Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  Bill and I nodded.

  “You must choose your team carefully. No one with a discipline record of any significance should participate.” He was pointing at us now. “You must all be able to weather a heavy disciplinary board and still graduate, and you should all be prepared to do so. It may be unavoidable, as your names are sure to become known.”

  I swallowed hard at the thought of spending my last semester on the area. No time with Stephanie. “Do you think it will come to that?”

  “Of course it will.”

  “So why would you tell me all of this?” asked Bill. “I’ve had a first-class board, over a hundred hours. I can’t take another one.”

  “Indeed, Cooper. I thought about that. Then I realized you’re the kind of cadet that just doesn’t give a shit. You will do what you think is right, cost be damned.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Avery here is not like that. He is a good strategic thinker but not as devout a risk taker as you are. It would be good for him to have you beside him on this. You’ll just have to decide if the risk is worth it to you.”

  “I think it is.”

  “Don’t answer too hastily. You have time. There will be a lot you can do in support.”

  “So,” I said, “the chain of command will probably come down on us like a load of bricks, huh?”

  The Guru regarded my troubled face and leaned forward. “Come now, Sam. This grand institution has been preaching selfless sacrifice to you since the day you arrived … none of it sank in?”

  “Did I say I wasn’t going to do it?”

  “Of course not.” He leaned back in his chair. “Surprise will be easily achieved if your security is tight enough. This is not to say that it is not essential. It is. The element of surprise must be retained in regards to both the navy and the commandant’s office. But since no one has even attempted it in over a quarter of a century, and since the spirit of the Corps is so low … no one will be expecting it.”

  We were all quiet for a moment. “Why didn’t you ever do it, Guru?” I asked.

  “Who, out of this entire Corps of Cadets”—he gestured outward with his arms—“do you think would immediately be suspected if the goat was stolen?”

  “True,” I agreed, “but you said that one hundred hours would be a small price to pay.”

  “Fair point. The truth is, I don’t think I could get it to the Corps. They would discover me too soon, and it would be over. Then it would be impossible to attempt for another twenty-five years.” When finished, he looked away.

  He stood up, strapped on his saber, and began to put on his gloves. “I won’t be here, of course. Spare no effort in your planning. Exhaust every possible scenario and have a contingency for all of them.”

  He took one final swallow of coffee and said, “Never forget that you are doing it for the Corps—otherwise whatever you accomplish will mean nothing.”

  “How the hell are you so sure we will do it?” I asked.

  He just smiled, and then he strode out of the mess hall, master of the myths of West Point.

  THIRTY

  DECEMBER 1989

  Exam week rolled over the Corps like a dam bursting in slow motion. It struck the different departments in sequence. First the mathematics department was crushed, then foreign languages. The engineering departments, the largest at the academy, took the longest to inundate, but one by one they were all washed over.

  The Corps was done, packing and headed for Christmas leave. As we quickly tore down our rooms and stored our personal gear in the basement trunk rooms, the United States invaded Panama. It made a strange backdrop to the ordinarily carefree and joyous departure of the Corps. Cadets and officers alike spent a lot of time in the dayrooms watching CNN. Slowly, we were able to figure out what units had gotten the call, and who of us were in those units. Some of our former company mates from the class of 1987 were getting their first taste of battle.

  On Friday morning, I attended the December graduation ceremony at the Guru’s invitation. Held in Robinson Auditorium in Thayer Hall, it lacked the scale of the traditional Michie Stadium event each May. There were twenty-one cadets graduating, including the Guru. More than two hundred family members, civilian friends, and cadets were in attendance. The fight under way in Panama gave the ceremony a sense of gravity that hadn’t been present at the other graduations I had attended. Even though Noriega was on the ropes already and there was no way any cadet graduating today was going to see battle in Panama, the combat operations hung heavy in the air. The dean struck the right tone of solemn acknowledgment, brevity, and humor as he spoke. Soon the graduates were throwing their hats in the air. A couple of caps bounced off the ceiling as the crowed cheered loudly. I applauded in the back, watching the Guru. He was smiling broadly as his mom and stepfather hugged him.

  The auditorium was awash in sounds of loud talking, cheers, and backslapping. I eased toward the front, hoping to catch the Guru’s eye. I was halfway down when he saw me, and I gave him a wave and brought my right hand up in a salute. He nodded, and I turned to go.

  I was almost to the top of the auditorium when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Sam, wait.” It was the Guru.

  “Congratulations, Guru. You did it.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” He reached out his hand to shake mine, but I saluted instead. He chuckled.

  “No. I haven’t been commissioned yet. We’re doing that in about an hour, so I’m not quite an officer.”

  I held my salute. “Yeah, but I won’t see you then. Let me be the first.”

  He smiled and saluted me back. As he did so, I noticed his class ring.

  “What is that?” I grabbed his hand and looked at the ring. The ugly void had been filled by a shiny, rounded stone. It was gray with colored flecks and had been polished to a smooth, gently domed finish. The dark stone made a striking contrast with the gold of the ring. It seemed to have weight. It looked sharp.

  “What do you think?”

  “What kind of stone is that?”

  “Granite.”

  I looked back at the ring.

  “It’s granite from the barracks. I chipped off a big chunk one night and sent it to a jeweler. He tried to tell me it wouldn’t work, but I think it turned out pretty well.”

  “That’s cool, Guru.”

  “Thanks. I got a link of the chain and a piece of the mountain.” He smiled at me and made a fist of his ring hand.

  “It’s not going to be the same here without you.”

  “No. It won’t, but that’s okay. Another Guru will appear. They always do.”

  I rolled my eyes at him for the last time.

  I realized that he had not set out to be the Guru. As a cadet, he’d simply followed his path as best he could, like the rest of us. But in the rigid ideological landscape of West Point, informal leadership figures loom large, particularly those who offer an alternative worldview. The influence of these figures is outsized because of their scarceness. The Guru had been one of the giants.

  “I need to get back to the family. I’m the man of the hour, you know.”

  “When are you ever not?”

  “Indeed. Good luck to you, Sam. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  “Thanks. Same to you. Go naked, sir!”

  “Go naked, Sam.” I watched as he made his way back to his family. He was halfway there when he turned around suddenly. “I nearly forgot—good luck with that thing next year!” he shouted over the crowd. “I’ll be rooting for you!” He smiled his Loki grin, turned back into the celebrating crowd, and was gone.

  Son of a bitch, I thought. What ever happened to the principle of security?

  THIRTY-ONE

  0201 HOURS, 2 AUGUST 2015

  “This is Thayer 6—we got him.”

  I smiled to myself in the dark cockpit and tried to picture the scene. Fuck yeah, Zack! I thought.

  “Bulldog, Thayer 6. Sitrep follows. They had crammed him into a hidden closet. Medic is
looking him over now, but he is disoriented and badly dehydrated.”

  “Thayer 6, Bulldog. Is he ambulatory?”

  “Not sure yet. Stand by.”

  “Now all we need is exfil instructions,” said Pete happily. “We may be home in time to be court-martialed tonight, after all.”

  We flew another two laps in the night, waiting for Zack to give us instructions. He would assess the situation, including the Guru’s mobility. All we could do was wait.

  “Thayer 6, Elvis. Vehicle convoy headed your way. Five vehicles proceeding south approximately seven kilometers north of your position. Moving fast. Estimated ground speed sixty kilometers an hour.”

  “Shit,” said Pete. That was the problem with our bootleg operation. Even though we were sure our every move was being monitored in real time by Brick and the rest of the command, we didn’t have access to what they knew. As a result, we didn’t have the theater-wide situational awareness we normally did. We were vulnerable to surprises, and we had taken too long on the objective.

  “Roger, Elvis,” said Zack quickly.

  “Thayer 6, Bulldog. Say exfil intentions.”

  The radio was silent.

  “Fuck it,” I said as I banked the helicopter sharply toward the objective.

  “Bulldog, recommend you proceed closer to the objective to prepare for exfil and potentially provide suppressive fire.”

  “Way ahead of you, Elvis,” responded Pete.

  As big as it is, the Chinook is actually the fastest helicopter in the army. Its counter-rotating rotor disks give it an advantage over single-rotor designs. It will do 170 knots, almost 200 miles per hour. It gets slowed down after we stick a couple of miniguns out the windows and hang flare and chaff dispensers, and numerous antennas on its fuselage, but you can still boogie. I leaned 458 as far over as I could and demanded all the speed her rotor blades could hammer out.

  “Thayer 6, Bulldog. We are en route. ETA three minutes.”

  No reply.

  Pete called up the FLIR and swiveled it to look at the objective, now only five kilometers away.

  “Thayer 6, Elvis. Vehicles now two kilometers north of your position.”

  “Maybe they’re not going to the objective,” Pete said hopefully but without conviction. “Maybe it’s not related.”

  “No,” I muttered. “This is bad.” Then I spoke to the crew: “This is going to be a hot extraction.”

  “Roger that, sir,” responded Crawford. “Weapons ready.”

  Not wanting to overfly the objective until we had a better idea of the situation, I altered course to the east. I also hoped the sound of our rotors would spook the enemy enough to slow them down. Funny thing about a Chinook is, it can sound like a flight of four smaller helicopters, particularly at night, when you can’t see it.

  The vehicles were approaching the objective from the north on the main road. The objective was centered in our FLIR image. The range read one kilometer when a bright streak flashed across the screen.

  “Hell,” said Pete as the wall surrounding the target house exploded. Dust and debris showered the area, obscuring our line of sight. I banked to the south and decelerated to a better maneuvering speed.

  On the FLIR we could see the vehicles as they drove to the breached wall and stopped. Men with weapons hopped out and began to surround the house. It was getting ugly quickly.

  “Thayer 6, give us a sitrep,” I transmitted.

  Nothing.

  “Someone tipped them off,” muttered Pete. “They knew exactly where they were going.”

  “Elvis. Little help, please.”

  “Bulldog, five vehicles and numerous personnel surrounding the objective.”

  “Do you have eyes on Thayer 6?”

  “Negative. We had to take eyes off Thayer to monitor the vehicles. Now the objective is obscured. Searching.”

  I felt an unwelcome flare of panic in my gut. The FLIR showed foot soldiers sneaking through the breached wall and taking up positions around the house. If we went right now, we might have sufficient surprise and be able to gun enough of them down to pull off a successful extraction. But there was no response from Zack.

  “Thayer 6, Bulldog. Sitrep, over?”

  Silence.

  “Goddamnit!” I yelled into the cockpit, without keying my mike. As if I were screaming underwater, my yell was drowned out by the noise of the cockpit. The same suffocating feeling gripped my chest. It had gone to shit so fast.

  “They’ve got more RPGs,” said Pete softly. I looked at the FLIR display and watched as the distinctive silhouette of a man shouldering an RPG pointed at the target house. The flare of launch obscured our view for an instant. The telltale bright streak crossed the display, and the front doorway of the target house vanished in dust and chunks of flying stone.

  “Elvis, Bulldog, anything?” transmitted Pete. On the FLIR, the foot soldiers were tentatively moving forward into the smashed house, firing their weapons intermittently.

  “Negative, Bulldog. Still searching.”

  “Thayer 6, this is Bulldog. Give us a sitrep, Zack,” I transmitted futilely.

  “All right, fuckers,” Pete said. “Left side, prepare to fire.”

  “Been waiting on you, sir,” Crawford said.

  Pete dumped power and pulled back on the cyclic, and 458 started to decelerate. Then he aggressively pressed on the right pedal. She skidded abruptly out of trim. The left side of the aircraft faced almost thirty degrees into our direction of flight. Chinook 458 wallowed through the air now like a sideways semitrailer.

  “Enough?” asked Pete.

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “You’re cleared hot.”

  A loud chain-saw noise erupted from the left minigun. A vibration went through the floor of the aircraft. It felt good.

  I watched the IR tracers stream toward the enemy. Crawford was one of the most experienced gunners in the regiment. He quickly dropped two of the enemy closest to the objective house. The others dove for cover and fired futilely in our direction.

  Our direction of flight momentarily put the wall between us and the enemy.

  “Damnit,” said Crawford. “Targets obscured.”

  “Roger. Bringing us around.”

  Pete wrestled 458 through the air to try to give Crawford a clear shot. I watched the enemy on the drone feed. They moved into the objective house, crouched and firing their weapons. At fifty knots, one hundred feet above the desert floor, my heart broke. I realized the insanity of what I had done. I had just brought two friends to the enemy so that they could kill three instead of one.

  THIRTY-TWO

  MARCH 1990

  Turtle and I were roommates again second semester cow year. He had evolved into the quintessential E4 cadet: studious when he wanted to be, with straight A’s in his aerospace major but C’s in everything else; tough and dependable; but always in disciplinary trouble. Despite having chosen the hard-core study of flying machines, Turtle was determined to branch infantry and was preparing to compete to attend Ranger School as a cadet that summer, a competitive and difficult thing to accomplish. He didn’t give a shit about the cadet chain of command and was unambitious when it came to his cadet career. But being a Ranger and, ultimately, Special Forces was something he planned and prepared for every day. Like Bill, he possessed a clarity of self and purpose that perplexed me.

  Turtle tried to tone things down in his third year. He did not completely abstain from spirit missions, but he didn’t do anything outrageous, like the night he clambered up the statue of Washington on his horse and painted the animal’s balls red. He had also stopped launching water balloons out barracks windows with the powerful slingshot device he’d made from surgical tubing and a duffel bag; he’d been able to put balloons through windows on the other side of North Area. It had truly been impressive. But when he’d started sniping at F4 cadets walking back from nighttime study sessions, he’d gotten hammered. It hadn’t been hard to figure out where the projectiles came from
.

  These days he executed most of his spirit missions in a support role. He either trained plebes and yearlings in the art or acted as security for Disco Bob.

  Disco Bob was a cow in Third Regiment who threw secret flash disco parties at the stroke of 0015 on random nights. Turtle was part of his secret communications web. Somehow Bob would get the word out, and in a random place in the cadet area exactly fifteen minutes after taps, at least fifty daring cadets would answer the call and dance like crazy. Disco Bob had lights, equipment, and music. He even had a mirrored disco ball, which he held aloft with an old saber; cadets would shine flashlights on it as they danced around. No one could figure out how he got set up so quickly, how he hid the equipment afterward, or how he put the word out. It was a feat that earned even the Guru’s respect. But I did know that Turtle helped Bob pick the nights and the spots. Turtle had a feel for the Corps and had studied all of the officers who served as officer in charge. He knew their routes and habits and how to place the late-night mini disco party on the other side of the cadet area from them every time.

  Even better for me, plebes were terrified of Turtle. They feared me as well, simply because I roomed with him. As a result, our newspaper and laundry were always prompt. He even had a small crew that brought us cookies and sheet cakes from the mess hall, after he taught them a way to sneak into the bakery.

  As roommates we were a good fit, and the semester ground by.

  “Let’s go, Avery. You were supposed to be ready at eighteen hundred hours.”

  “I know, I know. Give me one minute.”

  Bill and Turtle stood impatiently at the door while I threw on my uniform. We were going to a movie in Thayer Hall.

  “I’m going to go grab Zack,” said Turtle. “See you guys there.”

  “Roger that,” said Bill. “If this guy ever gets ready.”

  A few minutes later, Bill and I strode in silence on Diagonal Walk, across the Plain. I looked north past Trophy Point at the Hudson. It was mid-March, and only a few large chunks of ice remained on the banks. The river was still gray, but there were hints of blue and green as it moved past the academy, toward the city.