Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  He leaned slightly over and grabbed my tag. He looked at it, then straightened and said, “Cadet Candidate Avery, you will join the group of candidates over there and report with them to Issue Point Number Three. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then move out, Cadet Candidate Avery.”

  I began to spin and leave.

  “Stop!”

  Startled, I spun awkwardly back around to face the cadet in the red sash.

  “Cadet Candidate Avery, when dismissed by a superior officer you must render a salute.”

  “Yes, sir.” I gave him my best salute.

  “Straighten your fingers.”

  I did.

  “Align your thumb with the plane of your hand.”

  I did.

  “Angle your hand slightly down.”

  I did.

  “Okay. Now move out!”

  We spent hours like that, reporting to the cadet in the red sash, being assigned to small squads of companions and sent off through alternating periods of walking at a near sprint and standing still in the sun. We were sent from issue point to issue point. At some points we were given equipment, at others uniforms, at others training manuals. At one station we were told to strip. As we were led along, they gave us inoculations, took blood samples, examined our genitals, and recorded our heights and weights. In between these stations were short and intense blocks of training on how to salute, march, assemble into a close interval squad, and perform other basics of drill and ceremony.

  The tags that dangled from our waists contained our statuses and shipping instructions. They told which stations we had been to. As we stepped up to the cadet in the red sash’s line, he would examine the tag, then send us off to wherever it said we needed to go next.

  It was hot. The high granite buildings that ringed the asphalt area formed an effective oven. Despite the ridiculousness of the outfit, I was thankful we were in shorts and T-shirts.

  After a few hours, my arms screamed as I tried to stand at attention while holding two large duffel bags full of gear. A cadre member walked up and pointed in my direction.

  “You three follow me.” He escorted us to a barracks room, waved us in, and departed immediately.

  The three of us stood mute in the middle of the room, too dazed to even introduce ourselves to one another. The sudden peace of the room with only us, and no cadre, was disconcerting. It was short-lived.

  The door burst open. A cadre member strode into the middle of the room and looked us over as we stood at attention. “I am Cadet Lewis.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it was full of authority. “I’m your squad leader. I will be back in one hour. At that time you will be in the proper uniform and have this room squared away. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. From now on you will salute when you greet upperclassmen outside and when we enter or leave your room, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” we said in unison.

  There was an awkward second; then he spoke slowly: “Good afternoon, candidates.”

  Our hands snapped up. “Good afternoon, sir!”

  He saluted and walked out, closing the door behind himself.

  We exhaled as a single set of lungs and regarded one another for a moment. Panting and dripping in sweat, I wondered if my new roommates were also having serious second thoughts about the next four years.

  “My name is Zack Dempsey,” said the tall one. He had a few inches on me, but his build was substantial, not skinny. He had a classic Irish complexion, pale with light freckles. His cheeks were red from exertion.

  “I’m Sam Avery,” I said.

  “Bill Cooper.” Bill was an inch or so shorter than me, though more stocky. His powerful build favored his legs, which were not fast or quick. But, I would soon learn, they were steady like a diesel engine. Once he got warmed up, Bill could walk forever with a heavy load. He was the strongest road marcher in our class.

  Knowing one another’s names woke us up.

  “Dump your bags and get organized,” said Bill calmly. Zack and I followed his lead, throwing our gear into piles in the middle of the room. Then we excavated for the uniforms needed for the swearing-in ceremony. This version was called “white over gray” and consisted of gray trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt. The shirt was worn with epaulets that bore the cadet’s class and rank. Our epaulets were plain gray. They were humorously blank, compared to the cadre’s epaulets, which bore gold stripes and black and silver brass.

  “That’s not how you do it.”

  Bill took the white shirt from me and swapped the epaulets around while Zack and I watched. “See here? Wider end goes toward your shoulder and the narrow end to the inside.”

  “Thanks.”

  Zack changed his.

  “Find your belt buckle. It looks like this,” said Bill, holding up a brass buckle still in a plastic bag. Zack and I dug through our piles.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Zack asked.

  “I’m prior service. Was artillery and then a year at the prep school.”

  “You were in the army before this?” I asked.

  “Yes. You guys obviously were not.”

  “Naw. Just graduated high school. From Chicago. I played lacrosse,” said Zack.

  “Me either,” I said. “I’m from Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “Were you a wrestler?” Zack asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “I figured. My best friend in high school was a wrestler. You’ve got his build: big shoulders. I hope you’re smarter than him, though. He’s a rock.”

  We learned quickly that Zack had no verbal filter. He said what he thought as he thought it. This made for a humorous running narrative as we slogged our way through West Point, because he was always bugged about something. He was quick to irritation with the world but slow to anger with his friends.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bill reassured us. “In a few weeks, no one will be able to tell us apart. Just follow my lead. It’s just a bunch of reindeer games.” Bill was intelligent, street-smart, and experienced. This was a boon to Zack and me but often left Bill frustrated.

  Cadet Lewis returned and took us, along with the seven other candidates who made up our squad, to parade practice with the rest of the platoon. We spent an hour doing as a full platoon the things we had been doing earlier in the day as just a squad. We learned how to march in column, execute right and left wheel turns, stand at parade rest and attention, and present arms in unison as a platoon. After that we were marched out onto the Plain for the swearing-in ceremony.

  We stepped off at six p.m. Cadet candidates marched in white over gray. We wore white gloves on our left hands. Our right hands were bare, in preparation for the oath. The first classmen wore their India whites with red sashes and sabers.

  The ceremony took place on the Plain, the large flat expanse in front of the cadet barracks that had served as a bivouac site and training ground for American soldiers during the Revolutionary War. The Plain was green under a blue sky, and the gray stone barracks rose behind us as if they were part of the mountain.

  The West Point Band played as we marched out, the drum beating loudly as every left foot in the regiment hit the ground. Nine Cadet Basic Training companies emerged from the barracks sally ports. There were more than a thousand of us. Every gloved hand swung at once. Every foot fell in unison. Thousands of people watched from the stands and all around the far edges of the Plain. In the distance behind the crowd and below the Plain, the Hudson River flowed south.

  Once the regiment had assembled, companies on line, facing the superintendent’s reviewing stand, the music ceased, and we stood at attention. Someone began to speak into a microphone, welcoming dignitaries, congressmen, and generals to the ceremony, as well as all of the proud parents. Mom and Dad were somewhere in the crowd. Our good-byes in the arena felt like years ago; I missed them already. Before I knew what was happening, the voice on the microphone began
to lead us in the oath.

  “I, Samuel Avery, do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States, and bear true allegiance to the National Government, that I will maintain and defend the sovereignty of the United States, paramount to any and all allegiance, sovereignty, or fealty I may owe to any State or Country whatsoever, and that I will at all times obey the legal orders of my superior officer and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”

  What had I just done?

  THREE

  1130 HOURS, 1 AUGUST 2015

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Sergeant Weber.”

  I walked into the tactical operations center and headed directly for the coffeepot. Just halfway through this rotation to Iraq, it already seemed like I’d been there a year. It was probably because all the previous times I had been here blended into one fuzzy, endless event in my mind. This was a strange one, though. No one knew we were here—or, more accurately, no one wanted to admit we were here.

  President Obama had pulled the last of the U.S. combat troops out of Iraq with great fanfare in 2011. Of course, we still had a lot of people in-country working for the embassy, the various consulates, and as military trainers. But all of our muscle was gone. We had ceased being a land power in the Middle East. This made us all nervous. We crossed our fingers and tried not to think about the cost of getting to that point.

  After a long and nasty fight, we’d finally achieved a little peace and stability. The sheer weight of “the surge” and our radically improved covert tactics had put all of the insurgent groups under excruciating pressure. We’d killed a lot of them. It had looked like we might actually pull this off. In 2010, the situation had been tenuous but offered a foundation the Iraqis and we could build on. And then we’d taken the pressure off. Meanwhile, guys like Abu al-Baghdadi had been laying their preparations. By 2012, he had pulled together a critical mass of insurgent groups and nursed them back to fighting strength.

  Then Syria went to hell. Baghdadi expanded his operations into that fertile chaos, obtaining access to more zealous, anti-Western insurgent volunteers. With breathing room from us and new recruiting sources in Syria, ISIS caught fire quickly.

  In June 2014, major Iraqi cities began to fall to ISIS. In early August, ISIS even defeated the Kurds in the field and captured the Mosul Dam. It was clear that the situation was not going to get better on its own. The president publicly ordered air strikes and gave a secret order for the military to be prepared to evacuate the embassy and other personnel … none of which we could do without having assets in-country.

  So, over a year ago, in the middle of the night a couple of C-5s cycled into an airfield outside of Kirkuk and disgorged a small Joint Special Operations Command task force under the command of a navy one-star, Rear Admiral Brick. We’re still here, with no status of forces agreement, no acknowledgment from our government or the Iraqis, and not much backup.

  We picked Kirkuk for two reasons. First, it was far enough north that we could be responsive to any needs in Mosul or Irbil, which were both less than an hour’s flight away. Second, it was safe. We knew the Kurds wished they had taken Kirkuk during the First Gulf War. They had moved in during the ISIS-induced chaos, and we figured they wouldn’t let anyone wrest it from them now that they finally had it.

  I was responsible for the aviation operations of the task force and reported to the task force commander. Brick was a SEAL and could be gruff and arrogant, but we worked well together. He gave me full authority for crew selections and all other aspects of our flight operations. I was good at this. It was the kind of job I had done a lot of recently while I waited to see if I would get promoted. I’d been a lieutenant colonel for a while. If I didn’t get picked up for full-bird colonel this year, they were going to make me retire. Despite my weariness, I didn’t want that. I loved my unit and wasn’t ready to leave it. I loved Chinooks, and though I didn’t fly them as much as I used to, I liked being around them. And I had no idea what else to do with my life. I was not ready to leave.

  Our immediate job was to provide insertion platforms for special ops teams that conducted targeting for the air strikes as well as any required downed-pilot search and rescue. We also had to be ready for an evacuation of the embassy and other civilians and assets. Beyond that, we served as a general-purpose, highly capable quick-reaction force made up of two Chinooks, four Black Hawks, and a contingent of Green Berets, Pararescue, and SEALs.

  In the beginning, we couldn’t decide if this had the feeling of a last hurrah or the start of something bigger. We still couldn’t tell. Despite the “air strikes only” approach, we’d managed to stop the ISIS advance for a time. We were occasionally able to launch successful raids against the ISIS chain of command, killing them even in Syria. Still, over the last few months they had mounted a comeback, and in May, they had taken control of Ramadi. This victory put them only about 120 kilometers from Baghdad.

  At least we have coffee, I thought as I looked at the map.

  “Colonel Avery, you have some visitors,” Sergeant Weber said behind me.

  “Visitors?”

  “Yes, sir. Two gentlemen out at the airfield gate. They say they really need to talk to you.”

  This was strange. How would anyone know I was here? I looked at Sergeant Weber skeptically. “I’m going to need more than that before I shag my ass out to the perimeter gate. They didn’t give their names?”

  “No, sir. Just said to tell you to ‘Go naked,’ whatever that means.”

  I smiled. “Major Obrien, I’ll be back in a bit. Radio me if you need anything.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “I’ll tag along if you don’t mind, sir,” Weber said as he grabbed his M4 and followed me out.

  “Sure, Weber. I’m touched.”

  We hopped into the van, Weber in the driver’s seat, and headed toward the airfield gate. We weren’t even halfway there when I spotted the silhouettes of two armed men on the other side of the guard shack and vehicle barrier. One tall and lanky standing motionless, watching our vehicle approach. The other stout and muscular, shifting his weight back and forth between each foot. I chuckled, comforted by the duo’s unchanging nature, and shook my head.

  “Sir?”

  “I know those guys.”

  Weber pulled up next to the vehicle barrier, and I hopped out. Waving the guard away, I walked up to Zack and Turtle. They were grinning, but something was off. They’d each grown scruffy beards—not uncommon for guys like them in this theater—and were wearing full combat kit. Modified M4s hung from their shoulders, and they each had at least one sidearm that I could see. Though their eyes were covered by sunglasses, I could tell that they were narrowed in calculation of something. My friends were on edge, as if a clock was ticking.

  I extended my hand to Zack. “Come here, you son of a bitch,” he said, wrapping me in a bear hug. Turtle laughed and slapped me on the back.

  “How the hell are you?” Turtle asked. His tan face was framed by jet-black hair and wore a wide and friendly smile.

  “I’m good. What’s it been? Ten years?”

  “More than that, I think.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Not since Walter Reed, my friend,” Turtle said. “I appreciated that, by the way.”

  “I was disappointed I couldn’t visit more.”

  “You were deployed most of the time. That makes it hard.”

  “And you,” I said, looking at Zack. “A full bird, and I heard you were on the short list for squadron commander.”

  Zack shrugged. “What can I say? Clean living.”

  Zack had been promoted below the zone to colonel and pinned on full bird a full year before the rest of us were even considered. It was a surprise to all of us, since his career had been built on pure competence. He was terrible at politics. There was no way he would ever pin on general, but I was certain he would get picked to command Delta. I had seen him more recently than Tur
tle, since we worked in the same community.

  “Did you hear about his daughter?” Turtle asked me, gesturing at Zack.

  “I did. I think everyone did. She started West Point this summer, right?”

  “Yep. I can’t believe it.” Zack shook his head.

  “I know. We are getting old, aren’t we?”

  “That part I believe. It’s how good a kid Susan turned out to be. Better than I deserve.”

  “What are you guys doing in-country, anyway?”

  “I’m over here on a temporary tasker at the embassy. A joint liaison gig. They’ve been giving me bullshit busywork like this while the command board is sorted out.”

  “Uh-huh. Since when did an embassy liaison duty require all that kit?” I gestured at Zack’s weapon with a smile. He shifted on his feet.

  “Thankfully, it’s a short rotation. I’ll hear the board’s decision on squadron commander in about thirty days and should wrap up here about the same time. How about you? You should hear about your colonel’s board soon, right?”

  “Yes. Any day now,” I said, noting the diversion. “It’s my last shot. You guys working together?”

  “Hell no,” said Turtle. “Zack wouldn’t sully his professional reputation by working with a sellout private contractor.” He punched Zack in the shoulder. “He just sneaks out after taps to drink with me, like the old days.”

  Zack rubbed his shoulder. “I ran into Turtle in the embassy dining facility.”

  “We picked up a couple nice security contracts in Baghdad after Blackwater got kicked out,” Turtle added.

  I looked past Zack and Turtle to the beat-up van they had driven up to the gate in. Baghdad was almost three hundred kilometers to the south.

  “Did you guys drive here in that?”

  Turtle chuckled. “No. I had one of my Little Birds give us a ride up.”

  “One of your Little Birds?”

  Turtle shrugged. “It’s a big contract.”