The Ranger Objective
Page 4
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 Alabamian, 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… 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.
“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.
“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.
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About the Author
JASON KASPER is the international bestselling author of the David Rivers series. He served in the United States Army for fifteen years, beginning as a Ranger private in 2001 and ending as a Special Forces captain and team commander in 2016. Jason is a West Point graduate and a veteran of the Afghanistan and Iraq wars, and was an avid marathon and ultramarathon runner, skydiver, and BASE jumper, all of which inspire his fiction.
He currently lives with his wife and daughter in Cary, North Carolina.
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ALSO BY JASON KASPER
The David Rivers Series
Prequel: The Ranger Objective (free)
1: Greatest Enemy
2: Offer of Revenge
3: Dark Redemption
4: Vengeance Calling
5: The Suicide Cartel
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