In theory, the paratrooper hit with the balls of his feet and twisted. That set him up for a proper parachute landing fall, or PLF. After the feet, his calves, followed by his buttocks, shoulder blades, and finally his head, made contact with the ground in a controlled, orderly manner. That, at least, was the theory — a theory that even in combat Cerro had never been able to make work.
The planes carrying the fuel blivets started their drop. From the rear of the C-130s, large pallets with the fuel blivets and parachutes strapped to them rolled out into the darkness. On the ground, Jackson could see only faint, black forms above him. That was enough, though, to tell him that he and his crew were in the wrong place. Just as a good transport pilot was trained to do, the pallets were being dropped right over the beacon — which was where Jackson and his men were. Hall looked up and yelled to Jackson. "Are those mothers makin' a heavy drop or a bombin' run?"
As if to underscore his comment, the parachutes on one pallet failed. Instead of a slow, controlled descent, the pallet tumbled down, gaining momentum. "Jesus! That one's comin' through! Heads up, it's comin' through!" Jackson began to run at first, then stopped. There was no way to predict where the tumbling mass of wooden pallet, rubber blivet, yards of worthless nylon parachute, and four hundred gallons of fuel would hit.
Jackson's heart, like everyone else's in the drop zone, skipped a beat just before the pallet impacted. The blivet, the heaviest part, hit first, splitting open like a water balloon dropped from a second-story window. And like a water balloon, it spewed fuel all over the place. They were still recovering from the near miss when the paratroopers began to exit.
Like a shock to his system, the flashing green light caused a momentary tension, then an automatic response. Cerro jumped up as best he could and pushed away from the side of the aircraft with all his might. In quick succession he experienced deployment, opening, and stabilization. Still swinging, he checked the canopy as he fumbled with his gear, dropping his equipment bag, untying the rifle bag, and bringing his feet together. Impact, like the good airborne sergeant at Benning used to tell them, should come almost as a surprise. If that was a measure of a good jump, Cerro's jump that night was a howling success.
Jackson watched as the first man came in. Instead of a PLF, the man hit the ground like a rock, right in the middle of a newly created pond of fuel left by the impact of the blivet. Running over to see if the paratrooper needed help, Jackson heard the sounds of splashing and cursing. Jackson stopped at the edge of the pool of fuel. "Hey, you— you need help?"
The figure rose to his knees, shaking his outstretched arms. "What the fuck makes you think I need help, whoever you are?"
"Staff Sergeant Jackson, Special Forces. I figured you might need some. It's just that I've never seen a man hit the ground so hard and live."
The figure rose to his feet, his arms still held out to his side. "Well, Staff Sergeant Jackson, the first thing you need to do is pass the word that the smoking lamp is definitely out." Slowly the figure started to shed his parachute and retrieve his gear, mumbling and cursing as he did so. Jackson stood and watched until the figure was done and advanced toward him. Sticking out his right hand to shake Jackson's, he introduced himself as Captain Harold Cerro, B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne, Air Assault.
Surprised, Jackson started to salute but stopped and grabbed the captain's hand instead. "Glad to see you made it, sir. Captain Kinsly sends his compliments."
Cerro stopped shaking. "Kinsly? Jesse Kinsly? Big black guy with muscles from ear to ear?"
"Yes, sir, that's him. You know him?"
"Know him? We were in Iran together. He was my XO when I took over our company. Where is he?"
Jackson pointed south. "Still at the airfield."
As if there were some chance of seeing him, Cerro looked south, over the dark rim of the Meidob Hills. Cerro couldn't believe his incredible luck. After almost two years they were going to be back together again.
Moving down the ditch that ran along the road, Senior Lieutenant Shegayev led the squad of men into position. Despite the cold breeze that was beginning to whip at their backs, Shegayev was happy and excited. After weeks of doing nothing but the administrative work of the company, his commander, Captain Ilvanich, agreed to allow him to lead an ambush patrol. Ilvanich, involved in assisting the battalion operations officer plan for a new operation, was unable to lead the patrol himself. Rumor had it that the new operation would be somewhere in southern Egypt against the airfield at Abu Simbel.
Besides, to date there had been no contacts during any of the nightly patrols. Ilvanich saw this as a good opportunity to give Shegayev some practical experience in independent command and small-unit operations. For the most part the ambush patrols had become nothing more than training exercises. The platoon leaders, in fact, had been complaining to Ilvanich that it was becoming difficult keeping the men alert and awake. Without the element of danger or even the hint of contact, the men were getting careless. Ilvanich's answer to that problem was unique. He formed a special squad of those soldiers who had been reported for neglect of their duties. He then personally led them out on foot patrol for two consecutive nights. After that, simply the threat of another such training session was able to motivate even the most slovenly soldier in the company.
Reaching the road junction, Shegayev paused. He could make out a stand of trees across the road. He gave the signal to the men behind him to halt and drop down. Shegayev crouched, surveying the terrain around him as he pulled his map out. With the aid of a small pen light, he checked the map. If he got lost leading his first patrol and set up in the wrong place, there'd be no second chance — not with Captain Ilvanich.
Satisfied they were in the right place, Shegayev put away his map and began to deploy his men. As in any peacetime training exercise, one man inevitably was slow and had to be told everything twice. But he was the exception. In less than five minutes the squad was settled into position and set. Security was out, and the road junction was covered. Now came the waiting.
On the screen of his heads-out display, or HOD, Mennzinger could see a cluster of hot spots on the horizon to their west. Looking at his watch, he noted the time, then checked his map: they would be the dwellings in and about the oasis called Bir Milani. Their route, the westernmost of the two, was marked in black on his flight map. At selected points along the line were tick marks and times. The number next to the tick mark at Bir Milani read 2047Z, the "Z" standing for ZULU time. The actual time in Sudan was 2247 hours, but they were on time. Although the operation was taking place in Sudan and Egypt, which are in the BRAVO time zone, the planners and units participating in the operation were spread throughout different time zones. The F-111 bombers were coming out of Britain, which is in the ZULU time zone, or two hours behind Egypt and Sudan. The naval demonstration off Ethiopia and the coast of Sudan was taking place in the CHARLIE time zone, one hour ahead of Egypt and Sudan. Surveillance and communications satellites being used to support the operation were being controlled from Virginia in the United States, which is in the ROMEO time zone, seven hours behind Egypt and Sudan. In order to avoid confusion and ensure complete synchronization of the operation, ZULU time, popularly known as Greenwich mean time, was used by all participants.
The plan, as laid out in the operations order and its time schedule, was the only controlling element for the operation. All participants were expected to follow both, without exception. Any margin of error was already factored into the plan. Because of tight planning, there was no need to use the radio or to coordinate the various elements of the operation until just before the actual attack. Since their departure from Abu Simbel, there had been no radio transmissions from either group of Apaches. Even the C-130s that had dropped the fuel blivets and paratroopers under Cerro had not reported that event.