I grab one of the empty rucks we brought from the building and begin stuffing items into it — ammo, fiber optic camera, C-4 and a variety of fuses (stowed separately from the C-4 of course. The last thing I want is for the buffeting on the way down to bang something against a pencil fuse and ignite it next to the C-4. See the ruck will be close between my legs on the way down. You get the point), a slim jim I brought along, zip ties, signal mirror, first aid kit, and a few other items. I want to keep it light for our trek through the facility. I hook up the ruck to the MC-4 making sure the lanyard is secure. It sure wouldn’t do to release the ruck after the chute deployment and watch it tumble to the ground. Next I gather Robert, Craig, and Bri to set up the navigation computer for the drop.
I pull the oxygen masks out for them and show them how to hook up. We’ll be flying unpressurized so that’s a pretty vital piece. They’ll have to be alert. I’d hate for them to get hypoxic and either pass out or find we’re dropping in the middle of the Caribbean.
“It’s basically like flying any other path. You just have to keep your altitude and the needle centered. Lower the ramp ten minutes out, turn on the red light five minutes out, and the green when the computer distance reads zero. Pretty easy stuff,” I say.
We plan the flight backwards from drop time to takeoff time. I then settle into the cockpit bunk to try and get some sleep telling Robert to wake me an hour prior to takeoff.
It’s stifling inside but I manage to fall asleep for a while. Robert wakens me with afternoon shadows filtering in through the cockpit windows. I rise and make my way to the cargo area still feeling tired but more refreshed than before. Everything is loaded up and the Humvees rechecked to make sure they are secure. The metallic thunk of the ramp closing seems a little too foreboding for my likes. Greg and I don our gear and hook up to the oxygen system. We settle in for the flight, if settle is even the right word. I have butterflies floating around inside thinking about what we are doing.
I’m not even in the cockpit for the takeoff but I have faith in Robert, Bri, and Craig.
It’s been so long since I’ve done this and I can’t believe I’m doing it now. With the engines and aircraft rumbling, we lurch forward on the ramp and to the runway. I feel the familiar game time approaching and settle my thoughts down. The butterflies continue but I focus my mind on the upcoming night. The engines rev and we thunder down the runway. It seems like forever but the nose eventually rises and we are free of the earth. Greg and I are silent, lost in our own thoughts, as the aircraft claws for altitude in the late afternoon sky.
I feel us level off after a while. The heaters are keeping the aircraft warm in the cold, unpressurized altitude. There are enough portable oxygen kits for everyone and we drone on for a short time. McCafferty walks over at one point to tell Greg and I thanks.
“No worries,” both Greg and I reply.
A sound at the rear of the aircraft draws my attention from the scenarios I had been running through my mind. The top of the ramp lifts and the roar of the outside thunders in. The bottom of the ramp begins to lower. The sky behind is painted in yellows and oranges as the sun drifts toward the horizon. The ground, painted in square brown shapes, is far below us.
The horizon tilts as the aircraft banks to a new heading. I have a sudden, deep pride for Robert and Bri. They are controlling this behemoth and doing it well. I would swear it’s an experienced crew up front. Well, they are actually; one of the few left on earth that could be doing this. The horizon stabilizes back to its normal position as we level off again. It’s just about go time.
The red light illuminates. Five minutes. Greg and I disconnect, stand and jump to settle our gear in place; tightening straps, making sure our gear is in place and secured. I tighten my M-4 across my chest. The cargo compartment has become frigid with the warm air being sucked out of the open rear of the 130. We check each other over and shamble over onto the level ramp.
He leans over and shouts, “The screaming you hear on the way down will be me.” The roar threatens to carry his voice away but I catch what he says.
“And the rain drops you feel will be me,” I shout back.
I tighten my chin strap and make sure the clear goggles are firmly in place as I watch for the green light. The ground, rolling slowly below us from the edge of the ramp, is bathed in the dark glow of the setting sun. The western outskirts of Lubbock appear to the right. It’s cold but we won’t be at altitude for long. Our free fall will take us quickly to the warmer and oxygen rich levels. The land below grows darker as the sun hits the horizon, beginning its slow sink to mark the end of another day. The roar of the air whipping by and the engines fills the space in my mind. The red light vanishes and the green light illuminates below it.
“See you on the ground,” Greg shouts.
“Better that than in it,” I shout and launch out of the aircraft into the free air.
I feel myself start to tumble before old memories flood into my brain. I stabilize quickly feeling the rush of air against my body. My clothes flap madly in the freezing air. It’s a lot like jumping into a cold pond and feeling the shock of it. Brown fields stretch out below with the city showing fully now. Long shadows paint the ground with the sun half way down its day’s final path. I turn a 180 looking for the white roofed compound that is our target, picking it up immediately to the side — side being relative here. The familiar roar of the wind rushes into my ears. It’s amazing just how old things can come back immediately — just like riding a bike.
Greg is about at my altitude and he adjusts to bring us close together. We won’t have much time on our little journey down as we reach our terminal velocity. We are falling at close to 120 miles per hour; almost 200 feet a second. I just hope we aren’t observed as it’s not entirely dark. I look up and see the 130, high above us, finish a turn and begin heading back to Canon AFB.
“Be safe,” I whisper.
I look down and see the ground drawing closer by the second. A glance to my altimeter tells me we don’t have much longer until we deploy. I already feel the warmer air. I think momentarily of other times and the places I’ve had to do this before; the adrenaline that always accompanied this kind of drop and mission. I don’t have time to let my mind meander much beyond the recognizable feeling. If I think beyond the immediate moment, the next thing I’d see would be the walls of the prison flashing by and that would be it; without even enough time for an “Oh shit.”
My fatigues whip as if they’re trying to leave my body. The needle on my altimeter decreases non-stop. It looks like we are right on the money as far as being positioned so I don’t contemplate deploying at a higher altitude and keep dropping. We are approaching our deployment altitude. Greg waves his arms from his chest out. He repeats it again letting me know to clear the area as he is going to deploy. I turn slightly to gain some separation. He reaches down and throws his pilot chute into the slipstream and immediately vanishes upwards. Not that he went up mind you, it just appears that way. He is still falling.
I count a second longer and reach down to deploy mine as soon as I see him disappear. That will give us some altitude separation. My descent slows drastically as my chute deploys. I never did like opening shock but then again, who in the hell does? I look upward to check the chute and see it fully deployed. Reaching down, I release my ruck and watch it drop. It halts and dangles by the lanyard. Everything appears to be in order so I grab the steering handles and begin maneuvering for the most open part of the flat roof. I notice a faint glow of lights from the eastern wing windows on the ground floor. The other wing remains dark. It appears our guess was correct and that’s where we’ll make for. It also means there is a measure of power from a generator located somewhere.