PRESIDENT’S DAY

January 20 1997, 2200Hr GMT (ZULU), 1700Hr EST,

 U.S.S. WASP AMPHIBIOUS ASSAULT SHIP (LPH-1), MEDITERRANEAN SEA

 

Soldiers milled around impatiently, the last minute weapons and gear check proceeded in large hangar deck below the flight deck of the massive ship.  The rumble of noise above reminded everyone of the purpose of this gathering.  Marines again were going into harms way, accepting that didn't calm the anxiety level.  Some talked as a way of release, others paced, even a few reflected and prayed.  Quickly attention focused to the front where a barrel-chested master gunnery sergeant entered the hangar.

 Randolph Lickman, Steel to the massed troops, led the way followed by the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Anthony James Mior, the Executive Officer, Major Michael Gonzales, US Army Colonel Jack Murphy.  Bringing up the rear was the S-2, Intelligence Officer, Captain Waldo Martin, Captain Keith Doogan, and their respective staff.  All were dressed in the famous desert battle dress uniform, chocolate 7chip, web gear, and Marine utility cap.  Moving to the raised platform the battalion sergeant growled.  "Ten-Hut!”  The room full with close to one hundred plus soldiers snapped to rigid attention.  The XO, Major Gonzales, AKA Eagle, bound a top the raised platform.  Intelligence and Operation personnel close behind carrying charts and other visual aids. 

The dark skinned XO’s slender form moved to the podium situated at the center of the platform, grabbed the microphone, and eyed Captain Martin setup the charts on an easel help by non-com staff members.  To his rear stood his boss and friend Anthony J. Mior, tanned skinned, dark-haired Mior had the looks of a high priced Hollywood actor than C.O. of Anti-terrorist Group Light Infantry Combat Operations, aka ANGLICO, the Marine Corps newest special operations team.  Mior's six-feet three inch height beat Gonzales by an inch, dashing good looks and baby brown eye packaged with broad shoulders and a lean muscular physique always left him standing out in a crowd.  At forty-five women young and old swooned at the sight of him.  Next to Lt. Col. Mior stood Colonel Jack Murphy CIA senior field officer, for Special Operation Action Group, paramilitary group of the CIA and liaison office to Special Operation Command.  The massive heavy weight reaching six feet six inches in height loomed ominously over the crowd, his chiseled features, and cat like blue eyes stared stoically into the assembled soldiers.  Those who knew of him knew he was a living legend in the SpecOps world.  Major Gonzales glanced at his boss who nodded to commence the briefing.  The black intelligence officer flipped the cover off the charts.  This briefing was repetitious by now, most had heard it a dozen times, senior officers two dozen.

 

" At ease men," Eagle started.  Stiffened bodies relaxed through the crowd.

" I' m not here to mince words or waste time.  We here are all Marines, we get paid to do the dirty work when it comes along.”  With microphone in hand Eagle walked over to the easel crammed with charts and Capt. Martin standing by, he pointed to the red letters bordering the top.  " Operation DESERT WIND," he read aloud.  "As we've been hearing on the new lately is about the current upheaval in Iraq, what the media or the public don't know is that in all the turmoil UN inspector have been grabbed.  Contact with them stopped a week ago and reports from Intel are that unknown parties in the conflict are holding them.  Orders from our new esteemed President is to go in and retrieve them from whoever has them.”  The major gave the stage to his intelligence officer, who quickly gave the run down on the current situation.

 The previous week Iraq had become embroiled in a coup-d'etat that seemed to have failed, and soon broke down into a civil war.  Information from the region was sketchy and most the intelligence that did come from the region had come from UN inspectors their checking out suspected chemical weapons facilities; the UN inspectors were back after almost a year of diplomacy.  When information from the inspection team stopped people became worried, then new sources told the US the fate of the inspection team, they would not be released until the end of the current circumstances.  The President and the President-elect had no alternative but to order a rescue of the twenty inspectors.  After Capt. Martin's intelligence briefing the S-3, Operations Officer, Captain Keith Doogan started his briefing.  Using his charts, the red headed officer went over the unit’s call signs, deployments, and weapons configurations.  Mior eyed his troops seeing inattention, wandering eyes, and worried faces as the briefing went on, most of the men had not been in combat prior to this occasion, a few had seen action in the Gulf War, but that number was relatively low.  Mior caught his XO's attention, gave a secretive nod to him, then moved to the front of the platform, he grabbed the microphone from his Ops officer and began.

 

" Good evening, Marines," the gathered soldiers responded in kind.  " This Op we've been given is a plateful, our President has faith that we'll accomplish this mission, I too have faith in you, and our country has faith in you.  You must now prove if that faith is warranted.  We all have given you the best this government could give a Marine.  Let's go out and do the do, may God lead us safely.”  He genuflected in the sign of the cross, and walked to the major handing him the microphone.  Mior took his spot again and waited for his Apache Indian officer to begin.  There was a rare few who could motivate men like Eagle could, that was one of the reasons he chose Gonzales to be his number two, Mior had ring side seat to watch the show.  Few had ever seen Eagle's enthusiastic speeches.

 

" I don't know Sir," the major began.  " You may have faith along with everyone else, but I do not.”  Many faces in the crowd became astonished by Eagle's statement.  " Maybe this Op is just a little hard for us," Eagle said, feinting disappointment.  " Maybe it's not too late to call Delta Force or the Rangers.”  Soldier looked at one another in disbelief.  A few were angered by what they heard, they'd busted their asses to be ready for this day, and they weren't going to give this Op to some pre-madonnas.  Murmurs fanned through the hangar.

" Maybe we could call Seal team Six," boomed the voice of Sgt. Steel from the far side of the room.  That comment burn like a hot knife in the back, Six shooters had beat ANGLICO at Quantico during the last inter-agency Close Quarter Battle simulations shaving thirty seconds off the record.

 

They say the more you sweat and bleed during training the less you bleed on the battlefield, but it still hurt the pride heavily when you're shown up in your house.  Dissatisfaction became apparent in the faces of the soldiers, their faces told the story, if Eagle didn't have faith in them who would, he was their training officer, because of him they'd beat Delta, FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, and held the record for CQB, until Six stopped by.

 

Gonzales took his utility cap off and angrily tossed it to the side.  "You guys are upset," he said rhetorically.  A few affirmations came any way.  "Well what the fuck do you want me to think?“  He undid his web gear, took it off, and tossed it aside.  " Looking into this crowd I don't see an elite fighting team," Gonzales pointed to faces in the troop.  I see Raz picking his teeth, Pretty-boy thinking when he's going to get laid again, Slider thinking of moms cooking," he unbuttoned his BDU shirt.  " We are here and now, concentration is an aberration to you right now, that's one of the reason Six kicked our asses.  We must leave all other thoughts out of our minds and think of the job at hand.”  He took his shirt off and placed that in the heap with his web gear.  Gonzales' extremely cut body glistened with sweat, his rippling abs shined from the lights.  " What the hell, no one's listening any way.  I'm going to take a shower and get some sleep," he said in disgust.  Gonzales dropped the microphone and moved towards the edge of the platform where he hesitated.

 

His deceiving thinness hid his wiry strength, everyone assembled could attest to that fact, in a unit where the average military press and bench press were 300 lbs. and 450 lbs. Gonzales was impressively lifting a lot more.

 

At the edge of the platform, Gonzales shook his head theatrically and moved to center stage.  " I took an oath once, to defend this country and I intend to keep," he spoke; with out the aid of the microphone, his voice still carried to those in the rear.  Gonzales had questioned their honor and no Marine liked that.  The attention of everyone was upon him.  Mior nodded in approval at the scene before him.

 

Gonzales reached into his BDU pants pocket and extracted a small bag tied to a thin leather strap.  The small bag contained hoddentin, yellow pollen of the tule, a variety of cattail rush.  When an Apache warrior went on the warpath or on a hunt, he would throw hoddentin to the setting sun then to all four compass points asking permission of the sun for a safe return, which Gonzales had done earlier.  He was a Catholic by birth due to his Mexican lineage, but his Apache grandfather's teachings were ingrained into him since he could remember.  Again, Gonzales reached into his pocket and came out with two paint sticks.

 

" If I have to do this Op by myself I'll keep the faith of our President, the Commandant, and our Commander," his voice raised more.  He smeared the black and green sticks across his face and torso.  " Am I alone or are there fellow warriors in this room!" he yelled.

" Hell yeah!" came the reply from the soldiers, the spirits lifted.  Some took it upon themselves to mimic Gonzales and smear paint sticks across their faces

"Maybe we should borrow pompoms from Six 'cause I can't hear you," growled the voice of the master gunnery sergeant.

" MARINE CORP!  MARINE CORP!" the soldier yelled deafeningly in unison.

" JUST MARINE CORP!”  Gonzales yelled out.  A M16 sailed through the air into his grasp; he glanced at Sgt. Steel, standing by the platform, and gave a wink.

"WOLFPACK!  WOLFPACK!" they chanted.  The unofficial name for the unit Mior had come up with.  In the loud flood of chanting men Gonzales let out a ritualistic Apache war cry, this was also mimicked by the masses.  Through the raucous wolf, howls and yelps could be heard.  Mior watched as his XO pumped his arms in the air with the assault rifle in hand, reminiscent of the old Hollywood Westerns.  Col. Murphy watching the spectacle leaned closer to Mior.

" I always knew you jarheads were fuckin' nuts but damn these guys are ready to scalp the first white man they see," Murphy said, motioning to the soldiers.  Mior beamed with pride, he took that as a compliment.