27

Iraq-Syria Border

Somewhere over the Iraq-Syria border, Amanda’s husband, Jake Devereaux, shoved his static line at the left door safety and stepped into the 140-knot slipstream of the C-17 aircraft. They had taken off from Pope Air Force Base, conducted two in-flight refueling missions over the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, and were now dropping at five hundred feet above ground level.

He felt the testicle-crushing snap of his parachute opening above him, a sensation no paratrooper ever complained about but all hated. Better dealing with some bruised testicles than having no canopy overhead and burning a smoking hole into the ground in some godforsaken place.

He watched the darkened shapes of his fellow paratroopers floating to the ground. He tugged on his risers and checked his canopy; all good. His rucksack was heavy but comfortably situated in front of said testicles to protect them against small arms fire. Good, he thought, before realizing he was giving way too much thought to his testicles. Perhaps he was focused on his family jewels because he hadn’t talked or texted with Amanda in a few days and they were both eager to start a family together.

The ground was rushing toward him more quickly, and he was about one hundred feet from landing. His mind drifted for a moment to wonder in which direction Al-Qaim might be and how close the Air Force had actually put them to the Syrian border. He would find out soon enough, though, and he came back to the task at hand.

He pulled the quick release on his lowering line and held it for a few more seconds, a technique he had found useful in managing his landing. About fifty feet from the ground, he picked out his landing spot, released his rucksack, and immediately felt the tug of his gear to his left as the rucksack drew the line taut. He pulled on his right set of risers to counteract the pull of the equipment and the slight wind drift.

Keeping his feet and knees pressed firmly together, he maintained a focus on the horizon to avoid ground rush, the temptation to reach out with his feet as the ground approached, which usually resulted in injury. Conducting a proper parachute-landing fall required no thought or skill other than to avoid thinking or doing. Keep your body in a tight ball and roll with it , Jake told himself.

The soft sand greeted him with a welcoming embrace. He rolled slightly and thought, as always, that wasn’t so bad . He quickly released his parachute to keep it from inflating on the ground and dragging him. He stayed in the prone position and pulled on his lowering line, dragging his rucksack to his location. Opening his weapons case, he removed his M4 carbine and slapped a magazine into the well. He chambered a round and made certain the safety selector switch was set to safe. He removed his knife from his ankle sheath and cut the lowering line near the ruck, placed the knife back in the sheath, and put his radio into operation.

He spoke softly into his MBITR, Multi-Band Individual Tactical Radio, saying, “White seven, this is white six, radio check, over.”

White seven was his platoon Sergeant First Class Willie Mack, a career paratrooper who, with this jump, was on his seventh combat tour in the last seven years. Granted, a few of them had been three- or six-month deals, but he stood just as good a chance at being killed in those as he had in the fifteen-month tours, he had told Jake once.

Mack’s job was to roll up the entire platoon of thirty-five men toward Jake, who was to remain stationary and put a small infrared beacon on his radio antenna, which he did.

Jake popped his night vision goggles onto his helmet and flipped them down over his eyes. He noticed a jagged line running through the middle and realized that the lens must have cracked when his rucksack struck the ground. That sucks , he thought to himself. He could still see, but his view was distorted.

“White six, this is white seven. Moving in your direction. Is marker set?”

“Roger. Marker is set,” Jake replied.

As the adrenaline rushed from his body, his first thought was, cooler than I expected. He’d known they were jumping into a higher elevation, around three thousand feet, but still, he’d figured the desert was the desert: namely, hot. He was okay, though, with his polypro silk-weight underwear and Army combat uniform. If needed, he had some warmer clothing, called snivel gear, in his rucksack.

There were six other C-17 airplanes, all dropping the rest of his battalion. In his corner of the world, though, all he really cared about were his thirty-six guys, including himself. His mission was to move about two miles to the confluence of three dry riverbeds that were suspected by intelligence to be used by the enemy to smuggle fighters, supplies, and bomb-making materials.

And for that moment, all alone in the Iraq countryside, Jake felt at one with the world. A sense of pride and purpose washed over him. It was a feeling that had to be greater than winning the Heisman trophy or throwing a touchdown pass to win a big game. No, he was in charge of his men, had been given an important mission, and was at the cutting edge of national security. This is exactly what I signed up for , he thought to himself.

“Salerno.” The whisper was barely recognizable

Jake recognized the voice, but with the crack in his lens had missed the darkened figure of Willie Mack.

“Sicily,” he replied with the proper password.

He saw his platoon quickly forming around him in darkened shapes. They created a triangular patrol base about fifty meters across in each direction. Mack and Jake huddled briefly.

“What’s up, sir? You were supposed to challenge me,” Mack said.

“My goggles are cracked. I missed you,” Jake replied. “Anyway, I’m ready. I’ve got the azimuth and the grid. We’re not far.”

“Let me get you some new goggles from one of the men,” Mack said and began moving. Jake grabbed him and countered, “No. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to the man who uses these.”

“Pardon me, but that’s bullshit, sir. We need you to keep us alive,” Mack said, removing his arm from Jake’s grasp.

“We’ll sort it out when we get there, Willie. We need to get moving,” Jake whispered in his no bullshit tone. Willie Mack may have had seven combat tours under his belt, but Jake was the leader, and the two men understood that clearly.

“Your call, sir. Okay, I’ll count everyone out and pull up the rear,” Mack said.

“Good. Right now the captain says no sign of enemy activity. I want to get to our battle position and start scraping out a few holes in case they have indirect fire.”

“Wilco,” Mack said and moved to the leading edge of the triangular patrol base. Jake grabbed Private Robert Roberts, otherwise known as R-squared, who carried the radio on which he could communicate with the company commander, a captain.

“C’mon, Squared, let’s move,” Jake said. “Follow me.”

Jake walked slowly to the tip of the triangle and watched as the platoon sergeant counted out the first squad, which was charged with navigating to the objective area.

“You got the azimuth and grid set?” Jake asked the squad leader, Staff Sergeant Manny Alvarez.

“Got it, sir. We’re moving,” Alvarez replied.

Jake had picked Alvarez’s squad to lead the movement precisely because of his abilities to navigate foreign terrain.

Jake and R-squared tucked into the tight V-shaped wedge that the lead squad formed and began moving down an incline toward the objective. The night was no longer cool as the adrenaline and movement warmed him considerably, and he was again thankful that he had not worn too much gear. His rucksack was heavy but not unreasonably so.

The black night was weakly illuminated by a slight moon and a brilliant array of stars. As the ground fell away beneath him, he could see jagged terrain to his front through his cracked monocle. The compass addition to his goggles indicated they were moving two hundred and sixty-three degrees, almost due west.

By Jake’s calculations, they should be at the objective area in less than two hours without any interruptions. That would make it 2 a.m. Iraq time and give his men about five hours to prepare their positions. He and Willie Mack had designed an L-shaped ambush at the neck where all three ravines came together. They would use one squad to form each of the legs of the L while keeping the third squad in reserve to counterattack and finish off the enemy.

Jake was focused on his first combat mission ever as enemy tracer fire suddenly lit up the sky to their front.