Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  “Luckily, his leg was broken in the crash, so they sent him home to me early. He got into grad school, and I had him safe and to myself for a few years. But it made such an impression on the guys he rescued that about a month later, at Walter Reed, a few of them visited us and brought that plaque. Every man he pulled off that hilltop signed it.”

  I tried to picture it. A Huey returning again and again to pull out wounded soldiers. The enemy encircling a tight LZ. Rounds piercing the light-skinned aircraft. The helicopter falling to the ground without power. Bone shattering on impact.

  “He loves that thing,” she said, gesturing at the tail rotor. “I hate it.”

  “I didn’t mean to snoop, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Sam. You can’t help yourself. Gray moths to the flame.” She followed me out and shut the door. “Don’t forget your cookies.”

  FORTY

  OCTOBER 1990

  Two weeks before our scheduled recon, I developed a scheduling problem. Mission prep had negatively affected my studies, and I struggled on a military history test. My professor, Captain Horatio, told me to stop by his office that Wednesday. Never a good sign.

  When I arrived, he was grading quizzes at his desk. He looked up and scowled. “You guys are really something.” He gestured grandly as he wrote a big red F on the top of the paper and tossed it onto his desk scornfully.

  He motioned me forward and pulled my paper out of the stack on the floor. I sat down in front of his desk. He placed my test between us and then leaned back in his chair and regarded me with a skeptical face. I looked at the big red F on my paper. It took up half of the page.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well, sir?”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Hear what, sir?”

  “Your sob story … the reason why you are perfectly justified for submitting this sorry piece of shit.”

  I didn’t take the bait.

  “Look me in the eyes and tell me that you studied for this for more than five minutes.”

  “Sir, I—”

  He waved me off. “Don’t. Just don’t.” He sighed heavily. “Look, Avery. I’ve been where you are.” He held up his right hand, brandishing his West Point class ring. “I know what it’s like. You’re finally a firstie. You’ve got a car. Can spend more time away from this shit hole. All of that. But listen to me: you’re not done yet! The thing that really pisses me off is that I know how smart you are. You’ve got to try to do this badly. Really try.” He paused and regarded me for a long moment.

  I felt the urge to tell him what I had been doing. That I had neglected his class for only the most worthy of causes. To prepare for a quest. To steal the goat.

  “Here is the deal, Avery. I’m going to give you a choice in this matter. You can take this F and try your luck on the final. You would have to get at least a ninety-six on the exam to pass my course. Or you can attend the Gettysburg staff ride and submit an additional report. Depending on what you get on the additional paper, you will probably only need to score around an eighty on the final exam.”

  I was stunned. This was not standard West Point professor practice.

  “Sir. Thank you. That is very—”

  “Don’t thank me, Avery. It makes me feel like I’m being soft on you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “Sir, it sounds like a no-brainer to me. When is the staff ride?”

  “It’s the weekend after this one.”

  That was the weekend Turtle and I were going to recon Annapolis. My face must have betrayed my thoughts.

  “Not convenient for you, Avery?”

  “Oh. No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. It’s good. There is no problem. I was just thinking it’s actually a really good weekend. I had something planned, but it’s nothing important.”

  “Good. I think you’ll get a lot out of the staff ride, Avery. You’re making a good decision here.”

  “I’m sure I will. Thank you, sir.”

  “What did I say about thanking me?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “That will be all, Avery.” He gestured at the door and looked back down at his papers.

  I walked glumly back to the barracks. Gettysburg, here I come.

  Zack read me the minute I walked into the room. “So, not your best academic performance?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “But he didn’t fail you, did he?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Explain.”

  “He’s making me go on the Gettysburg trip section in exchange for a passing grade on the quiz.”

  “That’s actually pretty cool of him.”

  I sat on my bed and stared out the window at the rump of the mountain.

  “Isn’t that the trip that Creighton goes on twice a year?”

  “Yep. He’s the history department’s star student. He’s almost an assistant professor at this point. In fact, Captain Horatio is one of his main mentors.”

  “Perfect. You’re in for a treat, my friend.” Zack chuckled as he pictured it. “I almost wish I was going. Did the captain order you to go on the Gettysburg trip?”

  “Nope. But if I don’t go, then I’ll have to get at least a ninety-six on my TEE to pass.”

  “You can do that.”

  “It would be tight, and I would have to study like a fiend.”

  “That’s not something I can picture you doing.”

  “Me, either. I guess I’m going to Gettysburg.” I threw my hat across the room. Zack watched as it smashed into the computer on my desk.

  “Sam, other than the fact that the trip is on the same weekend as the goat recon, it’s a good deal,” he said.

  “My own fault. I’ll go let Turtle know.”

  “Let Creighton know, too. He’s going to be psyched.” Zack laughed as I left.

  Turtle took it well. “No problem. I can do it. Probably a waste to have two of us go anyway.”

  “Maybe. I just hate to back out on you at the last minute like this.”

  “Seriously, Sam? Look, you’ve got to do what you need to do to graduate the hell out of this place. Don’t give it a second thought.”

  When I stopped by Creighton’s room to tell him, he listened to me with a grin, waiting until I finished to say, “Oh, I’m aware, Sam.”

  “You are?”

  “Indeed. I pleaded your case with Captain Horatio.”

  “You did?”

  “This compromise scenario is actually one I proposed to him.”

  “You’re kidding me. You dick!”

  “An unconventional way to say thank you. But I appreciate it nonetheless. You are welcome.”

  “Why couldn’t you propose something that did not involve a weekend’s punishment?”

  “I did. But he wasn’t going for it. Be thankful you have this opportunity at all, Sam. Not everyone in your situation is being given this option. Besides, you might find it to be an enlightening trip section if you’re able to participate with an open mind.”

  “Creighton, I appreciate it. Sincerely. I’m just frustrated with myself right now. Thanks for looking out for me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  * * *

  We departed on the four-hour drive to Gettysburg on Friday at noon on a bus full of cadets with Captain Horatio up front. Fortunately, the weather cooperated, because we spent the entire weekend outdoors, walking from one important spot on the battlefield to another. At each stop Captain Horatio would talk for a few minutes, setting the scene, before calling on a cadet to narrate that piece of the fight, after which he would invite group discussion. He called on me often. Fortunately, Creighton had given me a study sheet on the bus. I was ready, and Creighton became more proud each time I performed satisfactorily. Sunday morning we walked day three of the battle, which was mainly Pickett’s Charge. After tracing those doomed footsteps to the stone wall, we listened to Captain Horatio’s final comments and boarded the bus. We got back to West Point arou
nd 2000 hours that night.

  Creighton and I were tired and walked through the tunnel to North Area in silence.

  “Pretty weird,” I said as we emerged onto North Area.

  “What’s that?”

  “After kicking so much ass for years, Lee resorted to ‘Hey diddle diddle, straight up the middle’ on day three.”

  Creighton chuckled at the old military adage signifying an overly simple and predictable frontal attack.

  “I suppose we all run out of ideas at some point.”

  FORTY-ONE

  0228 HOURS, 2 AUGUST 2015

  “Enemy vehicle, nine o’clock, two hundred and fifty meters!” I yelled. Then several things started to happen at once.

  “Ramp is down,” Crawford called out as Wilson opened up with the right minigun. “Team moving toward the aircraft.” The familiar noise exploded behind me, laying a stream of 7.62mm rounds down the street at a rate of six thousand per minute. The acrid smell of propellant flooded the cockpit.

  Two more vehicles, another Humvee and a pickup truck, skidded through the intersection. They rolled toward us. In the back of the pickup, the manned .50-caliber machine gun took aim. They were closing fast.

  Wilson doused the second Humvee in a stream of lead. Sparks erupted from its hood and windshield. It veered to the right and struck the building. Two more vehicles rounded the corner at the intersection.

  Wilson’s minigun stopped firing. “Right minigun jammed!” he cried. At that moment the stationary Humvee started to fire.

  “What the hell is taking so long?”

  “They’re having trouble moving one of the men!” said Crawford from the rear.

  Chinook 458 hovered with her aft gear on the roof and the rest of her fuselage over the street. An easy, motionless target.

  I looked at the pickup truck with the .50-caliber. It was within 150 meters now and closing. In a few seconds, they would have us.

  “Get that fucking minigun going!” I yelled. Wilson screamed something I couldn’t make out.

  I braced for the impact of .50-caliber rounds.

  “Bulldog, this is Elvis. Hold your position, please.” It was Creighton.

  “What the fuck is he talking about now?” demanded Pete.

  I started to answer, but a loud roar cut me off. A huge dark shape zoomed by from left to right. I spun my head to track the object and recognized it at the last moment as an MQ-9 Reaper. It passed a few feet above us in a slight left bank, descending into the street. Its left wing hit the ground about twenty-five meters in front of the oncoming enemy. The drone cartwheeled violently. The airframe shattered as its two thirty-foot wings caught fire and scythed into the lead vehicles. Debris, flames, smoke, and body parts sprayed into the air, obscuring the street.

  As the recognition dawned on me that Creighton had just made a kamikaze run with a Reaper, 458’s rotor disks choked on disrupted air from the passing drone’s wingtip vortices. She lost lift and began to slide forward. She dragged her wheels off the building and sank toward the street.

  “Goddamnit!” Pete yelled. He pulled all the power he could. Chinook 458 howled, and the indications all went red. We were cooking the engines to stay aloft. A crash now was a death sentence, even if we survived.

  “We’re off the building!” yelled Crawford. “Two team members still on the roof!”

  Blood sprayed through the cockpit like an aerosol. Pete yelled in pain. “I’m hit. Take the controls!”

  The right-side minigun began to fire.

  “Enemy dismounts. Three o’clock, fifty meters!” Thomas yelled.

  “I’ve got the controls!” I took hold of the helicopter.

  The handoff was rough, and we lost more altitude as 458 swayed left and right.

  “Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!” yelled Crawford. “Aft rotor disk is going to hit the building!”

  If the rotor blades struck the building, we were dead.

  FORTY-TWO

  OCTOBER 1990

  “We’ve got a big fucking problem,” said Zack when I got back to the room.

  I dropped my bag and looked at my roommate. Turtle stood next to him nervously.

  “Well, Turtle,” said Zack sternly. “You tell him.”

  “Sam, I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal…”

  “No. You’re right, Turtle. Operational security is not a big fucking deal at all!” Zack waved one hand in the air for emphasis. “I told you this was not just another one of your raids on F4.”

  “Zack. Please!” I waited until he stopped talking before continuing. “Tell me what’s going on, Turtle. You guys are making me nervous.”

  “I did the recon like we planned. I sat outside the Navy stadium during the game just where you told me to and waited for them to bring the goat out and take him back to the farm. I was going to follow them to the dairy farm and confirm the location.” He paused.

  “But?”

  “But they never came out. I waited all game and for an hour afterward. Nothing.”

  “Shit.”

  “Just wait, Sam,” Zack said. “It gets worse.”

  “I was pissed, and not really sure what to do. I had to figure out a way to confirm the location because, like you said, we are running out of planning time. So, I got in touch with a real good friend of mine, Tim Ambizo. He’s an exchange cadet there at the naval academy right now.”

  I started shaking my head.

  “He’s a fucking cow, Sam,” Zack pointed out.

  “Listen to me, Sam. Ambizo is a good guy. We’re cool.”

  I was suddenly exhausted. I walked to my bed and sat down. “Turtle. I told you. Team selection is the most critical piece of this operation.”

  “That’s right, you did. That’s why I would have never talked to Tim if it weren’t mission critical. I didn’t know what else to do, and I was on my own since you weren’t able to make it. And, besides, we found it. We positively identified the goat’s location. We did it.” He pulled a map out of the pocket of his short overcoat and held it up. “We know where he sleeps.”

  I looked at Zack, who glared at Turtle.

  “Knowing where the goat sleeps is good, Turtle. But this Ambizo guy … this is a big variable now. How well do you know him?”

  “I know him very well. I was Buckner cadre this summer, and he was in my platoon. He’s tough and squared away. I made him one of my squad leaders.”

  I imagined the Guru sitting next to me, shaking his head. He would be furious that we had lost control of team selection. Now someone we didn’t all know and could vouch for had been read in to the plan. We had been delaying picking the fourth and final team member because we’d wanted to be absolutely sure. Instead, our hand had been forced.

  “Look, I know you guys are concerned about Ambizo because you don’t know him at all. I get it. But he fits the profile; he’s got a spotless discipline record and could take a big hit and still graduate. Even better, he is located at Annapolis and can be our eyes and ears there. And there is something else: his family lives on a small farm near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It’s an ideal location to stash the goat and hide it for a week, which was a major hole in our plan.”

  “It wasn’t a hole, Turtle. We just hadn’t addressed it yet.”

  “That’s what I mean, Zack. This addresses that hole now. If you look at it dispassionately, this solves two major requirements: where does the goat sleep and where do we hide it? If we had thought longer about the team profile, we probably would have tried to get an exchange cadet for our fourth, if possible. You have to trust me on this. He’s cool.”

  “Let me think for a minute,” I said, studying Zack. He was still smoldering, with his arms tightly crossed. Anyone else would have thought he was about to explode. He looked pissed. But, knowing him as I did, I could see that he was actually spinning down as he got his head around the idea.

  I was feeling less comfortable.

  “Sam, you have to trust me,” Turtle said urgently.

  “
I do. But you still might be wrong. You might have slightly misjudged Ambizo. Maybe by only about five percent. But that five percent is now flapping out there in the wind, and when the heat comes, we don’t know what’s going to happen. The reason we were all supposed to be involved in selections is to reduce risk. Three sets of eyes are better than one.”

  “You’re right. Lately, every time I come back from class or the shower, I look at the door to my room and imagine one of the name tags pulled down.” He pointed at himself. “I picture my roommate telling people about his dumbass friend, Cisco Guerrero, who stole Navy’s goat with a couple of his buddies and got kicked out.

  “All I can say is that I made the best decision I could make at the time. And, yes, I did introduce risk by unilaterally inviting Ambizo onto the team. But remember, I’ve got the most at risk here. If it goes bad, I am fucked. You guys will probably still graduate. I also confirmed the target’s location, acquired a place to hide it, and kept the mission alive.” He held up the map in his right hand. I looked at Zack. He wasn’t shaking his head anymore, but he wasn’t happy.

  We were all quiet, staring at the center of the room. I stood up and walked past Zack and Turtle to the windows. I opened the center one and leaned out, putting my hands on the large stone sill and dousing my head in the cold October air. I stared at the massive stone foot of the mountain, less than a hundred feet from our barracks.

  “What do you say, Sam?” Zack asked.

  I turned around slowly. They were both looking at me. “I’m still in.”

  Zack nodded and said, “Me, too. Long as there aren’t any more fuckups.”

  “Okay, then. Show us that map, Turtle. And tell us what you saw.”

  FORTY-THREE

  DECEMBER 1990

  After a full year of thinking about it, a couple of months of serious planning, and lot of driving, mission day was finally upon us.

  The U.S. Naval Academy Dairy Farm sat on prime farmland about twenty-five kilometers northwest of Annapolis. It was a straight shot up I-97 from the naval academy, after which you exited onto Annapolis Road. About half a mile up Annapolis Road on the left was the dairy farm’s driveway. Called Dairy Lane, the driveway exited to the southwest off Annapolis Road. This picturesque, tree-lined drive ran about one hundred and fifty meters before turning almost ninety degrees to the right to the residential buildings in the northwest corner of the farm. Before it made its turn to the right, an offshoot departed Dairy Lane, heading almost due south and up a slight incline for about fifteen meters before turning ninety degrees to the left to avoid the five main agricultural buildings of the farm. This ninety-degree turn formed a large, north-oriented capital L on the map. The driveway then diverged and curved around and dissolved into a network of muddy dirt roads that interweaved among the grain silos and other utility buildings to the south of the L.