Operation Geriatric Geese

Colonel (Doctor) JP Franklin leaned back against his rappel rope out over 125 feet of black space. Pausing a moment to watch Martha take a slight backward hop to disappear into the blackness he quickly followed. Clearing the ramp’s edge he dropped ten feet before braking to a near stop. Protected from the rain and winds by the body of the helicopter and its rotor down draft he savored the relative calm. Everywhere he looked he saw only blackness. Even though the Pave Low was only a few feet above him he could not see or hear it so intense were the winds and punishing rain. Descending another twenty feet he began to twist and sway as the helicopters protective bulk diminished and winds took hold. Lack of visual references including the ground brought on disorientation and vertigo.

Continuing to slide down the rope he suddenly collided with the ground. The heavy pack pulled him off balance causing him to fall hard into several inches of water. Quickly disengaging from the rappel rope he found himself anchored to the ground by the weight of the pack. As he struggled to rid himself from the pack Martha emerged from the blackness.

“Hey Marine, need help?”

JP extended his hand.

“I thought you were air assault qualified,” Martha said, reaching for the hand.

“Stuff it, Martha. Help me up before I drown down here.”

Martha grabbed his hand. Again JP was surprised at the ease with which she pulled him to his feet.

“Thanks,” he said, adjusting his pack. Retrieving his gloves and harness he asked, “You have yours?”

“I hung them on my rope.”

“I’m a little behind here.” Reaching for the rappel ropes still hanging within reach JP made a simple loop, then attached gloves and harness with his carabiner. “You can tell the Pave Low we’re free and thanks for the precision egress. RTB.

Martha spoke briefly into a hand held radio given her by the Pave Low crew chief. She and JP watched fascinated as the rope lifted into the blackness.

“Okay, Marine, Lead on,” Martha said.

JP fished a compass from a pocket. Using its inherent lighting he oriented himself, then set off northeast. He cautioned Martha, “Don’t lose sight of me. You may not be able to find me again.”

“How do you know where you’re going?”

“If the Pave Low pilot put us over where I marked on the satellite photo, the hospital compound is northeast about four hundred yards. The compass indicates a bearing of six zero. Good for government work.”

“Wait one. Let me check my GPS,” Martha said

JP moved close to Martha. Cupping his hands he formed a tent over the GPS screen. “These contraptions take all the challenge out of bush-wacking. Besides, accuracy is compromised by overhead jungle canopy or overcast.”

“That may have been true of earlier models,” Martha said. “This one is state of the art. It doesn’t suffer from those shortcomings.’

“So what does it tell us about our heading?”

“It confirms we are going in the right direction. See the little arrow? You are still up, so move out.”

JP led from a muddy clearing to an area thick with tall wet grasses and bushes, some ten feet tall. Visibility was so limited JP walked into a tree bruising his forehead. The oaths he released would have made his Parris Island drill instructor proud. Several steps behind him Martha heard his profanity. Responding to her chastisement he defended himself, “The damn tree attacked me.”

“Be careful.”

“I can do without that kind of advice.” Stopping again he told Martha, “I have no idea where we are. Better check your GPS.”

In a moment Martha answered reassuringly. “You’re doing good. The hospital is two hundred yards from here on a course of five zero degrees.”

“Keep checking that GPS thing. A couple degrees off course can build up into a big gap. We could end up in Laos.”

After thirty minutes the reached an area less dense with foliage but well populated by trees thirty to fifty feet tall. Increasing pace they continued for some hundred yards when JP suddenly stopped.

Martha, only a few feet behind, collided with him. “Don’t do that again without warning me.”

“Shut up,” JP hissed.

“What? What did you say?” Martha responded indignantly.

She started to say more when JP abruptly turned. Grabbing her arm in a lock he rotated her to face away from him. Clamping his free hand over her mouth he whispered, “I smell cigarette smoke.” Removing his hand he said, “Smell it?”

“Martha sniffed. “Probably a coalition lookout, and that’s not tobacco smoke it’s hashish.”

Listening intently they heard only the impact of driven rain on Jungle foliage. The odor of hashish lingered.

“How can he keep anything lit in this weather?” Martha wondered out loud.

“He’s probably beneath a shelter.”

“He doesn’t seem alarmed. The heavy rain must have masked our approach.”

“If that’s really hashish he’s smoking he’s in dreamland,” JP said. “Our problem is, if we try to take him prisoner we may be forced to kill him. Dead or alive he’ll fail to make reports. His bosses will conclude Van Vang is here.”

“I Like your logic, colonel. Let’s back-track, swing around his flank and leave him fat, dumb and happy to continue making negative reports.”

“Good thinking, Howze. By the way, how is it you are familiar with the odor of hashish?”

“I worked several operations in Southeast Asia with DEA Agents.”

Impressed, JP said, “Howze, you are a piece of work. I’m beginning to respect you.”

“Yes, but will you respect me in the morning?”