The helipad was empty, Jinny’s bunk was empty, but the Kaboja Valley was full—full of drizzling fog that had scuttled U.S. surveillance capabilities for a third consecutive day. Shambling Martino, a gangly G.I., straddled the crow’s nest above Eagle Camp and sounded reveille with a trumpet–not a bugle–pressed to his lips. He looked like a barrel-man high top the mast, scanning the sea through a spyglass; but as he gazed west toward where the sprawling city of Kabul should have been glowing in first-light he could see nothing, not even the neon Coca Cola sign above Talia’s, one thousand yards away.
Martino bagged his precious horn, caribinered himself to a bright orange nylon rope, and rappelled from the high-point of his day down, down, and landed next to a dumpster where he slumped in a funk. Like everyone in camp he was oblivious of the approaching Iranian Artesh who–armed to the teeth like fanged, frenzied jackals–secretly low-balled under cover of fog from the west.
Martino was weary of army life. No, he hated army life, except for time spent in the brig. In the cage he could relax and dream of jetting down the Deer Valley slopes, or of hanging out in Park City with the ski-bum crowd. “I COULD BE HAPPY ANYWHERE BUT IN THIS GOD-FORSAKEN WASTELAND—OH YEAH, I FORGOT—OR ANYWHERE BUT IN TOLEDO, MY HOMETOWN.” He gave up the rant. No one listened, not even in Toledo. The wheels spinning in Martino’s head gained traction. “Time for breakfast,” he murmured under his breath. Climbing to his feet, he threw his rifle in the dumpster and abandoned his post. Fifty yards later he slipped through the north gate like a magician leaving the stage of an empty theater and vanished into a curtain of fog, leaving behind most of what he held dear, even his self-respect.
Lieutenant Randy Staley’s platoon of patriots, packed in a Chinook CH-47 like sardines in a can, had been airborne for an hour and forty minutes. Jinny marinated between brothers. Cold but clammy, she was spellbound by the chiseled, snow-topped cusps of the Hindu Kush. I wonder if we could grow these in Kansas. “Hey Sergeant Broshinsky, what do you think?”
The sergeant came to life and grunted indignantly. “Time to infill?” He pulled back his sleeve and pressed his Timex indigo watch-stem. “Why’d you wake me, Sergeant O. D.?” Jinny sensed that he was less than twitterpated by her intrusion.
“How long before we get to Bagram Air Base?”
“Oh that. Absent a headwind this bird has a range of 400 miles. I estimate, Sergeant O. D., we’ll be in the air another two hours, thirty-three minutes, and one-two-three-four seconds–Sergeant O. D. Anything else you’d like to know before I go back to sleep, Sergeant O. D.?” Broshinsky knotted his arms and locked down his eyelids.
“Sergeant O.D? What’s up, Bro? Do we have a bone that needs picking?” Suddenly everybody’s solitude was violated by a discombobulating rattle-rattle-clack-clack overhead.
“HOLY SMOKE. What was that?”
All on board jolted to full attention. Bernie Oliver, the warrant officer flying the helicopter, strangled the cyclic and pressed the knobby com-button, ready to transmit an SOS, while the second officer, Lester Tuft, scanned the diagnostics looking for a failure. Both men had their concentration fractured by “Break. Break. Alpha Tango Charlie [air traffic control] to Spicy Chicken Two-Three, how do you copy, over?”
“This is Spicy Chicken, Two-Three, I copy you loud and clear Alpha Tango Charlie; come on back, LATER,” chorused the pilot and Lester Tuft, his co-pilot.
“Spicy Chicken Two-Three, reset your compass to vector 2237–destination, Kilo Hotel. Exfill immediately. Do you copy? Over? I say again, reset your compass heading to vector 2237, Kilo Hotel; clear?
“Stand by, Alfa Tango Charlie,” Oliver replied. “LT, what’s your take on the clack-clack overhead? Can we even make Jalalabad?”
“Sounds like we’ve lost the forward stabilizer; so, negative; no can do, Bernie. Even without the stabilizer problem we’d run dry short of Kilo Hotel.” The anxious air traffic controller interrupted again.
“Spicy Chicken Two-Three, be advised, Bravo Yankee Zulu has punched in a condition orange, and we’ve lost radio contact. I repeat, Bravo Yankee Zulu has gone to condition orange.”
“Roger that.” Everyone on board knew the code referenced Bagram Air Base. The anxious voice on the ground sounded more urgent. “We are directing Wild Goat Two-Four to exfil and rendezvous with you at Kilo Hotel; estimated ETA is 1130 hours. Doppler shows a large storm cell moving south over the Tajikistan border, so throttle up, Captain. One good thing: Hopefully the storm will blow away this fog we got down here.”
LT keyed in the new heading. When it came up on the screen, Warrant Officer Bernie Oliver radioed, “Alpha Tango Charlie, be advised, we’re going to drop out of the sky well short of Kilo Hotel; I think we’re losing the forward stabilizer. Request authorization to turn around and limp home; over?”
“Hold on. Holy Hallelujah, Sir. Now WE’VE gone to Condition Red down here. I repeat, Condition Red—Bogies from the west, Captain . . . ground troops and armored vehicles, lots of them, twenty miles out and closing. Can you lighten your load and proceed as advised, Sir?”
“Affirmative. We could dump my co-pilot, Alpha Tango Charlie. “
“No time for funny, Sir. Spicy Chicken Two-Three, change course and proceed to Kilo Hotel as directed.”
“Roger that.” Bernie Oliver switched channels. “TIME TO MOUNT THE FIFTY-CALS, Calvin. And Quickly! Do you copy?”
“Copy that. On it, Sir.” The load master unhooked his seat restraint, rotated the mounted guns into position and locked them down in thirty seconds flat. New personal record. He dropped back into his seat and latched up.
“Alpha Tango Charlie to Spicy Chicken Two-Three, do you read me?”
“Like an open book, Alpha Tango Charlie,” replied Oliver while mopping his forehead.
“Spicy Chicken, please hold. . . . receiving drone surveillance of Kilo Hotel—well, at least the south-east vector . . . shows no hostiles on the campus. Do you copy?”
“Copy that, Alpha Tango Charlie. I’m flying VFR. We’ll keep our eyes open . . . all the way to wherever we crash.”
“God speed, Captain; have you flown to Kilo Hotel before; over?”
“Alpha Tango Charlie that would be a negative; over?”
Heavy boots stomped into the background noise; radio waves spiked, and an irritated voice abruptly came on the line from air traffic control, commanding, “Give me your headset, son . . . and the chair. Spicy Chicken Two-Three, this is Colonel Howard, base commander, do you copy me?”
Oliver paused, covered his mike, and snapped, “I can’t imagine a duplication of Colonel Howard being at all helpful, can you, LT?”
The second officer swore.
“Spicy Chicken Two-Three, respond; over? This is Colonel Howard.”
“We’re still tuned in, Colonel; receiving you loud and clear; but we’re gonna run out of fuel before we reach Kilo Hotel, Sir, and as I told . . .”
“Steel up your spine, son. Compared to what we’re up against here, consider your diversion a Sunday morning cake-walk through Central Park.” The colonel’s mouth sounded mealy dry. “You’ll make it. You’ll make it. Have you flown to Jalalabad before, son?”
Big Mistake, Colonel, you dropped the call sign and revealed our destination. Now everybody knows what we’re up to. “Again, that would be a negative for both me and my second officer, Sir; but we’re changing course as I speak, Sir.” The twin engine Chinook curve-balled sharply to the right. To Jinny, the chopper blades sounded like car tires rolling over cobblestones in front of Independence Hall, and the abrupt change of course pinned her against the fuselage. Everyone momentarily forgot the unnerving racket overhead, but Colonel Howard rattled on, unabated.
“What’s your name, son?”
“First Officer Bernard Clarkson Oliver, at your service and on course, Sir.”
“Okay, B.O., listen up, because you’ll only hear it once: You’ll recognize Kilo Hotel from the air by its proximity to a couple of south-flowing rivers— the Kabul and Kunar.”
“Dimwit.”
“What did you say, Captain?”
“’Got it,’ Sir.”
“The rivers form a wye and run under a long, low-slung bridge that looks like US Highway 1 running out to the Florida Keys. I have a condo in Key Largo. You ever been to the Keys, son?”
“No Sir, but you were saying?”
“Before you interrupted me, I was about to say, don’t land between the rivers.”
“I won’t, Sir.”
“You’d be a sitting duck.”
“I’m already a lame duck, Sir.”
“Look son, you’re out of options. Your Kilo Hotel is 160k due west of my command; and weather permitting, you’ll be able to see the Khyber Pass in the distance, further on down the road toward Pakistan.” If the Colonel was trying to calm troubled nerves he’d failed. “Last year I lectured at the Academy on the Cajon Pass, its history, strategic advantages, and . . . let’s see, where was I?”
“In Southern California, Sir.”
“What, you say? . . . Our staging area is about one click south-east of the bridge. Keep an eye on the windsock and anticipate enemy resistance. I’m re-routing Wild Goat Two to cover your landing . . . hold on, hold on. What’s the number, Gunny? . . . Cancel that. I’m told you’ve already been briefed. Update us when you get on the ground. Out.”
“Roger that, Sir, but we’re running out of . . .” The pre-occupied commandant threw down the headset, swore and oath to a God he didn’t know very well, and buzzed out of the control room, stinging his subordinates as he flew by.
A frazzled voice returned to the com and plead, “Spicy Chicken Two-Three, please stand by.”
“Roger that, Alpha Tango Charlie. We’re still in the air–son.”
The incessant clatter-bang above the fuselage sounded to Jinny like a berserk blacksmith’s sledge pounding an anvil. The fuselage shook; teeth rattled; Bernie Oliver struggled to keep the bird aloft. Jinny prayed until her minute hand crossed twelve five times.
“Spicy Chicken Two-Three, can you still hear me? You’ve dropped off my screen.”
“That’s because I’m losing altitude, Alpha Tango Charlie,” Oliver replied.
“Captain Oliver, we lost Wild Goat Two-Four. Please hold . . . Kurt, go catch Colonel Howler, I mean Howard. He just started down the stairs.” A sleeve brushed across the tower mic. “Captain Oliver, Wild Goat Two-Four sent out a mayday before crashing short of Kilo Hotel.”
A door slammed in the background and the flight crew heard a few tension-filled snorts. It was Colonel Howard again, breathing hard and flying low. “G. I.’ give me that thing. You there, B.O., listen up. You’re on your own now. Stay the course to Jalalabad and arm your machine guns. Go in hot, drop your payload and get out fast. Here, take your headset back and get to work, soldier . . . and stand up next time I walk into the control tower. AND QUIT SHAKING LIKE A WET PUPPY.”
“Did you hear the Colonel’s order, Captain Oliver?” queried the rattled hound.
“Roger that. Good luck down there. Spicy Chicken Two-Three, down and out.” Exasperated, Bernie Oliver exhaled, forcing his lips to whinny like a horse.
Lieutenant Staley had absorbed the radio exchange channeled through his headset and seized the moment to brief his platoon. Without thinking, he unlatched his restraint and crouched down like a high school coach nearing the expiration of a thirty-second time-out. “Ladies and gentlemen, I need all eyes and ears on me.” Jinny tightened her chin strap.
“INCOMING.”
A violent explosion struck the rear mast, damaging the swash plate and spring-jacking Lieutenant Staley head-over-heels into an unsuspecting lap where he clung like a child to his nanny; the aircraft pitched to the left and, with the precision of an electric can-opener, a fractured airfoil gashed a hole in the cabin roof, leaving the chattering lid attached by a thin strip of fiberglass. Frigid air spewed through and burned every cheek; the altimeter went crazy; the helicopter spun out of control; Jinny watched the tilted mountainside appear, disappear, then reappear three times as the fuselage womp-womp-womped into a death spiral like a wounded water fowl.
Staley barked, “EVERYBODY HANG ON, WE’RE GOING DOWN HARD.” The uncontrolled landing collapsed both skids; the chopper twisted sideways, and slid down an enormous mass of scree before coming to rest still upright and three feet from the upper edge of a precipice. Loose talus cascaded and free-fell out of sight—out of sight because for everyone on board it was lights out.
“Jinny lass, it’s me, are you home?”
Ten-year-old Jinny yawned, bookmarked Stand and Deliver, and then without further hesitation pulled a vinyl recording from its tattered sleeve. She centered the hole on the turntable spindle, twisted a knurled knob, and watched the stylus drop into the first groove as Uncle Albert appeared in the doorway with a toothpick between his brittle lips. “Perfect timing, how did you know it was me?”
Jinny feigned a grin and showed her imperfect pearly-whites, not because she’d been interrupted, but because a migraine daggered her temples. She proffered a hand for a formal kiss. “Uncle Al, for some reason, I can’t get up today.”
He replied, “If you’re not well, I’ll be on my way. Sorry to intrude. I’ve only got a few minutes anyway; my lunch break’s nearly over. Jinn, don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”
The music bade him stay.
“No, no please stay. See? I can . . .” She struggled to stand but felt inexplicably restrained around her chest and stomach. “Okay if I sit? I’m fine, just tired. The cold weather makes my bones ache.”
The Buffalo Bills sang in perfect harmony–every verse. Jinny and Albert were simpatico when it came to their love of music. Uncle Al closed his eyes and swayed back and forth like a stalk of top-heavy wheat—sedate, tranquil, and full of potential. Jinny leaned her throbbing head against the overstuffed couch and wondered why it had lost its give. It smelled like army surplus. The music ended; the needle retracted; the old console shut off, and Albert sighed aloud. “You know Jin, there’s nothin’ more beautiful than music produced by the close harmony of a barbershop quartet. I wish Dan were here.”
“Me, too.”
If I were rich today, I’d get . . . well, what I’d better get is back to work before your Papa cans me.”
Albert leaned forward, rested a hand on Jinny’s shoulder, and said, “Ya knows that I love ya, don’t ya, gal? Tell Sis her favorite brother dropped in to say, ‘hi.’” He gently brushed his scratchy whiskers against Jinny’s cheek.
“She’ll be back soon, and I’ll remember, Uncle Albert.” Albert reeked of sour sweat. Army sweat. “Where am I?” Jinny came to, only to find her cheek against Sergeant Broshinsky’s bristly Velcroed sleeve.
He quavered, “Will someone take my pulse and tell me if I’m dead, or not? Ah, Jinny. Never mind, this couldn’t be hell—you’re here. But who in tarnation is Uncle Al?”
Jinny rested her helmet against the fuselage, furrowed and dragged her fingers down her face, and repressed a groan. Her head ached, she was nauseated, and her heart raced. She groped for words. Lieutenant Staley squawked,“Check the guys on either side of you. Anybody hurt? I smell gas.”
“What?” Bernie Oliver regained consciousness in the cockpit, nodded up, sucked in a pint of thin air, and coughed spasmodically. He eyeballed his second officer’s vacated seat, punched a button, and wheezed, “LT, where are you? You okay, Tuft?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m counting heads. Good; everybody still has one.”
“I’ll see if I can get some help. Alpha Tango Charlie this is Spicy Chicken; come on back.”
No response. “Alpha Tango Charlie, if you can hear me, be advised, I’ve crashed on the five-yard line and fumbled the ball; over?”
Sergeant Broshinsky unlatched his seat restraint and patted Jinny on her trigger hand. “Are you ready to earn those stripes, Sergeant O’Dwyer? The lieutenant wants me to take point. Exit and lead the men left and around the downside of the helo, but be careful, it’s game on; let’s go recover the ball.”
Jinny glanced at Huck. He proffered a tremored thumb-up. “Make that a musket ball, Jin.” He forced a smile. Then a frown came easy. Before anyone could stand, it was as if an angry chef had clutched an awl and jabbed hole after hole in a gallon can—a string of bullets perforated the helicopter’s skin and ruptured a fire extinguisher mounted near Huck’s head, spewing foam in every direction.
“We’ve got a problem back here,” Huck wailed. “Anybody got a towel?”
Shoulder restraints kept Jinny from leaping to her feet. “HUCK.”
“I’m okay; we’re okay,” he assured her, wiping foam from his face; “but as most of you know, I don’t shave, yet.” One by one, soldiers gathered their feet beneath them, stood, and armed their weapons. Huck was last to stand.
Bernie Oliver looked out his port-side window, looked again at LT’s empty seat, and then pushed his helmet mike aside and yelled, “Tuft, are you sure you’re okay? I see blood on your seat.”
“Let’s just say I’ll feel better when you give me my binky and tuck me in tonight,” came the frazzled reply.
B.O. hesitated before unlatching his seat belt. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and mumbled a prayer. Had he been stranded on the side of a busy freeway, what happened next couldn’t have been more unnerving. At supersonic speed an RPG disintegrated the cockpit windscreens, swished by Oliver’s bowed head, flew into a distant mountainside, and burst into a ball of flames.
“Amen. Get that r-a-m-p d-o-w-n.”
A motor that should have activated the hydraulic lift whined a few bars of Nearer My God To Thee and seized up. Purple oil spewed from a ruptured artery into the snow, and the heavy rear ramp collapsed to the ground with a crash, exposing the platoon of pensive patriots to hostile gunfire. Cal Thester, the load-master, cried, “GO-GO-GO,” but every soldier’s instincts screamed, “HIDE-HIDE-HIDE.” Lieutenant Staley’s boots hit the slippery slope first, with Broshinsky close behind. They flared apart, flopped to their stomachs, and sprayed defensive gunfire up-slope at what they hoped was the enemy position.
While the forward propeller caterwauled to a stop, Jinny led the platoon single-file down the ramp. Everyone stooped forward to avoid decapitation and made a U-turn, putting them on a ledge between the riddled chopper and the enemy’s elevated position. Each soldier sidled across the narrow ledge to the front of the aircraft, then slogged laterally through a fall of unsettled shale mixed with snow; for every forward step they slid down two. As she bent and slogged forward, Jinny kept her eyes on a fallen Douglas fir, blackened by lighting, which straddled the slope and proffered refuge from enemy fire. Rotor wash distorted the sound of exploding rounds; anxious cries pierced Jinny’ heart. As she raced the hot lead to the fallen tree, the hollow-points continued splattering into snowy shale like hail being flung from a tornado.
The chopper’s fifty caliber machine guns remained unmanned. Everyone just ran for cover, including Oliver who helped his wounded second officer over the tree trunk, retrieved and pressed the SDS, and instantly turned the multi-million-dollar helicopter into a ball of flames.
“Lieutenant, we’re missing two men—Mangason and Tuft? Hold on, make that three. Where’s Devereaux?”
“Huck? HUCK. Stay put. I’m coming for you.” Jinny poked her head up for a look-see.
“Stay down, O’Dwyer. It’s too dangerous; I said, hold your position,” yelled the lieutenant. Nobody saw Jinny mumble a prayer with her eyes wide open. She nudged her spotter, who was seated, rocking back and forth, head down, and had his hands over his ears.
“Raffi, look at me. RAFFI.” She grabbed his arm. “We’ll get out of this. Cradle my baby. I’ll be right back!” Jinny thrust her sniper rifle into his hands, sprang up, vaulted over the barking tree, and belly-flopped in the snow. Still alive. She tobogganed down the slope and parallel parked next to Huck, who lay face down. He’s unconscious. “Hang on, Huck.” Jinny came to her knees and managed to roll him onto his back. She worked his rifle loose, slung its strap around her neck, and then grabbed his pack straps and pulled. Dead weight.
“Dear Father, help me help my friend.” Totally exposed, she came to her feet, stooped forward and, clutching the straps, dragged Huck up the incline. Automatic weapons fire now sounded like popping corn indiscriminately exploding in a microwave. Jinny paused at the giant tree-trunk, braced herself, and with help hefted Huck’s limp body up and over to a temporary safe harbor–or so Jinny hoped.
Back on the helo, shrapnel from the exploded fire extinguisher had severed Huck’s femoral artery. He bled out; he didn’t complain; he didn’t cry; Jinny held his limp hand; he went away peacefully.
“Unbelievable,” mumbled Raffi. “Unbelievable.” The enemy stopped firing.
“Two to go,” shouted Broshinsky. “O’Dwyer, stay put; that’s an order.” Jinny divested herself of Huck’s rifle, ignored the second order, jumped the tree-trunk, and followed the sergeant and two other men down-slope to help retrieve Mangason, who was crying, and Tuft, who lay spread-eagle on his back. The rescuers struggled to maintain traction as they dragged, rested, and dragged some more. Jinny could hear Staley berating her from behind the lofty log.
Two of the three wounded soldiers died behind the log, thirty miles from Jalalabad. Jinny had little time to mourn, although her eyes quietly bawled blurry; but not so blurry that she couldn’t blink, steady, aim, and fire—again and again—and hit her mark.
The snow, streaked red, would soon be obscured by more snow. But the horrific memory? Indelible.