Into The Breach
It is after midnight when we land and the darkness outside greedily preys on our deepest fears. The 78 soldiers and airmen onboard have come to a place where the line between friend and foe is precarious at most, where a trusted smile might transform into a scowl behind our backs. The engines whine to a stop and the flight attendant opens the heavy aircraft door, allowing the desert breeze into the cabin. A hulking American soldier in full combat gear welcomes us to our temporary home in the Gulf, a bastion of freedom standing firm in the face of tyranny and malfeasance.
When the time comes for us to disembark, we are ushered toward buses for the drive to our camp. Armed sentries stand watch over us like Roman gladiators, ready for battle. Guns protrude from their sides and from atop Humvees, letting us know that our visit isn’t welcomed by all. The interior of the bus is drenched in shadows, its windows covered with thick curtains that block the harsh acetylene lights outside. We are warned not to open the curtains, but diffuse beams of light slip around the edges. A battle of light and darkness plays out inside the bus as we pass streetlights, surging back and forth along the seatbacks and aisle like clashing armies. Soon the glow of the city fades behind us and the battle is over; darkness has won the battle for now.
Eventually, we come to an island of light in a sea of black, and we pass several heavily defended checkpoints. Rows of tents fade into the night and dim, fuzzy faces peer at us from them as we disembark from the bus. It will be hours before our baggage arrives, and sleep tugs at my mind like a persistent child pulling on her mother’s sleeve. It has been 30 hours since we left Las Vegas, and it seems that we are just around the corner. I smell the desert back home blowing in the warm breeze from the Persian Gulf. Has my long voyage just been a cruel hoax?
The coming day flickers over the horizon as our baggage finally arrives. Black turns to azure, then amber as the sun claims another victory in its eternal battle with darkness. As I drag my bags to my tent, the sky is hazy with dust, and all the earth is a sickly shade of tarnished bronze. It is also the color of our tents and our uniforms, and it is a color I already despise. I’ve heard that yesterday’s high was 111 degrees, and I scurry along with the other newcomers into the diminishing shadows like a tardy vampire. I have always burned like tinder in a campfire, so I make a mental note to carry sunscreen everywhere. The interior of my tent is quite cold, thanks to a powerful air conditioner that nearly takes my breath away. I feel as if I just walked off the blazing Las Vegas Strip into Caesar’s Palace in August. All I can think about is sleep, and I quickly succumb to its depths.
My tent mate awakens me with a nightmare. Terrorists have struck the World Trade Center towers with two airliners. A third has crashed into the Pentagon, and a forth has gone down in Pennsylvania. How many other hijacked airliners are out there, waiting to slam into other targets?
I want this to be a horrible dream, but I cannot awaken. It is painfully real; there is nothing that can reverse this appalling tragedy. I feel that my heart has been ripped from my chest, that I have failed in my solemn duty to protect the American people; it is a goal that I have dedicated my whole life to. As an officer and a pilot, I have sworn to defend my nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and I have failed.
The word comes out over the base intercom system: Threatcon Delta, the highest state of readiness. It means that terrorist actions are imminent or in progress, so we hurriedly don our flak vests and grab our gasmasks. The base is locked down. No phone calls, no e-mail, no postal service. Rumors arise about a threat against bases in the region. It is a matter of time before they come for us. They know where we are.
Night comes again, and this time it is more ominous, like the heartbeat of a dragon. I sense evil in the night, biding its time, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. We must face it alone, without any help from the outside world.
My heart skips a beat when a helicopter makes several low passes overhead. Many stop and watch, but it is hidden in the night. I finally catch its profile; it is American. We can sleep soundly tonight, because we are being watched over. I return to my tent.
And then the dream comes. I am a passenger on a hijacked airliner. We sit as sheep being led to the slaughter. I must act.
Taking a fire extinguisher from the galley, I storm the cockpit. Three surprised Middle Eastern men sit at the controls and in the jump seat. I smash the fire bottle into one man’s face, then discharge the foam at the co-pilot before he can reach for his gun. Blinded, they are helpless against my assault. I continue my attack until they are bloody and lifeless.
As I reach for the controls, I check the flight instruments. We are nearing the target; they have programmed the flight management system and hooked up the auto-pilot. As I turn away from their objective, I try to determine the closest place to land and the best final approach speed. An alarm sounds from the overhead speaker, but it sounds far away. It is my alarm clock, and the images of the instrument panel vaporize before my eyes. It is replaced by the shimmering roof of the tent above me, driven by an unrelenting desert windstorm. I groan. If only the dream had been reality, and my waking moments a dismal nightmare.
My daily routine soon sets in: 12 hours of work, and a few hours off for dinner, working out, and watching the nonstop news coverage from the States. The days stretch into weeks as we watch the American military buildup for the impending assault on the Taliban and Al Qaeda. I know that our mission is important as well, as America has many enemies, but the ones I am facing are not responsible for September 11th. I want to do my part, to extract vengeance upon those who have wounded our nation.
And then the day of reckoning arrives. We watch on CNN as the first air strikes are launched over Afghanistan. Despite the moral satisfaction of seeing America’s reply, I want to do more. If only I were flying an aircraft that could hit the terrorists where it hurt. But, that is seemingly not my fate.
Rumors arise that my squadron will be sent forward to join the fight after all. Apprehension is prevalent among most of the troops, especially the younger ones who are away from the States for the first time. After a few days, we are told that the rumors are true. We are moving forward, into the breech, to fight the good fight. We only have three days to pack up our whole operation.
Three nights later, we are ready. Under cover of darkness, the airplanes arrive every hour like clockwork. Six pallets of cargo and a handful of troops are loaded aboard each C-130, and off they go into the night. The heaviest of equipment is saved for the C-141. We push and shove the equipment into the belly of the cargo aircraft with mere inches to spare and watch as another line of troops waddles out to the aircraft, each clad in a heavy flak vest and Kevlar helmet. Bravado runs amok among them; they are going to war and are preparing themselves for battle.
The engines screech to life, the hatch is buttoned up, and the mammoth jet taxies into the night. As a former C-141 pilot myself, I am saddened as it rolls down the taxiway; I have been left behind. I fondly remember the years that I flew the Starlifter, and I envy the crew preparing for takeoff: running checklists, obtaining clearances, and the mounting exhilaration for the moment the aircraft leaps into flight. I watch with pride and subdued awe as it takes off minutes later; as it passes me, its navigation lights suddenly extinguish. It has effectively flown into a black hole, and is gone.
The next evening, my turn comes as well. I suit up in my protective gear and lead the last of the squadron toward a waiting C-130. It is cramped and hot inside, and we barely find room among the cargo. After what seems like an eternity, we are airborne, off to war.
After many long, sleepless hours, we begin our final descent. Dim red lights illuminate the interior as we don our helmets. We must move quickly once we land; the aircraft will only wait as long as it takes to unload the pallets and my troops. If any personal items are left behind, they will be personal no longer.
The smell of burning wood fills the cabin as we prepare for landing. It is faint, yet persistent, and I know that we are close to the ground. I am reminded of a fall hunting trip to West Texas with my father years ago, sitting around a campfire gazing at a countless array of stars glittering like scattered diamonds, their luster diminished only by the glow of the fire. The spell is broken as the aircraft touches down. We have arrived, somewhere, and we have little idea of what to expect.
We have been told many things, but the only thing I’m certain of is that the people here do not like us. Rumors abound of frenzied mobs at the gates, yelling anti-American slogans, burning effigies, and calling for the sky to fall upon us. So, when the last of the cargo is unloaded, and we exit the aircraft, trepidation sets in. It is night, but the sound of four turboprops whipping the smoky air makes for a tremendous wakeup call for the locals.
The immense silhouette of a hangar looms above the horizon, and soldiers emerge out of the gloom like pedestrians on a foggy street. The dim red lights of the C-130’s interior cast eerie shadows across the tarmac, and as its rear clamshell cargo ramp folds up, we are plunged into darkness. Within minutes, it is airborne, and we are prisoners in a forlorn outpost at the edge of the world.
The sounds of a nearby city greet my ears. A lonely train whistle wails like a mournful ghoul, piercing the night with its unearthly cry. Seemingly in reply, the enchanting song of a mullah echoes across the rooftops across the runway, beckoning the faithful from their beds. Every mosque in town joins in, and the air is quickly saturated with the mystic strains of competing Islamic clerics.
We duck into the hangar and discover row upon row of cots stretched across the floor. We are overdressed in our combat gear, as the few soldiers awake are wearing t-shirts and shorts. So much for the rabid hordes at the gates. I take off my bulky helmet and arrange for a ride to my squadron’s camp down the flight line.
As the sun rises, we are in an utterly flat land, broken only by feeble scrubs of trees and bushes. Smoke from cooking fires in the city drifts across the base like fog. The ground is muddy, yet I’m told that it hasn’t rained in two years. The heat and humidity is stifling; the sun bears down on us with unmerciful intensity, and the day has just begun. The buildings are dilapidated and old; it is a forgotten place, unheeded and unused. The electricity is unreliable, the water is contaminated, and there is no air conditioning to take my breath away. But, it is our squadron’s home, and we’ll do the best we can to make it livable.
Within three days, we are ready for war: equipment double-checked, supplies put away, rations and drinking water procured, living quarters cleaned despite the ever-present dust, and the airplanes readied for flight. We cannot afford to have overlooked anything. The nation is depending on us, for tomorrow is the day we strike back.
I wish there was a happy ending to this story, but as long as evil is out there, biding its time in the darkness, waiting to strike again, there will always be a need for men and women to put their lives on hold for the good of the nation. In time, I will go home and others will come to take my place, either here or at the next outpost at the edge of the world. This war will not be over soon, and I will be back, into the brecch, fighting the good fight, so that America will never have to face another September 11th.
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