Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  After the long drive to Georgia, Zack and I arrived at the base full of anticipation. We were cows now. We were going to learn how to jump out of airplanes, and we were convinced that this skill was going to make it easier to get laid. It was going to be a good summer.

  Airborne School, we soon realized, was not the exotic special operations training we’d envisioned. It was an old-fashioned army training slog. Zack and I had been warned that Airborne School was “five days of training crammed into three weeks.” We couldn’t fully appreciate what that meant until we were covered in sweat and sawdust, standing in the sun, listening to “Sergeant Airborne” tell us for the thousandth time how to execute a parachute landing fall, or PLF. It was a fancy name for a way of landing that can be boiled down to “keep your feet and knees together and roll with it.”

  Despite the repetitive training, shouting cadre, and sweltering barracks, Zack and I were in heaven. We were away. Free. Liberated from West Point. The training started early, at 0500 hours, but when it ended, at 1700 hours, we were done. We could eat, shower, get in our civvies, and escape. We would take a taxi into Columbus and enjoy the civilian surroundings or just go to the PX and savor the air-conditioning. The training was boring, but after the sprint to the finish during term-end week of the academic year, my brain welcomed the intellectual silence. I also welcomed the absence of words like “duty,” “honor,” and “country.” At Airborne School they spoke in profanities, not platitudes.

  The course went by quickly. It was a mindless blur of push-ups and practice landing falls that concluded with Jump Week. They threw us out of a plane five times during the loud, windy, and dangerous conclusion. The first time the aircraft door opened in flight, we were scared. We were suddenly grateful for the insanely repetitive training.

  The best thing about Airborne School was Stephanie.

  An art history major from UVA, she was living in Atlanta for half of the summer while doing an internship at the High Museum of Art. Zack and I spent the weekend in Atlanta before reporting to Benning, and I met her at an outdoor concert there. She and I randomly bumped into each other during a lull in the music and were immediately and mutually smitten.

  She was beautiful. Her wavy brown hair fell easily onto her shoulders and framed a pretty face with large brown eyes and a lower lip that was big and soft and seemed to always invite a kiss. Except when she was sad. Her body was athletic from one angle and curvy from another. Every position she put it in and the way she moved around in it fascinated me.

  We spent that entire weekend together while Zack chased ineffectually after one of her friends. I forced Zack to leave Benning as early as possible with me the next weekend so that I could spend it with her. She met me on the stoop of her apartment building and wrapped her arms around me. “I missed you, cadet,” she said sweetly. We spent another perfect weekend together before Zack and I went back to Benning for Jump Week. Then, as soon as they pinned our wings on, I raced back to Atlanta again.

  “Holy hell, my head hurts,” Zack said softly.

  “Quiet,” I pleaded.

  “I thought you guys were tough or something,” said Stephanie from the kitchen. It was Sunday morning. We had been celebrating the end of jump school and yearling year for two days.

  Stephanie was a good host and so carefree that it was intoxicating to be around her. At West Point, everything was serious. It wasn’t just a math test; it was a “critical demonstration of your ability to receive instruction.” It wasn’t just breakfast; it was an “important opportunity to develop yourself as a junior leader with the plebes.” You weren’t just deciding what training to sign up for that summer; you were “making critical career decisions that would have ramifications for the rest of your time in uniform.” With Stephanie, though, it was just breakfast.

  “Eggs Stephanie-style!” she said, bouncing out of the kitchen with two plates in hand, wearing short cutoff sweatpants and a tight tank top. Zack nudged me in the ribs to signal his approval.

  “Not so loud,” I said in earnest.

  “Like I said. I thought you guys were tough.”

  “We can be when we need to be,” I mumbled.

  “These are good!”

  “Thanks, Zack. You’re easy.”

  “Easier than you know!” He nudged me again with his elbow.

  “You do know I notice every time you do that, right?” she said to Zack.

  “Um…”

  “My Lord, that place is really doing a number on you guys.”

  “Yeah, but look how fit we are,” Zack said, flexing his biceps.

  “That part I like,” she said as she walked back into the kitchen. “Anyone need more coffee?”

  “Okay. I’m serious now. Not so loud.”

  She came back from the kitchen, patted my head gently, and sat down next to me as we ate.

  “You’re not eating?”

  “I’m not much of a breakfast girl,” she confessed as she put one arm around my waist and hugged me close while I ate. For a few minutes there was just the sound of silverware clinking and Zack and me chewing. Stephanie leaned her head against my neck.

  “What time are you guys heading to the airport?”

  “Around noon. Right, Sam?”

  “Yeah … that’s about right.” I felt the pang of missing her begin. It was there whenever I took a deep breath. We had talked about it last night. I was headed to Europe for two weeks. In a few days, she’d be driving to Colorado with some friends for the last half of the summer; there they’d wait tables and hike and party. I would have changed my plans if she had asked me to. It felt that good to be with her, to hang out and be normal, but she didn’t ask, and I told myself it was because I didn’t give her an opening. That I bluffed too well. I was going on a kick-ass trip to Germany and Austria that could not be deterred. Maybe she felt the same. Maybe she would have delayed her trip out west?

  “You listening to me, Sam?” Zack asked impatiently.

  “No. What did you say?”

  “I said, I am going to shower up, get packed, and make a run to the grocery store to stock up for the trip. I’ll swing back by at noon to grab you.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  Stephanie sat up and took his plate. “I’ve got this, Zack. You get going.”

  “Thanks.”

  She smiled at me as she took my plate also, and I watched as she walked back into the kitchen. I looked at my watch. About ten a.m. My head still hurt as I lay down on the sofa. I let the anxious sadness of an imminent good-bye wash over me while she finished cleaning the kitchen.

  When she was done, she walked quietly over to me and knelt by my head. She leaned in and kissed me softly on the cheek.

  “I’m going to miss you, Sam.”

  “I’m going to miss you, too.”

  She kissed me again, and I turned to meet her lips this time. I put my arms around her, and she giggled as I pulled her up on top of me. She felt perfect in my arms. She could feel me getting worked up again and slowed our kissing down. She pulled back and propped herself up on her hands.

  “When do you think I’ll see you again?” I asked.

  “Well, it sounds like I get back to UVA about the time you wrap up with the drill sergeant stuff, right? You should come visit me.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So I’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  “But what happens then?” I asked awkwardly.

  “Whatever happens next.”

  “Great. A philosopher.”

  “Ambiguity, Sam. Embrace it.” She slowly lowered herself and began kissing my neck.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  She pulled slightly away and glared at me with a look of mock frustration. “Ambiguity about our situation. Not our feelings. Now shut up and kiss me while you still can.”

  Later, as we drove to the airport, Zack had something on his mind. He shifted his hands nervously on the steering wheel u
ntil he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

  “I gotta ask you a question, Sam.”

  “Sure.”

  “What happened that night? Between you and Bill, I mean.”

  “Not this again.”

  “You can’t ignore me on this, Sam. It’s not right! And it’s not just me who wonders. You guys are too big a part of the company to get away with a bullshit, unexplained falling out. Everybody wonders. What can happen between two guys who are that tight that leaves ’em basically strangers?”

  I looked out the window. The good-bye with Stephanie was bummer enough.

  “I was there, Sam. I saw how you looked at Bill. I thought you were going to kill him. Now you don’t speak anymore. You didn’t even come to blows again later. You were best friends until that one night. It is reasonable for me to ask.” He hit the steering wheel in frustration.

  “Shame,” I said quietly.

  “Huh?”

  “I think we are both ashamed of what happened, both of us, and we can’t get past it.”

  “You’re making no sense. Two best friends are carrying around a bunch of ‘shame’ about something that happened between them, and they can’t get over it, so they stop talking to each other? What are you? A pair of high school girls?”

  “Just drop it. Take our example as a cautionary tale.”

  “How can I take it as a cautionary tale if you won’t tell me what you’re so ashamed of?”

  I had never explained the situation like that before, even to myself. Once I’d said it, though, I realized it was true. Shame. When I looked at Bill, I was ashamed of what I had done. I saw shame in his eyes for putting me in that position. In truth, I was more ashamed of myself than I was mad at him, and I was very mad at him. It felt like a wound that would never heal. Ever. Too much pain. Too much stain.

  “For Christ’s sake, you guys are West Point classmates! Beast roommates! We’re supposed to have a bond! I don’t understand how you guys can just abandon each other.” At that instant, I got why Zack was so upset. Bill and I were violating his worldview. To Zack, nothing mattered more than friendship, and the innermost, inviolable circle of friendship was your West Point company mates. To Zack, nothing could absolve you of your duty to a friend. Nothing warranted walking away from this. Not even honor.

  I continued to stare out the window. I was certain that if I had had the courage to tell him what had happened, he would have told me to kick Bill’s ass and get over it.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you, asshole!”

  “Sorry, Zack. Look, it’s complicated—”

  “No, it’s not fucking complicated. Let me ask you this: if I screw up and do something that you’re ashamed of, are you gonna write me off also? Am I gonna get thrown out like Bill?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Bill threw me out.” I was yelling. “I was the one who got written off.”

  “I just don’t know what to think.” He looked straight ahead past the steering wheel, and a melancholy confusion sheathed his face. I had not realized until then how heartbroken he was about Bill and me.

  “Zack, look … I’m sure after summer leave, Bill and I will work it out.” I didn’t believe that.

  “You better.”

  We spent the rest of the half-hour ride to the airport in silence. I pretended to sleep, and Zack pretended to be preoccupied with driving. We pulled up to the Delta terminal, and I hopped out. Zack came around the other side and yanked out my bag.

  I smiled wearily at him and put out my hand.

  “Get in here, you moody bastard!” He lunged forward and bear-hugged me, his six-foot-two frame enveloping me. “I hope you have an awesome time, drink a lot of German beer, and screw about fifty European chicks, you airborne son of a bitch!”

  “Yeah. Yeah … drive safe, asshole.”

  He bounded quickly back to the car. “I will. And don’t you worry, Sam. That chick ain’t going to be able to get over you. Trust me. She’s got it bad!”

  Zack dove into his car and revved the engine. He stuck his head out the window, yelled “Airborne!,” and peeled sharply out into the flow of traffic, startling everyone around us.

  TWENTY-THREE

  2355 HOURS, 1 AUGUST 2015

  “PZ in sight,” Pete said.

  “Roger. I’ve got it. Before-landing check complete.”

  Zack and the team were waiting for us as planned at the designated spot on a north-south road about fifteen kilometers to the northwest of the airfield. They had rigged their pickup truck for a sling load and were ready to go. I blinked the infrared landing light three times to let them know it was us flying.

  Turtle had set up blocking vehicles about one hundred meters to the north and south of the sling-load vehicle. Four armed men were in position at each blocking vehicle. Turtle was taking no chances on us being interrupted.

  Pete brought us in smoothly. We touched down with the aft gear first and then rolled slightly forward as he lowered the nose onto the road. As soon as 458 came to a stop, Pete took her to flat pitch. Zack, Turtle, and six commandos hustled on board as Crawford disconnected his helmet from the aircraft’s intercom and exited.

  Crawford ran forward to the pickup truck and inspected the rigging. External loads are complex and dangerous, even one as light as a single pickup truck. A good crew chief never accepts a load without inspecting it if he can avoid it. Crawford was one of the best. He worked his way around the load.

  “Go naked, gentlemen,” said Zack after hooking up to the intercom and leaning into the cockpit. Pete looked at me under his goggles and rolled his eyes. He was not familiar with E4’s company motto.

  “Just got an update from Elvis. No changes to the Guru’s location. No indications of movement. We might get lucky on this one. Here’s the commo information.” Zack handed me a piece of paper with the drone’s Common Data Link written on it. I tuned one of the auxiliary data inputs to the drone feed. Now we could see what Creighton saw.

  Crawford jogged back to the aircraft, and his voice came over the intercom: “They’re good to go, sir. Let’s do it.”

  “Roger that,” said Pete. He increased power, and 458 lifted gracefully to a hover and moved slowly forward. In the bed of the pickup truck, two of Turtle’s commandos readied themselves. Their job was to hook the top loop of the sling-load rigging onto 458’s fore and aft cargo hooks. Pete’s job was to fly 458, steadily, to a hovering position inches above their heads so that they could reach the hooks. First the front hook as it passed slowly by, then the aft hook. Putting a large, powerful machine within such close proximity to soft flesh always sets people on edge. A moment’s inattention or an unfortunate gust of wind can hurt or kill someone quickly. Doing this dance at night, with night-vision goggles, increased the difficulty and tension even for Pete, who had done this countless times under worse conditions.

  The fact that we were on a commandeered section of road was a big advantage. It greatly reduced the amount of dust we kicked up. This made it much easier on Pete and the hookup crew. They didn’t get sandblasted, and Pete didn’t have to deal with brownout and lack of visual references. We wouldn’t be as lucky at the LZ.

  “Load passing under the nose,” I announced to the aircraft.

  “Roger that,” returned Crawford. “Load in sight.”

  I watched the pickup truck and hookup crew pass under the chin bubble. The two men steadied themselves against 458’s rotor wash. One of them held on to the static probe, and the other held on to the sling-load reach tube. When we were in position, the static probe man would tap the aircraft with the large metal probe to discharge the static electricity before the hookup man slapped the loop on the cargo hook. It couldn’t be done the other way around; the static discharge would have knocked them off the vehicle.

  “Bring her forward twenty, sir,” said Crawford. “Looking good. Ten more.”

  Pete started to decelerate 458.

  “Looking good. Five more. Four. Three. Two. Hold.”


  She came to a motionless hover.

  “Down two, sir,” said Crawford, his voice fighting the wind noise. At this point, he was hanging halfway out of the hellhole, the large square opening in the belly of the Chinook where the center cargo hook hangs. It allows the crew to monitor external loads in flight and gives pilots guidance during sling-load operations. Crawford was performing a critical duty, but it was also another opportunity for a big machine to take a bite out of soft flesh.

  Chinook 458 settled two feet lower.

  “Good. Right there. Now ease her forward.”

  The powerful helicopter walked slowly forward, maintaining her current hover height.

  “Front loop is on the hook. Keep her easing forward. Aft hook coming into range in three, two, one. Aft loop is on the hook. Crew is clearing the load.”

  Now we were attached to the load. Even though we weren’t lifting it yet, I always felt like the aircraft was already heavier at this point in a mission. It would be a mental stress until we released the load at the other end. It didn’t matter that this was not a heavy load, probably only slightly over seven thousand pounds and well below what the cargo hooks could carry.

  External loads make everything more complex: hovering, flying, landing, and emergency procedures. All of it is dicey with a large load swinging from the belly of the aircraft.

  “Crew is clear. Bring her back to center her up, sir. Good. Five, four, three, two, one. Right there. Checking the rigging.”

  Crawford scanned the rigging to be sure there were no tangles that could screw up the load as we came to a hover.

  “Load and rigging look good. Bring her up slowly, sir.”

  She rose straight up.

  “Slings coming tight.”