rung.
Rangers knew the surest path to that height was combat experience. So far, Mog had been
mostly a tease. War was always about to happen. About to happen. Even the missions,
exciting as they'd been, had fallen short. The Somalis-whom they called “Skinnies” or
“Sammies”.-had taken a few wild shots at them, enough to get the Rangers' blood up and
unleash a hellish torrent of return fire, but nothing that qualified as a genuine
balls-out firefight.
Which is what they wanted. All of these guys. If there were any hesitant thoughts, they
were buttoned tight. A lot of these men had started as afraid of war as anyone, but the
fear had been drummed out. Especially in Ranger training. About a fourth of those who
volunteered washed out, enough so that those who emerged with their Ranger tab at the end
were riding the headiest wave of accomplishment in their young lives. The weak had been
weeded out. The strong had stepped up. Then came weeks, months, and years of constant
training. The Hoo-ahs couldn't wait to go to war. They were an all-star football team that
had endured bruising, exhausting, dangerous practice sessions twelve hours a day, seven
days a week-for years-without ever getting to play a game.
They yearned for battle. They passed around the dog-eared paperback memoirs of soldiers
from past conflicts, many written by former Rangers, and savored the affectionate,
comradely tone of their stories, feeling bad for the poor suckers who bought it or got
crippled or maimed but identifying with the righteous men who survived the experience
whole. They studied the old photos, which were the same from every war, young men looking
dirty and tired, half dressed in army combat fatigues, dog tags hanging around their
skinny necks, posing with arms draped over one another's shoulders in exotic lands. They
could see themselves in those snapshots, surrounded by their buddies, fighting their war.
It was THE test, the only one that counted.
Sergeant Mike Goodale had tried to explain this to his mother one time, on leave in
Illinois. His mom was a nurse, incredulous at his bravado.
“Why would anybody want to go to war?” she asked.
Goodale told her it would be like, as a nurse, after all her training, never getting the
chance to work in a hospital. It would be like that.
“You want to find out if you can really do the job,” he explained.
Like those guys in books. They'd been tested and proven. It was another generation of
Rangers' turn now. Their turn.
It didn't matter that none of the men in these helicopters knew enough to write a high
school paper about Somalia. They took the army's line without hesitation. Warlords had so
ravaged the nation battling among themselves that their people were starving to death.
When the world sent food, the evil warlords hoarded it and killed those who tried to stop
them. So the civilized world had decided to lower the hammer, invite the baddest boys on
the planet over to clean things up. 'Nuff said. Little the Rangers had seen since arriving
at the end of August had altered that perception. Mogadishu was like the postapocalyptic
world of Mel Gibson's Mad Max movies, a world ruled by roving gangs of armed thugs. They
were here to rout the worst of the warlords and restore sanity and civilization.
Eversmann had always enjoyed being a Ranger. He wasn't sure how he felt about being in
charge, even if it was just temporary. He'd won the distinction by default. His platoon
sergeant had been summoned home by an illness in his family, and then the guy who replaced
him had keeled over with an epileptic seizure. He, too, had been sent home. Eversmann was
the senior man in line. He accepted the task hesitantly. That morning at Mass in the mess
he'd prayed about it.
Airborne now at last, Eversmann swelled with energy and pride as he looked out over the
full armada. It was a
Rangers knew the surest path to that height was combat experience. So far, Mog had been
mostly a tease. War was always about to happen. About to happen. Even the missions,
exciting as they'd been, had fallen short. The Somalis-whom they called “Skinnies” or
“Sammies”.-had taken a few wild shots at them, enough to get the Rangers' blood up and
unleash a hellish torrent of return fire, but nothing that qualified as a genuine
balls-out firefight.
Which is what they wanted. All of these guys. If there were any hesitant thoughts, they
were buttoned tight. A lot of these men had started as afraid of war as anyone, but the
fear had been drummed out. Especially in Ranger training. About a fourth of those who
volunteered washed out, enough so that those who emerged with their Ranger tab at the end
were riding the headiest wave of accomplishment in their young lives. The weak had been
weeded out. The strong had stepped up. Then came weeks, months, and years of constant
training. The Hoo-ahs couldn't wait to go to war. They were an all-star football team that
had endured bruising, exhausting, dangerous practice sessions twelve hours a day, seven
days a week-for years-without ever getting to play a game.
They yearned for battle. They passed around the dog-eared paperback memoirs of soldiers
from past conflicts, many written by former Rangers, and savored the affectionate,
comradely tone of their stories, feeling bad for the poor suckers who bought it or got
crippled or maimed but identifying with the righteous men who survived the experience
whole. They studied the old photos, which were the same from every war, young men looking
dirty and tired, half dressed in army combat fatigues, dog tags hanging around their
skinny necks, posing with arms draped over one another's shoulders in exotic lands. They
could see themselves in those snapshots, surrounded by their buddies, fighting their war.
It was THE test, the only one that counted.
Sergeant Mike Goodale had tried to explain this to his mother one time, on leave in
Illinois. His mom was a nurse, incredulous at his bravado.
“Why would anybody want to go to war?” she asked.
Goodale told her it would be like, as a nurse, after all her training, never getting the
chance to work in a hospital. It would be like that.
“You want to find out if you can really do the job,” he explained.
Like those guys in books. They'd been tested and proven. It was another generation of
Rangers' turn now. Their turn.
It didn't matter that none of the men in these helicopters knew enough to write a high
school paper about Somalia. They took the army's line without hesitation. Warlords had so
ravaged the nation battling among themselves that their people were starving to death.
When the world sent food, the evil warlords hoarded it and killed those who tried to stop
them. So the civilized world had decided to lower the hammer, invite the baddest boys on
the planet over to clean things up. 'Nuff said. Little the Rangers had seen since arriving
at the end of August had altered that perception. Mogadishu was like the postapocalyptic
world of Mel Gibson's Mad Max movies, a world ruled by roving gangs of armed thugs. They
were here to rout the worst of the warlords and restore sanity and civilization.
Eversmann had always enjoyed being a Ranger. He wasn't sure how he felt about being in
charge, even if it was just temporary. He'd won the distinction by default. His platoon
sergeant had been summoned home by an illness in his family, and then the guy who replaced
him had keeled over with an epileptic seizure. He, too, had been sent home. Eversmann was
the senior man in line. He accepted the task hesitantly. That morning at Mass in the mess
he'd prayed about it.
Airborne now at last, Eversmann swelled with energy and pride as he looked out over the
full armada. It was a
Similar Books
Ivory Ghosts
Caitlin O'Connell
Children of Exile
Margaret Peterson Haddix
The Silent Patient
Alex Michaelides
Carpe Jugulum
Terry Pratchett
A Shadow's Light BK 2
J.M.Pierce
The New Road to Serfdom
Daniel Hannan
The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)
Linda Kage
Bite Me
Christopher Moore
Solbidyum Wars Saga 9: At What Price
Dale Musser
Wild Thunder
Cassie Edwards