by Mike Jenne
But even if he couldn’t grasp the stars, Abdirov still wasn’t the least bit interested in retirement. After all, retirement was for those who desired to rest, and for him, there was too much work yet to be done. He vowed that he would remain in service to the Motherland, and to the ideals of Socialism, until the moment he drew his last breath.
7
AUX ONE-OH: UNTIL YOU CAN’T
Auxiliary Field Ten, Eglin Air Force Base, Florida
10:35 a.m., Friday, April 19, 1968
The convoy of buses pulled into the small encampment and creaked to a stop. Seated at the rear of the second bus, Airman First Class Matthew Henson watched in anticipation. He had been in the Air Force five months, just long enough to finish his initial training, and so he was accustomed to being rushed. Listening to the brakes hiss, he waited for the inevitable.
Henson had recently graduated from the Air Force’s security police training course at Lackland Air Force Base, Texas. While he and a handful of others were new to the Air Force, the majority of the men on the bus had already served at least one hitch. During the hour-long ride from Eglin’s main base, Henson feigned sleep as he listened to the others compare notes about their backgrounds and military service. At least three came here from the pararescue training pipeline, and several others were security police who arrived at Eglin after guarding ICBM missile silos in remote locales.
Henson wasn’t the average Air Force enlistee. Formerly a student at Louisiana State University, he had been a semester away from a degree in Business Administration when his savings dried up. His mother tried to help with his tuition; she owned a small cafe in New Orleans, but her cash flow wasn’t much better than Henson’s. Suddenly out of school, with the draft and the dismal prospects of a Vietnam tour looming before him, he volunteered to join the Air Force.
But dodging Vietnam wasn’t merely as simple as enlisting; despite his educational background, all the Air Force could offer was a three-year stint in the security police, and it was still likely that he might go overseas. Despite those odds, he felt he had at least slightly more control over his existence than the average Army infantryman slogging through the jungles of Southeast Asia. So, twenty-four years old, with two years laboring on an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, followed by nearly four years of college, he found himself at Lackland, training alongside pimply-faced kids only weeks removed from their high school homerooms.
Henson applied himself to the training, and in so doing discovered that he was a natural-born leader. After graduating at the top of his class, he was approached by an officer who offered him an opportunity for advanced training and a special assignment. He volunteered, and after enduring over a month of background checks and aptitude tests, he was finally here.
An instructor clambered aboard the bus. Coiled to spring, Henson warily clutched his belongings close to his chest, anticipating a screaming rant that would incite the arriving candidates to pile off the bus in shortest order. All of his worldly possessions—at least for the moment—neatly fit into a duffle and gym bag. He travelled light, and was poised for any sort of wacky ass-chasing scramble, but what ensued was certainly not what he expected.
The instructor wore a distinctive uniform bearing a tiger-striped camouflage pattern of jagged black slashes on a green background, along with a matching bush hat. He did not scream or yell, but spoke clearly and with just sufficient volume to be heard throughout the bus. “Gentlemen, welcome to Auxiliary Field Ten, also known as Aux One-Oh. Dismount the bus in an orderly fashion and dump your stuff out there on the gravel. Captain Lewis will meet you outside to give you the nickel tour.”
The men climbed off the bus and milled about as they waited for more definitive instructions. The instructor called them to attention as another man approached the group. The wiry newcomer wore the same tiger-striped uniform as the first instructor, but he also wore a black and gold Ranger tab—signifying a graduate of the Army’s highly demanding Ranger course—sewn on his left shoulder, as well as Army jump wings above his left breast pocket.
“Gather in. Relax, gentlemen. I’m Captain Lewis, commander of the Training Flight. I oversee the assessment training phase. In front of you is your humble home for the next four months or as long as you’re attending the training cycle,” he announced, gesturing at the single-story corrugated metal building to their front. Broad-shouldered, Lewis stood roughly five feet eight in his spit-shined jungle boots. Moving with the casual grace of a natural athlete, he was obviously in remarkable physical condition. With his crew-cut blonde hair and dark tan, he could have easily been mistaken for a California surfer. “Follow me,” he said, walking inside the building.
With no air conditioning, it felt like a brutally hot sauna. The open bay was filled with four long rows of gray metal bunk beds and matching wall lockers.
Henson glanced around and swiftly realized that he was the solitary black man reporting in for the course. He was also conscious that several men looked at him like he got off the wrong bus. He was long accustomed to being an outsider, but couldn’t decide whether he was currently unwelcome because of his race or because he was a new enlistee. He surmised that it was probably a little bit of both.
“Gents, this isn’t basic training,” announced Lewis. “My instructors won’t inspect your living quarters, but we do ask that you keep them clean and tidy. If this place starts to resemble a hippie commune or a hobo jungle, we’ll evict you outdoors for the remainder of your training cycle. Here at Eglin it rains a good bit, so unless you want to spend the next four months wallowing in the mud under a leaky poncho, you’ll heed my advice.”
Lewis guided the men into the latrine at the opposite end of the bay. In a sweeping gesture, like a salesman displaying his wares at a trade show, he waved his hand toward the array of plumbing fixtures lining the walls. “You folks will be operating on a very tight schedule, so you need to get organized quickly so that you use these facilities effectively.”
“If our statistics hold out, at least four of you will come to blows because someone lingers in the shower or the toilet too long, or takes too much time scraping whiskers off his chin. And so there’s absolutely no confusion, fighting is grounds for immediate and uncontestable relief from the course. Get caught fighting, and your fate is permanently sealed. You’ll be whisked away to a life much more mundane. Any questions?”
Lewis directed the men to a room adjacent to the latrine. “That’s the bulletin board,” he noted. “My first sergeant will post the training schedule, as well as any specific study assignments or special duties. It’s constantly updated, but it’s up to you to keep up with the changes. Gentlemen, we own the time on the training schedule, but the other hours in the day—and there won’t be too many—belong to you. Use them wisely.”
He pointed at a series of metal racks bolted to the wall under the bulletin board. “These are your weapons racks. You’ll draw weapons tomorrow morning when you’re issued your field gear, and you’ll keep those weapons until you leave here. They will either be on your person at all times, or they will be secured in this rack under guard. You will provide the guard.”
Slowly rocking back and forth on his heels, Lewis added, “One other thing: down the road, there’s a slop chute where you can drink a beer at night if there’s time and you’re not absolutely dog tired. Also, if you so desire, you can buy cookies, candy bars, and other lickie-chewies. Feel free to stuff your face down there, but do not smuggle food into your billets. When you squirrel away chow in your wall locker, it draws mice. Mice attract snakes.”
Lewis pointed out toward a window. “There’s an abundant supply of snakes happily slithering out there in the woods. Three to five of you will be bitten by poisonous snakes in the next few weeks. I assure you that we can readily meet this quota with just our outdoors snakes, so we don’t need to bring any additional reptiles into the living spaces. Enough said on that topic, gentlemen?”
“Excellent. Let’s go outside then.” Donning his ha
t, Lewis guided them out through a side door and motioned toward several long wooden tables. “Those are your weapons cleaning tables. We expect you to clean your weapon at the end of every training day, but my instructors aren’t going to stand over you to make sure that you do it, and they won’t line you up to inspect your weapons every morning. But if you’re ever out on a range and your piece jams because you haven’t given it the tender loving care that it deserves, then it’s grounds for immediate and uncontestable relief. The same goes for all your gear. You either maintain it in good working order, or you’ll be destined for a less demanding assignment elsewhere. Fair enough?”
There was no comment from the candidates.
“Fabulous,” noted Lewis, swatting at a mosquito on his forearm. “Follow me.” He walked them around to the front of the building and stopped in front of four pull-up bars constructed of telephone poles and steel pipes. “Last stop. Gather in close, men. It’s a Training Flight tradition that you don’t enter the billets until you do pull-ups. You had your one and only freebie when we went in for the tour, but from here on, you will mount the bars and crank ‘em out before you cross the threshold.” He paused, waiting patiently for the inevitable question.
And then it came. A red-haired man, new to the Air Force, raised his hand. “How many pull-ups do we need to knock out, Captain?” he asked. “How many is enough?”
Lewis smiled, bent down, and pointed at a small granite marker set in the ground directly in front of the pull-up bars. “Come here, airman, and read this.”
The man stepped forward, squatted down, and read aloud the simple inscription literally etched in stone: “Until You Can’t.”
Lewis nodded. “Until you can’t. That’s what’s expected on these bars and in all aspects of training. Give it your all, and give it your best. Now, gentlemen, you have thirty minutes to move your gear inside, choose a bunk, and make yourselves at home. The Wing commander will talk to you just after lunch chow, at thirteen hundred, so you need to be seated in the bleachers at least two minutes prior. Be late, and you’ll be gone. Until then, gents, the clock belongs to you.”
12:59 p.m.
The intense Florida sun beat down mercilessly on Matt Henson and the fifty-three other men perched in the unshaded bleachers. He diligently fought not to nod off; not only had he been on the move since the wee hours, but his effort to remain conscious wasn’t being helped by the generous serving of greasy chili mac weighing heavily in his stomach.
There was a slight but persistent breeze; it smelled subtly of pine pollen and spring blooms, with an underlying essence of aviation fuel. The bleacher seats were old and warped at the ends; years ago, the planks had been painted dark green, but were now mostly sunbaked gray wood with only chips and flakes of faded enamel remaining.
Henson glanced at his watch as the Wing commander strode before the bleachers just mere seconds before the appointed time. The candidates spontaneously sprang to their feet; the derelict bleachers swayed and groaned, threatening to collapse at the sudden movement.
“Take your seats, gentlemen. I’m Colonel Isaac Fels. I command the 116th Aerospace Operations Support Wing. Welcome to Aux One-Oh.” Captain Lewis stood quietly to the side as Fels addressed the incoming candidates. The two men were a study in contrast; unlike the short blonde Captain with wide shoulders, Fels was tall, dark-headed and built similar to a broomstick.
“All of you are here because you desire to be part of this organization, and we want you to eventually join us, provided you meet our standards,” said Fels, pausing momentarily to take off his hat and wipe sweat from his bald crown. “Most of you only have the vaguest notion of what we do. Today, I’ll give a slightly better idea of what awaits you during your assessment cycle, and also what you can expect once you’re assigned to the 116th on operational status.”
“All of you have been subjected to an extensive battery of background checks,” he said. “Most facets of our mission are highly classified, and we will not discuss any of those today, but everything else that we talk about must remain here at Aux One-Oh.” Far to the south, there were a series of explosions and staccato bursts of gunfire.
“To my knowledge, none of you are here under duress. You’re here because you want to be here, but less than half of you will successfully emerge from the other side of this wringer. This is arduous and stressful training, both physically and mentally. It will take its toll. Some of you will quit, some of you will fail to achieve our standards, and some of you will fail to abide by the rules that we set.”
Passing low over the pines, a pair of massive CH-53 helicopters roared by. Fels waited for their noise to fade before continuing. “Captain Lewis and his cadre will treat you as adults, and we expect you to behave like adults. If you fail to comply with our rules or cannot meet our standards, you are subject to immediate and uncontestable relief. So it’s abundantly clear what that entails, it means that you will be expelled from the assessment cycle without any recourse or appeal, and that you will be reassigned to a distant and less-than-pleasant location.”
Fels continued. “And regardless of whether you successfully pass this cycle or whether you wash out, you are never to speak of this place or what we do here. If you ever feel a pressing urge to blab about it, either a year from now or twenty years into the future, then you should always imagine that there is someone listening, because there will be. Understood?”
“Everything we do here revolves around the mission of this Wing.” Fels cleared his throat as he referred to an index card. “Simply stated, this Wing’s mission is to locate specified objects and personnel of strategic value in denied or non-permissive areas, and to rescue and/or recover the same, by force if necessary, with a low operational signature and a minimum of external support from other U.S. military forces or agencies.”
“That’s a mouthful, so let me break it apart for you.” He slipped the card into a breast pocket. “First, our mission is to locate objects and personnel. That probably sounds simple, but it’s not. Far from it, in fact. In a more conventional environment, the Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Service takes the lead for most searches. They normally have the luxury of putting plenty of aircraft and other search resources in the area.”
“But we operate under different circumstances,” noted Fels. “You’ll be hunting for objects and people in denied or non-permissive areas, where there is no U.S. presence or where a U.S. presence is not formally permitted. Keeping a low operational signature means that you folks will be working on the ground, mostly by yourselves, with a minimum of air or other support.”
Despite his sleep-inducing gutful of chili mac, Henson was wide awake, now having some second thoughts about what he had signed on for. For a draft-motivated volunteer striving to avoid potential danger, it looked like he had inadvertently inserted himself at its innermost core.
Fels continued. “In the coming weeks, you’ll be exposed to the ground search techniques that we employ to quickly find objects and personnel. Then, you’ll spend most of the next four months perfecting those techniques before you’re assigned to an operational squadron within the Wing. Additionally, our mission may require the use of force, if necessary, to effect a rescue or recovery. Ideally, of course, we like to quietly slip in and slip out without drawing any undue attention to ourselves, but that may not always be a feasible option.”
“As for describing ‘specified objects of strategic value,’ I’m afraid I can’t be very explicit. At any given moment, there are a lot of objects that might fall out of the sky, and a sizeable percentage of these objects may be of strategic importance, so it would be in our national interest to find them and recover them as swiftly as possible.”
Seemingly for dramatic effect, the lanky colonel paused for several seconds. “Men, it’s important for you to understand that just because an object may be of strategic importance to the United States, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s the property of the United States. At least not initially.” He smiled sl
ightly and winked.
“But let’s focus on those objects that are US property. Without delving into details, we are in constant coordination with those agencies that deploy such strategic assets, so we have a reasonably good idea—well in advance—of the potential locations in the world where a search effort may be required. Consequently, in many instances, we are able to pre-position resources in preparation for a deployment or mission involving a strategic asset.”
“For you gentlemen, if you make it through the training cycle and join an operational squadron, that means that you’ll spend a lot of time on the road, staging at different locations. Journeying from one country to the next may sound exciting, but it’s not. Typically, when you’re pre-positioned, you’ll be stashed in a hangar somewhere, out of sight. It’s not a sightseeing spree. There’s no shopping for souvenirs, meeting the locals, practicing the local language, etc.
“Now you have a slightly less murky picture of what we do. The next four months will be challenging for you, and if you graduate to an operational squadron, life isn’t going to be that much more pleasant. So what are the benefits to you?
“For one, you’re here to be part of something truly special. Even though they’re designed for a very specialized purpose, the operational squadrons are some of the most highly trained fighting formations in the world. During your cycle, you’ll undergo weeks of combat training, and you’ll become extremely proficient with weapons and explosives. Our mission mandates that we be able to use force as necessary, and we don’t take that notion lightly.
“Because of this potential combat mission, you’ll have the opportunity for some unique training that’s not available to the average airman. All of you—except for you pararescuemen who’ve already been there—will attend the Army’s jump school at Fort Benning.