trunks and cars and climbed up under vehicles and had them open their hoods. It annoyed
him that he couldn't figure out a way to search the big tanks on the back of the water
trucks. Intel had said the Skinnies were smuggling heavy weapons across the border from
Ethiopia. They were told the Ethiopians checked out all trucks. Stebbins doubted they were
checking the Water trucks. You could put a lot of RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) in the
back of one of those things.
He finagled his way onto the helicopters for the profile flights, fastening the chin
strap on his helmet tight as they zoomed low and fast over the city, cheering like kids on
a carnival ride. He figured that was about as close to action as he was going to get, and
compared to manning the coffeemaker in the training room back at Benning, it wasn't bad.
Then, this morning, just as the runner from the JOC showed up to shout, “Get it on!” one
of the squad leaders strode up with news.
“Stebbins, Specialist Sizemore has an infected elbow. He just came back from the doctor's
office. You're taking his place.”
He would be the assistant for 60-gunner Private. First Class Brian Heard. Stebbins ran
through the hangar, trading in his bulky tortoiseshell vest for a Kevlar one. He'd stuffed
extra ammo in his pouches, and gathered up some frag grenades. Watching the more
experienced guys, he discarded his canteen--they would only be out an hour or so--and
stuffed its pouch with still more M-16 magazines. He picked up a belt with three hundred
rounds of M-60 ammo, and debated trying to stuff more in his butt pack, where he kept the
goggles and the gloves he needed for sliding down the rope. He decided against that. He'd
need someplace to put them when he took them off. He was trying to think through
everything. Trying to stay calm. But damn! It was exciting.
“Talk to me, Steb. What you got? What's on your mind?” prodded Staff Sergeant Ken Boorn,
whose cot was alongside his. Boorn could see his friend was in a state. He told him to
relax. Keep it simple. His job was to secure whatever sector they asked him to point his
rifle at, and give ammo to the 60 gunners when they needed it. They probably wouldn't even
need it.
“Okay, fine,” said Stebbins.
Just before heading out to the Black Hawk, Stebbins was by the front door of the hangar
sucking on a last cigarette, trying to get his nerves under control. This was finally it,
what he'd been aiming for all this time. The guys all knew this was a particularly bad
part of town, too. This was likely to be their nastiest mission yet, and it was his first!
He had the same feeling in his gut that was there before his first jump at airborne
school. I'm gonna live through this, he told himself. I'm not gonna die. One of the D-boys
told him, “Look, for the first ten minutes or so you're gonna be scared shitless. After
that you're going to get really mad that they have the balls to shoot at you.” Stebbins
had heard the stories about the other missions, how the Somalis were hit-and-run fighters.
There was no way they'd get in a real shitfight. Up on the profile flights, they'd never
seen any big weapons. This was going to be an urban small-arms deal I'm surrounded by guys
who know what they're doing.
I'm gonna be okay.
Now, hitting the street outside the target building and hearing the pop of distant
gunfire, be knew he was in it for real. After untangling himself from the 60 gunner, he
ran to the wall. He was assigned a corner pointing south, guarding an alley that appeared
empty. It was just a narrow dirt path, barely wide enough for a car, that sloped down on
both sides from mud-stained stone walls to a footpath at the center. There were the usual
piles of random debris and rusted metal parts strewn along the way, in between
outcroppings of cactus. He heard occasional snapping sounds in the air around
him that he couldn't figure out a way to search the big tanks on the back of the water
trucks. Intel had said the Skinnies were smuggling heavy weapons across the border from
Ethiopia. They were told the Ethiopians checked out all trucks. Stebbins doubted they were
checking the Water trucks. You could put a lot of RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) in the
back of one of those things.
He finagled his way onto the helicopters for the profile flights, fastening the chin
strap on his helmet tight as they zoomed low and fast over the city, cheering like kids on
a carnival ride. He figured that was about as close to action as he was going to get, and
compared to manning the coffeemaker in the training room back at Benning, it wasn't bad.
Then, this morning, just as the runner from the JOC showed up to shout, “Get it on!” one
of the squad leaders strode up with news.
“Stebbins, Specialist Sizemore has an infected elbow. He just came back from the doctor's
office. You're taking his place.”
He would be the assistant for 60-gunner Private. First Class Brian Heard. Stebbins ran
through the hangar, trading in his bulky tortoiseshell vest for a Kevlar one. He'd stuffed
extra ammo in his pouches, and gathered up some frag grenades. Watching the more
experienced guys, he discarded his canteen--they would only be out an hour or so--and
stuffed its pouch with still more M-16 magazines. He picked up a belt with three hundred
rounds of M-60 ammo, and debated trying to stuff more in his butt pack, where he kept the
goggles and the gloves he needed for sliding down the rope. He decided against that. He'd
need someplace to put them when he took them off. He was trying to think through
everything. Trying to stay calm. But damn! It was exciting.
“Talk to me, Steb. What you got? What's on your mind?” prodded Staff Sergeant Ken Boorn,
whose cot was alongside his. Boorn could see his friend was in a state. He told him to
relax. Keep it simple. His job was to secure whatever sector they asked him to point his
rifle at, and give ammo to the 60 gunners when they needed it. They probably wouldn't even
need it.
“Okay, fine,” said Stebbins.
Just before heading out to the Black Hawk, Stebbins was by the front door of the hangar
sucking on a last cigarette, trying to get his nerves under control. This was finally it,
what he'd been aiming for all this time. The guys all knew this was a particularly bad
part of town, too. This was likely to be their nastiest mission yet, and it was his first!
He had the same feeling in his gut that was there before his first jump at airborne
school. I'm gonna live through this, he told himself. I'm not gonna die. One of the D-boys
told him, “Look, for the first ten minutes or so you're gonna be scared shitless. After
that you're going to get really mad that they have the balls to shoot at you.” Stebbins
had heard the stories about the other missions, how the Somalis were hit-and-run fighters.
There was no way they'd get in a real shitfight. Up on the profile flights, they'd never
seen any big weapons. This was going to be an urban small-arms deal I'm surrounded by guys
who know what they're doing.
I'm gonna be okay.
Now, hitting the street outside the target building and hearing the pop of distant
gunfire, be knew he was in it for real. After untangling himself from the 60 gunner, he
ran to the wall. He was assigned a corner pointing south, guarding an alley that appeared
empty. It was just a narrow dirt path, barely wide enough for a car, that sloped down on
both sides from mud-stained stone walls to a footpath at the center. There were the usual
piles of random debris and rusted metal parts strewn along the way, in between
outcroppings of cactus. He heard occasional snapping sounds in the air around
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