Recall to Arms Page 2
the ground had been under twenty minutes, just enough to refuel and load everyone aboard. In less than a minute after starting to roll, the Globemaster III took the active runway 21L and throttles pushed to full military power. Four huge F117-PW-100 turbofans roared to life, each producing forty thousand pounds of thrust. Even with thick insulation, the noise in the belly of the plane was deafening. After accelerating for a mile and a half, the 280,000 pound beast pitched upward suddenly compressing everyone into their seats while climbing at an enormous rate. It was an awesome transition to flight for something so lumbering on the ground. Shortly into the climb out, the plane banked into a right turn, heading north. The flight path would take them over Amman Jordan en route to Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, on a standard flight plan, but these passengers would not be landing with the plane.
Once airborne, each man sat quietly meditating in an effort to control his nerves. In flight, they began changing into jump suits and assembling equipment. Men fiddled with every Velcro strap, over and over, in tension-releasing rituals. Once changed, most of them just sat back with their eyes closed. It was dark inside the plane with dim red lights providing almost no light. The uncomfortable flight took three hours to cross the Saudi desert before reaching the drop zone near midnight. Maintaining darkness was crucial. They would need their night vision to survive once they jumped.
One big difference between the actual mission and training was the hours of flight time and fatigue they needed to overcome this night. The plane was large enough for them to stretch and exercise, but it was emotionally difficult. The mental fatigue was more important than the physical, since they were all in top shape. For some, this was their last mission before returning to civilian life. Most of them dreamed about lives back home; about wives or girlfriends, school or jobs. No one would admit to being scared. The Captain slumped reflectively, going through a checklist in his mind. He closed his eyes and leaned against the sidewall insulation, trying to control his nerves. He concentrated on keeping his feet from tapping on the non-skid deck and pressed his hands under his armpits, breathing through his nose to avoid hyperventilating.
He’d done special missions many times, but this was the first time as the solo team leader, and they were going to be isolated without any air or ground support. he’d worked through the ranks to senior NCO before Officer Candidate School. On other secret missions he only had to follow orders. The burden of leadership was his alone this time. Once out of the plane, anything could happen and there was no reserve force or other support to help. He could feel migraine pressure behind his eyes. He concentrated on the mission plan, people skills, weapons and navigation. Things always went wrong in the chaos of war...and this was war at its most basic level.
They had done equipment checks, but things could still be overlooked. High altitude jumps were especially dangerous. Compounding it this time were the unconventional Wing-packs, and lack of practice.
The hull of the aircraft vibrated, massaging his back through hard insulation. The jumpmaster was in charge inside the plane, so he tried to relax. With eyes closed, his mind wandered from the mission to his boyhood home in Pennsylvania. It seemed so far away and long ago that he actually had been there--almost half a lifetime. He’d had a girlfriend one summer and he tried to revive the memory of her. After twelve years, he wasn’t sure if his memories were more fantasy than fact, but it didn’t matter. Fantasies were just as valid tonight.
The senior air crewmember was the jumpmaster. Her task was to keep them healthy until they jumped. Engine noise drowned out normal communications so most of it would be through hand signals. After talking on her headset to the flight deck, she shouted, “All right men, it’s time for ‘O2’;” but her gestures communicated more information than her voice. Every man on the team knew through experience what was being communicated. Small face cups with elastic straps and air tubes along the hull were required to be worn until they switched to individual canisters.
As the plane was climbing through 10,000 feet they would breathe oxygen-enriched air for three hours, then as the jump light turned amber, they would switch to portable mixed-air cylinders carried on their legs for the high-altitude-low-opening (HALO) jump.
It was uncomfortable on the stiff benches, and time went by slowly in the cold belly of the plane. A surreal calmness overtook everyone waiting for the adrenalin rush once the drop zone was reached. The flight seemed endlessly tedious waiting to jump.
Hours later, everyone reacted when the amber light illuminated on the forward bulkhead and a horn blared. It was time to strap on their gear and organize for the jump.
The Captain felt his stomach tighten while yelling in the calmest voice he could muster, “Take your time men, it’s crowded in here. Don’t get tangled up.” The plane buffeted as rising hot air columns played havoc with stability, making it awkward to put on their wings and backup chutes. Maintaining balance on the deck was nearly impossible. Six had coordinated with the pilot before departing to give them twenty minutes assembly time before reaching the drop point. It should have been more time than needed, but he was having his doubts watching the team rattle around like penguins in a hurricane.
They had their weapons and ammunition stowed inside the glide wings and men helped each other harness them to their backs. They formed a line facing rearward, waiting to go while gripping overhead cables as the plane jumped around in the turbulence. From the front of the line someone yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts firmly around your bellies while the captain has the seatbelt sign illuminated.” No one responded but all appreciated the levity.
Moments later, the intercom from the flight deck squealed and the jumpmaster grabbed the handset. With hand signals, she instructed the loadmaster to lower the ramp at the tail. All crew members on the cargo deck were tethered with safety harnesses, but not the jump team. The outside temperature was thirty degrees below zero. The inrush of freezing air shocked their nerves, causing some knees to buckle temporarily. All boyish nonchalance was gone. The plane had been cold, but everyone had been sweating nonetheless, and moisture began freezing instantly. The heart-seizing torrent signaled time to depart the safe innards of the plane, for unknown danger ahead.
Six looked down the line of men behind him waiting for sequential thumbs-up signals that everyone was ready to go. Right hands clasp the shoulder of the man ahead. When the jump light turned green, he clenched his teeth and walked cautiously toward the end of the ramp holding the safety cable above with his left hand. Without slowing, he stepped near the end of the ramp before being sucked into the vortex. Men followed at one-second intervals, with the grace of newborn ducklings first learning to fly, each carrying eight-foot composite wings strapped to their backs. Part way down the ramp, an invisible hand seemed to grab each one, thrusting them into a black torrent 31,000 feet above the earth. The C17 airplane is the worst aerodynamic designs ever used for parachute drops. The combination of wind shift and cold was like being kicked in the gut then thrown over an icy waterfall. They tumbled like fall leaves in a gale. At this temperature, there was risk of frostbite in minutes, yet no one felt it. Tumbling into the blackness with no visible references, it took several seconds to get oriented, as each man struggled to gain control. The jump itself was expected to be one of the most dangerous phases of the mission. They could lose consciousness and spiral to their deaths, or they could be alone in the dark abyss, lost over hostile territory. Each soldier gripped tightly to himself, trying to establish equilibrium. They had no way to communicate in the blackness.
Controlling the wing required enormous arm strength and stamina to shift weight, trying to balance and steer. They only had seconds to start maneuvering for rendezvous. The plan allowed only thirty seconds to rally. They could not communicate while breathing oxygen, and anyone unable to find the others in the dark would be alone. It was terrifying over unfriendly territory, not lik
e jumping in training. Endorphins flowed freely as their mental exertion accelerated to new levels of awareness and concentration. Their bodies were rigidly straight to improve aerodynamics. It was almost impossible to point their toes in desert boots, but they all did it.
Six maneuvered in a slow left turn as practiced for a few seconds longer than planned, praying that everyone was with him. In the dark, there wasn’t any way to know for sure. He tried looking over his shoulder, but the wing blocked any rear view. After one final rotation, he looked at his wrist GPS display and banked to zero three zero degrees. The camp was located nine kilometers south of the village of Salkhaid inside Syria and village lights could be seen from this altitude.
As they descended below thirteen thousand feet, they would drop oxygen bottles. Wing performance depended on weight and aerodynamics, so every aspect of their dress and equipment was minimized. In the thin arctic air above the desert, they were soaring at over 100MPH covering about four feet forward for each foot of decent. As the air density increased in warmer air at lower altitude, wing lift and