In the tent were the senior pilots from both aircraft, the men of Det Four, and also Army and Air Force aircrews and Air Force security personnel.
“Gents, again I am Thomas Henderson. I am an Air Force civilian. Today you will be flying to Kukesh to deliver humanitarian rations, blankets, and tents. Kukesh is in the northern part of Albania, just over the border from Kosovo.
“Right now the threat level is high. We have intelligence assessments that there are terrorist elements throughout Albania. We know that the population is heavily armed. Most of the country is controlled by local mafia and there are black-marketers throughout.
“Any one of these elements may try to test the United States’ presence here. We just do not know how they will react. Plus, you never know when you will be shot at by an annoyed farmer as you fly overhead.”
Henderson surveyed the men in front of him. They were silent.
“The good news is; nobody has had any problems yet. The trip up there is about two hours by helo. Any questions?”
One after another, half the men in the tent asked questions. Jazz sensed that everyone wanted to be recognized. Realizing he didn’t have any intelligent questions to ask he kept his mouth shut.
Twenty minutes later he was back in the -53, lifting off the grass in Tirane. The hold of the helo was packed to the gills while they had their meeting with Henderson. There were several aircraft pallets with cardboard boxes on them. Some were labeled “WORLD FOOD BANK,” others said “U.S. GOVT HDRs,” with a greeting on them just as Quinn described. One of the pallets in the back appeared to have blankets on it. Each pallet was covered with a cargo net and chained to the deck.
There was no longer any room to move fore and aft in the helo. Jazz positioned himself in the small space in front of the cargo near the forward door. Keating sat across from him and they were joined by one aircrewman. The others, including Ashland and T-Ball, all stepped up the ramp and found a spot in the back behind the cargo.
The countryside grew even more mountainous as they headed inland. The pilots used a chart and a road map to navigate their way to Kukesh. They followed one of the valleys that stretched liked splayed fingers connecting the highlands to the coast.
Through the window Jazz could see a treacherous road hugging the side of the mountains, winding its way through the valley. It was definitely a difficult passage in the best of weather.
Sometimes the pilots decided the best course was to dodge over a mountain peak. Then flight became as unpleasant as an amusement park ride. Both Jazz and Keating would look up as the nose of the Sea Dragon rose. Wind pushing on and around the peak would buffet the airframe violently as they crested over the summit or ridgeline. Then the helo would drop again quickly leaving Jazz’s stomach at a higher altitude. On the worst occasions the pilots would circle and bank steeply, searching for the road again.
When they got to Kukesh the aircrewman tapped Jazz on the knee. He leaned over and yelled in the officer’s ear.
“WE’RE ALMOST THERE, SIR! YOU MAY WANNA GET UP AND TAKE A LOOK AROUND!”
Jazz nodded, unclipped his seatbelt and stood. He slipped off his Protec helmet and traded it again for the Kevlar. Affixed to the helmet was a set of flight deck goggles. The helo buffeted up and down. Jazz held his M-16 in one hand while bracing himself with the other as he looked out the window.
The village appeared as any Mediterranean village except that to the north between the town proper and the mountains was a field filled with color and movement. Jazz suspected that he was seeing a bird’s eye view of the Albanian refugees.
Suddenly the helo banked, dropping in altitude and heading toward this field. As they got close, Jazz saw that it his supposition was correct. Many of the displaced Albanian worked to set up shelters. Some were still streaming from over the mountain.
Though it was now late March, the peak towering over the town of Kukesh was covered with snow. Clearly winter was going to be present until mid-April at least.
They circled the camp three times, just high enough to get a good look but not so low as to disturb the ethnic Albanian farmers with the downwash from the blades. Now Hurricane 224 and 218 headed for the eastern part of the town.
There was another field, but this one was open. To the north of the field was an orchard. As they descended further Jazz could see that the field had a barbwire fence surrounding it. There were a few buildings and military-looking trucks.
Nobody said there was a military facility here… strange…, he thought.
Suddenly the aircraft dropped dramatically. The aircrewman grabbed Jazz by the shoulder this time and yelled in his ear.
“WE’RE GOING TO LAND HERE, SIR! DO YOU CONCUR IT IS SAFE?”
It was a requirement that the senior EOD Technician determine that the landing zone was not hot and that the aircraft could take off. Jazz looked around; there appeared to be no threat.
“YES! IT IS SAFE!”
The aircrewman gave him a “thumbs up” as he spoke into his lip mike. The -53 descended faster. At about twenty feet off the ground they began to move forward again. The pilot was taxiing away from the buildings. Finally they hovered for a moment and the helo set down on the field.
It felt like he was in a movie from the moment he stepped through the door. All Jazz could hear was the thump of the blades. He got outside the arc of the blade where it was somewhat quieter.
Jazz moved to the two o’clock position on the right side of the -53. Keating moved around to the eleven o’clock. A quick three sixty revealed that the field in front and to the right of the helo was clear. Then Jazz looked toward Ashland at the five o’clock position. Ash was gesturing toward the building beyond.
Soldiers.
There were soldiers running from the building armed with Kalishnikov AK-47’s.
Oh, fuck. This could be bad, thought Jazz.
THIRTY-TWO
Jazz jabbed a finger toward the soldiers. Ashland’s head swiveled toward them. Jazz could see his shipmate’s body tense from forty feet away.
Are they coming to greet us, or do they think we are invaders? he wondered.
From his vantage point Jazz could tell that the aircrew were oblivious. He could see the first of the pallets now on the grass under the tail. A crewman in the door waved at him and motioned that the helo was moving forward. The -53 lifted slightly and taxied forward.
There was an officer with the soldiers. Jazz noted the man forming his troops in a line along the field. Each man had his weapon slung at the hip, pointing right at the men from Inchon disgorging aid. Either they wanted to be threatening, or they had very poor weapon’s discipline.
Fuck, this is not good. Hopefully this guy knows the deal.
Suddenly Jazz saw a flash of light come from the Albanian line, or had he imagined it?
He looked again at the Albanian officer who was shouting and pointing at Denke’s aircraft. Several flashes now erupted from the weapons the soldiers were holding.
They’re shooting at us!
Jazz was surprised by his own reactions as he carried them out. His movements reminded him of wrestling moves he developed in high school-he didn’t have to think, it just happened.
As Jazz stepped over to where Ash was standing he pulled back on the charging handle of his M-16, chambering a round. By the time he was abreast of his teammate, Ash was already shooting.