by J.M. LeDuc
Chapter 6
O-three hundred came quick. The men, fully geared, stood in the hangar for the last time.
“This exercise will commence at four hundred and thirty hours,” Seven instructed. “You’ll be flown to the Idaho side of the ridge where you will deploy the aircraft at five thousand feet above the peak.” He saw the men nodding. Fitzpatrick was even smiling. “Don’t smile yet, Fitz. This won’t be like most jumps. You will encounter strong winds that will attempt to blow you off course. If you do not land where your instructions tell you to land, you will not be able to finish this exercise.”
“Why can’t we just backtrack to the proper location?” Jefferson asked.
“The tree line is so dense, that it would take so much time off the clock, you won’t be able to complete the mission before time elapses.”
Brent’s mind went into overdrive. Mission, that’s the first time anyone has used that word. I knew there was more to this than just some exercise. He raised his hand.
Seven nodded in his direction.
“So, this is a timed exercise?”
The side of Seven’s mouth rose in a sly grin. “Can’t get anything by you, can I, Professor. That Ivy League education was good for something.” The sarcasm oozed from his southern drawl like syrup on pancakes. He didn’t wait for a response. “As I was saying, this mission will be timed. Why? Simple. If this were a real mission, you would have a certain amount of time to reach the extraction point or there would be no extraction.” He eyed the men. They couldn’t help but notice the change in his facial expression. All emotion was gone. It was if they were staring at a corpse. He spit, walked the line and spoke, all the while staring at them. “Failure is not an option. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Gather around the table and I’ll brief you on what you can expect.”
The four men sat at a round table. More like brothers than soldiers.
Seven pulled a topographical map out of his fatigues and spread it out between them. “Each of you will find a similar map in your backpacks. They differ slightly depending on landing zone. I just want to point out one or two things. First,” he pointed, “These clearings are your landing zones.”
“Tight spots,” Brent said.
Seven nodded. “Very. You’ll land at the top of the tree line. Most tree lines thin out as they ascend,” he shook his head, “not this one. If you miss your spot, you will land in the trees. The descent will be hard enough without having to do it injured. The winds are what make the landing tough. The weather report received at o-three hundred stated that there was forty-five to sixty mile an hour gusts on the top of the ridge. You will have to be at the top of your game to hit your landing.”
Seven looked around the table. Jefferson was biting his lower lip. A nervous tick he had noticed from previous exercises. Fitzpatrick had beads of sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip. Again a sign of nerves. Veturi had his eyes closed. What the hell is that all about, Seven thought. “Sleepy, Lieutenant?”
Brent’s eyes opened slowly. “No, I just think clearer with my eyes closed.”
Seven let the comment pass and continued the briefing. He laid the southern drawl on thick as he spoke. He once again pointed to the map. “If you read the topical map correctly and study the plant life on this mountain range, you’re gonna probably save yourself a whole lotta pain, boys,” he said with an almost maniacal laugh. “For you candy asses, I’m going to give you a little…no, I’m gonna give you a big hint. Listen up ‘cause I ain’t repeatin’ myself. About halfway down the first ridge, just as you pass the river, you’ll come to a clearing. You’re gonna want to cross through that field, but the smell will keep you out. I don’t know what’s in that field and the military ain’t about to spend the money to find out. Let’s just call it a skunk grass field. The smell is so bad that you’ll probably start puking about a half mile before you even lay eyes on it. If you’re thinking that you’ll save time if you cross it, you’re right. But goin’ through it will cause vomiting, dehydration and such severe muscle cramping that you’ll reach for your flair gun.” Seven eyed the men. “The only question will be, do you shoot it in the air and hope we come get you, or do you stick the barrel in your mouth to end the suffering that much faster?”
Seven looked up from the map and glanced at each man. As his eyes danced between them, his mind read their expressions. Jefferson was biting his lip harder, Fitz was sweating more and Venturi’s eyes were closing.
Brent opened his mouth to speak, but Seven spoke before he could. “If you’re wondering how I know, I’ve been up there before. I’m the one who found this ridge and planned this exercise. Every step you will take, I’ve taken, and yes, I tried to cross the field. It ain’t possible, so don’t try it. That’s the only help I’m giving you.”
He closed the map and stared at the men.
“When you walk into a new or strange territory,” Seven said, “don’t disturb the environment. If you look around carefully, you’ll find clues to what may have been there before you. Be alert to what isn’t congruent or doesn’t belong to the environment.”
Congruent. Big word for a redneck, Brent thought. Maybe he’s not as illiterate as I thought.
Seven concluded by saying, “The more disturbed you find things, the more of a hurry the predator was in.” He pulled the tobacco tin out of his back pocket, pinched some off and stuffed it behind his lower lip. He sucked on it as if he was sucking wisdom from it. He spit as if it was as natural as breathing and continued to speak. “You must always be aware of the sounds and smells of your environment. If you concentrate on what your senses are telling you and which way the wind is blowing, they will help lead you to safety.”
Seven stood. “All right, boys, time to gear up and pack your chutes. Lift off is in thirty minutes.”
Brent never took his eyes off of Seven the entire time they were packing their gear and chutes. He was looking for some sort of tell. Something that might give him an advantage up in the mountains. Seven spent the first ten minutes waking around, surveying what the men decided to pack. Every once in a while, he would snicker at a particular item.
Jefferson and Fitzpatrick became more indecisive with each snicker.
“Relax, men,” Brent said, “he’s just trying to rattle you.”
“It’s working,” Jefferson replied. “I’ve never second guessed myself when packing for a mission.”
“And don’t now, Sergeant,” Brent replied. “Go through your mental checklist and pack the same way you would under similar conditions.”
Fitz nodded in acknowledgement and did the same.
Brent continued to divide his attention between what he was doing and what Seven was doing. “Hey, Sev, why are you packing? I thought you said we were on our own for this mission?”
“Don’t mind me, Professor. Just be sure to pack some bear repellent along with your Harvard tee-shirt.”
Brent went back to folding his chute, but he continued to watch Seven. He may have his faults, being a redneck and all, he thought, but if I was ever in a tight spot, I can’t think of anyone better to help me out of it. As he packed, he watched. I know that sly devil will give something away if I keep wa . . . Brent’s eyes opened wide as he saw Seven take a pair of sound suppressors, ear plugs, out of the pile of available supplies and place them in his backpack. What the heck? That makes no sense, he thought. He just finished lecturing us on how we need to keep an ear to our environment and how we will need all five of our senses to make it down the mountain and into base camp in the allotted time. Why would he be taking along ear plugs? He opened his mouth to say something when suddenly he knew. He smiled, turned his attention back to what he needed to do and when Seven walked away to find his tobacco, Brent grabbed a pack of U.S. military issued sound suppressors from the stash of items and shoved them in his backpack.
