World War Iii: Not How You Imagined

By James Strait

It had been over seven decades since the world had been officially at war. But
2017 was that modern moment where the forces of good, would again need to
ally themselves to combat the forces of evil. And so it was, the United States and
her Allies would do battle with the nation of North Korea.
But this time, there was a twist.
While the battlefields on the Korean peninsula were filled with the sights and
sounds of modern militaries going toe-to-toe, much of the war was taking place
on Americas streets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493175000

James Strait

The author’s professional career began as a very young Special Forces soldier. After the military he enjoyed a broad aviation career spanning three decades that exposed him to a large array of aircraft that he could’ve scarcely dreamed of flying as a young child. Having survived longer and more prolifically than forecast by friends and foes, he now lives quietly among the vast woodlands of rural Pennsylvania with his wife of thirty-seven years, an equally quiet artist. His next book, A Wogdon Affair, will be nonfiction.

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Copyright © 2014 by James Strait.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014903052

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-7499-7

   Softcover   978-1-4931-7497-3

   eBook   978-1-4931-7500-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 04/07/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

FLASH TRAFFIC

FLASH ZULU

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

CHAPTER EIGHTY

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

CHAPTER NINETY

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

CHAPTER NINEY-NINE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

An author’s best resources are those trusted voices that generously donate their time reading a first draft and then offer sage advice on how to improve upon the story. The author would like to extend his heartfelt appreciation to the following people.

Rick Bagshaw, for providing a comprehensive list of suggestions to expand upon and enhance details related to military systems, techniques, and personalities.

Barry Pfluegler, for being a repeat reader of first drafts and for his many suggestions on how to improve the manuscript.

Angela Kolias, author, yogi, muse, for her continued interest in my writing and her generous efforts to bring accuracy to a rough draft.

Travis Strait, pilot, thinker, son, for his honest feedback and encouragement.

Finally, to my wife Sara, without whom, for a multitude of reasons, none of this would have been possible.

"PEOPLE SLEEP PEACEABLY IN THEIR BEDS AT NIGHT

BECAUSE ROUGH MEN STAND READY TO DO VIOLENCE

ON THEIR BEHALF" . . . GEORGE ORWELL

Korea%20Map%20for%20Jim%20base3-1.jpg

INTRODUCTION

MANCHURIA

Manchuria is the geographic location that shares borders with Mongolia to the west, Russia to the north, and to the south, North Korea. In today’s world, it’s more commonly referred to as North Eastern China.

It has a storied past, in largest part due to it being the origin for the psychological process that converts normal human beings into obedient slaves to their trainers. The term Manchurian Candidate evolved when the real process was coincidentally converted into a successful piece of fictional literature, and later, a Hollywood movie.

However, long before the concept was made common knowledge through literature and motion pictures, the idea of mental programming had been studied and perfected by a small cadre of Asian military intelligence specialists who actually did reside in Manchuria. Unfortunately, concurrent with the perfection of the Manchurian process was the war between Korea and the United States.

As a function of the Chinese and Koreans then sharing a common enemy, the psychological technique was shared with esoteric military intelligence elements of the Korean Army. At the end of the Korean War, a division of geography identified along the 38th Parallel defined a southern and a northern Korea, with the south adopting a democratic rule of law and the North subscribing to Communism.

For many thousands of future victims, elements of the North Korean Army retained the Manchurian process with future plans of creating a secret army of human drones, to be used as needed, when needed, and where needed. Their actions were motivated by a paranoid belief that everyone was their enemy; a worldview that ultimately became a future reality.

The self-fulfilling prophecy witnessed its birth as a result of them creating a high-speed production line that produced vast numbers of brainwashed automatons, whose sole reason for being was to be dispatched to the home turf of their government’s enemies, where they’d live beneath the radar as dormant sleeper operatives.

The North Koreans had been impossibly patient as they methodically trained and exported thousands of Manchurian drones to the United States. They lived their lives invisibly, knowing that someday they’d be activated to execute orders originating from their trainers. Orders that would finalize their purpose and change the course of the world.

That was their belief, and on both sides of the equation they were about half right.

PROLOGUE

Yang-do is an island located just off the eastern coast of North Korea, south of Muso Point and north of the city of Kimchaek. It’s location in the Sea of Japan isolates it from mainland Korea, but keeps it within their twelve-mile territorial claim of international waters. Isolated by geography but protected by maritime law, it’s the perfect location for political mischief.

The largest of a trio of islands, Yang-do had seen its share of conflict across time, so it was in perfect keeping that it would again play a role in the misery of human conflict. Bridged to its sister island, Yang-do East, by man-made structure, the main island was home to a gaggle of nondescript buildings. However, belying their generic appearance, housed within these structures were elements of the North Korean National Intelligence Service (NIS). Unfortunately, for those that the NIS deemed enemies of the state, Yang-do was also home to a handful of infamous NIS interrogators, also known as re-educators.

This handful of sadistic men and women had been chosen in early childhood for demonstrating specific aberrant behavioral traits. They’d been taken at a young age and isolated from their families, and then conditioned across two decades to enhance their natural sadistic tendencies. The end product was a cadre of ruthless but brilliant practitioners of thought reform and enhanced information extraction.

Many of the first world’s best-known intelligence agencies had weighty evidence that in addition to it being a school for political dissidents, Yang-do may also be a destination for American POWs from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. The data was tenuous and virtually impossible to validate with eyewitness feedback, but there was enough smoke created by the totality of intelligence where virtually everyone agreed that Yang-do was not a vacation spot.

As fate would have it, two newly captured American aviators were about to learn firsthand that the suspicions about Yang-do were true, and the world would again be reminded that one thing leads to another.

FLASH TRAFFIC

Three things cannot be long hidden, the sun, the moon, and the truth . . . Hindu Prince Gautama Siddhartha

The message center at Special Tactical Center (SPECTACC) was a subdued workplace. On a daily basis, messages from operatives all around the globe were processed by men and women sitting in cubicles that looked much like any civilian office building—but the content of the messages was far different than the processing of purchase orders and distribution of office memos.

The personnel selected for this high-pressure, high-tech work environment were chosen from America’s best universities. Their careers were fast tracks to high rank and high-intensity assignments in an industry designed to protect American global interests, and their personalities reflected their intelligence.

Major Samantha (Sam) Burns was the prototypical cool head. She was the brightest star in a pool of people that were part of a constellation of intellectual stars. Her day started ordinarily with her decaf coffee in hand as she strolled from cubicle to cubicle, checking in with each operator. There were over 100 cubicles, so her rounds often took the largest part of her morning, but she enjoyed the process because she was a social creature. She knew the lives of her fellow workers and, in so doing, knew more about their nature as individuals than had she merely treated them as duty-bound employees.

The cubicles were, in essence, each dedicated to a global hot spot, with each worker assigned responsibility for maintaining communications integrity with the operatives in that location of the world. While the technology permitted one operator to sit at one console and process all communications from all around the world, Sam’s design reflected her belief that personal interactions were pivotal in both producing excellent workers and in gaining an intimate feel for a specific group of operators, and the culture and circumstance that they were working in.

Consequently, each worker was fluent in the language of his or her region of responsibility. The logic being that every message, even though communicated in the most secure way known to man, was still reviewed for contextual subtleties that might reveal that the message was generated under duress, or otherwise constructed to deceive.

Sam walked into the cubicle responsible for South Korea and found Kim Jon Bon reviewing the SPECTACC operations manual.

Good morning, Kim.

Kim Jon looked up from the manual and smiled. Everything’s quiet, Boss said the pretty Korean.

Acknowledging the good normal news with a nod of her head, Sam began to turn to walk out when a special purpose tone was emitted from Kim Jon’s workstation computer. Stopping in mid-turn, Sam watched as Kim set the operations manual aside and reached for her keyboard.

A FLASH message, having been run through an array of origin-verifying subroutines that would have taken a team of mathematicians a day to calculate, had transpired with nanoseconds within the bowels of the immorally expensive computer. Being displayed directly to her screen, the FLASH format was designed to be efficient—no filler, just clear and concise wording. The deciphered message heading jumped out and almost off the screen.

EYES ONLY

Eyes Only was the watchword within SPECTACC, where each cubicle’s business was private from the others. It was a security protocol and mentality that had its good and limiting elements, but security trumped convenience and intelligence isolation was the thought of the day—and of every day. The one exception within the control facility was Sam; she was not only authorized to see any and all messages, she was required to keep real-time awareness of the happenings within every theater of action. Thus, her morning patrols of the cubicles.

But Eyes Only was pretty rare, and usually meant that Verified Network News (VNN) or First In News (FIX) would be broadcasting the story within hours of SPECTACC receiving it. So the system in total had learned to act fast for no other reason than to be able to create plausible denial when the many invasive correspondents in the employ of the cable news networks approached the folk higher up the food chain. Sam and her underlings took no part in the creation of alternative stories, but they were the first link in the chain, a chain that could ultimately link its way to the White House and the desk of the president.

Sam walked up and stood behind Kim Jon. Go ahead and open it, Kim Sam said matter of factly.

Kim touched F1 on her keyboard and the screen jumped with lightning fast speed to a message format designed for efficiency and clarity.

FLASH ZULU

030817

1400Z

7TH AF/USFK

JOINT CHIEFS

Z

MESSAGE FOLLOWS

SNAPSHOT—WASP SPLASHED—CREW/MIA PRESUMED POW—PRIORITY VECTOR REQUESTED.

END MESSAGE

VIPER601

Sam read the message and reached over Kim Jon’s shoulder, pushing the Print button on the keyboard. Printing took many thousands times longer than it had taken for the FLASH message to have been transmitted from halfway around the world, bouncing from satellite to satellite to ground-based receivers at SPECTACC, processed, and read by Major Samantha Burns. But such was the way with technology—always a bottleneck somewhere.

Five seconds later, Sam was walking out of the cubicle toward her office with message in hand, re-reading the FLASH traffic as she walked. She wanted no confusion when she called her boss, because even though she didn’t understand the WASP element of the message, the priority vector requested alone told her that dynamic things were going to take place and that it was all going to happen rapidly.

No sooner had Sam pressed the speed dial on her phone than the line was answered. The businesslike, male voice on the other end of the line answered the phone as per usual, using the last four digits of his extension, eight eight five four.

This is Major Burns, I need to speak to General Wallace reference Zulu traffic, Sam said fluidly to the anonymous, numbers-only voice.

Roger, said the voice that now also spoke words.

The line was quiet for only a few seconds. What’s up, Major? asked the legendary general.

We just received FLASH traffic from South Korea requesting priority vector.

Read me the message, said Wallace.

Sam read the message to the Air Force legend and waited.

Okay, Major, thank you, said the general, adding, Keep the South Korean office on their toes; we’ll be using them for a while.

Roger that. Sam listened to the line go silent. In her mind’s eye, she saw the broad-shouldered general striding toward an action that she secretly envied. In her heart of hearts, she was a frustrated trigger-puller.

CHAPTER ONE

I’ve got a bad feeling about bad feelings . . . Unknown

March 2017

WHITEMAN AIR FORCE BASE, WESTERN MISSOURI

The sun was only moments from rising above the Eastern horizon. The sky took on an eerie glow, coming from rays of sunlight striking particles suspended in the upper atmosphere and widely scattering the blue end of the visible spectrum, allowing the trailing colors to funnel through and heavily influence the palette. This morning’s aerial artwork was a mosaic of azure blue heavily slathered with red… the latter color created a streaking across the horizon that was a blend of dull yellow and burnt orange. The sky could have been a beautiful abstract painting hanging in an art gallery or museum. It was a strange if not ominous looking sky.

Colonel Stephen (Steve) McQueen, call sign Bullitt, noticed the sky and remembered the old maritime adage, Red sky at night, sailors delight… Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. He wasn’t a sailor, and even with the impressive sky he wasn’t worried about the weather—they’d be well above any trouble making weather—but for some reason, the sky affected him emotionally. A strange sky at the beginning of a strange mission made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Of course, he’d keep that personal detail to himself.

McQueen’s second in command was standing under the main body of the black jet, next to the folding air-stair that led up into the cockpit of the super-stealthy bomber. She was having an animated conversation with one of the ground crew, ending with laughter and a big smile.

Walking up to stand next to his pilot and second in command, they both stood under the shadow of the B-2 Spirit’s massive wing form, admiring its design. How’s she lookin’ KJ? McQueen asked.

Everything is as it should be, skipper, said the diminutive lieutenant colonel, As per usual, these guys have it ready to rock n’ roll.

Great. As it should be is the way it should be, McQueen replied, offering a sly smile.

Content that all was as it should be, McQueen motioned for KJ (Kelly Johnson) to climb onboard. He followed behind her, where both disappeared into the classified interior of the world’s most formidable aerial weapons platform.

McQueen waited for KJ to take her place in the pilot’s seat then slid into the mission commander’s seat as if he’d been doing it all of his life. It had been ten years—enough time in the B-2 where the airplane fit him like a glove. It felt as if he’d flown the stealthy jet forever. It was his office, his place of work, a cozy cocoon, his home away from home… in many ways, it was his life. The same could be said for KJ, but her time on the B-2 was short, in comparison, only five years. But she was also one with the airplane and was known for her consistently smooth landings. As a result, Greaser was her call sign.

Frame 23 was not your average B-2… if there actually was such a thing as an average stealth aircraft. But this particular B-2 had modifications—a lot of mods, as they referred to them. Greaser had been assigned the job of babysitting the special build as it went through the newest upgrades. She was eminently qualified to do so, having graduated the Air Force Academy first in her class and graduated in the same position from test pilot training. There was also a master’s degree in electrical engineering from an Ivy League university famous for its longevity, adding clout to her professional resume.

Her technical skills were right for the babysitting project, because Frame 23 was a highly complex redesign of an already highly complex aircraft. It was also a very quiet effort at improving the performance and mission potential of the B-2 and, as a result, was an entirely off budget project. Using closely held financing was the best, if not the only, way to keep the newly designed systems secret. Congress, a notorious security sieve, had no knowledge of the project—one kept quiet, in large part, because it had no name and no paper trail beyond Grumman Aircraft documenting the many engineering changes.

There were many of those. The upgrades and mods to existing systems used many newly tweaked advanced technologies, but what made Frame 23 really special was the WASP modification. The design, whose name was derived from the wasp waist change in air foil shape produced by the new system, gave the stealthy airplane more range, more speed, and incidentally, a quieter cockpit—not that it was overly noisy before. The WASP mod altered the airflow outside the airplane in a way that not only made it more aerodynamically slippery, but also further reduced its radar cross-section. It would appear—on even the most powerful and sensitive of radar displays—as an object the size of a sparrow… making such a radar return, in essence, an anomalous artifact to be ignored by a radar operator. WASP was the most significant advancement in the B-2 since its inception, and KJ watched the entire build and knew its every subtlety.

From the outside Frame 23 looked just like any other B-2, at least to the untrained eye. But to those who knew what to look for, the slight shimmer offered by the dimensionally unstable bomb bay door material was a giveaway that something was different. However, it was almost a moot point, since the aircraft was such a closely guarded secret that no other B-2 crews knew about its unique features. Bullitt and Greaser had to remain healthy and available, because at that moment, they were the only crew trained and ready to fly the one-of-a-kind stealth aircraft.

A flight program dependent upon a sole flight crew went against every tenet that the Air Force ascribes to, but that was the price of absolute secrecy. Once the airframe was mission proven, other pilots would be selectively invited to become WASP qualified. But at the moment, it was Bullitt and Greaser who would carry the weight, wear the glory, or suffer any ill effects.

With their pre-taxi checklist complete, Bullitt radioed ground control, informing them that they were ready to taxi to the active runway. No sooner had he released the push-to-talk switch on his control stick than ground control came back.

Roger, winds calm, your choice of runways, sir, came the calm reply from the ground controller, who was ironically situated in the tower some 150 feet above ground level.

I’ve always preferred going downhill; we’ll take nineteen, Bullitt replied cordially.

Cleared to taxi nineteen.

Frame 23 made a right turn from parking and rolled down taxiway Alpha toward the departure end of Runway 19. Reaching the end of Alpha, Greaser brought the big machine to a smooth halt while holding short of the runway. They sat there while completing the pre-takeoff checklist.

Looking over at Bullitt with a sheepish look on her face, KJ said, I have to pee.

Laughing heartily, Bullitt radioed the tower. Tower, we’re ready to leave your fine facility.

Soon Frame 23 was passing through 25,000 feet and turning northwest to intercept civilian air routes. They’d piggyback their way halfway around the world using normal jet airways, mixing in with regularly scheduled commercial traffic. Air Traffic Control was familiar with the technique and, while not aware that they were assisting a B-2, always provided adequate spacing to prevent a B-2 from being eyeballed by other aircraft. The ground-based controllers would never talk to or see them on radar. The only validation of their presence was a transponder code, and when the code disappeared, ATC knew they no longer had to provide spacing.

Twenty-five thousand feet was the designated altitude to begin WASP operations. There were only three steps on the checklist, but there were waiting periods between each action. Initializing WASP was about a thirty second process, and the first step involved a continuity test of the flexible carbon fiber FCF material that comprised the bomb bay doors. This action took only milliseconds and, when complete, a green light would illuminate on the WASP control panel located on the right side of the airplane’s cockpit, about level with the mission commander’s right knee.

Almost instantly after Bullitt flipped the FCF toggle switch, the associated light turned green, validating that the thin wire filaments crosshatched throughout the FCF carried the trickle of electricity forcing the advanced structural fabric to contort and conform to the predefined WASP contour. The second action was to suck out the existing atmosphere within the bomb bay, allowing the energized flexible bomb bay doors to be drawn inwards, permitting the underside of the B-2 to develop a wasp waist configuration. This process took the most time and was pivotal to flight and mission ops. The system required that the bomb bay on frame 23 be a unique structure isolated from the rest of the airframe… unlike earlier B-2’s that have airframe carry-through structures as part of their makeup.

Even though there were pressure changes taking place on Frame 23, neither Bullitt nor Greaser perceived it. All they could do was watch their instruments and confirm bomb-bay vacuum via a green light adjacent the WASP pressurization toggle switch, and by a discreet scale on their multi-function displays. The third and final action was counterintuitive and required the throttle settings be reduced by 11 percent. The backward process of reducing power to increase speed was needed to prevent an over-speed condition and to take advantage of the aerodynamics of the WASP. As the airspeed gradually increased by 14 percent and fuel flows reduced as expected, both pilots were satisfied that the fuel scheduling was functioning properly and that the WASP system was fully online.

Interesting how the slipstream changes and ambient noise quiets down, Bullitt said to Greaser.

Yes, it is… and I really do have to pee, said the smooth landing pilot.

Sure. Korea is still a long way off; take your time, Bullitt replied, accompanied by his usual playful smile.

CHAPTER TWO

"Not many men can do what they do, in fact, only they can do what they do" . . . General William Paulson, US Army retired

August 2016

A DARK DESERT

Other than the ever-present sound of the high-speed slipstream just outside the skin of the giant four-engine cargo jet, the ride up to altitude was quiet. The five men sat apart from one another, stretching their arms out to full extension while making adjustments to internal tensioning straps in order to calibrate the wings of their high-tech fabric wing suits. A few feet away, an Air Force loadmaster sat watching the men preparing to do the impossible, all while outwardly looking as if they were getting ready to go out for a casual stroll. Had he not come to know them personally, he’d have wondered about their sanity.

As the giant jet gradually neared the desired altitude, each of the five men stood and repeated the calibration process with their lower extremities. When each man had finalized the adjustments to their high-dollar, fabric-winged flight suits, they gave the thumbs up to the jumpmaster and to each other. Unlike conventional jumps—where each jumper gave a final safety check to the other person’s parachute system—on this jump there’d not be equipment checks, because there wasn’t any equipment to check.

All five winged flyers walked nearer the rear of the C-17, waiting for the rear doors to open. Bathed in the eerie red glow of lights designed to not destroy night vision, each fabric winged flyer looked like a Grecian sculpture draped in long flowing robes leading down to barely visible feet. It was a surreal scene never before witnessed by anyone… anywhere.

The loadmaster walked to the front of the group. Ramp coming open, gents said the sergeant.

Suddenly, the angled back of the huge jet broke into two moving pieces—one moving toward the ceiling and the other lowering toward the level of the cargo deck, reaching out into the darkness. What was revealed was a huge intentional hole in the rear of the airplane, and to those looking out, all that could be seen was the pitch black of night. The atmosphere within the cargo bay changed abruptly, going from dimly lit and relatively warm to that of only a single glowing red light located on the port side of the plane’s interior and a new shiver-inducing chill to the air. It was mid August above an American dessert in the southwest, but at 10,000 feet it was a cold 45 degrees.

The loadmaster had seen many jumps, and since his assignment to this program, he’d seen jumps that amazed him. But this was beyond all the rest. He pressed his hand against his headset, smashing it close to his ear so as to not miss a word coming from the cockpit. Nodding his head as if confirming to the voice in the earphones that he’d heard the information, he held his right hand high in front of the five flyers. Thirty seconds, he said loudly.

Upon hearing the thirty-second warning, each flyer reached up to the right side of their helmet and pressed a flush-mounted button that turned on their SAHMD (Situational Awareness Helmet-Mounted Display) flight helmet. The full coverage helmet had a see-through visor that offered heading, altitude, and horizontal speed information to each flyer as an integral part of his or her view to the outside world. Ultimately, the visor would tell them the precise instant to execute their all-important landing flare prior to touchdown. Each helmet had long-duration four-point video with a small flush-mounted lens positioned on each cardinal point of the helmet—front, back, and both sides. Documenting each event was critical for debriefing and improved performance, and also on actual missions, where the video could prove invaluable for a multitude of reasons that politicians and attorneys better understood.

Situated around the circumference of the helmets’ visors were multicolored low output light-emitting diodes that would begin to offer a pale yellow glow when a flyer descended through 2,000 feet above ground level. When descending through 1,000 feet above ground level, the color would change to a pale red glow and remain such until it was time to flare for landing. When landing was imminent, the light would pulse, accompanied by a loud authoritative female voice commanding into their earpiece to Flare-Flare-Flare. Without the helmet, wing-suit night jumps would not be possible.

The sixth flyer looked out of place. He was half of a foot shorter than the others, and clearly not there to accomplish what his taller compatriots were, as he was wearing a parachute. Adding to his different appearance were two cameras attached to the top and side of his SAHMD. Both were high-resolution short wave infrared night vision video cameras, and because of the significance of the event, one was back up for the other. In addition to turning on his helmet, he also turned on the cameras. There would be no shortage of video of the historic jump.

Pointing to the top of his head, the free-flying videographer watched as the loadmaster walked over and, after carefully examining the cameras, verified that both were turned on.

The five winged flyers and lone free-fall videographer slowly inched their way toward the edge of the ramp. Looking out into a dark abyss, they could see only a very faint glow of lights on the distant disappearing horizon. But beneath them, they knew that a dark desert floor was all that awaited—that, and a small emergency medical team.

As if each soldier had their own internal atomic clock ticking with the precision of decaying cesium, the six men stood abreast of one another, ready to launch into the pitch black of night… which, while standing on the very edge of the cargo ramp, was just barely out of arm’s reach. The loadmaster stood alongside of them, his job now down to nothing more than to point to the outside… at which time the six would leave the aircraft in one fluid motion and without a second thought.

Without instruction, all six flyers began a barely perceptible rhythmical bounce—it was their cadence in preparation for launch. One bounce, a second bounce, a third.

The loadmaster extended his right arm out beyond the edge of the ramp to where all six soldiers could see his hand. It was part of the much-rehearsed procedure, but by now it wasn’t needed. On the fourth bounce, had there been a knowing audience, the tension would have been palpable. But as the fifth bounce produced a coordinated but unceremonious exit of six very skilled and equally courageous jumpers, the loadmaster was the only one left standing on the cargo deck, his arm extended, his fingers pointing toward the black of night.

He was amazed at how quickly he lost sight of them, their black wing suits blending with the pitch-dark backdrop almost instantly. He said a quick and earnest silent prayer and then walked over to and pressed the Close button on the rear ramp control panel. As the giant cargo ramp and upper door began to move back into a closed condition, the loadmaster keyed his mike, All six away, sir; ramp closed.

As planned, the C-17 immediately banked left and began a steep descent back to Nellis AFB just outside of Las Vegas. He knew the pilot had planned on practicing a tactical night assault descent and landing and he wondered who would land first—the jet or the fabric-winged soldiers.

CHAPTER THREE

I did everything by the seat of my pants, that’s why I got hurt so much . . . Evel Knievel

RECRUITMENT

June 2016

Thomas Laurent stood in front of the company bulletin board reading an innocent—looking notice.

"Candidates must be at least 6'5 in height and weigh no more than 140 pounds. If qualified, see Staff Sergeant Henning.

Laurent wasn’t surprised by the cryptic nature of the notice—he made his living in a culture that lived, slept, and breathed compartmentalization—but he was intrigued by the specifics. Because of his slight body weight, he’d always been self-conscious of his 6'6" height. He’d never weighed a pound over 140 regardless of what, how much, or how frequently he ate. He’d won many eating contests and never put on an ounce as a result of any of his many culinary indulgences.

Terms like stork, string bean, walking stick, and many less acceptable in a proper social setting were part of his daily past. The kids had been predictably cruel during his childhood, but he’d also found that during certain moments, his fellow soldiers were not much different than his childhood friends. Of course, he was always picked first for a pick-up basketball or volley ball game, but other than those occasional benefits, his height-to-weight ratio had always been an issue for him. So a search for his specific body type piqued his interest in the extreme.

Sticking his head into the commanding officer’s office, he knocked on the door and asked the clerk, Is the CO available?

Raising from his chair, the clerical specialist walked down the hall and disappeared into an office. A moment later, he returned to his desk. Take a seat; he’ll see you in a minute.

Laurent took a seat under a picture of three men exiting off the rear ramp of a C-130 Hercules, a giant four-engine turbo prop cargo plane. He knew them all and smiled to himself, thinking about the three jumpers in the picture—wild men, for sure. Having nothing better to do, he looked around the room, which was ringed with pictures of men doing deeds of daring do. Jumps being made from all manner of military aircraft; day jumps, night jumps, water jumps, combat jumps, demonstration jumps, and jumps made during competitions. He was in a couple of the pictures himself.

Just as he’d finished making his scan of the wall hangings, the voice of his CO came to bear. What can I do for you, Sergeant Laurent? said the commander, who was actually one year younger than Laurent.

Reaching out to the young major, Laurent smiled and shook hands with a man who knew how to shake hands properly. A good solid grip, followed by just the right amount of up and down movement. It was a handshake that made you feel that the man attached to it was a straight shooter.

Sir, I’d like to ask about the notice for people like me that’s posted on the bulletin board.

The Major stood looking at Laurent and allowed a small smile to cross his face.

Let’s go sit in my office.

As they walked back to the commanding officer’s office, Laurent saw more pictures on the walls… instances of men doing what most men will spend a lifetime avoiding—men and women jumping out of airplanes.

They both entered the room and Laurent took a respectful place in front of the CO’s desk, standing at ease. The major walked around the desk and took his seat. Damn, Laurent, do I have to look way up there while we talk? Have a seat, he said lightheartedly.

Getting right to it, Laurent asked, Sir, what can you tell me about the search for tall skinny guys?

Well, not much. I can tell you that you’d be a perfect fit, and not just because of your physical altitude. Equally important is attitude.

Laurent’s mind began to race. In his unit, everyone was capable of just about anything, and attitude was always a crucial element in the process. So why mention the obvious?

I get the sense that I’ll have to approach Staff Sergeant Henning if I want to know specifics, Laurent said, almost apologetically.

That’s about right, Sergeant. I’ll tell you that this is a quiet one. Beyond that, you’ll have to talk to Henning, confirmed his CO.

Again, Laurent’s mind began thinking at an accelerated rate. A quiet one? Everything we do is quiet. It must be something really unique if it’s quieter than quiet.

As his commanding officer rose from his desk, signaling the end of their interaction, Laurent stood and extended his hand, thanking the younger man for the information. It was a moment of courteous protocol, because he’d received very little to feel the need to offer appreciation. Laurent turned to walk out, but the CO stopped him just as he was halfway through the door. I’ll call Henning and tell him you’re coming by to talk, the major said with a grin.

Nodding his head to acknowledge the statement, Laurent smiled and immediately got that Christmas-morning sensation. He felt in his gut that he was about to meet Santa Claus.

Henning in no way resembled Saint Nick. He was six feet in height, weighed 160 pounds, and was often referred to—mainly by himself—as one hundred and sixty pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal. Few would argue that he wasn’t a chiseled example of manliness.

Laurent knew Henning from intra-group skydiving competitions. Henning was hard to beat at any discipline, but he was legendarily accurate under canopy. He’d won the Nationals five years running and had established the Extreme Landing Training Course as the first man skilled and courageous enough to guide his parachute down through obstacles that seemed impossible to avoid. The few that had graduated the course were regarded as possessing crazy mad skills—emphasis on the crazy!

Laurent had not felt such anticipation and nervousness since he first applied to Special Forces Training Group. He’d wanted to become a Special Forces soldier since his early teens, and when he took the SF battery exam to determine if he had the right stuff, he was nervous as hell. He felt those same butterflies as he knocked on the office door of the man of steel.

The office that contained the brains behind the most daring military insertion technique since the first airborne trooper made the first static line military jump was nondescript. It was, in fact, exceedingly boring. The brown brick walls were bare. The desk was cold military olive drab. The floors were vinyl tile that had seen better days. It was, in a word, spartan.

Clearing his voice, Laurent announced his presence. Staff Sergeant Henning, I’m here about the call for tall skinny folk, Laurent said good-naturedly.

Henning was on the floor doing sit-ups. No cushioning, just down on the vinyl floor, forcing his body to fold itself repeatedly up and down, up and down… and had Laurent not presented himself for consideration, Henning would have been doing sit-ups for longer than most would guess possible.

Jumping up as if it were effortless, Henning reached out to shake hands. Yeah, the CO called about you.

I’d like to know what it’s about.

Henning took a minute to return to his desk. He reached down to pick up papers scattered about on his desk top and gently bounced them on end, bringing them all into alignment. Sit, he said, motioning to one of two steel chairs situated in front of his desk.

Laurent sat and waited for