The Last Mission Of The Seventh Cavalry. Charley Brindley
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“The Taliban has managed to bring down one of our newest drone aircraft, the Global Falcon. We’re going to take it away from them and capture the people who figured out how to hack into the drone’s avionics.”
He pulled a folded map from the inside pocket of his camo jacket. Alexander leaned in to watch the captain run his finger along a dashed red line.
“It looks like we’ve got a hike of about ten clicks from the LZ.” The captain handed his map to Alexander as he glanced along the two lines of soldiers. “We’ll be dropping into the edge of the Registan Desert. Our destination is a range of low rocky hills to the north. The electronic beacon on the drone is still working, so we’ll home in on that. There are no trees, no brush, no cover of any kind. As soon as you hit the sand, have your weapons ready. We could drop right into a fight. I’m going out first, followed by the weapons container.” He patted the huge fiberglass box sitting to his right. “Then I want all of you to follow just as fast as if you were lining up for chow at—”
The aircraft jerked violently to the right and tilted into a dive. The captain was thrown hard against the weapons container, knocking him unconscious. He tumbled off the tailgate and into the air as his static line yanked tight.
“We’ve been hit!” one of the soldiers yelled.
The metal of the airframe groaned as the plane twisted to the left, then seemed to right itself for a moment.
Alexander worked his way forward to the door leading into the cockpit. When he pulled the handle, the door flew open, hitting his helmet and almost taking off his arm. He pulled himself into the doorway, leaning into the wind howling through the open door.
“Holy shit!”
He blinked, not believing what he saw: The whole nose section of the C-130 was gone, including the pilot and co-pilot seats. The navigator’s seat was still in place, but it was empty. When he looked forward through the gaping hole where the front of the plane should have been, he was terrified to see they were spiraling toward a jagged mountaintop, no more than two miles ahead of them.
“Everybody out!” he yelled into his mic. His soldiers stared at him, frozen in place, as if they didn’t understand his order. “Out the back, NOW!”
He ran for the back of the plane, deciding he’d better lead them rather than try to push them out. It was like being on one of those crazy floors in a funhouse at the amusement park where sections of the floor undulate up, down, and sideways. It was impossible to keep his balance as the crippled aircraft lurched and shuddered in the air.
As the plane rolled, the metal skin ripped away, screeching through the cabin like a living creature being torn apart. Alexander was thrown against one of the men. A pair of strong hands grabbed his shoulders, keeping him from tumbling to the deck.
At the back of the plane, he knelt to release the latch on one of the straps on the weapons container. When the latch popped loose, he grabbed the second strap, but the buckle was stuck, held tight by the tension. As he struggled with the latch, a hand holding a knife shot past his head and cut the strap. He looked up to see the smiling face of Private Autumn Eaglemoon.
Eaglemoon tapped the side of her helmet, over her right ear. Alexander checked his comm switch; it was off.
“Damn,” he whispered, “the door must’ve hit it.” He flipped it on. “Can anybody hear me?”
Several soldiers responded.
The aircraft jerked to the left, flinging the weapons container out the back. The static line then yanked tight, pulling the ripcords on the container’s two orange chutes.
Alexander signaled his soldiers to follow him as he jumped out, but as soon as he cleared the aircraft, he realized he’d forgotten to connect his static line to the overhead cable. He rolled to his back to see his people streaming out like a family of olive-drab chicks following their mother hen. Their chutes billowed out as they opened one after the other.
God, I hope they all make it.
The right wing of the C-130 tore loose and pinwheeled toward them. Half of it was gone, including the outboard engine. The remaining engine was on fire, leaving a spiraling trail of greasy smoke.
“Holy shit!” Alexander watched in horror as the burning wing spiraled toward his troops. “Look out! The wing!”
The soldiers craned their necks, but their billowing canopies blocked their view above. Like a whirling reaper, the wing spun through the air, passing just ten feet beneath one of the soldiers.
“Joaquin!” the soldier yelled into his comm. “Bank right!”
Private Ronald Joaquin pulled his right control line and started a slow-motion turn to his right, but it wasn’t enough. The jagged end of the burning wing caught four of his shroud lines and yanked him sideways with a violent jerk. His chute collapsed and trailed along behind the spinning wing.
“Hit your release buckle!” Alexander yelled into his comm.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Joaquin yelled.
He flailed at his parachute buckle while being slung around by the spinning wing. Finally, he grabbed the buckle and yanked it open to release the shroud lines tying him to the deadly wing. He fell for ten seconds, then rolled over to be sure he was clear of the wing before releasing his reserve chute. When his reserve chute popped open, he began to breathe again.
“Whew! That was close,” he said.
“Good job, Joaquin,” Alexander said.
He watched the descending wing with the collapsed chute trailing behind as it fell toward the trees below. He then yanked his ripcord and heard a whoosh as the small pilot chute pulled the main parachute from his backpack, then the violent jerk as the main chute opened.
The crippled wing hit the treetops at an angle, slicing through the upper branches, then tumbling to the ground. A wisp of smoke drifted up, then the fuel tank ruptured, sending a cloud of flames and black smoke billowing above the trees.
Alexander scanned the horizon. “That’s strange,” he said as he twisted around, trying to see his soldiers and count the parachutes, but he couldn’t see anything past the canopy of his own chute. “Who’s in the air?” he yelled into his mic. “Sound off by the numbers.”
“Lojab,” he heard in his earpiece.
“Kawalski,” Private Kawalski called out. “There goes the plane, to the southeast.”
The C-130 trailed fire and smoke like a meteor as it careened toward the mountainside. A moment later, it exploded in a ball of fire.
“Holy crap,” Alexander whispered. “All right, by the numbers. I got Lojab and Kawalski.”
He counted the soldiers as they said their names. All the soldiers had an assigned number; Sergeant Alexander was number one, Corporal Lojab was number two, and so on.
More of them called out their names, then there was silence. “Ten?” Alexander said, “Goddamn it!” He yanked his right control line. “Sharakova!” he yelled. “Ransom!” No answer.
“Hey, Sarge,” Kawalski said on the comm.
“Yeah?”
“Sharakova’s comm is still not working, but she got out. She’s right above you.”
“Great. Thanks, Kawalski. Can anybody see Ransom?”
“I’m here, Sarge,” Ransom said. “I think I blacked out for a minute when I hit the side of the plane, but I’m awake now.”
“Good. Counting me, that makes thirteen,” Alexander said. “Everyone’s in the air.”
“I saw three crewmen from the C-130 get out of the plane,” Kawalski said. “They popped their chutes right below me.”
“What happened to the captain?” Lojab asked.
“Captain