We brothers knelt in a circle around our winding up Black Hawk taxis. It was fairly early evening, but fully cloaked in darkness by this hour. We faced in toward the choppers, as the rotor wash pushed hard against our chests and faces. I chuckled as I busted the men to my right and left, as they flared their bodies and leaned into the stiff wind, enjoying a mock free-fall experience. All the brothers did it, including myself; it was just too irresistible.

Through the chopper cargo compartment a red light circled several times. The boys slapped each other on the back or arms, indicating that it was load time. We piled into the mercilessly small cargo compartment, and fought to find a comfortable posture, for once the chopper was full, there would be no possibility of adjusting your position for the duration of the ride.

The destination: Brasseaux, an approximate 40 minute flight—not bad! The target: a hijacked airliner with 150 hostages, and rumored six crows (enemy) from the Ba’ad Salat Iddhur terror faction. Great, a linear target; a ‘tube room’ objective. This is a mission charter shared by no other organization in the United States.

Our troop leadership scribbled on slates bathed in soft red light, and passed the slates around the helo. I got my turn; it was a schematic of the Brasseaux Municipal Airport, indicating where on the flight line the airline was held up, and where we would land, such that we would avoid detection by the crows on the aircraft. I awarded an internal chuckle to Sam’s cartoon sketch. Well, after all it didn’t need to be pretty, just accurate.

Our birds flared hard for touchdown, as our assault boots clapped onto the tarmac. We spread around the helo in a defensive security posture, as our helo hardly bounced long enough for us to exit. Our three hawks bored off into a dark horizon, followed by a swarm of AH and MH-6 Little Birds.


To our flank, a row of (no kidding) dump trucks pulled up and halted. “Climb in, guys! If we had had more frequent flyer miles, we could have gotten you something nicer!” We clambered up the sides of the trucks and packed in, standing with gun barrels bristling over the sides. Our trucks chugged at a decent speed to what obviously was a hangar—home sweet home countless times.

Once the convoy stopped and the order to disembark cried out, my bud Cos leaned out and hollered to the driver: “Hey… can you pull the lever and just dump us out the back?”
That actually sounded like fun, but Cos was a jokester, as he fancied himself.