Hunt of the Sea Wolves

Parris shouted to the pilots and grabbed a hatchet from its bracket, placed there specifically for this purpose and braced himself to cut the rope in an effort to save Sand and possibly the helo, “Get this damn thing under control or you’re going to kill him!”

            “Get him off there or we’re going down,” the pilot radioed back frantically.

            Parris and Roy exchanged quick worried looks; Parris spoke into his microphone, “Max, look for a soft spot.”

            Knowing exactly what Parris was about to do if he didn’t do something himself, Sand looked frantically for a landing spot, preferably, if possible, one without any protruding rocks or trees. All he could see was a carpet of green foliage below him. Then he spotted a small clearing. He let go of the rope and plummeted through the trees, telling himself he knew this was going to hurt like hell.

            With Sand’s two hundred thirty-five pounds suddenly gone, the helo rapidly regained altitude. As Parris and Roy watched wide-eyed, Sand’s body fell to earth like a cannon ball shredding tissue paper as he slammed through the trees and bamboo.

At first, Sand thought he would make it without any major damage. Then he collided with a thick branch that knocked the wind out of his lungs. His forward momentum caused him to flip forward, and the heavy pack and equipment on his back carried him over. He didn’t have much time to think about it. Every branch felt like a sledgehammer, and the biggest jolt of all was when he finally hit the ground. He had thought he’d be dead—there was no way he should have survived what could best be described as an uncontrolled descent. It was beyond control. But he was, remarkably, alive, though not totally unscathed.

The pilots continued their struggle to control the eighteen-thousand pound aircraft. They peered through the windshield and the curtain of water. Finally, they spotted the outline of the island ahead of them. The pilot called back to the team over the radio, “Three minutes to LZ.”

            Parris pressed the headpiece to his lips and shouted back to the pilot, “Roger.” He made a circling motion with his hand to the team. “Three minutes.”

            No one had to be told what to do as they began securing their weapons and equipment, attaching everything tightly to themselves. Wiler and Marchetti managed to get a heavy rope out of a locker and tied one end to a brace overhead. The pilot fought the controls to steady the helo as it flew a few feet above a jungle canopy. “One minute,” he spoke into the microphone. He heard Parris respond in kind through the headset.

            Parris and Roy stood on either side of the round “hell hole” hatch in the center of the floor and looked down at the jungle. The trees pitched wildly and sheets of rain drenched everything. They looked at each other across the open hatch. It was time.

            “Beautiful day for dropping in on friends,” Roy shouted across the hell hole.

            Parris grinned, and then turned to the men. “Ten seconds,” he called out. He looked again down to the trees as the helo flared. He kicked out the heavy rope and watched as it tumbled down through the high branches, then disappeared in the thick foliage. 

           Parris and Roy helped each man as he made his way to the hatch. Marchetti grabbed the heavy rope with his gloved hands, glanced down, then winked at Parris just as he dropped through the hole. In a moment, he had disappeared into the greenness below. Singh, Ali, Jackson, and then Raj followed Marchetti’s example without incident.

          Sand stepped up to the hellhole and grabbed onto the rope. “See you guys down below,” he called out, then dropped toward the jungle canopy below. But a heartbeat after he dropped through the hatch, the helo suddenly lost altitude, and then just as rapidly jerked back up. Sand was yanked roughly up and down like a yo-yo. He tried to fast rope down through the trees, but the helo was out of control, dragging him behind it.

         Sand’s body flipped up and down like a rubber toy soldier being dangled from a string as it was being pulled through tall weeds. He crashed through trees trunks four or five feet thick in a wild, dangerous and potentially deadly ride. Sand kicked himself clear of one huge tamarind tree, and then crashed headlong through the branches of several cedars.

 The commandos held on to keep from being injured as the helo jerked violently, pitched, and shuddered as the storm threatened to rip it apart and toss their torn bodies down into the cold, grey, water, that was being churned into a frothy white foam by the howling wind. The pilot and co-pilot fought to keep the machine flying against the typhoon winds that now raged at category two levels of between ninety-six and one hundred ten miles per hour.

            They managed to keep the helo flying just above the surface of the water. Then the leading edge of a huge wave swooped up and struck the aircraft broadside, nearly engulfing and pulling it down into the water. The engine sputtered and threatened to die all together. It took sheer brute power on the part of both pilots as they each pulled back on the stick with both hands and the two GE-T58-16 engines—along with God’s merciful hands as far as some aboard felt—to convince the machine to regain altitude above the waves. Not bad for an aircraft designed by the Boeing Vertol Company to serve Marine Corps combat and evacuation missions in Vietnam over forty years ago.

            The men exchanged concerned looks. Private Bharti inflated his life vest.

            Jackson grinned at Bharti and shouted, “Won’t do you any good, if we have to ditch.” He rapped with his knuckled on the metal beside his head. “These things are top heavy. They flip over in the water. Not likely anyone would get out.”

            Private Bharti grinned sickly. “Thank you. So good of you to let me know.”

            “You bet. Better to know what’s real, and what ain’t, I always say.”

            “I appreciate the thought.” Bharti pulled the life vest tighter around his chest, anyway.

By four o’clock in the morning the typhoon had subsided somewhat, but the wind was still blowing across the deck at more than seventy miles per hour, category one level. Only on a ship the size of the Bonhomme Richard would a seaman consider the waves tolerable. Sailors hurried to check the chains that secured the thirty helicopters and eight Harrier II aircraft.

Their Ch-46 medium assault helicopter was warmed up and the teams hurried across the deck to climb aboard. Carrying only their weapons and backpacks this time, the going was much easier than it had the day before going down into the ship and they made their way up the ramp to the helo.

            “The storm picked up speed during the night,” Parris shouted over the noise to Roy. “Our window is down to half an hour.”

            “We won’t make it to the LZ in time,”

            Parris handed Roy a piece of paper. On it were a set of GPS coordinance.

           “Our inside man will leave info there on where the camp is,” he said. “They move around between several camps every day or so, so he won’t know the present location until the last minute.”

            The helo pilot received the all clear signal from the yellow-shirted aircraft handling officer and pulled back on the stick as the craft lifted off and banked left over the frothy sea. They were now flying at one hundred sixty miles per hour in the eye of the storm and the sky above was a brilliant blue, but dark thunderheads loomed just a few miles in every direction around the helo. The helo immediately dropped out of sight as it skimmed only a few feet above the crashing waves and raced toward an, as yet, unseen island over the horizon in an attempt to beat the storm.

            They didn’t make it.

Later, Parris, Roy, Raj, and Marchetti watched as two corpsmen carried Moses, now conscious, out of the head on a stretcher. The ship’s doctor, a lieutenant commander, followed and turned to Parris, “His collar bone is shattered,” he said. “It’s a clean break. We can set it in sickbay. He’s going to be laid up too long to do you any good.”

            “Thanks, commander,” Parris said. “I’ll come up later to see how he’s doing.”

            “We should be finished in about an hour.”

            “Yes, sir.” Parris placed a reassuring hand on Moses’ chest. “Take it easy.”

            “Sorry, sir,” Moses said in a blur of pain. “I screwed up.”

            “Hey, things happen,” Parris said. “You’ve got to admit it, though, even for Crazy Horse, this is pretty good.”

            Moses groaned as much from the pain as embarrassment at his own absurd predicament.

            “But I don’t think I can write you up for a medal this time.”

            Moses grinned at Parris. “No purple heart, huh.”

            “I’ll see you up in sickbay. The doc is going to take care of you.”

            “But you’re going to need a corpsman?”

            Parris nodded to the two sailors at either end of the stretcher. They picked Moses up. Parris looked at Roy, then back at Moses. “Don’t worry about it.”

The corpsmen moved down the passageway. Parris turned back to Roy, and then glanced at Private Raj. “All right, Private, you’re in. Get your gear ready.”

The boy grinned broadly, “Yes, Sir. You won’t regret it, Sir,” he said, then ran as fast as the pitching ship allowed him to down the passageway.

“I hope not,” Parris murmured.

“You won’t,” Roy said. “He’s a good soldier—and an excellent medic.”

“We’ll see.” James murmured, just clearly enough for them to hear.

Barefooted, he tiptoed around the streams of water and straddled one of the urinals. It proved to be a difficult maneuver as he tried to hold himself with one hand so he could avoid urinating on the deck as he grasped at the pipe in front of him with his other hand to keep balance as the ship suddenly pitched violently upward.

            Moses managed to finish without pissing on his feet and turned to a row of stainless steel sinks to his left. Just as he stepped toward the sink nearest him, the ship took an unexpected roll, and he lost his balance. He stepped into one of the streams of water pouring out of the urinals and his feet started to slip out from under him.

“Oh, shit!” was all he could manage while fighting to keep from falling. But the entire room suddenly shifted nearly forty-five degrees and he was slammed violently against a sink, striking his right elbow. He instinctively grabbed it with his left hand as the pain shot up through his arm. Instantly, he knew he was in trouble and his worst fears came to pass as he was hurled across the room where he crashed into a metal stall. The loud snap of his shoulder breaking was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

“Do what you’ve got to do, Captain. But be aware that we, too, have our share of bureaucrats. No telling what will happen to it. Meanwhile, we’ve got a job to do. Is your team in or out?”        

The medic they recognized as the unfortunate sole Wiler found so amusing in his rush to the head only moments before.

            Parris quickly introduced his men, who studied the Indians coolly and gave barely perceptible nods, “Staff Sergeant Dwain Marchetti…Sergeant Max Sand.”

            Corporal Singh eyed Sand and whispered to Ali, “The Stinger.”

            Sand heard the comment. He looked at Singh. The Indian seemed familiar, but Sand couldn’t recall where he had seen him before. Singh provided the answer. “We met briefly at Fort Benning, at the Top Gun competition.”

            It took Sand a moment to place Singh. “You did good.”

“A high complement coming from a renowned sniper,” Singh smiled. “But not as well as you, I am afraid.”

            Parris continued with the introductions, “Agent Mike Jackson, Agent Gary Wiler, and Corpsman First Class Mason ‘Crazy Horse’ Moses.”

            “Crazy Horse?” Roy said curiously, remembering as a boy reading about famous cowboys and the other Indians of the American West. “You are Indian?”

            Moses, a full-blooded Coeur d’Alene, and member of the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation in eastern Washington State, nodded. “Long story,” he said, not bothering to offer any details, which had little to do with the famous Oglala Sioux warrior, Tashunkewitko, and everything to do with a wild, nearly fatal ride through the southern Iraqi desert while behind the dual tiller controls of a stolen Russian T-72S battle tank.

            “Perhaps you will share it when we have completed our mission,” Roy said.

            “First order of business,” Parris interjected. The mood instantly changed from cordial to all business. He looked directly at Roy. “Any of your team Muslim?”

“I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours, to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of Freedom.” – From Abraham Lincoln’s letter to Mrs. Lydia Bixby, who lost fives sons during the Civil War.

Parris knelt in front of the headstone. He touched the engraved name and imagined he saw his brother’s face in the white stone. As a twin, Parris felt that half of himself was gone forever. The better, gentler half, he knew.

Below Joshua’s name were six lines that represented the totality of his existence to those of the four million who visited the national cemetery every year that might read them as they meandered between the more than three hundred thousand graves. 

After the Taliban’s defeat in December 2001, in response to the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack on the U.S., and the first elections took place in Afghanistan, the warlord finally surfaced from hiding. The video tape of Joshua’s execution did not surface until two years later, and Parris finally knew for certain who his brother’s killer was and he now resided in Kabul, and was now a cabinet member in the new government. He would deal with Mohaqiq, but not now.

A black SUV waited at the bottom of the hill with Agent Wiler behind the wheel. He pressed an earpiece against his head and listened for a moment, then looked up at Parris kneeling at the foot of his brother’s grave. Wiler didn’t want to interrupt, but the clock was ticking. He got out of the car and approached Parris. “Sir, we’ve got to go,” he said quietly.

            Parris gazed intently at the grave.

            “Sir, we’ve got to go.” Wiler’s voice penetrated his anger and loneliness.

            “I heard you, Wiler.”

            Wiler was embarrassed. “Yes, sir, but they’re waiting at the airstrip.”

            Parris took something from his pocket. He looked at the round, bronze medal with a cross and the CIA emblem, the Distinguished Intelligence Cross. He had received it four years ago for his own covert mission in Afghanistan—the one his brother had died for in his place a year later when Joshua was mistaken for him.

Other than the requisite Purple Heart, his brother received no other medal in recognition from his government for his sacrifice. His family and friends would never know that Joshua was a member of the elite Delta Force. They were not told that he was captured and beheaded. They assumed he was simply an Army medic who was just one more forgotten casualty in the war against terrorism. One of a little less than three hundred who died in an almost ignored war compared to those who died in the more tumultuous Iraqi Freedom campaign.

Parris glanced around to make sure no one was looking then pushed the medal below the surface next to the stone and patted the ground. “They’ll pay, little brother. Every one of them. I promise you.”

The Taliban’s affiliation with al-Qa’ida was made official when the Northern Alliance leader Abdur Rabb ur Rasool Sayyaf personally invited Osama bin Laden to move into the neighborhood and forged an alliance between the Taliban and his al-Qa’ida organization. The relationship between the Taliban and al-Qa’ida was formalized on a personal level when one of bin Laden’s sons married the daughter of one of the Taliban’s most influential leaders, Mullah Mohammad Omar.

            In answer to the al-Qa’ida-backed attack on September 11, 2001, the United States, with the help of the United Kingdom, and a coalition of other countries invaded Afghanistan with the stated intent of removing the Taliban because of its refusal to hand over Osama bin Laden. In fact, though, the Taliban government, which, at that time, was the recognized ruling authority in Afghanistan, did agree to judge bin Laden in an Islamic court, after which, it would hand him over to a neutral country for a war crimes trial. The charade played out as the United States sent the Taliban an ultimatum that included a demand that the Taliban hand over all al-Qaeda leaders, close all terrorist training camps and all inspectors into the country.

            Of course, the Taliban refused and, as the saying goes, the rest is history. The Taliban left Kandahar to regroup along the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, and continued to recruit new fighters from the madrassahs, Arabic for school, to supplement the more traditional Qur’anic schools that are thought to be the primary breeding ground for new Taliban fighters.