War.
Another day, another briefing, another list of targets we can't find, and another list of places we can't search.
"HM, why the fuck are you wasting our time in the desert again? We know the shit's in the cities, and we know they're in there, hiding from us. Can't we go waste them and be done with it?"
Everyone who'd been with the company for more than a month dove for the floor. The FNG was saying what most of us were thinking, but we didn't want to get in the way of a bullet.
"Because, fucktard, we don't have intel on where in the fucking cities the drugs are, and we're not in the business of wasting money doing cop work. Intel is working on it, and for now, time is on our side. We will find the right building, but we don't have the ability, for now, to hold down the city while we go door-to-door," PanamaJack said. His team had been out in the field more than most, and had turned up a lot of intel, but "They're in Victoria de Durango" is not a precise enough statement to launch an operation on. "Now, shut the fuck up before you get someone killed."
HM was up at the front of the theater laughing.
"Yeah, pretty much. Soren, you're in the air again today, but you're doing overwatch on that little gulf between Baja and the rest of Dustico. Take a jump team...fuck it. Who wants to fly with Soren today?"
Way too many of the new guys raised their hands, but a few of the veterans were bored and raised their hands as well.
"OK, Possum, take a squad of new guys and get them some field time. Do try to bring them all back this time. The rest of you...split into your usual teams and go blow something up."
War never changes.
Another day, another flight, another group of FNGs that will bug the shit out of me.
Fifteen minutes later, as I'm running a magneto check on the engine, one of them monkeyed his way into the right-hand seat.
"What."
"Oh, hey, General-sir, I just wanted to introduce myself, my name's..."
"of zero fucking interest to me."
"Hey man, before I got here, I was in the.."
"Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of the cockpit before I crash the plane just to piss you off."
My icy-death voice was getting better, the guy scrambled back to the cargo hold faster than I thought possible. It's not that I don't care for these guys, but I don't let a single thing come between me and my job proficiency any more than the shooters would stop and talk to kids in the middle of a firefight.
Throttle up, brakes off, watch the gauges, stick back, check gauges, retract flaps, check gauges, radio the tower...the deadly monotony of flight in a combat zone always feels the same, yet the danger is always there. One mistake, one thing I don't notice going wrong, and everyone's dead. The shooters have the same problems, but Bushwacker and Echo0sierra are miracle workers when it comes to patching their mistakes up.
I flew to the first waypoint, then dropped to the deck and flew a short path over Mexico and out over the Gulf of California. It was going to be a wonderful day of swooping low over any boat we saw, hoping to see one that just happened to have a bunch of pallets marked "COCAINE" in bright letters openly sitting on the deck.
The radio crackled. PJ's voice, more excited than usual.
"Soren, PJ. We flushed a group of hidden jeeps near Hermosillo. We're trying to get them before they make it into the city!"
"Gimme coords, dude! I'm on the way!"
Within seconds I had a flight path. We'd intercept them about 15 miles shy of the city, and the troopers in the back could waste them from the air. While PJ's team was having a grand old time playing cowboys and indians down in the desert. I could hear Panama and Seraph laughing over the radio, apparently the desert was too rough for them to hit anything during the chase, and some FNG was up in the turret eating dust. I got there 20 minutes of flight later. It's funny how long firefights can last when no one can line up a shot.
"Oh, merry men! Three vehicles, 12 miles to the city, 10 minutes to fight. Kill the fuck out of the lead vehicle first, then go to the second."
A mixed chorus of cheers and groans came from the back. The guys on the right side had the first pass, then the guys on the left would get a chance as I started orbiting the fight.
The first pass went well. The right-hand guys had a pair of SAWs, so the lead vehicle ate a few hundred rounds of ammo and came to an abrupt halt. I started to pull into a hard left turn to get into orbit when one of the gunners started yelling.
"SAM! SAM! SAM!"
What the fuck?
And if war has a single constant, it's that no stalemate is permanent.
"Call that shit out, where's it headed?"
"It's gaining altitude, headed right for us! Pull left!"
I pulled left as hard as I could, praying that the wings wouldn't fall off the airplane, that no one would fall out, that the missle would lose us, and that I could keep everyone alive for at least one more day. As I came around and got my eyes on the missile, I realized that it was still gaining altitude.
Cruise missile? I briefly wondered, then the horror of the situation hit me.
"Troopers! IT'S A JAVELIN!!"
No comments:
Post a Comment