by Vossen, Doug
“Sergeant Ramos! We got a few live ones here!” Private Rogers was fireman-carrying a wounded soldier; two companions behind him were doing the same.
“Put them all here in a row. Leave one soldier to assist who doesn’t have a weak stomach.”
“I hunt and process my own kills into usable meat. This ain’t shit, sergeant.”
“OK, Private Rogers. Let’s get to work then. Put these rubber gloves on.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
JACK
Who the fuck am I taking on this? Trent and Karl for sure. Harrison? Maybe Karl’s people? Sergeant Martin? Does Ronak come? How do you factor giant aliens into the seating chart on a Blackhawk? Jesus Christ.
Trent caught up with Jack right outside the briefing tent. “Hey man, what’s good? So this air assault - me, you, Karl, the alien and Harrison?”
God, I hate how decisive he is. He just goes with shit. It’s his best and worst quality, all rolled into one buffet of drunken bullshit. “Still leaves us with two empty seats,” Jack said. Everything was happening too fast.
“How do you figure? That alien thing is big as fuck! He’s for sure gonna need like eight seats,” said Trent.
“Fine, one empty seat.” I never understood how he can be so wired all the time. I’m so goddamn exhausted right now. He’s just done more fighting and killed more people in the last two hours than I have in my entire life, and he’s still just as annoying as ever. I bet he’s hung over, too. What makes someone like that tick?
“Can you give me two minutes? I think I have a good candidate for the last seat,” said Trent.
Jesus, I can think of at least five good people! What about Karl’s dudes?
Just then Karl caught up with them. “Guys, my people are sick. They’re doing that thing from earlier. We need to hurry. We’ve all seen how little medical attention accomplishes. Please, let’s move. NOW.”
Motherfucker. I can’t win. “Trent, go find your guy and meet us by the birds. We leave in ten minutes.”
“You got it, man.” Trent walked back to where Callie stood by the tent’s entrance. He pulled her aside.
“So, you’re doing this?” asked Callie.
“I have to. We need one more person. You want in?”
“Are you serious? I’m not a soldier, Trent.”
“Yes, you are. We all are now. Today you proved yourself in a way few others have. I’d rather have you than some dude I never met before.”
“Trent, I don’t know. I have to…”
“You have to do what? What else is more important than this right now?”
“I just-”
“Callie, come on. Better to go out fighting than to roll over, right?”
“I’m not a soldier…”
“You did better than they did today,” Trent snapped through clenched teeth. “And you didn’t shoot or arrest me. I need to be there with someone who’s not them.”
“Aren’t they your friends?”
“Yeah, but they might sacrifice common sense because they’re still indoctrinated with bullshit. Please, I need someone who I know will have my back.”
“Fuck it, might as well do something helpful. I’m in.”
“I had a feeling you might be. Come on over to the bird.”
By the time the two walked over, Karl had already unrolled one of his stolen maps upside down and gathered a small pile of pebbles. He drew the outlines of three different types of rooms side by side, lining four pebbles along one of the imaginary doors. Each pebble was a person. Karl then explained the battle drill of entering and clearing a room in great detail. Anyone listening could tell he had done this countless times before.
Good, things are moving along now…
As he was deciding what from his pack to take with him and what to leave behind, Trent leaned to Callie. “Just remember two things: path of least resistance through a door, and go the opposite way of the guy in front of you, because even if he’s wrong he becomes right.”
“I want to be that rear rock that just watches everyone’s back in the hallway,” said Callie.
“Yeah, we’ll work something out.”
Jack walked over and pulled Trent aside. “Hey man, why her?”
“She already proved herself with something very important today, which is more than I can say for anyone else here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dude, they fucking detained me when I walked in! They fired warning shots at us and the little girl we brought in who just FUCKING DIED IN THAT GODDAMN HELICOPTER CRASH, SO SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Stupid motherfucker! I need everyone to think he’s not fucking crazy if I’m going to sell this!
Everyone stopped as soon as they heard the words “shut the fuck up.”
Jack quickly grabbed Trent’s shoulder and jerked him ten meters away from everyone. “Jesus Christ man! Are you cool?”
“Yes, sorry. I just-”
“Are you drunk?” Jack asked.
“Unfortunately, no. I’m not.”
“Well, can you be? I need you cool. Get your shit together, dude. Let’s round everyone up by the bird so we can try not crashing it this fucking time. Christ on a shitter!” Hughes can be such an asshole sometimes. Goddamn, Jack, calm down. You’re better than this. Your anger is getting out of control. You don’t hate Hughes! He’s never been anything but reliable to you. Take a deep breath. People are looking to you. Jack regained his composure and herded everyone over to the helicopter.
As the group walked to the bird, the flight crew quickly went through the pre-flight checklist. Chief Warrant Officer Rudich started the aircraft. The light from the phenomenon flickered across the spinning rotor blades as they crept into motion and picked up speed.
This is it. At least we’re doing SOMETHING. Great, now Hughes is teaching this chick how to put on a goddamn helicopter seat belt. Jack watched Trent demonstrate how the harness-style safety belt went around his arms and up through his legs, and how all the points of the harness joined at a ridged plastic wheel that functioned as a rotating locking mechanism.
“Callie, see?” said Trent. “All you do is twist it when we land and get out of the bird. This is one of those things that you have to do slower than you’d think. The phrase that applies here is slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”
Callie nodded.
Karl corralled everyone around the helicopter and forced them to practice getting on and off the aircraft. He ran them through this drill five times in quick succession, trying to work out all the possible missteps. The drill seemed mundane to Jack, but he knew mind-numbing rehearsal of a task was the only reason a unit was any good. Everything had to be muscle memory. Karl might be a huge pain in the ass, but he’s professional when it matters.
With the hasty rehearsals complete, the motley group got on the bird, Ronak included. Ronak sat awkwardly hunched on the left side of the aircraft, crowding both the left door gunner and Jack. Jack was in the chalk leader’s seat at the front of the aircraft. Trent, Callie, Karl, and Harrison sat in the rear two rows of seats. They were spread out a little more due to the empty seats reserved for Dr. Kapur and his family.
Well, time to do this nonsense again. Jack was done with air assaults. Small children and people who have never done an air assault before get excited for air assaults. People with a few air assaults under their belt just get nervous and want it to be over as soon as possible. Holy shit, how did I get into this line of work? Let’s be honest - I’m pretty much the biggest hippie ever, with the exception of money. What happened?
The doors closed. The dark blue-green lights came on in the interior of the aircraft’s fuselage. The rotors spun faster, increasing the metallic whine. Jack’s stomach dropped. It wasn’t because of the sudden increase in altitude, or the feeling of momentary weightlessness as the bird’s wheels elevated off the ground - it was the distinct feeling that these could be the last moments of his life. The first time this happened had been like a religious experienc
e. It was before Jack realized that religion was bullshit. He prayed the first time. And the second time. He even made a sign of the cross and asked Jesus for help. Absolute nonsense, but it was comforting at the time. Growing up and learning how to think is a motherfucker. I wish I could have the comfort level people with faith have. I fucking don’t. After our 80 years on the planet we all just rot into the ground. There is nothing left. There is no heaven, there is no hell, there’s just nothing. Want to ask if the afterlife is pleasant or shitty? Guess what, shit-dick? It’s neither. Nothing isn’t good and it’s not bad. It’s not anything. You wouldn’t know the difference between rotting in the ground as plant food or being in some feral cat’s large intestine. But what about the DMT feeling? That’s real, too. Am I looking at this right? What is that thing over the city? Ugh, what the fuck. I’m about three minutes away from landing and having to do my job. STOP THINKING! YOU NEED TO LEAD PEOPLE NOW! DON’T GET IN YOUR OWN WAY! Remember what dad always used to say before he died: do what you have to do to stay alive, no matter what. Even if it’s something you need to work through for years after, at least you’ll be alive to do it.
The helicopter banked left as it traveled over the Hudson River. It was an eerily beautiful sight. The phenomenon over the financial district pulsated violently, its perfectly symmetrical fractal spirals going further and further within it. The light energy released from the pulses danced along the surface of the Hudson; it was unlike anything Jack had ever seen. I wish I could just sit here and appreciate this beauty. I can’t explain why, but isn’t this the kind of thing life is supposed to be about? If DMT taught me anything, it’s that everything is filled with love and beauty and we all need to appreciate it. Why does it have to be this way? Why is everything always a goddamn war? Nothing matters but the infinite capacity to love. We all possess it, but we don’t truly realize it until we’re in that place. We can translate that love to reality! Jack’s mind always raced, especially before anything important. Sometimes he thought about the way things should be to distract him from the current situation, other times he thought about things so unrelated to the task at hand that he wondered how he’d gotten so far off track. The prospect of facing the end of one’s existence causes people’s minds to react in interesting ways.
The surreal light dance on the Hudson River soon gave way to Hell’s Kitchen and midtown proper. The bird turned hard north, taking a movie-like flight through the middle of the city at a much lower altitude than a typical tour helicopter. Holy shit. Why am I emotional right now? This is beautiful. I love this city. This place is my home. Yeah, we have some issues, but goddamn - there’s nothing like it. Find me a more accepting and universally diverse place, a place where merit is placed above national or socioeconomic origin, and I’ll move there. But not Portland. FUCK PORTLAND.
God, in the event I’m wrong and you exist: first of all, I’m sorry for saying you’re bullshit. However, I’d like to think that if every version of a bible from any religion uses the word for you as a synonym for love, you must not have an ego. I also doubt you’d fault me for only recognizing that which could be observed, measured, analyzed, and modified to make humanity better. I’m not a bad dude, man. I just have a hard time believing there’s an old man in the sky who tells me not to masturbate and caused light to exist with words. Come on dude, if you’re a thing, I know you won’t fault me. Also, if you’re there - please. I am fucking terrified right now. I am NOT the man for this job. If you’re real, please - HELP. Jack exhaled deeply, as if he’d just spewed 20 years of word vomit in twelve seconds. Fuck. I guess I am the man for this job, whether I like it or not.
The bird banked right at Columbus Circle, just to the east of the Trump building. The rotors changed pitch and the helicopter elevated steeply. We’re almost there. He’s looking for his spot. Time to strap it on, dude. Don’t be a pussy. You’ve got this. Just breathe. Inhale through your nose. Deep. Out through your mouth. Don’t worry. It’s loud as fuck in here. They won’t hear you. Wait, why the fuck do I care about that right now?
Chief Warrant Officer Rudich came over the radio in Jack’s headset. “Uh, sir, we’re gonna have a problem here.”
Jack felt the Blackhawk turn right again to head south. “What’s up, chief?”
“We’re coming around. See for yourself, man.”
What the fuck is this, Crown Heights? “Shit, we need an alternate LZ (Landing Zone).” Goddamn it! How did we not plan for one? Jack saw hordes of people rioting all over the park and the streets. It was utter chaos. They didn’t appear to be rioting due to discontent, or protesting against any aspect of society, such as the police. They weren’t looting TVs from storefront windows. Instead, everyone seemed to be indiscriminately brutalizing anything in their vicinity. Viewed from above, it looked more like a chemical reaction than a group of human beings.
Rudich came in over the headset again. “Sir, what do you think?”
Fuck, I don’t know. Find a goddamn spot, you’re the pilot.
Trent flicked his headset switch. “Jack, I think I have an idea.”
“By all means, man.”
“Chief, look to the south a little,” Trent said. “Ten blocks down and west.”
“Hooah, sir. What am I looking for?”
“See that big ass building down there? It’s a vacant restaurant that used to be called ‘Tavern on the Green.’ Just before that looks like enough room - we’d have a good minute before we got swallowed up by that mob near the museum.”
Holy shit. We’re measuring this in minutes now? “Hughes, are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely not. Got a better idea?”
Fair enough. “OK Trent, what do you got?”
“Land close to that restaurant. That’ll put us in the upper 60s, right at the west edge of the park. We get out immediately, like Major McMullin made us practice, and we haul ass north. That means wait for the bird to lift off, face the street beyond the restaurant, and turn right. The next subway station is about seven blocks up at 72nd Street. We can enter there and make our way to the museum underground. I bet the tunnels will be a path of least resistance. It’s probably a blessing in disguise.”
“Fair enough. Mr. Rudich, cover our movement until we get underground. Make sure the gunners save some ammo on those 240s so you can cover our exfil. Hit us on our MBITRs if you have to refuel or if you have any updates.”
“Roger, sir. You got it.”
MCCOLGAN
“If we continue to develop our technology without wisdom or prudence, our servant may prove to be our executioner…” - General Omar Bradley (1893 – 1981)
The S2 shop tent was abuzz with activity after the briefing. Everyone filed out of the tent’s exit flaps with a specific job, whether it was related to conducting the mission, supporting it, or reestablishing security around those who were still alive.
I was supposed to retire soon. Last of the kids out of the house next year. I was finally going to do all that traveling with Kelly that we’ve been talking about since I was a Captain. I don’t have much of this left in me anymore. I’m so goddamn tired. How am I going to explain all of this? This is the most off-the-wall thing I have ever seen, and I was in Iraq in 2006 when those Al-Qaeda idiots bombed the Al-Askari Mosque in Samarra. Those golden minarets came down and everyone’s life changed forever. One stupid-ass mosque bombed. No casualties. I guess when Sunnis destroy the holiest symbol of Shia Islam, people tend to get upset and start civil wars. Over 100 retaliatory dead bodies in my AO alone the following week. I didn’t think it could get any worse than that. And now I wish I was right back there. Comparatively, it seems like child’s play.
Colonel McColgan found a can of Kodiak Wintergreen on the folding table in front of the map displays. It belonged to someone else, but he didn’t care. He shook it lightly next to his ear. Half empty. Fuck it. I know I quit, but that hardly seems relevant now. McColgan took the plastic can of dip between his right thumb and middle finger and smacked it repeatedly
with the inside of his index finger. THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK.
He paced back and forth inside the nearly empty tent. It all felt so surreal. He removed the lid with the picture of an angry bear from the can of dip and looked inside. The flecks of tobacco were warm and moist; the pungent, yet delicious, odor filled his nostrils. When compressed, the shavings of addictive goodness leaked bits of brown liquid between his fingers. The dip-juice stung an open paper-cut wound on the tip of his finger, but it was a good sting. It was the sting associated with the impending comfort of an addict’s head rush. Goddamn, this smells so fucking good. He put a dip about half the size of a ping pong ball into his lower lip and spat on the grass.
Let me break this up into bite-sized chunks I can do something with. McColgan took out a small pad of waterproof paper and a Skillcraft pen with the words “US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY” on its side. When things got hectic, McColgan found it prudent to take a step back and write out the salient points of the situation in bullet form. It was a rough plan of action.
The rush of the first dip he’d had in years calmed him. It recalled to his mind the feeling of being stressed out as a junior officer. God, it really is the small things in life, isn’t it? Now, what do I have to get done while the guys are getting this doctor? McColgan began his list:
Write debrief. Jesus, how the hell do I even begin?
Assess casualties and compile list of wounded and dead. Write letters to families. Holy shit. How many of these am I going to have to do? I can’t even fathom how many dead are out there. Every time I’ve done one of these it was like ripping my heart out and stepping on it a thousand times. On paper I have got to be the worst brigade commander in US history. SHIT! Whatever, it isn’t about me. Calm down. One thing at a time …