Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  “Stop and pull over!” he yelled.

  Without thinking, Ambizo stepped on the brakes as we watched the confrontation. Zack didn’t slow down as he approached the guard and his car. Like us, the guard expected Zack to ease up as he got closer. It wasn’t until the last instant that the guard realized he wasn’t going to. Zack, an accomplished high school lacrosse player, ran full tilt into the security guard and body-checked him halfway out of the cart. The impact knocked the guard into the empty passenger seat, and he avoided falling completely out of the cart only by a last-second grab at the cart’s roll bar.

  “Go! Go! Go!” yelled Turtle.

  Ambizo, momentarily stunned, snapped out of it and floored the pedal again. The goat and Turtle slid toward me and the open back end of the van. I noticed that the goat was pissing himself just as he slid into my legs, knocking me over and halfway out of the van. Turtle grabbled me by the knees just in time.

  A smiling Zack trotted up to the van. The driverless golf cart carried the dazed security guard slowly into the fence. “That felt good,” Zack said as he hopped in the back of the van and I closed the door behind him. Ambizo swerved sharply to the right and then straightened out and accelerated onto Dairy Lane. Zack lost his footing on the pee-slicked floor and fell heavily on his ass. Our tires squealed loudly as we hit Annapolis Road and Ambizo took a sharp right. We all shifted again as Zack, Turtle, the goat, and I tumbled over one another. The van rocked back to center after the turn and settled into the straightaway of Annapolis Road.

  “What’s that noise?” There was a loud clanging just outside the van.

  “Shit!” I yelled. “The door! It’s still tied to the van.”

  Ambizo came to a stop, and I got out to untie the rope. I ran back and slid the heavy door off to the side of the road. As I jogged back to the van, Turtle and Zack smiled at each other as they held on to the goat by his big blue-and-yellow painted horns to keep him from jumping out after me. We had done it.

  * * *

  The drive to Ambizo’s uncle’s farm took about two hours and passed uneventfully, without any unpleasantness—other than the stench that filled the van. Turtle and Zack were spared the smell as they followed behind in Zack’s car. The farm was perfect and had a nice fenced-in pen with a shelter that Ambizo’s uncle had actually used for goats in the past. Once in the pen, the goat was indifferent to everything that had happened. We took a few hero pictures of ourselves with the goat and then showered. It was after four a.m. when we finally hit the rack in the uncle’s guest beds.

  The next morning, we spent an hour cleaning the interior of the rental van before returning it and coordinating for the next phase of the mission: getting the goat to the game. Ambizo headed back to Annapolis and the rest of us started the three-and-a-half-hour trip back to West Point. It was a long, droning drive, and despite having gotten some sleep after the mission, we struggled to stay awake.

  We made a midmorning gas stop, and I called Stephanie. We had not spoken in a couple of days.

  “We did it,” I told her. My voice sounded tired but excited. “We got him.”

  She hesitated. “That’s great, sweetie.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We talked about this, Sam. I wish you hadn’t done it. I don’t know what I’ll do if you get put on months of impediments.”

  “Restrictions.”

  “Whatever. I just miss you. I’m going to hate it.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I made something up: “Don’t worry about that now. We may get away with it.”

  “You’re right. I’m happy you’re happy, Sam. I’ve got to go now. Talk soon.”

  “I love you,” I said. But she had already hung up.

  FORTY-SIX

  DECEMBER 1990

  “Sir, there are four and a butt days until Army beats the hell out of Navy at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia!”

  “You’re damn right,” said Zack as he stepped into the hallway before breakfast formation. It was Monday morning of Army-Navy Week at West Point, and we had a big secret.

  I pushed him ahead of me as I stepped out of the room and forced him toward the stairway. “What?” he asked as we landed on the third floor and kept heading down.

  “No gloating, knucklehead. Opsec!”

  But we exited the barracks into North Area, and I had to smile. Huge spirit posters hung from the top of the barracks, and all the cadets in the regiment, like the rest of the Corps, were wearing their battle dress uniforms. The energy level was building, and it felt good.

  I stepped up to my platoon and listened as the plebes recited the daily knowledge.

  “Sir, today in the New York Times it was reported that Iraq agreed to meet with the U.S. for peace talks with the goal of avoiding a war over Kuwait. The Iraqi statement came a day after President Bush offered to meet in Washington with the Iraqi foreign minister and to send Secretary of State Baker to Baghdad.”

  “And why do you think the president did that, Cadet Snyder?” said Creighton as he stepped up beside me.

  “Sir, I think he is just trying to make sure that the world thinks he has done everything he can to avoid war with Iraq.”

  “Correct. When does the ultimatum expire, Cadet Snyder?”

  “Sir, I do not remember.”

  “The security council’s deadline is the fifteenth of December. So the president has plenty of time to make a good show of playing the peacemaker, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cadet Snyder, how many days until the Navy game?” I asked, interrupting Creighton.

  “Sir, there are four and a butt days until Army beats the hell out of Navy at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia!”

  “Very good. Do you want to talk about any of this geopolitical bullshit during Navy Week?”

  Cadet Snyder smiled. “No, sir!”

  Creighton shook his head in mock disgust. “The Corps has.” He looked toward the first sergeant and gave the signal to call formation.

  “Echo Company, fall in!” commanded the first sergeant.

  It was a normal start to Army-Navy Week; there was an expectant buzz in the air. But there was absolutely no indication of our heist.

  Zack, Turtle, and I huddled after lunch. “You’d have thought we’d hear something, right?” Zack said.

  “I’m glad. The longer we go like this, the better. Remember: no one needs to know anything until that day.”

  “I agree with Sam,” Turtle said.

  “I know. I’m just saying.”

  “Let’s count our blessings for now. We’ve got four more days to go.”

  “I don’t know what scares me more,” said Turtle. “Them not giving a shit or them being so pissed off right now that they’re making their own plan rather than going off half-cocked.”

  After dinner, we learned what their plan was.

  Plebes streamed passed us to leave the mess hall as we sat at Turtle’s table and shared a cup of coffee. He was agitated.

  “Not good. Not good.” He shook his head and looked around nervously. The stream of plebes had nearly dried up, so he began to speak. “After class, I overheard some of the brigade staff talking about the fact that a major had just arrived on special assignment to deal with an ‘unauthorized spirit mission’ that has really pissed off the commandant.”

  “‘Unauthorized spirit mission’? Aren’t they all unauthorized?” asked Zack earnestly.

  “This guy is here to deal with one that is considered way off reservation.”

  “A major? To deal with a spirit mission? Ridiculous!” Zack said.

  He was right. In the army, a major is a big deal. Considered field-grade officers and holding powerful billets, majors command hundreds of troops, are responsible for hundreds of millions of dollars of equipment and budget, or serve on high-level staffs. To task one to find the cadets who’d stolen the Navy goat was ridiculous. We were scared.

  “Where did this major come from?”

  “Someone s
aid something about the Pentagon.”

  “Well. Wherever he’s from, we need to go to ground. Stay cool. We’ll be fine.” I was talking primarily to myself.

  “Should we get a message to Ambizo?” asked Turtle.

  “No. He can’t do anything about it, and he might be under scrutiny there anyway.”

  “This is a good sign,” I said.

  “How’s that?”

  “It means we got the right one and they really want it back.”

  Both Zack and Turtle grinned widely.

  As I thought about it, I decided this was a good development. Bringing in an officer from the outside would slow the investigation down. It would take them some time to get up to speed. Without a good understanding of the Corps, its quirks, disparate factions, and baffling heterogeneity, a new player would be lost. The new guy wouldn’t have his bearings, much less a theory or any leads to follow before Friday. We would be long gone by then, on our way to Philadelphia with the prize pissing himself in the back of another rental van.

  On game day we were going to take advantage of the spirited chaos that occurs at the stadium. It always looks like a NATO circus convention at the utility entrance. Army and Navy personnel mill about in every conceivable kind of uniform as they push, drive, or ride props, mascots, and spirit items into the stadium. Army mules are led in by their handlers, often next to a large, motorized mock-up of a battleship. Small tanks buzz around as howitzers are towed in by cadets in World War II–era uniforms. No one would notice as we pushed a large rolling speaker along in the melee.

  The hollowed-out speaker would conceal the goat and our intentions until the prisoner exchange, the moment before kickoff when exchange cadets and midshipmen are marched back to their rightful units to watch the game. The TV cameras would be rolling as we would stride out and add the goat to the ceremony. We were counting on the surprise of the moment to carry us through. Our plan ended, however, at the point where we handed the goat’s leash to the Navy first captain. “Just be ready to run,” Zack kept saying.

  After dinner, I bounded up the steps of the barracks’ stoop and headed toward the orderly room. Stepping into the company area, I confronted a nightmare.

  Eifer, in all his rigid perfection, stood in our orderly room questioning the midnight cowboy. The CQ was at attention, and Eifer’s back was to the door and hallway. Suddenly I was a plebe again, terrified. I kept moving quickly to the steps and down into the basement. He never turned around. But as I’d passed the orderly room, I’d caught the gleam of gold on his shoulder. The gold oak leaf insignia designated the rank of major. He had been promoted while a White House fellow. I walked through the basement to the exit onto the corner of North Area. From the E4 area I glanced over to see Major Eifer walking down the barracks steps and then across North Area toward Washington Hall.

  I jumped back into the barracks and ran up to the orderly room.

  “Cadet Wells, was that Major Eifer?” I asked in my most nonchalant voice.

  “Yes, it was. Do you know him?”

  “Unfortunately. He used to be E4’s tac. Left for Washington, D.C., right before your plebe year. What did he want?”

  “He took our departure book.”

  “Really?”

  “Said they were pulling the departure book from every company.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He told me to tell Cadet Patterson that all company commanders are required at a mandatory meeting immediately prior to breakfast formation tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  I tried to put on a brave face when I gave Zack and Turtle the report back in our room.

  “Holy fuck,” Zack said quietly. “He’s back.”

  “Major Effin’ Eifer,” said Turtle in an equally hushed voice.

  “Supposedly he has collected all company departure books.”

  “That should be no problem, right?”

  “Shouldn’t be. I would think that there are hundreds of cadets who signed out to areas that are within striking distance of Navy. I can’t imagine that us signing out to Pennsylvania will lead them to us,” Zack said.

  “There’s one more thing. He called a meeting with all company commanders tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “The fact is, Creighton doesn’t know anything.”

  “But that straitlaced dork won’t play it right. You watch.” Zack fidgeted nervously.

  “Should we give Creighton a heads-up?” Turtle asked.

  “Hell no!” hissed Zack.

  I waved my hand in front of Zack to cut him off. “No, Turtle. We can’t tell Creighton anything. Even if he figures it out, we can’t tell him anything. I actually trust Creighton. He can bifurcate.”

  “What are you talking about?” Zack asked.

  “He will go by what he knows. Not by what he thinks he knows.”

  They looked at me blankly.

  “When it comes to chain of command, Creighton will only deal in what he knows to be fact. What he has absolute knowledge of. He won’t act on what he only suspects.”

  “You think he suspects?”

  “I think he will.”

  “I still can’t believe Eifer is back,” mumbled Zack.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  0235 HOURS, 2 AUGUST 2015

  I banked to the south as soon as we hit the darkness of the river valley. As Tal Afar fell behind us, I noted that 458 felt terrible. There was a roughness in her forward rotor disk that induced an odd horizontal vibration. The blades had probably been damaged by bullets or flying debris. There were numerous holes in the cockpit windows, and wind whistled through them as 458 limped south. Blood was splattered on Pete’s instrument panel. He held his left forearm in pain.

  “You okay?”

  “Hurts.”

  “Zack, we need the medic up front,” I said on the intercom.

  “Roger that. He’s stabilizing guys back here. Two minutes.”

  Thomas stepped into the companionway with a first aid kit and began wrapping Pete’s forearm.

  “Crawford, how does she look back there?”

  “Rough, sir. Utility hydraulics are totally gone. No pressure indication at all. Flight hydraulics reservoir reading low, but pressures look normal for now. Temp is a little high. There’s hydraulic fluid all over the place. Fucking mess. Lot of holes back here. But she’ll get us home.”

  A red emergency light lit up the cockpit.

  “Fire indication in the number one engine!” I yelled.

  “Roger that!” yelled Crawford. “Number one is trailing smoke, and we’re starting to get smoke in the cabin.”

  Pete grunted as he shoved Thomas out of the way and reached up to the number one engine lever with his good hand. “Number one engine lever identified!”

  I looked up to confirm that his hand was on the correct engine lever. “Confirmed!” You don’t want to shut down the wrong engine at a time like this.

  Pete yanked the number one engine lever and then grabbed the fire handle. The number two engine screamed as it surged to maintain rotor RPM. “Dumping bottle one!” Pete yelled as he pulled the handle and rotated it.

  There isn’t much you can do for an engine fire in a Chinook except pull the engine condition lever to stop the engine and activate the fire-extinguishing system. This cuts off the fuel to the engine and dumps a Halon fire-extinguishing agent into the engine compartment. It’s a weak system. Ordinarily we would land as soon as possible to get out of the air and off the aircraft. But if we did that now, we’d be hundreds of kilometers deep in enemy territory with several wounded and the entire Islamic State looking for us. We needed 458’s systems to work. I opened my window and pressed the left pedal forward to get us out of trim and blow the smoke out of the cabin.

  “How does it look, Crawford?”

  “Can’t tell yet, sir. We’re still trailing a little smoke. But it doesn’t seem
to be entering the cabin anymore.”

  I let up on the left pedal, and 458 straightened up.

  “I’m going to dump the second bottle,” Pete said as he reached for the lever. There are two fire-extinguishing bottles in the aft of the aircraft. They are rigged to douse either engine compartment. You can use both on one engine, but once you’ve used them, that’s it.

  Pete pulled and twisted the lever. “We’re fucked if we land now,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Let’s get as far as we can.”

  “Roger that. How does it look now, Crawford?”

  “About the same, sir.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” I said and checked on the number two engine. It was laboring alone now under the full load of both rotor systems. Fortunately, we were flying light with just passengers and not much fuel left.

  “Okay. I’m ready for that medic now,” muttered Pete. I could tell from his voice that he was in a lot of pain.

  The medic leaned into the cockpit to work on Pete’s left forearm.

  After a few minutes of flying, we were over empty desert and I climbed up to a hundred feet AGL. I flew in silence, trying to get a grip on what had just happened.

  As soon as the medic was finished, he stepped back out of the passageway, and Zack appeared. He plugged his headset into the intercom and leaned toward me.

  I looked at him, but he didn’t speak.

  “How’s the Guru?”

  “He’s pretty beat up and weak. But seems okay. He smiled ear to ear when I told him you were up here flying.”

  “Others?”

  “One gunshot wound to the leg. Another has a gunshot wound to the shoulder. The leg was bad. Close to bleeding out. But the medic has it under control. Has an IV in him now.”

  “What about Turtle? How is he?”

  “That lucky bastard. They got him in the prosthetic. He fell forward when his leg shattered. Saved his life, because the rest of the rounds went high. He was able to get a grenade into them. Took out the RPG.”

  I shook my head as the relief swept over me. Zack put his hand on my shoulder, and we flew without speaking for a few moments.

  “He saved us, Sam. We wouldn’t have flown far from that rooftop. These things just take too long to get moving.”