Libya 1986

Italian Falcons (formerly "The Commute")

“One Minute!” The cry echoed down the red lit interior of the aircraft accompanied by a series of upraised index fingers along the stick of paratroopers. Alex echoed the cry and the signal as he struggled to keep his footing against the pull of gravity, his parachute harness and equipment seeming to pull at the very bones of his body. The Hercules was climbing now, leaving the protection of the earth, clawing for jump altitude. The air rushing in the open doors grew seemed louder and colder, tinged with what he imagined to be the faint smell of burning oil, and other burning things.

“Thirty Seconds!” His gorge rose in his throat as the aircraft leveled off, seemingly ballooning in the sky. Swallowing it back, he watched sweat roll down the green and black painted neck of the trooper in front of him, smelling the acidic stench of vomit in the aircraft as he held his left hand up to echo the signal. His own body was shaking violently as his emotions warred between utter panic and unbridled excitement. Throughout the overwater flight and the brief, but rough, nap of the earth these emotions had warred. He was a professional soldier, well trained and equipped, and no stranger to combat- his experience on a small Caribbean island had seen to that- he was an Airborne Paratrooper, Un paracaidista. Yet, he carried the icy ball of fear in his stomach with him as surely as the black steel weapon hung from his side.

“Standby!” The lead jumper was silhouetted briefly on the door as the light outside flared with what Alex prayed was not the flare of burning Hercules. The Jumpmaster, bathed in the light, appeared as an unearthly being, his camouflaged face rendering him as a vaguely human shaped blob with glowing eyes. The Loadmaster reflected the true horror of the scene outside, his white face washed with orange, his mouth open in an unheard scream. Alex pushed closer to the packtray of the jumper in front of him, feeling a similar pressure from behind as the paratroopers mentally sought the illusory safety of the door and the air outside. The warm sensation of urine flowed down his leg and he tasted metal in his mouth.

“Go!” bellowed the Jumpmaster. In the green glow of the light, the lead jumper shot out the door as the rest of the stick shuffled forward, the conditioning of a hundred exercises overriding the primal fear of the waiting black maw beyond the greenlit door. As Alex shuffled forward, the black was lit by red flashes, strobing in the steady green light at the door. He unthinkingly shot his arm forward, handing the static line to the Jumpmaster, now a green and black painted monster under his ballistic helmet and half turned towards the door.

“Madre Dios” Alex croaked, as he confronted the maw of the night, lit only by fires on the ground below and red ropes of tracers. The coastal town below him was a far cry from the pleasant hills of Veneto where his Battalion had been on yet another alert cycle when the call came to deploy. A crisis begun as a freedom of navigation dispute had escalated following the loss of a US Navy warship to fast missile boats and a successful Scud missile strike on a Coast Guard station. Alex’s Battalion was alerted from their base in Italy to seize a former USAF base while a Marine force would seize an adjacent port. They would drop at night, paving the way for a follow on Brigade enroute from the United States. For Alex, it was a point of pride that his Battalion had been chosen to seize the airfield and not a battalion of Rangers; maybe the news reports he saw of them having readiness difficulties at their bases were true- maricos! His chin tucked firmly in his chest, hands clenching his reserve parachute; he stepped forcefully into the night.

“One Thousand!” Stepping he felt windblast and saw the familiar shape of the Hercules fly over him, seemingly so close he could touch its riveted skin. A sudden flash from the ground caused the green and gray aircraft to assume light and dark brown shades.

“Two Thousand!” He heard a deep bass roar from below as the flash dampened. As he fell he sensed elastics snapping on the back of his pack tray.

“Three Thousand!” The rustle of the deployment back flying past his ears and the slap of the risers on his coal scuttle shaped helmet told him his main parachute had begun to deploy. A barking sound from below as what had to be a medium antiaircraft gun fired into the air.

“Four Thousand!” A pop more felt than heard, and a sudden uplifting as his main parachute slowed his fall. Alex looked up to check his canopy in the flickering light from the burning ground, seeing no major holes.

Looking around him Alex could see fellow paratroopers hanging in their parachutes, and just make out the oncoming shapes of the next wave of Hercules. A pall of smoke rose from a star shaped mass of fires east of the airfield, wafting lazily towards him on the light wind. Looking down, he saw the coastline, headlights on the coast road, then buildings, some burning, some sitting smoking in the firelight. The broken and burning hulks of aircraft lay on the ramp, including large transports reminding him of a Starlifter. Motion drew his eye as the heavy drop howitzers, vehicles, and dozers landed just north of the runway with scattered muzzle flashes and green tracers of small arms beyond them. Immediately below him he saw the runway, rushing up much faster than in training. Instinctively Alex pulled on his risers, slipping and increasing his rate of descent, as the quiet was rent yet again by the bang-bang-bang and red rope tracers of light antiaircraft guns and the screams of paratroopers hit by small arms fire.

Releasing the risers, he reached down with both hands to free his rucksack, as the last few hundred feet to the dirt by the edge of the runway beckoned. The acrid smell of burning metal, rubber, and oil stung his nostrils. As the rucksack fell to the end of its tether, he grasped and pulled down on his risers, focusing on the fire lit horizon and taking a last fix on his assembly point. The screaming of the wounded paratrooper closest to him had settled to a low moan and an occasional quiet “Please” or “Mama”. His feet and knees together, he heard the thud of his rucksack hitting the dirt just before he impacted the ground in a rolling cacophony of noise punctuated by an involuntary “ow-Ai-Dios -ugh” before coming to rest on his back.

Alex instinctively released his left riser as soon as he came to a stop. Fighting the urge to sit up, he looked about. The godlike perspective he’d had during descent was gone- his world was reduced to a small circle of dirt and the flickering firelight beyond. Freeing himself from his harness, he rolled to the right, extracting his weapon from the case at his side. He heard the thuds, grunts, and curses as other paratroopers landed around him. He could no longer hear the wounded man whom he was sure had landed close to him. The cracks and buzzes of small arms fire seemed to rend the night as he rose to one knee behind a berm. “Time to go to work,” Alex muttered. His commute was over and the working day had begun.

Lightning


“Gunner, HEAT, building- follow the tracers!” The cramped turret whined before coming to a stop.

“Up!” The loader threw himself against the wall of the turret, unable to hear the plinking of small arms fire against the thin steel turret.

“Identified.” The breech of the gun raised ever so slightly as the gunner made final adjustments.

“Fire!” The commander pulled his head slightly away from the extension sight anticipating the inevitable jolt.

“On the way!” The gunner squeezed both triggers on his cadillacs.

To the outside observer, the Sheridan emitted a tongue of flame, seeming to rear backwards before being enveloped in a cloud of dust. A red tracer connected the ball of dust with the cloud of grey and brown smoke boiling from the low stucco building.

“Target!” Both commander and gunner chorused.

As the dust cleared a few figures were seen moving in the gloom.

“Gunner, COAX troops, fire and adjust- get ‘em all.” The track commander, Sergeant Falk, had seen too many dead paratroopers this morning to give the enemy a break.

“On the way!” The coaxial machine gun began to stutter in short bursts, adding to the acrid smell of cordite, fear, tobacco, and unwashed bodies inside the turret as Sergeant Gibson traced Z shaped patterns of machine gun fire through the backs of the fleeing men until he was satisfied there was no threat. “Target, out of action.”

“Hey Vega, pass me that green flag,” Falk said to the loader. Taking the flag and sticking it out of the turret, waved it so it could be clearly seen in the gloomy morning twilight. Shortly, the intercom clicked with an incoming call from the field phone hung behind the track.

“This is Baker 1-6 actual.” The infantry platoon leader panted. “Thanks, great shooting! We’re setting a support by fire and are going to clear that building using the corner you hit as a breach. I need you to move back where you can see down the street and to isolate any east-west movement. Don’t fire right of the street, anything to the left is open. Call me FM when set- I’ll initiate the SBF. One flare to shift the SBF and begin the assault, two flares when we’ve cleared the building. I’ll call you forward then.”

“Roger,” Falk acknowledged, before echoing the plan to crew. He remembered to be detailed with the driver, Specialist Zimmer, and the Private Vega, the loader since they were not part of the normal crew.

Following their early morning jump Falk had raced to the heavy drop area to de-rig his track, A23, only to find that it had overturned on landing after one of its seven parachutes had failed. Leaving the now useless track for a recovery crew, he found the first upright track, A22, along with its driver, Zimmer. As the two paratroopers had begun de-rigging Gibson had run up with Vega, normally the driver of A24, in tow. Realizing he had a complete crew, Falk had taken charge, informing the platoon leader he had a complete crew before moving off to support B Company as they assaulted to seize a key traffic circle and expand the airhead for the rest of the Brigade.

Falk knew they were having success, with the Libyans seeming unable to stop the slow but methodical advance of the Sheridan supported paratroopers. His vehicle had followed the infantry until they could not advance, then been called forward to use its main gun and machineguns to dislodge the resistance. While successful, the process had been costly- during their forward passage through the Italy based first lift assault battalion, they had seen the burning remains of a Humvee gunship, identifiable only by its distinctive turtleback, and little knots of dead paratroopers where they had been caught in the open by the airfield guards. His platoon was not without loss as well- A24 had been pulled off the line to replace a crewmember killed and another wounded by an RPG hit. Still, they had managed to push the enemy far enough that the drop zones and runways were free of direct fire.

The jolt of the track stopping in its overwatch position behind a low wall jolted Falk out of his reverie. Zimmer had a great reputation in the platoon as a driver, second only to Barnes, A21’s driver. He’d found a position which protected the in aluminum hull- and himself- from any fire coming down the street.

After a quick traverse to ensure the gun was clear, Gibson signaled his approval with a terse, “Gunner clear.”

“Vega, load HEAT then grab your weapon, unbutton, and watch the rooftops. I’m going to let Baker 1-6 know we’re set.” Keying his CVC intercom as he rose up in the cupola, he waited for the familiar whirr-whine of the radio before speaking, “Baker 1-6 this is Assassin 2-4, set, over.”

“Roger, Assassin,” the infantry answered, “Standby…” Immediately, the rapid popping of a rifle on burst sounded from the infantry, joined in very short order by the chug-chug of machineguns, the chunk-crump of grenade launchers and the bang-whoosh of anti-tank rockets.

Vega was up in the loader’s hatch, his rifle at the ready, scanning the rooftops. Falk grasped the spade grips of the .50 caliber, traversing it slowly as he scanned the street and windows. His gaze wandered over the low stucco building, its walls seeming to shiver and shake with the impacts of red machinegun tracers, 40mm grenades, and rockets. Dust and chunks of concrete flew from the building into the street, and Falk witnessed an entire section of wall and tile roof give way under the weight of fire.

Gibson’s cry of “Troops!” and the sudden halt of his scanning pattern alerted Falk to a group of Libyan soldiers trying to escape from the hail of fire aimed their way. Without waiting for a fire command, Gibson shouted, “On the Way!” and squeezed the triggers on his cadillacs, sending a HEAT round flying towards the group. Before it landed, he was reaching for the armament panel switch to select the coaxial machinegun.

“Gunner Coax Troops, Fire and Adjust, Caliber 50!” Falk screamed, leaning into the cupola to bring the machinegun on target quicker. Vega, surprised by the sudden contact, was bringing his rifle to his shoulder as he began to let off rapid bursts of fire in the general direction of the enemy troops. Just as Falk saw the muzzle of the .50 caliber sweep across the enemy group, he heard the stuttering sound of the coaxial machine gun as it began to raise dust around the stunned and prostrate forms. As Gibson traversed across the group, several staggering forms pirouetted in a bizarre dance before crumpling to the ground.

Sensing that the enemy was no longer an immediate, Falk keyed his CVC push to talk, “Baker 1-6, Assassin 2-4, over.”

“Go for Baker, Assassin.”

“Be advised we’re engaging dismounts trying to come off your objective, over.”

“Roger, Assassin. Baker 1-6 says keep it up. Assaulting now need you at, weapons tight, acknowledge.”

“Assassin acknowledges weapons tight.” With that, Falk watched a single green flare rise up from the infantry position, to his right, followed by a sharp increase in the volume of fire from the infantry.

“Alright, Baker’s assaulting. Make sure you identify your targets, we’ll have friendlies on the objective. Vega, load HEAT, then back up; if they’re on the rooftops to the left, shoot ‘em; if not, ask me first unless they shoot at you. Gibson, HEAT only if I tell you or you see a vehicle, otherwise COAX only and make sure they’re enemy. Zimmer, be ready to move up once they infantry set the farside.” With those quick orders to his crew, Falk turned his attention back to his sector, scanning it from behind the .50 caliber.

A series of crumps followed by rapid small arms fire announced the infantry’s entry into the building. The Libyans inside were trapped; those who remained where they were died to grenades, bullets, and sometimes bayonets as the vengeful paratroopers cleared the building. Those who ran, knowing they couldn’t run to the out the front where A22 sat, tried the back door, only to run into the guns of the SBF. Of the over a dozen Libyans in the building, none were alive and unwounded by the time Baker 1-6 sent up the two flares indicating the building was secure.

“Alright Zimmer, Baker wants us to move up. Get us up behind that wall on the other side of the house- I want to be hull down to behind that wall. Vega, once we get there I want you to check our ammo and top off the COAX can until then keep on those rooftops. Gibson, keep up your scan- its weapons tight, but be ready for dismounts in case Baker missed anybody. Ok, Driver move out.”

With that, A22 lurched back, Falk leaning out of his cupola helping to guide Zimmer back. Once clear of the wall, Zimmer shifted the transmission, and the track lurched forwards. Falk swayed in the cupola, grasping the spade grips of the .50 caliber for support. In front of them, the Libyans they had engaged earlier lay in the street. As the track rumbled closer, one began to feebly try to crawl away, dragging his bloodied legs behind him. Falk began to swivel the .50 caliber until he felt the track twist ever so slightly and begin to pick up speed as Zimmer steered the left track directly over the Libyan. Crushed into a pulp under the Sheridan, his screams were unheard by the crew above the sound of the engine and the CVC earphones. The only trace of the Libyan on A22 was a red stain around the front roadwheels and a crumpled lump of bloody rags in their wake.

Stunned by what he just witnessed, Falk shook himself violently as if to shake the sight and image from his mind. In doing so, he caught sight of movement in the brightening skies overhead. Overhead, the next wave of Starlifters was arriving, bringing with them another platoon of Falk’s company supporting yet another Battalion. As cargo and personnel parachutes blossomed in the sky, Falk turned his attention to A22 and Baker Company’s next objective.

This is really well written. Close combat scenes are hard to do, and you've done it well. Keep it up!

Questions: Is the Libyan Air Force (such as it is) showing it's face at this point? Are US air forces striking other targets in Libya besides those directly related to the ground troops? And might Libya opt to use terrorists overseas as a retaliatory measure?

Interesting about the East Germans over Chad. Were they they captured? That could get interesting. Any Libyan Floggers that come up to meet the Americans could be piloted by Warsaw Pact crews.

One more detail I just thought of: the M1 won't get it's combat debut here in Libya; the Sheridan's that Amir wrote with the airborne might be joined by the Marine Corps armour attached to the MAU, but the Marines uses the M-60 still Desert Storm.

Gun Devils


The echoed shout “Fire Mission, Fire Mission!” rang out down the line of guns accompanied by a sudden flurry of motion all along the gun line as ammunition handlers and gunners took their places.

“First Platoon!” echoed by the rest of the platoon, “First Platoon.” Section chiefs turned to face the Platoon Leader, standing arm raised.

“Shell HE!” “Shell HE.” Ammunition handlers ripped brass cased rounds from ammunition racks.

“Fuze Delay!” “Fuse Delay.” Fuse handlers rapidly set sharp nosed fuses onto the rounds before hustling them to the waiting breech of the howitzers.

“Deflection 4224; Quadrant 247!” “Deflection 3024; Quadrant 247.”Gunners leaned over sights while pointers spun dials to raise and rotate gun tubes.

“6 Rounds!” “6 Rounds.” The ammunition handles and fuse setters raced to prepare the next rounds and hustle them to the guns.

“Fire!” At the platoon leader’s command and the fall of his upraised arms, belching flame and a rolling pall of acrid smoke, the line of three guns bucked as one, flinging their projectiles towards an unseen enemy. The ballet would repeat six more times before calls of “Rounds Complete!” echoed from the section chiefs. A few thousand meters away, a storm of 18 105mm rounds landed like steel rain on a surprised platoon of Libyan infantry occupying a concrete building. A pall of dust meeting the predawn light marked their demise.

The platoon leader, First Lieutenant Howell, turned to his gunnery sergeant. “What’s next, Smoke?”

“Nothing yet. Front line trace shows Anzio Company is getting close to that police barracks, so I’d recommend we lay the guns on CA2124, the target for the barracks, sir” The gunnery sergeant, or “Smoke”, Sergeant Groves replied.

“OK, I’ll work it with battery. What’s our round count?” Howell asked, turning to the radio.

Sergeant Groves made a quick motion to another soldier in the fire direction center, who produced a slip of paper. Groves looked at it briefly, before passing it to the Platoon Leader. Howell scanned the paper before shooting Groves his best “is this for real?” look. Their battery had been firing missions since they assembled after jumping in the third wave of the airborne assault two hours ago. The 60 HE rounds they had jumped in with each gun had gone in the first half hour supporting the infantry’s final push to reach the beach on the north side of the airfield. The next 60 had been brought forward by the support platoon and had been fired almost as quickly as they were received breaking an overly telegraphed Libyan counterattack and supporting the subsequent infantry and armor assault against the remnants. They were now half way through their third push of 60 rounds; without resupply, they would be hard pressed to support if the enemy really was dug in at those police barracks.

His priorities formed in his head, Howell keyed the radio, “Cobra X-ray this is Cobra 1-6, over.”

“1-6 this is Cobra 6, over,” CPT Highfield, the battery commander answered.

“Cobra 6, request computations to lay on CA2124 to support Anzio. Break.” He unkeyed the radio and counted to five, “be advised I am round count 30 by HE, request Cobra Bullet push additional to my element, over.” Howell took a deep breath; waiting for the inevitable explosion- the battery commander had well earned his nickname of “High-threat Highfield” for his mercurial temper and tendency to be hard on lieutenants.

“1-6 this is 6. Approved to lay on CA 2124. Break.” A moment pause, then “Say again your round count, over.” In his mind Howell could see the look of fury he knew was on Highfield’s face. He remembered how Highfield had been excited before the long flight over, eager to “get his mustard stain” and overcome a seeming inferiority complex for having reported to the 82nd too late for the Grenada Invasion.

Steeling himself, Howell keyed the radio again, “I say again round count 30 by HE, over.” Here it comes, Howell thought.

Instead, the radio buzzed with, “Acknowledge round count 30. Cobra 5 will cross level you with the 2 element. Bullet is loading at the heavy drop now, over.”

Stunned, Howell knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, “1-6 acknowledge all, we’ll be ready for Cobra 5, over.”

“Cobra 6, out.”

“XO’s coming with Ammo, Smoke.”

As the Smoke left to pull a detail of ammo handlers, Howell copied the firing data from the Battery Fire Direction Center. Once the Battalion was set up, they would have a fully automated system in place, but for now they were dependent on voice and paper.

No sooner had Howell relayed the guns than the radio speaker in his jeep hissed with the tinny voice of the fire direction center relaying the newest fire mission. Just as predicted, the police barracks received 3 rounds of HE from each both platoons in the battery and a white phosphorous round thrown in for good measure. Howell was just about to check on the Ammo detail when black smoke rose from the direction of the police barracks, eclipsing the white of the WP. The whine of jets engines and the two stubby gray shapes turning hard over the airhead before racing back to see told him that woes of those in the barracks had just been added too by a strike from US Navy jets.

As usual, Smoke Groves had everything well in hand. Pointing with quick jabs of his ebony finger, he directed the handlers to distribute the precious ammunition to the platoon. Turning at Howell’s approach, Grove’s spoke in the gravelly growl that Howell had come to find almost comforting in his three months in the Platoon. “Sir, XO gave us 9 rounds HE, so that puts us back up to 30 per gun after this last mission. Plus the two WP each gun has left. Everything is stored on the trucks, so we can march order if we need to. He also said the support platoon will probably bring us enough to top us off to basic load, but no more. They’re pulling boxes off pallets by hand because the forklifts are with the airland.” Groves’ normally stoic face betrayed a flash of worry at the last.

“Thanks Smoke. I guess we’ll be OK barring another counter attack we’ll be OK. If we have to we can take the killer junior rounds and reset the fuses. Still, it’ll be nice when the airland gets in.” Howell grimaced.

“Sir, I think that’s going to be a while. XO said the Air Force tore this place up pretty bad in April and again before we landed. I guess the runways are in pretty bad shape. For now, its heavy drops only. I hope they put some ‘ports on those pallets.” Groves gave a half smile and shrug, before reaching into hid uniform pocket and extracting a crumpled packet of Newport’s. Looking and counting, he whispered “eight” to himself before extracting, lighting and inhaling with a sigh.

Before Howell could ask Groves if the situation and contemplated asking Groves if his experience in Grenada or Vietnam had compared, the radio hissed again with another fire mission. This time the battery was joined by the other three batteries in the airhead as they fired HE and WP rounds under guidance from the FDC. The mission went on long enough for Howell to observe some of the effects of the fire, as airborne artillery, joined by what had to be naval gunfire, lashed out at the edges of the airhead, creating a corridor of smoke and explosions. Howells platoon expended a third of their remaining HE ammunition and all their WP rounds in the effort before receiving the command to “CEASE FIRE” from the FDC. As Howell echoed the command, he saw his gunners pointing at the sky through the clouds of smoke that lay around the battery.

Overhead, a wave of Starlifters, paint reflecting bronze green in the rising sun, disgorged streams of personnel parachutes. The green parachutes were dotted here and there with orange parachutes showing equipment bundles. A stream of giant Galaxy airlifters paralleled the Starlifters disgorging fewer, but larger cargo parachutes. Red parachutes interspersed this stream showed where pallets of needed ammunition were being delivered. With the artillery silent, the sound of the airdrop was broken only by the roar of Navy jets and the crumping and crackle of flak suppression ordnance.

Despite this effort, the airdrop was not uncontested- a white smoke trail drew a straight line from the ground to one of the Starlifters. The stricken aircraft, its troop doors open on final approach to the drop zone, seemed to shudder, before erupting in a ball of flame, its wings and nose seeming to fly on their own for a brief moment before spiraling to the ground under a greasy pall of black smoke. A Galaxy was also struck. Howell, already stunned by the Starlifter crash, knew only that there was a sudden flash on the giant aircraft’s wing before the aircraft began to trail smoke and slowly descend towards the ocean.

No sooner had the last aircraft left the drop zone than platoon received the command “FIRE”, as they continued to suppress the enemy to allow the next Battalion to land. As they fired more of their dwindling ammunition Howell hoped fervently that the airland would come before they ran out of ammunition.

How are the Arab countries allied to the United states going to react to Israel helping the United states against a Arab/African nation.

Devil Support


“Ok, SPO*, what do we have?” the Executive Officer asked, still panting from his run off the drop zone to the Forward Support Battalion headquarters assemble area. While not fat, he was larger than normal for a paratrooper, and his past assignments in Germany based armor and mechanized units had not involved quite so much running.  Hs apprehension on making his seventh jump and first combat jump had been offset by the fact that he was jumping in something close to daylight.

“Sir, the battalion’s entire alpha echelon is here, plus the package from SETAF. “ The support operations officer was an up and coming, tall and blond haired man recently transferred from command of the battalion’s headquarters company. Despite the strain of a long transatlantic flight, a combat jump, and a night of combat, he appeared almost relaxed as he stood under the hastily erected tarp sheltering the battalion headquarters.

“Maintenance Company has a consolidated maintenance point set up, so far its cannibalization to make runners- most of the spares are on the airland. Good news is we’re back up to 24 of 26 on howitzers- they canned A battery’s damaged gun to bring up two that got broken in the DRF 1 drop. Bad news is they only have one of two wreckers- one burned in. The one we have did recover that overturned Sheridan from the DRF 1 drop, and its working on pulling a good engine out of another one that lost its turret to a missile hit to swap out for a blown pack.  If that works we’ll be up to 13 of 17 Sheridans.”

“Supply and Transport’s whole alpha echelon is focused on the heavy drop area. They’re either busting pallets or loading trucks. On that note, we’ve hotwired some of the Libyan trucks the Air Force missed- we’re using them to push ammo and water forward. We should have got plenty of ammo from your drop, but without the forklifts in the airland, we’re literally having to shove it on the trucks by hand. “

“Charlie Med is our issue. The FAST** team hasn’t been seen yet. They were supposed to have landed with the DRF 2, but none of them ever made the assembly point. So, the Brigade and Battalion Doc’s are doing their best there. We’ve consolidated most of the casualties from the battalions, and moved them into one of the capture buildings- I think it used to be a gym.” A quavering hitch briefly crept into the SPOs heretofore metronomic delivery, “Charlie Med commander and the Doc both say they’ve got at last count 26 urgent surgical cases that they think they’re going to lose. Without the FAST, they’re pumping them full of fluids, but that all they can do. We’ve already had 42 die of wounds.”

The Executive Officer winced and nodded, “Do we or Brigade have comms with the Navy? Maybe we can arrange a MEDEVAC to one of their ships or have them to bring a surgeon here- they’ve got to have something like a FAST. God we need that runway open!”

The SPO jotted quickly in his notebook. “I’ll find out, sir,” the metronomic mask slipping back into place, “I’ll have Lieutenant Morton run that down,” he said, casting a meaningful glance towards the Lieutenant.

“On the runway, the last update from the CCT said the LARP was hotwiring a truck to bring in fill for one of the craters on the runway. I guess the Air Force put a 2000 pounder smack in the middle of the runway cross. If we can’t get it open soon, they’re recommending we ask for the next logistics push to come in by LAPES.”

“That’ll suck,” the executive officer grunted, “the last time we tried LAPES we ended up burning a Sheridan and a C-130 in. I’m not even sure they can rig for LAPES in Europe.”

“Sir, the only other piece is Headquarters. We’ve got good comms with Brigade and the Combat Controllers- we may to push an element down with them to help run the heavy drop and airland. Once the airland starts I’d recommend we relocated into one of the hardstand buildings- it’ll get pretty loud here. We’ve got a quartering party out now looking for a place in our allocated footprint. All the companies have marshaling parties ready to receive the bravo echelon off the airland. I don’t know if you saw them on your way in, but we’ve got crew serves manned- we took a little fire here earlier this morning.”

The SPO paused again, moving closer and lowering his voice while his face became downcast, “And, the mortuary collection point is set up- right now we’re using a shed near Charlie Med to keep them out of sight. In case you’re wondering, that’s where The Colonel is. When we were assembling he was running towards some infantry guys while they were taking fire and they shot him by mistake. I guess it was dark and he didn’t respond right when they challenged him. CSM is at the heavy drop, he saw the whole thing- says it was just really bad luck. I’ve been running things since then.”

“So Sir… I guess that means you’re the commander now. What’s next, Major?”



*SPO- Support Operations Officer. Staff Officer in charge of all logistics operations in a Logistic Battalion. Occupies a role similar to the operations officer in an Infantry or Armor Battalion. Typically a Senior Captain or Junior Major. SPOs are typically chosen from the top officers in their grade.

*FAST- Forward Area Surgical Team. A specially trained team of surgeons and surgical nurses deployed to provide augmented advanced trauma and lifesaving support in assault or remote operations. In airborne units, the FAST is fully airborne qualified and expected to deploy as part of the parachute assault echelon.