“30k ft and holding. 5 mikes.” The headset was clear with minimal static. The Ilyushin jet had been air born for what seemed like a day. To a ground observer we would appear smaller than a bat, against the backdrop of the moon if the clouds were parted tonight.
In the depressurized cargo area, the team switches from aircraft oxygen to their personal bottles, stands, and performs self-checks, then buddy-checks. Minutes seem like hours. Despite the enclosed helmet, the noise from the engines is still loud, filling the cabin. As I square breathe, I review ground objectives.
The back ramp begins to drop; the light changes color. In short intervals we exit the plane into pitch black. Free fall, adrenaline flowing, I look down at my Garmin.
*
I sit up with a start, hands firmly planted on the stone cell floor. The door being thrown open must have woken me. As the guards approach, I try to stand but my legs are asleep.
“стоять!”
“My legs are asleep.” I try to turn toward the wall and use it to get up. I guess they don’t know what I’m doing because their footsteps increase in speed. One of the guards uses the butt stock of his rifle to smash my hand. I lose grip and roll back onto the floor, clutching the damaged metacarpals. Another guard kicks me in the ribs and they begin dragging me down the hall. I’m so tired of this.
Veni intercepts them in the corridor and helps me up.
“Что, черт возьми, с тобой не так?! Нам нужно, чтобы он был здоров.”
His eyes cut like knives and though I can’t see the guards’ reactions, their hasty exit speaks to Veni’s authority. The expression immediately softens as he gestures for me to enter the room. The aroma is familiar and I begin to salivate.
A covered plate is arranged with proper silverware at my side of the table. Confusion apparent, my captor bids me to sit. Seated, I dare not touch.
“Ben, what’s on that plate is yours if you can promise me your honesty.”
“I can do that.”
“Why were you sent here?”
“I can’t say.” I suppose this is the biggest question.
“Honesty, remember?”
“Yes; honestly, I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I can honestly say that I won’t because they said I can’t.”
“Who are they?” The growing ire in Veni’s voice makes this game more appealing.
“I can’t say.”
“страж!” He leans back in his chair as the door behind me bursts open. I stay locked in eye contact with him.
“задержите его.”
With efficiency, the guards shackle me to the chair. To my left, the guard who had injured my hand previously, takes the opportunity to strike me again, this time with a closed fist. Veni does not flinch and calmly nods approval to the guard as he turns to exit the room. The heavy door slams shut; a stern, cold feeling replaces the previous hospitality.
Veni stands and pulls the plate across the wooden table along with the silverware. The cover removed, I see a perfectly seared steak, potatoes, and some vegetable I can’t identify. He takes the knife and effortlessly cuts through the center of the steak, pushing it so I can see the red inside. Blood and juices flow onto the plate.
*
Stacked on the door, charge set, the team passes the arm squeeze from the rear to the front man indicating not only that they were ready to breach but symbolically letting the other know, “I’ve got your back.” The breacher turns his head and announces the breach, pulls the igniter. The small explosion throws the door violently into the room, we rush forward through the smoke.
The first couple in, checking the room corners, Dan’s into the fatal funnel next and I’m following close behind. First room is clear, no tangos, no dead space and Dan naturally flows to the entry of the next room.
A deafening explosion erupts in front of us; Dan’s body slams into mine. As I impact the wall, inertia carries his helmet into my face, breaking my nose. Concussed, confused, but concerned for Dan, I struggle to get from under him and the 80lbs of gear he has on so I can assess his injuries.
Why can’t I get it together?! The room is spinning, the ringing so intense. I see an Iraqi run through the hole in the wall that used to be the doorway. He’s approaching as if the connection between him and I were a tunnel. In slow motion he shoulders his AK-47, finger on the trigger. On his right, out our breached door, a burst of fire from an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon accurately climbs from torso to head. Stumbling forward he falls on his left side coming to a stop a foot from my face. The blood and juices flow out toward me.
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