Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  “Let the team leader know. Landing in six minutes,” Pete said to the crew chief in the rear.

  “Roger that, sir. Six minutes.”

  I was sitting in the companionway jump seat, centered and behind Pete and Kevin, the copilot. Pete was the pilot in command of our aircraft and I was the air mission commander of our flight of two. We had both been with the unit only a few years at that point, and this was our first combat tour.

  Raven 31, our sister ship, had broken off from us twenty-five minutes earlier and was inserting its A Team into a mountainside LZ on the opposite side of the valley. Once in place, these two teams would perform a deadly overwatch of the mountains and the valley below, conducting direct actions against the enemy as well as providing targeting and guidance for air force sorties. After Tora Bora, the previous month, we were getting more aggressive in our fight against the Taliban in the mountains.

  LZ Troy wasn’t bad, as high-altitude Afghanistan landing zones went. It was large and level enough for us to set down rather than have to execute a two-wheel pinnacle landing.

  “I’ll take the controls,” Pete said.

  “You’ve got the controls,” Kevin responded.

  As we approached the LZ, I could feel the tension radiate off Pete. High-altitude landings like this were tricky, and it was very easy to bake an engine. Doing so would be a disaster, since at that altitude it takes both engines to fly. We wouldn’t have single-engine flight capability until we got back down into the valley.

  I trusted Pete, though. Rather than stress myself out by staring at the instrument panel as the engine indications spiked, I turned to watch the team exit.

  Knee-high snow covered the LZ. Our rotors kicked up a cloud of it that engulfed us before the aircraft crunched down onto its surface. The flight engineer lowered the ramp, and ten soldiers ran out into the cold night.

  “Ramses 03, Raven 21 is Durham,” I transmitted on the satcom radio. Ramses 03 was the task force operations officer monitoring our progress from our base at the airfield at Bagram, about 160 kilometers away. “Durham” meant we were on the LZ.

  “Team is off. Rear is ready,” announced the crew chief.

  “Roger that. Moving,” Pete said as he increased power. Raven 21 jostled as she skidded forward through the snow before laboring back into the air. Pete turned the aircraft downslope and nosed her over slightly to accelerate.

  The mountain fell away sharply, and Pete dropped us over the edge like a cliff diver, trading altitude for lift-giving airspeed. I passed the code word “Birmingham” to the operations center, signifying we were airborne again. Once back at cruising speed, Pete eased the aircraft into a gentle climb, and soon we were orbiting five miles away, above the valley.

  After an insertion like that, we typically loitered at a safe distance while the ground team got their bearings and ensured that there were no enemy in their vicinity. Once we started down the mountain, it would be at least an hour before we could climb back up to get them. We didn’t want to leave them in a firefight if we didn’t have to.

  Raven 31 was supposed to join back up with us as we orbited; we would then proceed back to base as a flight of two. But their insertion did not go smoothly.

  “Raven 21, this is 31. Primary LZ was Killjoy. Moving to alternate.”

  “Roger that, 31.” Killjoy meant that the LZ was not suitable for landing. Sometimes, no matter how thorough the planning, the flat patch on the side of a mountain that looked so nice on a map and satellite imagery turned out to be a sucker hole, and there was simply no way to land a heavy helicopter on it. That’s why we always had an alternate landing zone or two on missions like these. The problem was, switching to another site required more fuel and meant the helicopter’s noise signature persisted longer, giving the enemy more time to figure out our intentions.

  As we orbited, Pete reported what we were all observing: “The weather is deteriorating.” Small clouds were forming near the mountains, and the cloud ceiling above us was coming down.

  We monitored the radios, waiting for the team to give us the all clear. On the VHF and satcom radios it was apparent that Dragon 45’s long day was not over yet. They were still exchanging fire with the enemy on another mountaintop, approximately ten miles to our north. The methodical back-and-forth on the radio between them and Hammer 22 belied the violence taking place. Soon a familiar voice reached out on the FM radio.

  “Raven 21, this is Outlaw 01, over?”

  I smiled. Outlaw 01 was a friend of mine, Major David West. Though he had graduated just one year ahead of me at West Point, we weren’t close until we served in the 101st together in the mid-1990s. One year my senior in rank, he preceded me in nearly every assignment and became a mentor and coach as much as a friend. He transitioned to special operations two years before I did, and his encouragement and recommendation had been helpful there also. He had been promoted to major shortly before 9/11. It had been a hell of a party, and afterward he had enjoyed referring to me as “just a damn captain.” He was a good pilot and officer.

  That night he was serving as an embedded liaison to the Special Forces teams. He lived and fought with them while providing aviation planning and communications expertise. Sometimes it works better to have pilots talking to pilots on the radio. David had been on the mountain with one team or another for two months.

  Pete turned his head, smiled, and nodded at me when he heard David’s transmission. Everybody liked David.

  “Go ahead, Outlaw 01.”

  “Raven 21, we’ve got three wounded that are surgical urgent. Requesting medevac.”

  “Outlaw 01, standby.”

  Pete was a few steps ahead of me. He checked our fuel and other systems. He gave me the thumbs-up over his right shoulder without looking back.

  “Outlaw 01, say LZ.”

  “Raven 21, we are moving the wounded to LZ Argos.”

  “Roger that, Outlaw. Stand by.”

  Pete and Kevin called up LZ Argos on the navigation display and calculated a route while I made the call to the operations center. “Ramses 03, Raven 21, requesting permission to respond to Outlaw medevac request in support of Dragon 45. We are green on fuel.”

  “Raven 21, Ramses 03. As soon as Boxer 25 releases you, you’re cleared to LZ Argos.”

  “Roger that, Ramses.”

  Pete pointed at the information on his navigation display. I read it quickly. “Outlaw 01, we can be there in twelve minutes as soon as we are released here.”

  “Roger that, Raven. We’ll be ready.”

  “Will be good to see you, Outlaw.”

  “Likewise.”

  A few minutes later we were traversing a valley en route to Argos. As we neared the other mountain, I shook my head at the Afghan night. I was still not used to how dark it was, especially up in the mountains. There was absolutely no ambient light. Nothing. Having flown missions extensively in the United States, Europe, and Asia, I was used to dark nights. But in almost every other part of the world, there was always some kind of light source. A streetlight, a remote farmhouse, an industrial facility, something. In northeast Afghanistan there was nothing. Our night-vision goggles worked fine, and we had the forward-looking infrared imagery as well, so we were far from blind. Still, it was unnerving to stare out the cockpit unaided and see nothing but black, as if we were flying deep underwater rather than next to looming mountains.

  “Raven 21, this is 31. Be advised our alternate LZ was hot. Unable to infil ground team. Took multiple hits. No wounded but aircraft damaged. Number two engine questionable. Need to return to base immediately.”

  “Raven 31, roger. Will advise when we are off Argos,” I responded.

  This was not good. I’d been worried when they had shifted to their alternate LZ. Hammer 22 was tied up supporting Dragon 45’s fight and was unable to properly clear the LZ from above. Now my flight of two was permanently split. At least there were no casualties.

  “Raven 21, Outlaw 01. Make your approach from the west. W
e’ve pushed the enemy off to the east. LZ should be clear. But no guarantees.”

  “Wouldn’t expect any,” I responded.

  “Hammer 22, what can you see on Argos?” Pete transmitted to the gunship.

  “Raven 21, Hammer 22. No enemy activity on Argos that we can see. Good little firefight approximately one kilometer to the east, though.”

  “Roger that.”

  We flew in silence for a few more minutes before Argos came into sight.

  “Outlaw 01, we’ve got a visual on Argos. Will be on the ground in two minutes.”

  “Roger that, Raven.”

  Beyond the landing zone we saw the green of old, Soviet-manufactured tracer rounds occasionally pierce the darkness. When they did, a burst of red tracers would answer in force. It looked more like harassing fire than an assault, but Dragon 45 was probably in for a sleepless night.

  Pete put the aircraft into a gentle descent. We passed through a couple of low-hanging scud clouds short of the LZ. They were getting thicker and more frequent.

  Pete approached from the west and pointed the aircraft downslope before putting us firmly on the ground. He took the power back to idle, and the aircraft settled heavily onto its landing gear. There was less snow here. I judged it to be ankle-deep.

  “Ramp coming down. Personnel approaching the rear of the aircraft,” the crew chief announced.

  “Make this quick,” said Pete.

  I got out of the jump seat and headed back to the rear of the aircraft with my M4, to assist if needed. The stretchers were loaded one by one. It was an awkward process. As I stood on the ramp, a soldier bounded on board and grabbed me.

  It was David. His weapon was slung over his shoulder, and he was carrying two radios in his backpack. One headset was attached to his shoulder strap; he held the other. He was filthy but smiling. He put his hand on my shoulder and shouted something, but under the aft transmission there was no way for me to hear what it was. I shook my head at him. He shrugged and smiled. I nodded and winked at him, a ridiculous thing to do in the darkness.

  At that moment the western side of the LZ erupted with gunfire. Green tracer rounds flew toward the aircraft. The ramp gunner next to me was struck in the shoulder. His uniform caught fire as the tracer burned in his body. He fell backward, screaming. A medic dove on the writhing crew member, putting out the fire and applying direct pressure to his wound. I lunged into the fallen gunner’s station and returned fire with the M60, pointing the weapon at the enemy muzzle flashes. The right minigun also responded. Still firing, I looked toward David. He was running back to Dragon 45’s position, shouting into his radio headset and firing his weapon.

  SIX

  SEPTEMBER 1987

  “Go naked, you nasty-ass plebes!”

  The Guru and the rest of E4’s upperclassmen stood joyfully on the stoops of the barracks as our platoon of naked plebes spilled out of the Lost Fifties and streaked toward North Area. We wore nothing but shoes and our black cadet-issue ski masks, for plausible deniability. But everyone in the regiment, leaning out of their windows screaming encouragement, knew who it was. “Go naked” was not just the company motto; it was what we did. Often.

  This was the traditional first “running of the plebes” for E4, held annually just before taps on the night before the first football game of the season. Initially it was awkward, but after a few strides, it felt terrific. As the year went on there were many such runs: for the first snow, the first exam, the first Army football win, or simply whenever the Guru decided to whip up a reason. But on those runs many upperclassmen joined in, the Guru usually in front. Many times other companies did as well.

  Though E4 did it more often, the entire Corps was prone to these juvenile bursts of nakedness. Like other spontaneous mischief, they were brief escapes from the grayness of cadet life. Lame in comparison to what went on at any “real college,” the ridiculousness reminded us that we were still alive. We had to be careful, though. A cadet caught naked like that by a tactical officer was in for a big slug. We were taught early how to scan the area and to never, ever stop running. Turtle, Zack, Bill, and I learned a lot of things that first semester.

  * * *

  “What the hell, Turtle?”

  “Get up, Sam. Cadet Stillmont is here.”

  “Huh?”

  I sat up quickly. The Guru was standing in the middle of our room, wearing his camouflage battle dress uniform and his Loki grin.

  “Good morning, Cadet Avery.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Be in the basement. BDUs. Five minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the basement we met up with the Guru as well as Cadet Wilcox and a couple of other upperclassmen I didn’t know. Zack and Bill were also there.

  “Follow me,” said the Guru.

  We crept out of the Lost Fifties. The Guru peered around the corner. “It’s clear. Let’s go!”

  He ran to a manhole cover in the corner of North Area. “This is it. Get it open.” Several of the upperclassmen used a metal tool to quickly jerk the cover off the manhole. The Guru vanished into it.

  We climbed down the rusted ladder one at a time, into the darkness. The dank tunnel was too short to stand up in and was crowded by large metal pipes that ran its length. There was a loud clang as someone dragged the cover back into place. The Guru, at the head of our column, had a flashlight. I focused on that light and wondered where we were going as we shuffled though the grimy tunnel.

  After scuttling along for about fifteen minutes, we bumped to a stop. There was a discussion at the front of the group, and then I heard a squeaking noise.

  A loud crash startled me, and I sensed Turtle jerking in surprise behind me as well. Then a dim light illuminated the end of the tunnel, and the group shuffled forward.

  One by one, each man dropped out of the tunnel; when I got to the end, I realized why. It was about a ten-foot fall to the floor.

  I shuffled forward, swung my legs out, and hung from the opening.

  “That’s it, Avery. Now go ahead and drop,” said Wilcox.

  I hit the ground and moved to the side. I looked around while we waited for the rest of the group to exit the tunnel. All I could tell was that we were in a dark hallway.

  When the last person dropped, Wilcox and the rest of the upperclassmen started taking off their clothes. I looked at Zack. He shrugged and started to strip.

  Once we were all naked, Wilcox led the way through a pair of double doors. When we stepped into the large, dark space, I realized where we were. It was the cadet swimming pool.

  The huge natatorium was dark. No one spoke as we followed the flashlights around the pool to the ten-meter high dive. Wilcox stood on the end of the diving board, waiting for all of us to get to the top of the platform. One of the upperclassmen spotlighted him with a flashlight. His large, pale, naked body bounced slightly on the board, suspended in the darkness. I looked down but could not see the water.

  “Plebes, I recommend you enter the water like this.” He grabbed his balls with both hands and stepped off the board. There was a long delay and then a splash.

  We spent about an hour jumping off the high dive and swimming in the pool. It was ridiculous. As a spirit mission, it was a joke next to MacArthur’s bold and ingenious effort. I did not have the guts to ask the Guru if this was what he’d meant earlier when he’d said, “We must aim high,” but it was fun, and I was proud that they’d included me. The steam tunnels were legendary in the Corps; this network of utility tunnels had been constructed almost two hundred years ago and ran beneath the cadet area. Every cadet had heard about them, but no one really knew how to access or navigate them except for E4. Wilcox and the Guru were rumored to have a map of the steam tunnels that enabled them to enter any building in the cadet area.

  When we finally got back to the barracks, Turtle and I followed Cadet Stillmont as we snuck back up the 53rd Division, to our room. When we reached our floor, he stopped at his door and turned around, s
aying, “Good job tonight, gentlemen. You may refer to me as the Guru from now on.”

  “Go naked, sir.”

  I had a hard time falling asleep that night. For the first time since I’d gotten to West Point, I felt that I had been accepted as a cadet. I felt that I belonged and that I had joined something special. It felt good.

  * * *

  We slogged through our first semester as plebes, caught between the triple pincers of Captain Eifer, constant hazing from upperclassmen, and academics. The course load was stiff, and we spent our Friday nights cramming for Saturday’s classes. It was depressing. We coped by studying together and complaining.

  “What the hell was I thinking?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Zack,” said Creighton.

  “I thought the academic year would take a little heat off us.”

  “A math study party at eight o’clock on Friday night is not what you had in mind?”

  “No, Creighton. I’m not a military legacy freak like you. You’re in heaven, aren’t you?”

  “No. I hate math. We should be studying military history.”

  “You guys are killing me,” I said. “I’m hitting the latrine.” Zack and Creighton bickered constantly. It got old sometimes.

  The only positive effect of the academic freight train was its ability to compress the weeks and months, even as the days seemed to last forever. We were all counting the minutes until Thanksgiving leave, the first time we would get to go home. On Friday nights like this, I was acutely aware of Amanda, my high school girlfriend, having a totally different college experience than I. Immersive as well, I was sure, but a lot different. I thought about how excited I had been after graduation last summer. I’d been ready to leave boring civilian life behind and join the military. Amanda and I broke up, and I left without looking back. Now I missed her, and I was sure she wasn’t missing me.

  In fact, none of us were having much relationship success in our first semester of college. The E4 “Dear John” board was nearly full. This Corps-wide tradition had evolved over decades to deal with the predictable trajectory of cadet relationships. For plebes who show up with girlfriends, it doesn’t take long for the letter to come: “You’re a special guy” and “I really respect what you are doing” followed by the windup: “but my life is changing so much…”