Airborne: A Guided Tour of an Airborne Task Force

agility, and timing cannot be underestimated for the success of this operational plan. Our forces must drive the pace and scope of the battle.” Hancock paused, took another drink of water. “At this point, Mr. President, I’ll respectfully defer to General Tenneville, who can best give you the particulars of Great Britain’s role in the operation.”

“That’ll be great, I’m all ears,” the President said briskly, smiling at the British one-star. “Please feel free to get started.”

The Secretaries of State and Defense sagged a little in their chairs. The President glanced from one to the other, then looked over at Tenneville and shrugged. “Maybe we’d better have some coffee and doughnuts first,” he said.

Fayetteville, North Carolina, 2300 Hours, October 25th, 2009

A city of 75,000 souls on the banks of the Cape Fear river, Fayetteville is both home to Fort Bragg and a convenient stopover for Florida-bound snowbirds making their seasonal migration along I-95. Over the years, a cluster of motels has sprung up in the downtown area, offering clean, comfortable, and reasonably priced lodging to the heavy flow of travelers and visitors to the XVIII Airborne Corps headquarters. Nothing exceptional, mind you, but the guests who check into these places generally aren’t looking for mirrored ceilings, heart-shaped whirlpool baths, and glitzy nightclub entertainment. What they want is a decent meal, and a firm mattress on which to catch a good, quiet night’s shuteye before getting back on the highway. Unfortunately there was very little sleeping, and a whole lot of restless tossing and turning going on in Fayetteville’s motel rooms tonight. The noise of transport aircraft lifting off at nearby Pope Air Force Base was loud enough to keep even the weariest, bleariest motorists wide awake in bed, never mind that most had shut their windows to muffle the continuous racket. After two weeks of intensive preparation, Royal Banana had gotten underway precisely on schedule, and the first transports carrying U.S./British airborne forces, ordnance, and supplies were wheels up and heading towards their objective.

Aboard a 23rd Airlift Wing C-130J Hercules Transport, Over Belize, 0200 Hours, October 26th, 2009

As a kid growing up in downeast Maine, Pfc. Drew Campbell had lived across the road from a small commercial airfield that had primarily serviced local charters — single — engine propeller planes carrying tourists, hunters, and airfreight shipments to areas along the coast. Watching the flights take off and land had sparked a lifelong fascination with aircraft, and Drew had spent most of his weekly allowance, and later on, after getting his first job with his uncle’s Penobscot Bay fishing operation, an inordinate chunk of his weekly paycheck on aviation books and hobby kits for building scale models of military airplanes. The one thing he had never expected, though, was to be flying into a hostile DZ aboard the noisy cargo hold of a Herky Bird transport, packed in with two Chalks of the 2/505th, his face smeared with camo paint, his lower back aching from a bulky 120-pound/ 55-kilogram load of parachute and combat gear that made him wonder how tortoises could lug around their shells all their lives while always managing to look so goddamned content. Well, c’est la vie, as his fiancee would say. If it hadn’t been for his uncle selling his fleet of boats and retiring to Boca Raton, he’d never have enlisted in the army, never have volunteered for jump training with the 82nd, and never have wasted a moment of his precious time thinking about tortoises and their burdensome lot. Not that there weren’t more important things to contemplate right now. Specifically, the tough job ahead of him, and his chances of staying in one piece until it was over and done.

In the troop seat to his right, First Sergeant Joe Blount seemed less worried about his own prospects for survival than those of the heroes in the X-Men comic he’d just finished reading, having squinted to see the pages in the red-lit semi-darkness of the hold. A veteran of Operation Fort Apache with a unit patch and Bronze Star to prove it, Blount was shouting something to the man on his immediate right about Cyclops’s mutant eye-beams being more than a match for the Sentinels’ photon blasts, whatever the hell that meant. According to some guys in the company, Blount could act so blase about the prospect of dropping into enemy fire because he didn’t appreciate his own vulnerability. However, Campbell had a very different sense of his inner workings. He believed Blount, who had once stood down a tank amid a hail of Sudanese antipersonnel fire, knew what could happen to him as well as anybody, but simply had more guts than most. Which, considering that he belonged to an airborne unit full of brave men, made him as extraordinary as the superheroes he was always jawing about. Never mind that he didn’t even have mutant powers to save his ass in a pinch.

Feeling it dig painfully into his shoulder, Campbell adjusted the strap of his chute harness, shifting it a millimeter to the left… only to have it begin hurting him in its new position two or three seconds later. How did those big turtles stand it, anyway? he thought, knowing that he would soon forget all about his discomfort. Soon, in fact, the Hercules would be nearing the drop zone, and the pilot would throttle back to a speed of 130 knots as he made his approach, and the troopers would get set to exit the plane.

Now Campbell glanced toward the rear of the fuselage, where the jumpmaster was impatiently staring at the lights above the door, as if he could make the green blink on through sheer willpower. But the red warning light continued to glow steadily in the dimness, indicating that their V-shaped formation of Hercules transports had yet to reach the target zone. Studying his own meshed, tension-white knuckles again, Campbell silently wondered what everything was going to be like when they finally got there. No way it’s gonna be dull, he thought tensely. I can damn well count on that.

The rapid taking of BZE International airport by the 505th and its support elements was key to the success of Royal Banana. Located just a few klicks outside Belize City, it would be a clear, easy-to-find rally point for the descending paras, and a vital aerial port for follow-on supplies and reinforcements. Campbell knew it, as did every man in his company. The enemy would know it too. Satellite photos had already confirmed that the airport’s perimeter was surrounded by air defense batteries and it was a sure bet there were also machine-gun teams covering its runways. These would be ready to catch the paratroopers in a lethal crossfire the instant they touched ground. Those first few minutes after landing, as they got out their weapons and jettisoned their chutes, would be a terribly vulnerable period for them. Still, the paras had a considerable numerical advantage in their favor, and, to some extent, the element of surprise as well. It was one thing for the enemy to be prepared for a massive airborne assault, but unless their intelligence was better than anybody suspected, they couldn’t be certain when, or even if, it would actually occur. Furthermore, the paratroopers would be coming down fast, jumping from an altitude of just five hundred feet.

“Get ready!”

The moment he heard the shouted command, Campbell snapped his eyes toward the jumpmaster, who stood to one side of the door giving his hand signal, both arms extended, palms up. Suddenly, Campbell’s stomach felt like a taut, twisted length of rope. It was almost time for the drop.

BZE International Airport, Ladyville, Belize, 0230 Hours, October 26th, 2009

Regardless of which side they fought on that night, it was an awesome scene that all of the soldiers who lived through the battle would never forget: thousands of paratroopers swarming down onto the field from their swift, low-flying delivery aircraft, their inflated chutes filling the darkened sky like shadowy toadstools.

Even as his canopy bloomed overhead, Campbell heard the rattle of hostile ground fire and saw tracers sizzling through the air around him. The enemy had been roused, but there was nothing he could do about that, nothing he could do to defend himself… at least not until he’d made a successful landing. Keeping a tight body position, he clamped down his fear and let his training take over, concentrating on the specific actions that would have to be performed in the next twenty seconds: inspecting and gaining control of the thirty-five-foot canopy, getting oriented in relation to landmarks and other paras, and watching out for obstacles on the ground as he prepared to execute his PLF sequence.

A quick scan of the sky confirmed that he was falling at approximately the same speed as the troopers that had jumped with him. Good. He was right on target, with the lights of Belize City glimmering to the southeast, and the passenger terminals, parking areas, and outbuildings of the airport complex visible in the nearer distance. Also good. Below him the ground was dark, which meant he was coming down on tarmac or concrete. Not so good. He’d been hoping to get lucky and fall onto a soft cushion of grass, but you couldn’t have everything, and he had no problem with settling for two out of three. With less than five seconds to go before impact, Campbell checked his drift and pulled a two-riser slip into the wind, keeping his legs together and the balls of his feet pointed slightly downward. His head erect, eyes on the horizon, he unclipped the rucksack between his legs and felt it drop on its tether, hitting the ground with an audible, impact-absorbing thump. He came down with a jolt that sent streaks of pain through his right knee and