Smacked in the face with the memory of the dream we shouldn’t have dismissed, but how could we know?
ON THAT VERY Friday night on the other side of the world, Jack is standing with the 10th Mountain command group in the Joint Operations Center (JOC) in Afghanistan when over the radio comes word of a Chinook crash in Kunar province, as Elizabeth and I guzzle a bottle of merlot and shred parmesan cheese and wax philosophical about the intricacies of our roles thousands of miles and oceans away. Blissfully unaware of how our world is about to be rocked. Jack feels the tension on the command center floor increase as they wait for word from the scene of the crash, hoping it was just a hard landing. The Chinook CH-47 was attempting a complicated landing to exfiltrate soldiers from a precarious mountain location.
In a moment, the group in the JOC hears a series of explosions as the aircraft tumbles down the side of the mountain, and everyone standing in the command center realizes it’s the worst-case scenario.
That moment syncs nearly to the hour with the lazy dinner I share with Elizabeth and the indulgent discussion of our buoyancy. The army wife’s ability to float, tread water. Not sink. Laura is probably nursing her newborn and tucking her in, nursing her one last time before mother grabs a few hours of sleep.
A cruel synchronicity and the universe’s test of Elizabeth’s definition.
Jack stands in the command center, remote from the crash site with another of his bosses, the chief of staff. General Stewart is there, too. Not quite absorbing what happened, they look back and forth at video screens, trying to figure out what just happened, voices around them a pandemonium that quickly turns to the stony, robotic voices of controlled, trained chaos. Later I learn that within minutes after the crash, a soldier in the JOC turned to where he stood with Stewart and reports, “Sir, we think Titan 6 was onboard! He’s not on the manifest, but he was on board. Reports coming in from the site that he got on previously. Men on the ground had eyes on him in the Chinook as it went down. Didn’t have time to manifest.” A manifest is a strict roster that maintains accountability for every soldier in case of a mass casualty like this. A correct manifest will speed the casualty notifications; an incorrect manifest will hold the process in limbo for days.
The chief of staff turns to Jack and says, “Jack, pack your gear. Be prepared to take that command ASAP. Commo blackout effective immediately. Call Ang before you get out to the field, and tell her you aren’t coming home next month. Tell her close hold.” The term close hold means “shut the fuck up with this information.”
Titan 6 is Rob Macklin’s call sign.