, so it should be smooth sailing. Should.

  Chapter Two

  The sound of approaching choppers clears the foggy monotony of waiting. To say they were almost on top of us before I noticed them would be an understatement. Two gorgeous black, streamlined, and nearly silent Ghost Hawks were setting down about twenty five meters away. I’d heard of them, but never seen one before, and now I’m getting a ride in one. I really shouldn’t be so excited, after all, it’s not like I didn’t know they existed, but I can’t help grinning at of all the tinfoil hat clubs that have been speculating on the reality of these birds. Ever since Osama bin Laden went down, armchair techies have been trying to figure out what they look like. The whole thing reminds me of a story I heard from an old sergeant I know.

  ***
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  November, 1983: 0107 hrs. Local Time

  Tonopah Test Range Airport, Nevada

  Senior Airman Jack Koch stands at the ready; he knows the Flight Sergeant is doing post visits with the squadron commander. Koch looks over his weapon, an M-16, with a hard eye, looking for anything that could warrant a second look by the Colonel. Next came the beret, dark blue they call it, but it’s as black as night with a hard metal flash in the crest. Airman Koch is assigned to the 4450th Tactical Group which is a part of the Tactical Air Command (TAC). With this assignment, his beret crest is that of an inverted sword in front of a pair of golden wings. After giving the beret crest a quick buff on the leg of his olive drab utility uniform, he places the beret back on his head, making sure to center the crest over his left eye. Looking down, he notices his boots are slightly scuffed from his rounds around the hanger he had been assigned to. No sooner had he rubbed his boot tips against the back of his pant legs when he sees a vehicle approaching.

  Stopping in front of the Airman, the jeep kills its headlights and the engine stops abruptly. Noticing the dark smudges on the passenger’s collar, Airman Koch snaps to attention, mentally preparing himself for the post briefing he expects to give.

  “At ease airman,” Colonel Matte says as he approaches from the passenger side of the jeep.

  As airman Koch presents his smartest salute, Colonel Matte returns the courtesy before turning to Master Sergeant Hemmingway.

  “Tim, give me the clipboard,” he says as he turns towards the driver.

  Reaching back into the jeep, the Master Sergeant retrieves the beat up wooden clipboard from between the seats and then silently hands it to the Colonel. Looking down at the paper on the board, then back up at the airman, the Colonel turns the clipboard to give it to Airman Koch.