One Killer Force

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To the unsung rock stars of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, whose customer service is legendary inside the purple community. On short notice in pitch dark, at bat-out-of-hell speed and cornfield level, you can bank that the Night Stalkers are on time, on target, plus or minus thirty seconds.

Behind the wheel of Bessie, Scotty saw the billowing smoke and gassed it, curb-bouncing our Toyota in reverse over your garden-variety street trash prevalent in war-torn Baghdad. Next to him, wide-eyed with mouth probably open, I stared in silence at the target building as it exploded, jetting hot shards of steel, concrete chunks, and blast waves toward four unarmored Hummers only yards away.

We were hunting Zarqawi chemical weapons or their precursor material — jackpot on the materials; the blast we could have done without.

Scotty and I unassed Bessie, dashed into the smoke, and found what we hoped we wouldn’t. A female soldier staggered into Scotty’s arms, cammies blown out at the seams and burned over most of her body. Scotty did what he could.

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