FIVE MINUTES OUT.” THE PILOT’S scratchy voice came into Kyle Swanson’s ears through the internal radio net as the two CH-53E helicopters lurched through the night sky. The interior of the birds was deafening because each had three powerful GE engines and little insulation. Everyone wore special flight helmets fitted with thick earmuffs that contained radio receivers. The team was all on a single frequency, but the assault leader and Swanson could also communicate with the aircrew.
It was uncomfortable and cold in the narrow compartment where he sat scrunched among a dozen Marines, for although the huge helicopters were almost a hundred feet long, the cabin was thirty feet long, less than eight feet wide, and not even seven feet high. Looking around, the scene of the young warriors with painted faces and weighted with gear reminded Swanson of the old pictures of American paratroopers jammed aboard ancient C-47s going into the D-Day invasion.
The helicopters had flown an impeccable mission, and had gone “feet dry” over Israel right on schedule. From that point, they were wrapped in a protective embrace by Israeli jet fighters that just happened to be conducting a night exercise along the same path. Any hostile radar would have a hard time picking the two helicopters out of the clutter on their computer screens.
The assault force members had gone silent, each man alone with his thoughts, when they flew out of Israel, moved into unguarded airspace over Jordan, and finally reached the edge of Syria. They spent the long passing minutes checking their equipment or leaning back against the vibrating bulkhead, eyes closed and lost in thought. The first CH-53E would land about two kilometers from the village and the mortar platoon Marines would pour from it to form a protective cordon for the landing zone. The second one, which Swanson was aboard, would come in simultaneously and the raiders would hustle off, conduct the rescue, and bring the general back to the safe LZ and they would all be away.
The choppers hurtled along at their cruising speed of 175 miles per hour, the pilots handling the huge machines as surely as if they were driving their own cars, with hardly a wiggle in the flight path. The change in the pitch of the rotors, the sinking feeling in Swanson’s stomach, and the pressure in his ears confirmed the beginning of the approach run, and he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Four minutes,” came the warning call from the cockpit.
There were two open hatches near the front of the cabin, and a crew member was at one, perched behind a.50-caliber machine gun. At the three-minute alert, Swanson unplugged his commo line from the net and made his way forward to the second hatch, trying not to step on anyone as he sidled past the small motorcycle lashed in the aisle. The dirt bike was to be used by a scout if the mission commander wanted extended reconnaissance.
A typhoon of wind rushed through the open hatches, blowing hard when he reached the opening and looked out. The darkness had a deep vastness, and a little slice of moon provided the only glimmer of light. He adjusted his night vision goggles and watched the green world pass below him. Swanson was to be the last man to leave the helicopter, remaining out of the way while the other Marines charged out. Positioned in the open hatch, he could provide extra firepower until it was time for him to join them. He plugged the commo line in at the new position in time to hear the pilot say, “One minute.”
Swanson put his hands against the sides of the hatch and shifted his fifty-pound pack and other equipment to be able to sit down. His stubby M-4 assault rifle hung across his chest, and Excalibur crossed his back, safe in its padded bag. With thirty seconds to go, the major ordered, “Stand up! Lock and load!” and the other Marines unbuckled, exchanged their flight helmets for real ones, and formed rows in the narrow aisles.
Kyle removed the night vision goggles, pulled the M-4 into firing position, and put his eye to the scope, which could penetrate the darkness. He could engage with precision shots at up to eight hundred meters and switch to rapid fire if necessary, but he saw nothing of interest. He kept the sight moving, searching for threats as the two aircraft jockeyed for the final descent, sharply reducing their altitude and bleeding off speed.
The rear ramp began to lower and the wind through the chopper increased to gale-force proportions. The tail dipped as the helicopter flared to almost a complete stop in the air, braking its forward momentum less than twenty feet off the ground and barely moving forward. With the more stable platform, Swanson stood and continued parsing the LZ with his rifle and night scope. Nothing out there.
A loud scream erupted over the crew net. The two helicopters were hanging almost motionless in the air when a freak wall of wind that had swept unimpeded across a hundred miles of desert tore through the LZ and threw the birds together with train-wreck violence. The churning seventy-nine-foot-long rotors chopped like long swords, and both aircraft were instantly out of control, tangling with each other.
The standing Marines went flying and crashing about the spinning cabin like dolls, breaking necks and spines and limbs as the helicopter blades dug through the thin metal sides of the helicopters and went after the men like sharp knives. When his helicopter lurched onto its left side, Swanson was propelled straight out of the open hatch by the centrifugal force, like a piece of trash thrown from a car on a highway. The force of the ejection tore the helmet commo line free to prevent him from being lynched. The M-4 assault rifle snapped from its strap and flew away. His last sensation as his body was pulled into the void was of the cold wind caressing his face. He tumbled toward the desert floor.