Courage is the capacity to confront what can be imagined.
—LEO ROSTEN, RUSSIAN AMERICAN TEACHER AND WRITER
OVER POLAND
A SHORT TIME LATER
U.S. Army Ranger First Sergeant Mike Ikeda leaned close to his commanding officer, Captain Daniel Rojas, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the droning roar of the C-17’s four big engines. “You know this operation is totally FUBAR’d, sir, right?”
Rojas shot him a tight, irritated grin. “As per usual, Sergeant? Or in its own very special way?”
“All on its own,” Ikeda said. He shook his head in disgust. “First, because we’re hitting the wrong side in this war. Second, because two platoons in one C-17 isn’t enough troops to safely accomplish the mission. And three, because the ROEs are screwy beyond belief.” He tapped the M320 single-shot grenade launcher attached to his M4 carbine. “What is this ‘nonlethal’ bullshit? I’m really supposed to use this thing like it’s a fricking giant Taser?”
Rojas frowned. “You’ve been trained in the use of the 40mm Human Electro-Muscular Incapacitation Projectile, haven’t you, First Sergeant?”
“Sure thing, Captain,” Ikeda said. “The damn HEMI thing works great for crowd control. I can reach out and zap some son of a bitch troublemaker with fifty thousand volts up to a couple hundred feet away.” He glowered. “But I think it royally sucks as the weapon of choice when you’re going up against fully armed troops.”
Now Rojas sighed. “The rules of engagement specify nonlethal weapons use precisely because we don’t want to kill anyone we don’t have to. This is supposed to be a quick, tight, surgical operation with a very specific and very limited objective.”
“Yes, sir,” Ikeda agreed. He shrugged. “I just hope like hell the guys on the other side understand that.”
“Amen, First Sergeant,” Rojas said. “Any other complaints?” he asked drily.
“Just one for now, sir,” the Ranger noncom said. He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “That AFSOC Zoomie gives me the creeps. The guy’s so fucking gung ho that he’s gotta be bucking for a goddamn medal. And that’s the kind of shit that could get other people killed.”
Rojas glanced back into the crowded troop compartment. Even among the tightly packed Army Rangers and Air Force Special Operations commandos, he had no trouble spotting First Lieutenant William Weber. The tall, wiry young Air Force officer wore thick horn-rimmed sports glasses and his eyes gleamed with excitement. He was talking animatedly to the members of his own team, jabbing a stiff finger into the palm of his hand to emphasize his points.
“Yeah, you may be right, Mike,” the Ranger captain said slowly. “So we follow our part of the plan and secure the perimeter. Let Weber and his guys handle the technical stuff like they’re supposed to.”
“Yes, sir.”
A red light flashed inside the darkened compartment. The C-17’s jumpmaster yelled, “Five minutes! Outboard personnel stand up!” Struggling against the weight of their parachutes and other gear, the Rangers and Air Force commandos seated along the fuselage levered themselves upright and turned to face the rear ramp.
“Inboard personnel! On your feet!” The troops seated in two rows facing outward got up. Slowly, the noise of the C-17’s engines began diminishing. The big plane was slowing toward jump speed . . .