him and
assumed it was the sound of gunfire a few blocks away, even though the noise was close.
Maybe the air was playing tricks on him. He also heard a peculiar noise, a tchew... tchew
. . . tchew, and it dawned on him that this was the sound of rounds whistling down the
street. That snapping noise? That was bullets passing close enough for him to hear the
little sonic boomlet as they zipped past.
Black Hawk Down
Up the street from Stebbins, Captain Steele spotted a likely source for most of the
rounds coming through their position. There was a sniper one block west on top of the
Olympic Hotel. It was the tallest structure around.
Steele bellowed, “Smith!”
Corporal Jamie Smith came running. He was the best marksman in the chalk. Steele pointed
out the shooter and slapped Smith's back encouragingly. Both men took aim. Their target
was a long shot away, more than 150 yards. They couldn't see if they hit him, but after
they fired the Somali on the rooftop was not seen again.
Across the alley, hiding behind the inverted frame of a burned-out vehicle, squatted
Sergeants Mike Goodale and Aaron Williamson. They were resting their weapons on the hulk,
which sloped down from them toward the center of the alley. All the alleys rose from the
center in uneven sandy berms to stone courtyard walls and small stone houses on both
sides. There were small trees behind some of the walls, and just to the north was the boxy
shape of the three-story back side of the target house. The thick rope they had, come down
on now lay stretched across the alley. The earth had that slightly orange color, which
stained the walls and imparted a rusty tint to the air close to the ground. Goodale could
smell and taste the dust mixed with the odor of gunpowder. He heard the shooting on the
other side of the block, but their corner was still relatively quiet.
Goodale had never felt farther from home in his life, and had a quiet moment or two
crouched at that position to wonder how he'd gotten there. Just before leaving for Somalia
he'd gotten engaged to a girl named Kira he'd met in a feckless freshman year at the
University of Iowa. They had both escaped little Pekin, Illinois, for one of the great
party campuses of the Midwest, promptly flunked out, and then determined to straighten up.
For Mike that had meant joining the army; for Kira it was taking a low-level job with an
advertising agency. They saw each other frequently when Mike was at Benning, but since the
Rangers had been away on a training exercise in Texas before getting the summons for
Somalia, they had been apart now for more than two months, since the day they'd decided to
spend their lives together. The day before he'd gotten his first chance to phone home
since leaving Fort Benning, and he'd gotten the answering machine. He would get another
chance to call tonight, and he'd told her on the answering machine to expect it. He knew
she'd be waiting by the phone.
“Kira, I love you so very much it hurts,” he had written her that morning. “I'm reluctant
to call again because I know it will just make me miss you that much more. On the other
hand, I really want to hear your voice.”
A Somali about one hundred yards down the street to their left stuck his head out from
behind a wall and rattled a burst with an AK-47. Dirt popped up around Goodale and
Williamson. Williamson stepped around to the north side of the hulk. Goodale, who was
closest to the shooter, panicked momentarily, thinking the shots were coming from the
south. He leapt up and ran from the wreck, hopping as rounds kicked up around him, trying
to find someplace better to hide. There was no cover. He dove down behind a pipe sticking
up from the road. It was only about seven inches wide and six inches high and be felt
ridiculous cowering behind it but there was no place else. When the shooting stopped,
assumed it was the sound of gunfire a few blocks away, even though the noise was close.
Maybe the air was playing tricks on him. He also heard a peculiar noise, a tchew... tchew
. . . tchew, and it dawned on him that this was the sound of rounds whistling down the
street. That snapping noise? That was bullets passing close enough for him to hear the
little sonic boomlet as they zipped past.
Black Hawk Down
Up the street from Stebbins, Captain Steele spotted a likely source for most of the
rounds coming through their position. There was a sniper one block west on top of the
Olympic Hotel. It was the tallest structure around.
Steele bellowed, “Smith!”
Corporal Jamie Smith came running. He was the best marksman in the chalk. Steele pointed
out the shooter and slapped Smith's back encouragingly. Both men took aim. Their target
was a long shot away, more than 150 yards. They couldn't see if they hit him, but after
they fired the Somali on the rooftop was not seen again.
Across the alley, hiding behind the inverted frame of a burned-out vehicle, squatted
Sergeants Mike Goodale and Aaron Williamson. They were resting their weapons on the hulk,
which sloped down from them toward the center of the alley. All the alleys rose from the
center in uneven sandy berms to stone courtyard walls and small stone houses on both
sides. There were small trees behind some of the walls, and just to the north was the boxy
shape of the three-story back side of the target house. The thick rope they had, come down
on now lay stretched across the alley. The earth had that slightly orange color, which
stained the walls and imparted a rusty tint to the air close to the ground. Goodale could
smell and taste the dust mixed with the odor of gunpowder. He heard the shooting on the
other side of the block, but their corner was still relatively quiet.
Goodale had never felt farther from home in his life, and had a quiet moment or two
crouched at that position to wonder how he'd gotten there. Just before leaving for Somalia
he'd gotten engaged to a girl named Kira he'd met in a feckless freshman year at the
University of Iowa. They had both escaped little Pekin, Illinois, for one of the great
party campuses of the Midwest, promptly flunked out, and then determined to straighten up.
For Mike that had meant joining the army; for Kira it was taking a low-level job with an
advertising agency. They saw each other frequently when Mike was at Benning, but since the
Rangers had been away on a training exercise in Texas before getting the summons for
Somalia, they had been apart now for more than two months, since the day they'd decided to
spend their lives together. The day before he'd gotten his first chance to phone home
since leaving Fort Benning, and he'd gotten the answering machine. He would get another
chance to call tonight, and he'd told her on the answering machine to expect it. He knew
she'd be waiting by the phone.
“Kira, I love you so very much it hurts,” he had written her that morning. “I'm reluctant
to call again because I know it will just make me miss you that much more. On the other
hand, I really want to hear your voice.”
A Somali about one hundred yards down the street to their left stuck his head out from
behind a wall and rattled a burst with an AK-47. Dirt popped up around Goodale and
Williamson. Williamson stepped around to the north side of the hulk. Goodale, who was
closest to the shooter, panicked momentarily, thinking the shots were coming from the
south. He leapt up and ran from the wreck, hopping as rounds kicked up around him, trying
to find someplace better to hide. There was no cover. He dove down behind a pipe sticking
up from the road. It was only about seven inches wide and six inches high and be felt
ridiculous cowering behind it but there was no place else. When the shooting stopped,
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