Seals (2005) (5 page)

Another thing that irritated him about the pilots was the workaday problems they complained about. This suffering seemed to center around having to fly a few extra patrols now and then or putting up with some sassy aviation machinist's mate who wouldn't take any shit off them. At times when he mentioned something going on in the SEALs, they looked at Brannigan like he was crazy as hell for getting himself into such a gut-pounding branch of the Navy. Their glances of dismay seemed to say that only a Neanderthal would spend six impossibly grueling months qualifying to live a demanding life fraught with danger, hardships and incredible discomfort.

Candy asses!

Brannigan and Lisa had gone to a formal function at the NAS officers' club a week before. Maybe he did drink a little too much, and maybe he wasn't real sure what that one aviator had said that pissed him off, but it must have been insulting or he wouldn't have gotten so goddamn mad and thrown the guy across the hors d'oeuvre table. Shrimp, cheeses, puffy delicacies and other delectable goodies went flying against the wall amid gasps and cries of shock and admonishment.

Needless to say, there was one hell of a showdown when he and Lisa got home later that night. And things hadn't improved one iota since then. Maybe it was a good thing this mission popped up after all; it gave the couple some time apart that would provide a bit of a cooling off period.

Brannigan yawned, closed his eyes and drifted off into a restless nap amid the thunder of the four T56 turboprop engines.

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STATION BRAVO BAHRAIN

7 AUGUST

THE platoon had been involved in several tasks at the base, which took a couple of hours, before they were able to go to the rigger shed to chute up. When they first arrived on station, a young Army Special Forces lieutenant from SOCOM had met them and taken them over to the armory to draw ammunition. After the 9-and 5.56-millimeter rounds and HE, illumination and smoke grenades for the M-203s were issued, the platoon was taken to an empty tent to make the final preparations on their gear.

Station Bravo was a new and unfinished garrison, and the closest thing to permanent buildings were portable models that looked like oversized mobile or manufactured homes. These resembled the domiciles that blew away in hurricanes and tornados, but all the command, staff and logistics matters were conducted in the structures.

The billets were no more than fifteen-by-twenty tents, with canvas sides that could be rolled up to expose netting to keep out insects. During the summer, the grumpy inhabitants of these crude quarters baked from the suffocating heat, getting a little relief from floor fans placed at strategic locations. But at those times when cooling breezes wafted in from the Persian Gulf, it wasn't really all that bad.

After loading magazines and stowing grenades, the Brigands made final preparations of their gear. The two officers and chiefs had to attend a session with the flight crew for final coordination of the route and azimuth over the DZ. While this was going on, the rest of the platoon settled down in the tent to grab some z's and store up energy for the ordeal ahead.

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RIGGER SHED

1200 HOURS LOCAL

THE jumpmaster briefing given by Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins was alarmingly short. He knew nothing of the velocity or direction of winds across the DZ. At least the ASL altitude of that important plot of ground was known, from data supplied by fighter pilots who had flown support missions in the vicinity. That meant the wrist altimeters could be set accurately for the jump. Dawkins also was unaware of what the exact direction of flight would be, except that it might be sort of southerly to northerly or sort of northerly to southerly. One way or another it had to run either up or down along the edge of the terrain feature the SEALs had named West Ridge. The flight crew would determine which direction, and react accordingly.

At least the senior chief could be precise about his jump-master inspection. He formed the men up in two rows of seven, and he and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson made careful examinations of the men's equipment, parachutes and everything that was strapped and buckled onto their bodies.

The first items of attention were the weapons. The slings had to be routed over the left shoulder, under the main lift webbing and to the outside of the chest strap. The SEALs also had to inspect the weapons' tie-downs, making sure they were between the belly band extension and the jumper. From there the two chiefs' attention was directed to the way the harnesses fit, the seating of rip cords, no twists in risers and a few dozen other things that, if ignored, had the very real potential of changing a routine jump into a situation where injuries or even death were more probable than possible. When the two chiefs finished with the platoon, they checked out each other with just as much thoroughness.

"Okay, guys," Dawkins said when Gunnarson had finished with him. "We are now deeply imbedded into the domain of Mr. Murphy and his law."

"That's right," Gunnarson said in his gloomy style. "And that law says that if anything can go wrong, it prob'ly will, just as sure as shit stinks."

"But don't worry," Dawkins added. "If you clobber into the DZ in the morning, you still get paid for all day."

Brannigan stepped forward. "And with those cheerful statements ringing in your ears, I'll lead you out to the aircraft."

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ON THE RUNWAY

1500 H0URS LOCAL

THE engines were wide open, trying hard to pull the aircraft through the pressure of the brakes that held the flying machine in check. When the correct amount of RPM was reached, the pilot released the mechanical, electrical and hydraulic restraints, and the massive C-130 leaped like an eager racehorse charging out of the starting gate. The sound was deafening and the fuselage shook like it would fly apart, until the sudden smoothness of the forward motion showed it was now airborne. The banging and squeaking of the landing gear being raised sounded next, as the airplane climbed upward into the dark sky.

The senior chief was the jumpmaster, and as such he was in charge of the back of the aircraft. Even Lieutenants Brannigan and Cruiser were required to obey his orders during the flight. Before takeoff, Dawkins ordered everyone to don helmets and strap them down. The wearing of this protective headgear was mandatory before the airplane left the ground. This was one of the riskiest parts of any flight, and in case the C-130 suddenly lost power and crashed into the earth, any unstrapped helmets would be like projectiles flying around the interior of the fuselage, inflicting injury and even death on anyone they slammed into.

When Dawkins figured the aircraft was climbing safely, he gave the word that everyone could remove his helmet and unfasten his seat belt. Most of the men simply undid the helmet straps and remained belted in. This was a good time to doze a bit. Psychologists explained this strange habit as being the subconscious mind's way of dealing with pre jump jitters by retreating from reality into peaceful slumber.

The psychologists were 100 percent correct.

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OVER AFGHANISTAN

1825 HOURS LOCAL

THE loadmaster came down from the cockpit to give the twenty-minute warning to the jumpmaster. Dawkins got up out of his web seat and went from man to man to make sure they were all awake. He also issued orders to put on helmets and strap them down. Now was the time for the jumpers to begin hooking their gear onto the parachute webbing. They worked in teams, helping each other through the process. After dozens of jumps, they were quick and efficient. When the job was done, they knelt down on the gear. This was a lot easier than trying to sit back down on the seats with rucksacks strapped to their asses.

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1835 HOURS LOCAL

WHEN the ten-minute warning was issued, Dawkins went aft, then turned and held up both hands with his fingers spread to indicate the number ten. Then he checked the red jump and/or caution light to make sure it was functioning properly. The doors in the rear slowly opened as the load-master manipulated the controls.

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OVER THE OA

1842 HOURS LOCAL

BUFORD raised his right arm up from his side to signal the command STAND UP. The men struggled to get to their feet. The next gesture the senior chief displayed was to take his right arm and touch his helmet, to let the jumpers know it was time to move to the rear and join him. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan took the lead, walking to the opened tail area with the others following. This was a platoon custom established during their first jumps as a unit; the skipper would always be the first out of the aircraft. He glanced down twelve thousand feet to the bare terrain of rural Afghanistan in the fading light of early evening.

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1845 HOURS LOCAL

SENIOR Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins crossed his right arm over his chest and pointed out the aircraft to order Go! Brannigan went off the ramp and out into the dull illumination of twilight. He quickly stabilized and glanced downward, noting that he was facing off to the west side of the valley as he plummeted toward terra firma below. The skipper quickly pushed his right arm straight down to execute a turn. When he was lined up from south to north on the DZ, he went back to a stable position with his chin up and back arched.

Slightly above him and thinly spread out, the rest of the platoon watched their leader, also noting the terrain thousands of feet beneath them. At that point they had the sensation of lying motionless on a cushion of air. Brannigan checked the altimeter strapped to his wrist. At an altitude of thirty-five hundred feet AGL, he activated the rip cord.

The pilot chute immediately inflated, pulling out the deployment bag and suspension lines, and a second later the canopy cells inflated. Brannigan looked around, happily noting that there were a total of fifteen deployed parachutes above him. Now he turned his attention to the ground. He wanted to stay close to where he was descending without going farther up the valley, so he put on half brakes by pulling the toggles down to chest level. When he was some two hundred feet AGL he raised them for full flight. The next action was something that took a lot of practice. As soon as he was about ten feet above the ground, he gently eased into a full brake position. At just the right instant, the parachute stalled, and the skipper's boots gently hit the ground.

The rest of platoon was also in contact with DZ terrain within the next three to four seconds. Everyone dropped the harnesses and began rolling up the canopies, using the belly bands to hold them together. There was no time for burying the parachutes, and they were carried over to a rocky outcrop for concealment. They would be retrieved when the aircraft came to pick up the platoon and defector for exfiltration.

With that done, the platoon assembled into a column formation with each squad taking up one side. Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz went to their customary point positions, and led the outfit toward West Ridge, where they planned on setting up the base camp.

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2200 HOURS LOCAL

THE trek from the DZ up the rock-strewn side of the mountain was arduous even for the superbly conditioned SEALs. The route was so steep in some cases that it was necessary to push up against the rucksack of the man in front, to aid him in the demanding climb. James Bradley was the Tail-End Charlie with no one behind him. Between his personal, gear and the medical kit, he had a hard row to hoe in the ascent. Bruno Puglisi helped him when he could, by turning and taking his hand to give a helping tug.

When Assad and Leibowitz reached the summit, they moved forward to the other side, which looked down the mountain. Both were pleased that the area for the camp was an excellent defensive position. There was plenty of cover in the rocks, and the visibility on both sides of the mountain couldn't have been better. A small stream fed by a spring guaranteed plenty of water. This unexpected boon didn't mean all that much on a mission as short as this one, but it was a blessing nevertheless.

As the fire teams picked out their positions and fields of fire, Frank Gomez warmed up the Shadowfire radio. His shoulders ached from the extra twenty pounds of commo gear he had carried up the mountain. After the commo check, he spoke the code words. "Green Valley. Green Valley. Green Valley. Out."

Now SOCOM back at Station Bravo knew they were on the ground and ready to rock and roll.

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WARLORD DURTAMI'S COMPOUND

8 AUGUST

0715 HOURS LOCAL

BASHAR Abzai led the ambush party up to the front gate of the compound. They had spent the night sitting in the ruins of the bombed-out village waiting to see if the infidels wishing to contact the now dead Omar Kariska would show up. It had been a boring, useless attempt, and he had trouble keeping his men alert. He was a senior mujahideen and was put in charge of small patrols from time to time.