Disclaimer: Not mine: Colby, Don, Charlie, David, Nikki. Mine: Smitty, Lerg, Jeeter, Rodriguez, Osterman, Smith. I promise that my characters will play nice with the rather impressively written (but regretfully not mine) cast of Numb3rs. Note: I work for peanuts. It's a good idea only to sue rich people.
This is a jargon-heavy pic, so there's a military to civilian glossary at the end. If you see a word that you don't understand and I didn't explain, let me know and I'll fix it in chapter 3.
For the nice reviewers who are worried I'll never finish: I never upload the first chapter of a fic until I'm done writing the last one. This is written, I just like keeping you in suspense!
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A hush fell over the assembled agents. From the look on Smitty's face, this was obviously going to be a story worth hearing. Moreover, Colby's teammates were more than a little interested in learning any information they were able to gather about their somewhat secretive colleague. Once Smitty was certain that he had the agents' attention, the ex-soldier began to tell the tale with all the flare of an old-world performer.
"It was the middle of the winter, January, 2002. Winter is cold as Hell in Afghanistan. Especially in the mountains. And that's where we were. It gets so cold there you're sure your wiener is going to freeze right off. Especially if you're a Southern boy like me.
"I was deployed with the 82nd Airborne Division. Me and the rest of my squad of Ranger-types were headed out to this little village up in the Shahi-Kot area north of a town called Baghlan. Hero here hopped a ride in our 'copter." He broke off, looking at Colby. "You were with some Colonel. A lawyer or something. What was his name?"
"Alero," supplied Colby. "Lieutenant Colonel Alero."
"Yeah. Alero. He died in the crash. I never even talked to him. Anyway, the 'copter was supposed to drop off my squad and then take Hero and Alero wherever the Hell they were going. Only, that's not the way it worked out."
Smitty swung a significant look at Colby, who was busy trying to stare a hole into his living room carpet. He continued, "I don't really remember the crash too good. The gunner, Kelly Rodriguez, she was only like 19 then, Rodriguez screamed 'RPG'--that's Rocket Propelled Grenade for you civilians--and then I don't remember a Damn thing for a while. Hero, you wanna fill in the next bit?" He waited.
Colby sighed resignedly, then continued the story in a monotone, not looking up from his chosen patch of rug. "There were two helicopters. Ours had us and the crew in it, and the other one was just full of guns. The idea was that, if someone fired on us, the 'copter we were in would get out of Dodge, and the other 'copter would pound whoever it was with the guns so we could get safe. Only it didn't work out that way. The RPG hit the other 'copter and blew it out of the sky, and big chunks of it hit our 'copter. Down we went. Headfirst into the side of the mountain." He looked at Smitty, who waved his beer bottle in a 'continue' motion. Colby went on, "When we hit, stuff flew all over the cabin of our 'copter. Something fell on my hands, and it hurt like Hell, but I wasn't really hurt bad. The pilots in front got the worst of it. The whole front section of the Chinook caved in like a hatchback car that got hit by a 16-wheel Truck. Both pilots and both of the front gunners died on impact, and so did Colonel Alero, 'cause he was up front." Colby looked at Smitty, an apology plain on the agent's face. "Smitty wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He really got tossed around. I don't even know what hit you man. When I was able to get up and move, your legs were already..."
The other soldier cut him off. "I know. Nothin' you could have done, man. Anyway, you were hurt. Damn, everybody was hurt." He addressed the other agents again. "Both his hands were broken." Colby crossed his arms, sticking both hands into his armpits as if to hide the damage that was no longer visible anyway. Smitty went on, "After we went down, there was a whole bunch of small arms fire--AKs, M-16s, Hell, probably a musket or two outside on that mountain. Those guys will use any weapon they can get their hands on, and they make some of their own, too. They knew right where we went down, and they were coming to get us. I passed out, and when I woke up, it sounded like we were on the wrong end of a real busy rifle range. So F___ing loud." Colby smiled ruefully and nodded his head at the memory, still not meeting any of his teammates' eyes. Smitty went on, "When I came to, Hero here was putting tourniquets on both my legs. Calm as you please, with two broken hands and lead coming right through the skin of the 'copter over our heads..."
The living room faded around Colby, and in his mind, he was on the floor of a wrecked helicopter on the windy side of a frigid mountain.
People are always saying that when they're in a car crash or when they fell off a ladder or something the whole thing went really slow for them--like the world gets stuck in a slow-motion replay--but that's not how the crash felt to Specialist Granger. The cute rear-gunner yelled "RPG." Granger looked out the rear door in time to see the other 'copter blow apart. There was this huge ROAR and their 'copter fell out of the sky spinning. And WHAM it hit the mountain and CRUNCH WHAM everything inside went flying. It was really LOUD and it happened all at once. Not slow at all. Those were Granger's first thoughts when he was able to get his mind in any kind of order to think at all. His second thought was "Holy S___, my hands hurt." Not poetic, but there you go. Sometimes there's no poetry. He shoved a crate of ammunition off of his right hand and tried to flex the fingers. They wouldn't bend, and a lightning bolt of pain shot from his middle finger all the way up to his elbow. For a while, at least, Granger was going to be a lefty. That was a problem. Granger shot right handed, and he was pretty sure there was going to be a need for him to shoot something in the very near future.
Granger heard a groan and looked around the smoky ruin that, until moments before, had been the rear cabin of a CH47 helicopter. The view did not make him feel better about that whole not-being-able-to-shoot thing.
He had been the last person to board the 'copter, and was therefore sitting all the way in the back of the beast. The rear seat is not usually the best one. There's no air movement back there, and a person in that spot can see past the rear gunner, out the rear door to the ground as it sweeps past in a rather nauseating fashion. It's not uncommon for rear passengers to puke all over the floor of a Chinook. In this case, though, his unenviable location had probably been what had saved Granger from being too seriously injured. The front cabin of the aircraft was a flat, mangled mess. Granger didn't even have to check to know that his CO, Colonel Alero, who'd been so happy to score a seat up there, was now beyond saving. Granger probably could, however, help the small group of Rangers who were slowly waking up around him.
It was at that moment that his mind registered the sound of AK47 fire coming from outside the 'copter. "S___." The skin of a helicopter is thin. Specialist Granger knew it would lend no protection to its occupants against high-powered rifle fire, and their 'bullet-proof' vests only slightly more so. Sure enough, as that thought blossomed in his head, the first bullet sliced through the downhill side of the 'copter. It didn't even slow down as it crossed the 'copter's interior and exited through the roof.
"They've gotta be below us on the mountain." Said the cute rear gunner. Rodriguez, according to her name tape. She was with some National Guard unit, called up for temporary war-time duty from one of the flat states in the middle of the country. She had to know that she was the only member of her helicopter's crew to have survived the crash, but she was cool as ice. The lower right leg of her tan uniform was slowly turning red from blood. She ignored it. "We should get uphill. There are some rocks up there we could get shelter behind. Maybe we can even find a cave." The whole mountain range was covered in rocks and caves. And mines. Better not to think about the mines.
Granger nodded. "You grab whatever supplies you can salvage and find us a spot. I'm gonna see who I can wake up." She nodded, beginning to remove her machine gun from its mount on the back of the 'copter. Granger looked around. The man on his right, a Captain, was unconscious. Blood was streaming from under his ruined Kevlar helmet. He'd have to wait until Granger could find someone who could help carry him. On the floor at their feet was a younger man; a private whose name tag read 'Jeeter.' Private Jeeter was awake, but groaning in pain. Granger tapped his shoulder. "What hurts?"
"My whole F___ing body. What the Hell happened?"
I have no time to sympathize, thought Specialist Granger. Gotta get moving. "'Copter crashed. Can you walk?" Another bullet sliced through the aircraft's side. It embedded itself in a rucksack lying next to Jeeter. The private stared at it for a long second before answering.
"F___ yeah I can walk. Where's my rifle?" He rooted around for a few seconds, grabbed an M16 and a tin box of ammunition, and then found a second rifle and handed it to Granger. "You know how to use this or are you an M9 guy?" The Ranger didn't quite sneer when he asked the question, but Granger heard the unstated insult anyway. In Afghanistan and Iraq, soldiers who work behind desks often carry pistols. The soldiers who go outside the wire—that is, off the semi-protected bases--carry rifles and consider themselves to be the 'real soldiers,' apart from and more important than their 'chair-borne' brethren.
Granger didn't have time for a pissing contest with the man either. He held his hands in front of the Ranger's face. They were swelling up impressively now, and had started to turn a nice shade of purplish-black. "I can't shoot anything right now, Private." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a soldier stirring behind him and passed the M-16 to that man without really looking at him. "I'll help who I can in here. You two cover the area. Rodriguez is trying to find us a place to hole up in. Bad guys are on the hill below us." The Rangers might have seen the sense in that, or maybe they were just responding to the commanding tone that had entered Granger's voice. Whatever the reason, though, they did as they were told, taking up positions on either side of the 'copter's rear door. Granger soon heard their M-16s returning fire toward whoever was below them. The number of AK rounds entering the helicopter decreased markedly. Granger turned to the next Ranger he found. His nametag said 'SMITH,' and he had no feet. Each leg ended in a stump just below the knee, and the stumps were bleeding steadily onto the floor of the helicopter.
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Military to Civilian Glossary:
Ranks: There are two rank scales relevant to this fic.
Officers from low to high rank; Enlisted from low to high rank;
Second Lieutenant Private
First Lieutenant Private First Class
Captain Specialist/Corporal (same rank, different job)
Major Sergeant
Lieutenant Colonel Staff Sergeant
Colonel Sergeant First Class
various Generals various Master Sergeants.
RPG--Rocket Propelled Grenade. An explosive projectile that is shot from a launcher, small enough to be carried by one person. The Taliban's weapon of choice for shooting down helicopters. Incidentally, also rather scary when one is fired at your land-bound vehicle.
Chinook (also) CH47--a type of helicopter which has two rotors (the propeller things) on top. They're huge and well armed. They have three compartments, including the rear one our passengers were in.
AK (AK47)--Russian rifle popular all over the world.
M-16--Standard US Army rifle.
M-9--also called 9 mm. Standard US Army pistol.
Musket--pre-rifle. It's got a long barrel, shoots what looks like big ball bearings, and is literally a pain to fire. Popular pretty much everywhere, in the year 1776.
Rodriguez's gun would be a "50 cal" or 50 caliber fully automatic machine gun. BIG gun. BIG bullets. Tends to be fastened to something (like the helicopter) with bolts. Rocks the whole 'copter when it's fired. That big.
'Outside the wire'--off the military base. In Afghanistan and Iraq, there's an unwritten but real difference between the status of those soldiers who go outside the wire regularly and those who don't. See also "REMF" in Chapter 3.
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