by Jason Kasper
“We’re getting there.”
“This is where you tell us who paid you to kill him.”
“No, it isn’t.”
At this, the hand on the side of my neck rotated around my jugular and squeezed, cutting off my air. The man pulled me up by my throat, lifting my chest off the ground before spinning me sideways. My shoulders slammed against the wall as I came to rest in a slouched sitting position.
When I opened my mouth to hollowly gasp for air, he slid the pistol suppressor between my teeth, pushing it to the back of my throat before releasing the pressure on my jugular. I snorted desperate breaths through my nostrils as I caught my first full glimpse of my attacker. His chest was as wide as my shoulders, and his dark eyes blazed with fury behind the handgun. I tried to pull my face away from the pistol, but he grabbed the back of my head and forced the suppressor deeper into my mouth.
“Talk around the gun. Who paid you to kill him?”
“How am I supposed to spit in your face with a pistol in my mouth?” I mumbled.
I heard the chirp of a radio, followed by a tinny voice that said, “Black, Red.”
Somewhere to my right, the second man responded, “Go for Black.”
“You’re going to love what I found in his truck. This guy is coming with us.”
My mind raced through the contents of my vehicle, settling on the black ballistic nylon bag hidden under a tarp.
The man hovering over me leaned in and said, “This isn’t finished,” before pulling the pistol out of my mouth, raising it high to the side, and swinging it back down across my head. I flinched a split second before the metal cracked against my skull.
Then, my entire world went black.
REVELATION
Omnes vulnerant, ultima necat
-All wound, the last kills
CHAPTER 2
Five Years Earlier
March 23, 2003
Al-Jawf Air Base, Saudi Arabia
The raging sun slipped under the horizon, the endless sky blushing to a blazing orange hue in the final minutes before darkness.
The sight could not have been more welcomed by the men who watched it.
From the first moment it became visible until it descended into the other side of the earth, the sun over Saudi Arabia turned the world around us into an oven. Its merciless rays were amplified by the featureless, hard-packed sand that extended flat as a pool table in all directions and out to the horizon.
By the time nightfall arrived, my company of Army Rangers had already been sitting in rows on the ground beside the dirt airstrip for hours, sweating in desert camouflage chemical suits. Our gas mask carriers were slung between our thighs, and on top of those folded kit bags contained vests loaded with ammunition, grenades, and canteens that were pinned across our waists by harness straps from our static line parachutes. Massive rucksacks were attached to our hips below shoebox-sized reserves, adding an additional hundred-pound anchor to our load.
The majority of us were nineteen-year-old privates, and our purpose at any given time was dictated by slightly older team and squad leaders. Although we were young, if the government wanted to parachute 154 Americans behind enemy lines to capture an airfield and begin ransacking their way across enemy territory until the commanding general said to stop, then Rangers were the force of choice.
Until I had proven myself in Afghanistan the previous summer, my daily routine consisted of being punched in the stomach, thrown into wall lockers in the squad area, kicked in the ribs as I did push-ups on command, and conducting the aptly named “electric chair,” which involved squatting against the wall while holding a twenty-pound machine gun tripod with arms extended—within minutes the body began to shake uncontrollably, giving the appearance of being electrocuted.
That type of personal and professional development was completely independent of structured training that included road marches, shooting, practicing raids, and patrolling through the woods late into the night and oftentimes into the following day.
The collective result of those efforts culminated in the scene before me: a group of men completely desensitized to violence, charged with testosterone, and bored by weeks of living in tents on the remote Saudi airfield. We had spent the days of March 2003 waiting for the Iraq invasion, and now required only the arrival of our airplanes to enter our second war in as many years.
Remington was seated on the ground beside me, his lanky features and darting eyes beginning to vanish in the fading light.
Speaking in a barely intelligible strain of Alabaman, he said, “You better give them hell up at West Point, David. Represent Gun Six. Who’s supposed to be on my gun team once you’re gone?”
“We’ve got to make it through the invasion first, Remy. And I’m not reporting to West Point until June.”
“How many times you applied to that place, anyway?”
“Just twice.”
“Who ever thought of you a-going to college,” he drawled. He paused to spit a stream of wintergreen tobacco juice onto the dirt. “What did Sarah say when she found out you got in?”
“It’ll delay the wedding a bit. She wasn’t thrilled.”
“Four years ain’t a bit, Slick.”
“Five. I have a year of prep school first.”
“You think she’s gonna wait around for that? Lemme see that picture again.”
He often made the same request, though he had met her in person numerous times. I reached into a shoulder pocket and pulled out the dog-eared photograph I had been carrying with me since Afghanistan.
I handed it to him. “We’ve been together since we were fifteen, and I look like a fucking male model. She’ll wait.”
He turned on the red lens headlamp that hung around his neck, and its glow illuminated the glossy image of a slim, brunette teenager who was holding a teddy bear and smiling coyly at the camera from her college dorm room.
Remington examined it closely. “I hope I find me a girl like that someday.”
“You’re the best motherfucker I’ve ever met.” I switched my tone to imitate a deep Southern accent. “You’ll find her, Remy.”
Handing the picture back, he said, “I don’t talk like that.”
He talked exactly like that. Even when objecting, he pronounced “that” with two syllables: thay-att.
The First Sergeant shouted, “PLANES!”
Remington killed his headlamp, and I stuffed the picture back in my shoulder pocket as the churning hum of turboprops grew in volume. An MC-130 Combat Talon appeared out of the darkness and touched down on the airstrip several hundred meters away, roaring past us as three identical transport planes landed in rapid succession. They slowed to a halt and began turning around, whipping stinging sand across our faces. Remington and I struggled to rise as airfield staff moved from man to man, helping us to our feet.
The walk toward the aircraft quickly became a feat of extreme endurance. The two hundred meters that stretched between us and the planes felt like as many miles. Burdened by the weight of that much gear strapped to that many inconvenient places, our every movement was accomplished only through very small, duck-waddle steps that left us in excruciating pain. Airfield staff came to our rescue, lifting up the weight of our rucks while we staggered forward and helping to shuttle exhausted Rangers to the birds for boarding.
My line of jumpers reached the third aircraft and shuffled onto a ramp beneath the tail, turning around and sitting as close to one another as possible while facing the dim sky beyond the plane. Once the last man was situated, the interior went dark for a moment before illuminating us in a surreal red glow brought on by the flight lamps. The metal ramp in front of us closed, inching away our view of the night desert. It was accompanied by a long, high-pitched squeal that ended when it locked into place, encapsulating us in the aircraft. The low vibration inside the cabin heightened as the plane began taxiing to the runway, and then quieted once again as we slowed to a halt while waiting for takeoff.
Suddenly, the
engines’ hum increased to a fever pitch as they revved to full power, and our plane jolted and lurched forward down the runway. Our stomachs sank as the aircraft lifted off the ground and lined up with the other MC-130s banking north toward Iraq. The formation descended to avoid radar detection, and we began our flight two hundred feet above the desert.
Almost as soon as we crossed the border into Iraq, we began receiving enemy fire. The small windows over our heads glowed with the lightning flash of anti-aircraft tracers as our pilots dropped flares.
Two jumpmasters, posted at the jump door on either side of the aircraft, stood and yelled over the drone of the engines, “TWENTY… MINUTES.”
“Twenty minutes,” the jumpers echoed.
One of the jumpmasters then yelled, “The Ranger Creed!”
Everyone in the cabin recited the familiar words in as much unison as the propeller noise would allow.
“Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession…”
I basked in the anticipation of the mission to come, my thoughts drifting back to the crushing monotony of my life before the Army.
“I accept the fact that as a Ranger, my country expects me to move further, faster, and fight harder than any other soldier…”
During a history class on ancient Greece at the start of my freshman year of high school, the teacher asked who among us would want to grow up in Athens, and who in Sparta. I was the only one who raised a hand for Sparta. When my teacher asked why, I said, “Because they win.” The rest of the class stared at me with a mixture of disinterest and disgust, except for a girl named Sarah.
“Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might…”
I spent the rest of high school sitting in the back of the class and reading paperbacks about special operations from Vietnam to Somalia. My best friend and I often skipped school for a week at a time to go hiking in the Smoky Mountains, and I counted down the days until I could join the Army. Within a week of graduation, I kissed Sarah goodbye and left for basic training.
“Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy…”
Near the end of infantry training, we emerged from our tents one morning to find our drill sergeants still inside the cadre building. We milled outside for an hour before a lone drill sergeant opened the door and asked, “Who has family in New York City?” A handful of privates raised their hands. “Do any of you have family members who work in the World Trade Center?” All hands went down except one. “Come with me,” the drill sergeant said.
“Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission, though I be the lone survivor.”
I was now in my element, working with like-minded people who chose to go into harm’s way. In Afghanistan, I discovered that I was good in a gunfight. I didn’t get scared. Sudden enemy fire, raids into desolate compounds, long patrols through mountainous valleys—all of it had given me a laser-like focus that could last for hours. The first time Remy and I were almost killed by a Taliban rocket soaring a few feet over our heads and exploding nearby, we had laughed like children even as the blast’s concussion knocked the wind from our lungs.
“RANGERS LEAD THE WAY!”
Beside their respective doors, the jumpmasters gave a final nod to one another before squaring off to face the jumpers. My thoughts returned to more immediate concerns. Once I had been rigged with parachute equipment, urination became impossible.
That was now over four hours ago.
“TEN… MINUTES.” In anticipation of the next command, we unclipped the safety line from the aircraft floor and stuffed the webbing and carabiner into an accessible pocket.
“GET… READY.”
A pause.
“ALL PERSONNEL… STAND… UP.”
Commotion ensued as we struggled to our feet to begin the ten excruciating minutes of standing before the lights beside each jump door would change from red to green.
“HOOK… UP.”
We unclipped the static line hook from our reserve parachute’s carrying strap and snapped it onto the steel cable stretched over our heads.
“CHECK… EQUIPMENT.”
I ran my hand around my chin strap to ensure that I would not lose my helmet on exit, snapped my leg and chest straps to check that they were connected, and felt the lace holding the top of the weapon case on my side. My bladder felt like it was going to explode.
“CHECK… STATIC… LINES.”
After inspecting the yellow length of my static line for tears from the hook-up point to where it disappeared over my shoulder, I proceeded to check Remington’s line. The webbing snaked a predetermined distance back and forth behind his chute, which would automatically deploy once stretched taut as he dropped from the plane. Finding no issues, I tapped him on the helmet to let him know he was good.
“SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK.”
The signal started at the rear of the plane and passed like dominoes via a slap on the body and the word, “OKAY.” I listened to Rangers yelling in succession from rear to front until I felt a hand smack my ribs, which I then relayed to Remington. The first jumper gave a final signal to the jumpmaster, who turned and slid his jump door upward and open. As the plane filled with the deafening roar of wind and turboprops, clouds of pale sand rolled inside. Rangers cheered as the jumpmasters began checking the jump doors. The familiar pain of standing uncomfortably with my parachute and full equipment began to grow.
“I have to pee so fucking bad,” Remington shouted over his shoulder as we stood under the crushing weight of our gear.
“Me too.”
The jumpmasters yelled something.
Remington asked, “Did they just say one minute?”
“I think so.”
“THIRTY… SECONDS.”
“See you on the ground, Remy.”
“Have a good jump, Slick.”
I never saw the green light turn on or heard the command to “GO.” Instead, the line of jumpers on the opposite side of the plane surged forward a moment before my row headed for the door. We shuffled forward, the noise of the engines and the shriek of the wind growing louder with each step. Deep, rhythmic whooshing noises accompanied each jumper’s exit. Remington vanished out of the porthole and into the darkness. I handed my line to the safety, turned right to face the howl of the open door, and jumped into the black sky over Iraq.
CHAPTER 3
August 19, 2007
Stewart International Airport, New York
I walked through the ground terminal’s sliding glass doors, then stepped onto the sidewalk and squinted into the afternoon sun. A white passenger jet thundered low overhead on its final approach before vanishing over the building behind me. Smearing a hand over my unshaven face, I adjusted the strap of the ballistic nylon bag on my shoulder and wheeled my luggage to the curb.
A row of cars idled as fellow passengers found their loved ones. Removing my sunglasses from their perch atop my unkempt hair, I slid them over my eyes and watched half a dozen happy reunions. Beyond the cars, a slew of college-aged kids in West Point shirts and hats filed to a waiting shuttle bus. I checked the time on my phone, and had just pocketed it again when the decrepit pickup truck rolled into the waiting area.
I heard it before I saw it—a maroon Dodge Ram diesel with multiple impact pockmarks and damage to the body and paint that had gone unrepaired. The exposed metal had subsequently rusted under the eye of one or more of the three owners who had driven the truck before it found its way to the man currently sitting behind the wheel. The vehicle roared past me before the driver hit the brakes and swung into an open parking spot, then yelled, “Hurry up, cracker!” through the open passenger window.
I approached the truck from behind, seeing the New York license plate 321CYA before I lowered the rickety tai
lgate and pulled off a blue tarp covering the contents in the back. After loading my single piece of checked luggage, I slung the bag from my back and gently set it beside a virtually identical stash bag bearing three or more times the number of red scrape marks as mine. Tucking the tarp around the bottom of the bags, I slammed the tailgate shut twice before it latched. I approached the passenger door, which creaked as I forced it open.
Jackson, a diminutive white man ten years my senior, stared back at me. His bushy blond hair and sideburns framed an oversized pair of aviator sunglasses.
He threw the floor shifter into first gear and said, “What happened to you, fucker? You look like shit. Get in.”
I slid onto a cloth bench seat and closed the door behind me as the faithful pickup lurched forward, cutting off a car behind us and eliciting a long honk of objection. From the driver’s seat, Jackson looked over at me while simultaneously steering with one hand knuckle-up on top of the wheel as the other hand worked the shifter.
“Got laid three times this weekend,” he said matter-of-factly. “Didn’t even have to use Craigslist. A new bar opened across the street from me on Friday, and blow is like catnip to these Spanish Harlem chicks. Tell them you’ve got coke back in the apartment and they walk right out the door with you.”
I asked, “Isn’t the coke more expensive than paying for whores in the first place?”
“Not with my dealer hookup. And, seriously, you look like you haven’t slept in a week. Rough time back home, or what?”
I leaned my head against the seat, staring at the torn fabric on the ceiling. “Sarah and I broke up this weekend.”
Jackson swung his head toward me, scanning my expression. The truck rolled over the rumble strips on the side of the road, and he veered back on course.