three years earlier. He'd gone there to cruise the local civilian women who hung out in the place on Saturday nights. These ladies were also cruising, looking to hook up with handsome officers. Normally Brannigan concentrated on them without giving servicewomen a second glance, but the beautiful lady wearing a summer khaki uniform sporting aviator wings caught his eye. He tried to ignore her initially, but finally had to make his move. The attraction turned out to be mutual, and that particular evening was the beginning of a year of steady dating.
When they married, the union seemed destined for long happiness. But after a little more than a year, a tension evolved between them, and they went through several crises, as did all families where both husband and wife served in the armed forces. Long separations and conflict of career interests were the main culprits behind the unpleasantness. But the strife between the Brannigans had additional friction because of his being a SEAL.
This was the root of their biggest problem: he couldn't stand her pilot friends. Several times yearly he was required to attend functions of her squadron's officers, and Brannigan found it difficult to act civil, much less pleasant, in their presence. He fully realized that they did an important and useful job for the United States Navy, and they were damn good at it. The aircraft they flew jammed enemy weapons systems and communications and were the most powerful electronic warfare airplanes in a CVBG. Lisa and her friends also had to meet high standards in the training that qualified them as aviators, but it was nothing like the muscle-cramping, sleepless, bone-chilling, sometimes frightening and exhausting ordeal of BUD/S. As far as Wild Bill Brannigan was concerned, this was a case of them and us.
Part of the contempt he directed toward the aviators stemmed from the fact that even when they were out with the fleet in harm's way, they weren't in combat situations very long. Within a couple of hours they would be back aboard a carrier or in an officers' club at some air station. They had hot chow served on china; never had to wear dirty clothing; were always well rested unless they went out partying; and they slept between sheets with roofs over their heads to keep away foul weather.
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan simply could not relate to them.
He had nothing in common with their attitudes or life experiences. As a schoolboy, Brannigan had spent at least one or two sessions in detention every week. He was notorious for turning in his homework late or not at all, and he detested the classroom environment. From the way those Navy aviators spoke of their school days, they must have all been on the honor roll and the pets of the faculty. Only a strong desire to attend Annapolis and have a career in the Navy had straightened Brannigan out as a student in high school, but he never lost his dislike of book learning.
Another thing that irritated him about the pilots was the workaday problems they complained about. This suffering seemed to center around having to fly a few extra patrols now and then or putting up with some sassy aviation machinist's mate who wouldn't take any shit off them. At times when he mentioned something going on in the SEALs, they looked at Brannigan like he was crazy as hell for getting himself into such a gut-pounding branch of the Navy. Their glances of dismay seemed to say that only a Neanderthal would spend six impossibly grueling months qualifying to live a demanding life fraught with danger, hardships and incredible discomfort.
Candy asses!
Brannigan and Lisa had gone to a formal function at the NAS officers' club a week before. Maybe he did drink a little too much, and maybe he wasn't real sure what that one aviator had said that pissed him off, but it must have been insulting or he wouldn't have gotten so goddamn mad and thrown the guy across the hors d'oeuvre table. Shrimp, cheeses, puffy delicacies and other delectable goodies went flying against the wall amid gasps and cries of shock and admonishment.
Needless to say, there was one hell of a showdown when he and Lisa got home later that night. And things hadn't improved one iota since then. Maybe it was a good thing this mission popped up after all; it gave the couple some time apart that would provide a bit of a cooling off period.
Brannigan yawned, closed his eyes and drifted off into a restless nap amid the thunder of the four T56 turboprop engines.
.
STATION BRAVO BAHRAIN
7 AUGUST
THE platoon had been involved in several tasks at the base, which took a couple of hours, before they were able to go to the rigger shed to chute up. When they first arrived on station, a young Army Special Forces lieutenant from SOCOM had met them and taken them over to the armory to draw ammunition. After the 9-and 5.56-millimeter rounds and HE, illumination and smoke grenades for the M-203s were issued, the platoon was taken to an empty tent to make the final preparations on their gear.
Station Bravo was a new and unfinished garrison, and the closest thing to permanent buildings were portable models that looked like oversized mobile or manufactured homes. These resembled the domiciles that blew away in hurricanes and tornados, but all the command, staff and logistics matters were conducted in the structures.
The billets were no more than fifteen-by-twenty tents, with canvas sides that could be rolled up to expose netting to keep out insects. During the summer, the grumpy inhabitants of these crude quarters baked from the suffocating heat, getting a little relief from floor fans placed at strategic locations. But at those times when cooling breezes wafted in from the Persian Gulf, it wasn't really all that bad.
After loading magazines and stowing grenades, the Brigands made final preparations of their gear. The two officers and chiefs had to attend a session with the flight crew for final coordination of the route and azimuth over the DZ. While this was going on, the rest of the platoon settled down in the tent to grab some z's and store up energy for the ordeal ahead.
.
RIGGER SHED
1200 HOURS LOCAL
THE jumpmaster briefing given by Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins was alarmingly short. He knew nothing of the velocity or direction of winds across the DZ. At least the ASL altitude of that important plot of ground was known, from data supplied by fighter pilots who had flown support missions in the vicinity. That meant the wrist altimeters could be set accurately for the jump. Dawkins also was unaware of what the exact direction of flight would be, except that it might be sort of southerly to northerly or sort of northerly to southerly. One way or another it had to run either up or down along the edge of the terrain feature the SEALs had named West Ridge. The flight crew would determine which direction, and react accordingly.
At least the senior chief could be precise about his jump-master inspection. He formed the men up in two rows of seven, and he and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson made careful examinations of the men's equipment, parachutes and everything that was strapped and buckled onto their bodies.
The first items of attention were the weapons. The slings had to be routed over the left shoulder, under the main lift webbing and to the outside of the chest strap. The SEALs also had to inspect the weapons' tie-downs, making sure they were between the belly band extension and the jumper. From there the two chiefs' attention was directed to the way the harnesses fit, the seating of rip cords, no twists in risers and a few dozen other things that, if ignored, had the very real potential of changing a routine jump into a situation where injuries or even death were more probable than possible. When the two chiefs finished with the platoon, they checked out each other with just as much thoroughness.
'Okay, guys,' Dawkins said when Gunnarson had finished with him. 'We are now deeply imbedded into the domain of Mr. Murphy and his law.'
'That's right,' Gunnarson said in his gloomy style. 'And that law says that if anything can go wrong, it prob'ly will, just as sure as shit stinks.'
'But don't worry,' Dawkins added. 'If you clobber into the DZ in the morning, you still get paid for all day.'
Brannigan stepped forward. 'And with those cheerful statements ringing in your ears, I'll lead you out to the aircraft.'
.
ON THE RUNWAY
1500 H0URS LOCAL
THE engines were wide open, trying hard to pull the aircraft through the pressure of the brakes that held the flying machine in check. When the correct amount of RPM was reached, the pilot released the mechanical, electrical and hydraulic restraints, and the massive C-130 leaped like an eager racehorse charging out of the starting gate.
