“I get it,” “yes sir,” and “rock on,” all in one. Not just following an order but being proud to follow it. Nothing like hoo-ah , the word or the spirit, existed in civilian life. Wells couldn’t help but smile. He felt privileged to be with these guys. After all these years of war in the desert and the mountains, the United States Army was still the world’s finest fighting force. Though the Marines might disagree.
Now, the men in charge, they were another story. They—their kids, at least—ought to do some time over here, and not on the guided two-day tours the Army gave them so they could tell the talk shows how they’d been to the front lines. Let them spend months dodging mortars and roadside bombs, feel for themselves how a base could turn into a prison after a while.
Enough, Wells thought. No more thinking. He’d volunteered to come back here. He had a job to do. “Hoo-ah!” he said to himself. He chugged half a bottle of water in one gulp, soothing his raspy throat, then poured the rest over his head, smiling in satisfaction as the lukewarm liquid ran down his face. He pulled a towel from the pack under his feet and wiped himself dry.
“Love those whores’ showers,” Lieutenant Gower said with a smirk. He was a sturdily built black man, twenty-six or so. Wells liked him, mainly because Gower, despite his obvious curiosity, hadn’t asked Wells anything about who he was. For twenty hours they’d talked about sports, played chess—Gower had beaten him handily—and otherwise ignored the question of how Wells had found his way onto this particular plane.
“Got that right,” Wells said. He decided to pull Gower’s chain. “Reminds me of ‘Nam.”
Gower’s eyes widened. “You served in Vietnam? For real?”
“Tet, Khe Sanh, all of it. I got a wall full of ears at home. Now, that was a war.”
“Serious?” Gower looked at Wells. “You’re messing with me.”
“Yeah, I am. Do I really look that old? I’d be sixty.”
“We all look sixty right about now. Tell you what, though. You got some juice. Not just anyone can get on a fully loaded C-17 on two hours’ notice.”
“I thought this was a Hooters charter to Bangkok.”
“Understood, sir,” Gower said. “Figured I’d give it a shot.”
THE CABIN’S SPEAKERS CLICKED ON. “From the cockpit. We know you love it up here, but it’s my duty to inform you we’ll be on the ground in Bagram in about thirty minutes.”
The inevitable “ Hoo-ah! ” passed through the cabin.
“Those of you who have visited fabulous Afghanistan before know that we like you to saddle up at this point in your trip. This is not optional.”
Throughout the cabin, soldiers pulled on their body armor and helmets. Wells reached down for his bulletproof vest, standard police-issue protective gear, far thinner than the flak jackets everyone else wore.
“That all you got?” Gower said, looking at the vest. “It’ll hardly stop a nine.” A pistol-fired, low-velocity 9-millimeter round. The plates in the Army’s flak jackets were designed to handle high-velocity 7.62-millimeter AK-47 rounds, which would shred Wells’s vest.
“I like to travel light.” Wells pulled on his helmet.
The intercom clicked on again: “For your safety, this will also be a red-light landing. We know you Army boys get friendly in the dark, but please try to keep your hands to yourself.”
The overhead lights flicked off, replaced by the eerie glow of red lights mounted in the cabin walls. “We will be coming in tactically, so strap in tight and enjoy the ride.”
Around the cabin, men buckled themselves into the harnesses attached to the walls of the C-17. “Anyway, we hope you’ve enjoyed your trip,” the pilot said. “Thanks for flying this Globemaster III. We know you have a choice of airlines, and we appreciate—Oh, no you don’t. Forget it.”
“Funny man,” Gower said.
“Wishes he was flying an F-16.” Wells tightened his harness
Now, the men in charge, they were another story. They—their kids, at least—ought to do some time over here, and not on the guided two-day tours the Army gave them so they could tell the talk shows how they’d been to the front lines. Let them spend months dodging mortars and roadside bombs, feel for themselves how a base could turn into a prison after a while.
Enough, Wells thought. No more thinking. He’d volunteered to come back here. He had a job to do. “Hoo-ah!” he said to himself. He chugged half a bottle of water in one gulp, soothing his raspy throat, then poured the rest over his head, smiling in satisfaction as the lukewarm liquid ran down his face. He pulled a towel from the pack under his feet and wiped himself dry.
“Love those whores’ showers,” Lieutenant Gower said with a smirk. He was a sturdily built black man, twenty-six or so. Wells liked him, mainly because Gower, despite his obvious curiosity, hadn’t asked Wells anything about who he was. For twenty hours they’d talked about sports, played chess—Gower had beaten him handily—and otherwise ignored the question of how Wells had found his way onto this particular plane.
“Got that right,” Wells said. He decided to pull Gower’s chain. “Reminds me of ‘Nam.”
Gower’s eyes widened. “You served in Vietnam? For real?”
“Tet, Khe Sanh, all of it. I got a wall full of ears at home. Now, that was a war.”
“Serious?” Gower looked at Wells. “You’re messing with me.”
“Yeah, I am. Do I really look that old? I’d be sixty.”
“We all look sixty right about now. Tell you what, though. You got some juice. Not just anyone can get on a fully loaded C-17 on two hours’ notice.”
“I thought this was a Hooters charter to Bangkok.”
“Understood, sir,” Gower said. “Figured I’d give it a shot.”
THE CABIN’S SPEAKERS CLICKED ON. “From the cockpit. We know you love it up here, but it’s my duty to inform you we’ll be on the ground in Bagram in about thirty minutes.”
The inevitable “ Hoo-ah! ” passed through the cabin.
“Those of you who have visited fabulous Afghanistan before know that we like you to saddle up at this point in your trip. This is not optional.”
Throughout the cabin, soldiers pulled on their body armor and helmets. Wells reached down for his bulletproof vest, standard police-issue protective gear, far thinner than the flak jackets everyone else wore.
“That all you got?” Gower said, looking at the vest. “It’ll hardly stop a nine.” A pistol-fired, low-velocity 9-millimeter round. The plates in the Army’s flak jackets were designed to handle high-velocity 7.62-millimeter AK-47 rounds, which would shred Wells’s vest.
“I like to travel light.” Wells pulled on his helmet.
The intercom clicked on again: “For your safety, this will also be a red-light landing. We know you Army boys get friendly in the dark, but please try to keep your hands to yourself.”
The overhead lights flicked off, replaced by the eerie glow of red lights mounted in the cabin walls. “We will be coming in tactically, so strap in tight and enjoy the ride.”
Around the cabin, men buckled themselves into the harnesses attached to the walls of the C-17. “Anyway, we hope you’ve enjoyed your trip,” the pilot said. “Thanks for flying this Globemaster III. We know you have a choice of airlines, and we appreciate—Oh, no you don’t. Forget it.”
“Funny man,” Gower said.
“Wishes he was flying an F-16.” Wells tightened his harness