Just after six the next morning, Bixby joins me on the tarmac. I'm already prepped and ready to go on my little trip. For some reason that escapes me, I wasn't able to sleep last night. I've seen action more times than I can count, but one thing I've never been forced to endure is the sight of innocent people really suffering. I must be letting too much slip, because the once oblivious Bixby instantly picks up on it.
"Doing alright, Sergeant Major?" he asks carefully stepping towards me.
"Fine, Sir," I say watching the ground crews load the food onto the back of the idling transport hovercraft. Six pallets, loaded to capacity with white bags of grain, all pushed by hand up the ramp into the cargo bay at the rear of the fuselage. All the work is done under the watchful eye of the ship's loadmaster.
I can't help but notice the design printed on each of the bags. A large Mockingjay stares out from the great seal of the UDP with the same phrase, written in three languages beneath it:
"A Gift from the People of the United Districts of Panem."
"Just a generation ago, our people had to trade a chance at death to get anything close to that amount of food," I say out loud shaking my head in disbelief. "Now, we're going to drop it out of the back of a flying hovercraft into the middle of the desert with just the hope it will find someone who needs it…"
"I think we can call that 'progress.' Don't you agree, Sergeant Major?" Bixby quietly replies. I look over to him and nod my head.
"I think we can, Sir."
"Well," Bixby finally says after a few more quiet moments. "Colonel Ribaldi is expecting me in headquarters. I'll hear your report when you return."
"Roger, Sir," I say reaching down to the asphalt, picking up my rifle and body armor. "I should be back by noon. Mind if I grab some lunch and then meet up with you in the control room?"
"Good, we'll say 1300," he says before turning and heading towards the flagpoles. My communicuff ticks close to 0700 and I prepare to depart. Casually, I ensure that my armor and helmet are both strapped on tight and my rifle is locked, cocked, and ready to go. Finally, I give my hatchet one final tug on my belt, more as a good luck gesture than anything else. With one last deep breath, I step off.
As I reach the hovercraft just as the last pallet of grain is secured into the back of the cargo compartment. The ground crew produces a clipboard, which the loadmaster signs and passes back to them with a smile. He then looks over to me.
"Good morning, Sergeant Major!" he shouts. "I heard you'd be taking a little ride with us this morning. Pilots are already signaling they're REDCON 1. As soon as you're settled in, we'll go skids up." I give him a quick once over through my protective sunglasses. He's in nothing but boots, fatigue bottoms, and a t-shirt.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" I ask him in a harsh tone.
"What do you mean, Sergeant Major?" he replies confused.
"Did I put out a new uniform standard this morning and forget about it?" I say pointing to my gear. "Where the hell is your weapon and armor?"
"Oh, Sergeant Major," he says like I'm the one who's confused. "We don't like to wear that stuff in the aircraft. It makes it too hard to move around and if we have to get out quickly, it just gets in the way."
"And what happens after you get out?" I ask angrily. "Are you just going to walk around the battlefield while a thousand angry people shoot at you?"
"Well, Sergeant Major…"
"I don't give a flying what you what! This bird ain't going anywhere until you're in full battle rattle with your weapon. Tell the pilots the same goes for them too!"
"Yes, Sergeant Major," the loadmaster says crestfallen.
After a ten-minute delay of the loadmaster and two pilots sprinting back to the sleeping hangar to grab their stuff, the engines of the hovercraft finally rev to life and lift the massive transport skyward. I hold on tight as the pilots kick over from hover and shoot southward with a massive jolt.
"Damn, I miss Tiller behind the controls…" I think shaking my head before finally settling down in my seat. For half an hour, we glide a thousand feet above the Mediterranean until at last, the pilot makes an announcement over the loudspeakers.
"Approaching the coastline. We'll be over the Binwaldi Refugee Center shortly. ETA five minutes to Drop Zone." Suddenly, the loadmaster jumps into furious action. He runs from pallet to pallet, releasing the safety clamps and preparing for the drop. I must admit, I grin every time he has to squeeze his padded frame between the edges of the pallets and the wall of the cargo compartment.
"So, that's why they don't like to wear their gear," I think to myself.
I turn around and stare out of the small plexiglass window behind me. As the pilots make a slow turn toward the southeast, I finally catch my first glimpse of Tripolitania. The blue waves of the Mediterranean crash with brilliant white foam onto the brown sandy beaches below. Then, beyond where the soft, wet sand stops, there appears to be nothing but endless desert wasteland.
"My God," I think as I realize the scope of this operation. "How are we possibly going to help the poor bastards that have to call this place home?" I pull myself to my feet and awkwardly step over the loadmaster. He stands near the ramp next to a control panel at the far end of the hovercraft.
"60 seconds to Drop Zone. Stand by to drop ramp," the co-pilot announces over the intercom. The loadmaster produces two pairs of goggles and hands one to me.
"You probably want to put those on," he says stretching his pair over the top of his helmet. Having never been aboard a transport during a cargo drop before, I take his advice.
"Drop ramp," the co-pilot commands.
"Ramp coming down!" the loadmaster says flipping a switch on his control panel. The massive cargo ramp unseals and opens into a massive, gaping maw in front of us. Dry, scalding wind pours in from the outside and totally surrounds us, blocking out all other sound. I'm glad I'm wearing the goggles. If not, I feel like my eyeballs could be ripped from my skull at any moment.
I take a few cautious steps toward the edge of the ramp. As my eyes adjust to the bright light outside, I see the sad state of affairs below. We picked the Binwaldi Refugee Center as our first target solely because it has been one of the hardest hit by the militias. According to the intelligence reports provided to us by the Europeans, ninety-percent of its occupants are the widows and children of the fighting. The other ten percent are old, crippled men. As a result, they're easy targets for pirate raiding parties.
I stare out of the back of the hovercraft at the sea of ramshackle buildings and tents beneath us. The women, dressed in long flowing gowns that cover their entire bodies, grab their children and run for cover, unsure of what this massive thing that suddenly appeared from the sky means. However, the pilots make a long, slow circle of the camp to show that we are not a threat. Soon, curiosity overcomes fear and they re-emerge to stare up at us in awe.
"Ten seconds…" the loudspeaker says coming to life again. I feel an arm grab the back of my body armor and pin me against the wall of the hovercraft.
"Sorry, Sergeant Major!" the loadmaster screams over the howling wind. "I don't want you getting caught on one of these pallets and going down with it," he says flipping a switch on his control panel. I just nod back in unsteady appreciation.
"Four, three, two, one, green light…green light!" The loadmaster pulls a long, red handle. Instantly a small drag chute deploys and inflates behind the hovercraft. The pallets lurch, accelerate, and clatter backward down the ramp into the open sky. Instantly they break apart sending the bags of food aid scattering across the whole drop zone. Then, in something eerily reminiscent of the Hunger Games, a thousand silver parachutes deploy, sending the food on a slow, controlled decent down to the sand.
One by one, the woman and children realize what we have sent them. They surge forward in one, frantic mass, practically grabbing the bags of grain out of the air before they hit the ground. The pilots circle around again so that the loadmaster and I can observe. I find myself choking up a little as I watch the desperate and starving grab as much as they can as if their lives depended on it. Then, I realize the horrible truth…their lives really do depend on it.
"I've never seen anything like that…" the loadmaster says trailing off.
"Neither have I…" I reply softly.
"Are we empty back there?" the co-pilot asks over the intercom. The loadmaster clicks a switch.
"Roger, all pallets successfully deployed."
"Then can we get the hell out of here?" The loadmaster looks to me and all I can do is nod.
"Roger, let's head home," the loadmaster replies for me into the intercom. I'm just about to head back to my seat when a loud alarm starts echoing through the hovercraft.
"Warning, Missile Lock. Warning, Missile Lock," a computerized female voice says calmly over the speakers.
"What the hell is going on up there!" the loadmaster screams into the intercom as I rush back over to my seat.
"Hold onto something! Some bastard down there has us dead to rights with a shoulder-fired heat seeker!" At that moment, I see a white streak fly past the open cargo ramp and continue upward into the sky.
"Oh my God!" the loadmaster says reaching for an emergency handle attached to the wall. The alarms continue to ring out when the female voice returns.
"Warning, Missile Lock. Warning, Missile Lock." Two more white streaks fly past the rear of the hovercraft, barely missing us. At the moment, the transport lurches hard to the right in an attempt to evade the attacks.
"Nobody said anything about the militias having anti-aircraft capability!" the loadmaster screams across the empty cargo compartment in a panic. "Didn't they know about it?"
"There's a lot of that going around!" is all I manage to say in response.
"Warning, Missile Lock. Warning, Missile Lock." It's at that moment that time seems to slow down and I realize something. I've been through a lot of horrible things in my life, but I've never been in hovercraft that's been shot down before.
"Well, I guess there's a first time for everything…"
A massive explosion rips through the hovercraft. Metal debris and flames start shearing off of the right side of the ship.
"We're hit! We're hit! Port and Starboard stabilizers are inop! We're going down!" the pilots desperately shout over the intercom before the speakers fall silent. I hear the screams of the loadmaster as I try to shield my face from the flames and the debris. Everything starts to spin wildly as I see the brown earth below grow closer and closer out the open ramp.
"Hold on!" I desperately shout as I feel the blood being pulled away from my head by the terrible g-forces. Another explosion rocks the hovercraft and I see the front end of the fuselage where the pilots sit completley break away from the hull. The terrible spinning becomes even worse.
"We're gonna die! We're gonna die!" I hear the loadmaster cry out as he desperately clings to a waving cargo strap for dear life.
"We're not gonna die!" I try to scream back to calm him down. "We're not…gonna…." Just a few moments before we slam into the earth, I feel something crash into the side of my head. Everything goes black as I lose consciousness.