One Bullet Away

We shuffled to the flight deck and turned our heads against the deafening roar of three Super Stallions, snorting jet exhaust and tossing us sideways with their rotor wash. The Marines around me shone dimly blue in the subdued lighting. I led a column to the lead helicopter, painted with the name “Creeping Death,” and counted thirty men aboard before taking the last seat near the tail ramp. Two other CH-53s roared farther down the flight deck. One would carry thirty more Marines, while the third would fly empty to lift the crashed Black Hawk and ferry it back to the Kitty Hawk.

I donned a helmet attached to the helo’s internal radio and got a comm check with the pilots. The Marines squeezed onto webbed nylon seats around a pallet of spare ammunition and a pallet of medical supplies. Across from me, Staff Sergeant Law flashed a slight smile. My platoon and Patrick’s were mixed up, spread-loaded between the two CH-53s in case one of them crashed. Patrick’s first squad leader, Sergeant Tony Espera, sat next to Law. Espera had joined the Corps after working as a repo man in L.A. He looked unfazed and smiled when our eyes met.

The engine noise increased, and we lurched sideways off the Peleliu’s deck. Climbing over the ocean, I listened to the pilots’ routine chatter — fuel, power, altitude, and navigation. The other two helicopters were dimly visible to our rear through my night vision goggles. The pilot called “Feet dry” over the intercom to let us know we’d crossed the Pakistani coast. I gave a hand signal that was relayed through the helicopter, and we took off our life preservers. The bird dropped to low altitude. Beyond the tail ramp, the ground flashed past almost within reach, but I saw no lights. Below us was Baluchistan, one of the least hospitable parts of the earth. With nothing to see and too much noise to talk, each man was alone with his thoughts.

All through my training, I’d heard sports analogies. OCS was a game. Taking advantage of unrealistic details on field exercises at TBS was “gaming the game.” Winning. Losing. Code words like “touchdown” and “foul ball.” But sitting in that CH-53, racing north into Pakistan, it didn’t feel like a game. It felt like the most serious thing I’d ever done.

The pilot passed the five-minute warning over the radio — five minutes to touchdown in the landing zone. I turned my backpack radio to high power and rechecked all my gear. Night vision goggles adjusted, seat belt unbuckled, last sip of water. The engine pitch changed as the pilots wrenched the big helicopter through a series of evasive turns approaching the landing zone. The landing gear thumped down, and the ramp dropped. I ran out, turning left to avoid the spinning tail rotor, and crouched at the edge of the runway to get a radio check as the helo thundered away in a cloud of dust. Staff Sergeant Law and his machine gunners disappeared to the north without a word. They would secure a perimeter around the crashed Black Hawk.

I jogged across the runway to the spot we’d picked to set up a command post, passing the hulk of the helicopter. Over my headset radio, one of Patrick’s teams reported muzzle flashes in the distance. The lights of a Navy P-3 communications relay aircraft winked high overhead — too high even to hear.

A group of Marines clustered in the darkness, and I ran toward them. Captain Whitmer stood with a Pakistani officer. They were laughing, standing lightly as if at a cocktail party. I felt rude approaching them with my rifle, crouched under a heavy pack.

“Lieutenant Fick, this is Major Magid.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.” I shot a glance at Captain Whitmer, who smiled placidly.

The major was slight, bedecked with ribbons and huge braided epaulets. His orderly stood nearby with a silver tea tray.

“Do not be afraid. We have three layers of defense and you are in very good hands,” the major said, bowing slightly. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

The orderly poured into a chipped china cup. The tea was dark and sweetened with goat’s milk. My gloved hand was clumsy, so I cupped it like a softball. I drank the tea quickly so that I could get back to work without offending the major. My first two missions couldn’t be delivering ThighMasters and drinking tea. An unearthly wail broke the silence as a muezzin called the faithful to morning prayer. Panjgur wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t quite friendly either. We were a long way from the Peleliu wardroom.

Staff Sergeant Law had his Marines in place, and Patrick’s platoon manned positions all around us. The teams on the perimeter called back and forth on the radio, pointing out Pakistani army positions. I scanned the horizon through my night vision goggles, looking for the telltale flashes of firing rifles. Nothing. I spoke to the Cobra gunship pilots who orbited farther out past the airfield fence. They, too, saw nothing amiss.