The Ides of Matt 2016

Lightning Strike to the Heart This story came from news articles tracing the role of women in the combat military. This was an especially hot topic during the controversial decision in December 2015 by Defense Secretary Ash Carter ordering all combat roles in the US military be opened to women. An odd fact that I had collected some time before was that both Delta Force and DEVGRU (aka SEAL Team 6) have both had women serving with them for a long time. It is often necessary, when going undercover, to appear as a couple. So where were these women coming from? To become a member of SEAL Team 6 requires that you be an exemplary SEAL in the regular teams for at least five years. There are no female SEALs, yet they’ve been serving with ST6 since at least 1993. Delta Force has a similar history. So how do the women get there? They are quietly recruited from other, highly advanced, forces. A prime candidate is the US Coast Guard’s Maritime Safety and Security Teams. These elite forces were not historically confined to men only and therefore ultimately produced exceptionally trained women. This story was a look at how one of those women would feel if she got to taste that “f*******n fruit” of being a Delta Force operator, if even for just one operation. 1 It was a bitter New Year’s Eve, especially at thirty-three thousand feet standing on the open rear ramp of a C-130 Hercules cargo plane. The rain drummed on the plane’s skin with such ferocity that she could barely hear the roar of the massive turboprop engines over the storm. She had to stay light on her toes to keep her balance on the shifting deck. Chief Petty Officer Teresa Mann of the US Coast Guard checked her watch: oh-two hundred. Happy New Year. What better time, place, and weather for her first combat jump with a Delta. She’d been thrilled at the chance to accompany a Unit operator—as Delta Force soldiers called themselves—but this was a little extreme even by the Airborne Jumpmaster Course’s harsh standards. She’d done HALO jumps before—bail out at high-altitude but wait for the last second before doing a low opening—but not in the middle of the night during a major storm. The C-130’s Loadmaster spoke over the intercom wired into her earphones, “Jump in fifteen seconds.” Only the dull red jumplight lit the cavernous rear of the aircraft. He and his assistant were anonymous in a full helmet and armored vest as the four of them grouped together for their final checks. Teresa began counting backwards. “Ground reports winds out of the southwest at forty,” he provided the last key element before the jump. In other words a total nightmare for the landing. “In ten!” He was a second fast. Then he yanked her and the sergeant’s communications cables, and her earphones went quiet. He disconnected their oxygen hookups to the aircraft’s supply system. For a jump from this altitude, she and Hal were wearing full facemasks and carrying five minutes of oxygen. Instead of helmets, they wore insulated caps that fitted tightly against the mask. Five minutes allowed plenty of margin for error as they should fall into breathable air within ninety seconds, but they couldn’t risk cracking their masks for the full three minutes of the jump until they deployed their chutes—the chance of getting frostbite from the wind chill was too high. They’d already checked each other head to toe to make sure there was no exposed skin. With a sixty-second margin of air, they were good to go. The Loadmaster unlatched Master Sergeant Waldman and then her own safety lines that had kept them securely connected to the racing cargo plane once the rear ramp had been lowered. Then the Loadmaster caressed her a*s and gave it a hard squeeze. Rather than going for the most obvious response—a sharp kick to the balls, which he was already turning aside to protect against in addition to having an armored flap dangling over his groin from his bullet-proof vest—she made her hand into a knife edge and drove her fingertips upward into his armpit through the gap in his armor between vest and sleeve. Once there, she grabbed and twisted the leading edge of the pectoral muscle hard enough that his arm wouldn’t work right for days without causing a shooting pain down its whole length. She gave an extra yank; he’d walk with a hunch for most of that time. His hand, which had clutched her even harder in initial shock, finally let go. As he jerked it back, she brought the edge of her hand down in a hard chop that may or may not have broken his wrist. By the volume of his scream—which was loud enough to be heard over the roar of rain and engine, despite no longer sharing the intercom—she’d guess a bad break. Hardly a traditional start to the New Year. She stepped to the rear edge of the cargo ramp with Hal. At the last second Teresa turned so that she was facing the still screaming Loadmaster and his assistant, who was clawing at his headphone’s volume control. She snapped to full attention as she stepped off the end of the ramp. With a sharp salute, she drifted off the plane and fell backwards into the storm. “Any problems?” Hal asked over their short-range encrypted radio link as they slammed from the plane’s two hundred miles an hour into freefall. Once they were flying with the wind, the battering eased. “It depends Waldman, are you a macho asshole?” In the pitch dark, Teresa oriented herself head down and lined up her body for the fastest descent speed. “I’ve been accused of the macho often enough. I try to avoid giving women a cause to call me an asshole though.” “Then we’re fine.” 2 Hal did his best to keep any thoughts about Chief Petty Officer Teresa Mann’s fineness to himself as they plummeted downward through thirty thousand feet and headed toward twenty-five. By that time they had reached terminal velocity. At a hundred-and-fifty miles per hour, the rain wasn’t merely noisy, it was also painful as it drove against his jumpsuit like a rapid fire BB g*n. There was no sign of the city that lay below; the clouds had gathered so thickly that no hint of light made it up to their altitude. He’d seen the Loadmaster’s grope and, while he agreed that Mann had one of the best asses he’d ever seen in the military, he’d been trying to figure out how to report the man for his action as there wasn’t either time or opportunity for him to step in and thrash the man himself without missing the jump window. Then Mann had taken action of her own and absolved him from that part of the problem. The primary difficulty with making a report was that the C-130’s crew had been purposely misled to think that he and Teresa were a couple of crazy CIA spooks being sent in on some intelligence-gathering mission. So no one had asked anyone else’s names and no units were mentioned. He and Mann had showed up at the designated place, found the aforementioned aircraft, and climbed aboard without a word. Sending punishment meant reporting aspects of their mission to sections of the command authority that weren’t supposed to know about its existence. He had to admire the efficiency with which Mann had transferred the burden of explanation onto the Air Force Loadmaster. Now it would be up to him to explain how he’d broken his wrist and couldn’t use his right arm properly without saying anything about how it had happened. And if he did talk about the two strangers who had jumped out of his aircraft, he’d be grounded so fast that he’d have to sprint to keep ahead of the dishonorable discharge that would be racing to catch up with him. The authority structure of Joint Special Operations Command wasn’t a big fan of soldiers who violated their security clearances. Despite being Coast Guard, Teresa Mann had used Unit thinking which was still disorienting. Rumor said that the first woman of Delta was out in the field and that another was in the Operators Training Course—even if neither possibility sounded very likely. Petty Officer Teresa Mann was on loan from the U.S. Coast Guard’s MSST team—the USCG’s special forces. If the anti-terrorist Maritime Safety and Security Team produced any other women as obviously skilled as Mann, he’d be seriously impressed. If they had any more that looked like her, he’d change branches of the service just for the female scenery. He pulled his arm forward, keeping it close to his body to avoid invoking a mid-air tumble, to check the GPS and altimeter. Twenty thousand feet flashed by and he corrected his flight path ten degrees toward the southwest by briefly bending one knee to raise a foot into the wind. The rain pounded so hard against his plastic facemask that he couldn’t have heard her if Mann was speaking, but they were in communication blackout anyway, so it shouldn’t matter. They fell through thick clouds, and despite their suits the wet and the wind chill were severe enough that he’d be shivering if the jump adrenaline wasn’t pumping so hard. A bolt of lightning slashed somewhere nearby and for a second he saw Mann in clear outline just a hundred feet away, dressed in pitch black against a background of heavy storm, cloud-lit brilliantly from within. Then they were plunged back into darkness. It was a glimpse he knew he’d never forget, Teresa Mann as Wonder Woman—no, Catwoman—dressed all in black, flying fearlessly through the storm, and dangerous as hell. He thanked whatever Army god had kicked the extraction assignment in his direction just forty-eight hours ago. HALO jump to listed coordinates. Escort individual to safety. Zero profile. Which in Delta-speak meant: “don’t be seen, even if you have to kill someone—but don’t do that either.” He considered possible scenarios based on the limited information. Command would have provided more if they had it, which meant he was jumping into an unknown situation, expected to carry out a barely defined mission, and not to be caught. That’s why the mission had come to Delta—no one rocked the unknown like The Unit. But the best option for keeping low cover on the ground would be a man-woman team, so he’d sent a request up the command chain without much hope. But for all the times that the Army mis-delivered—or didn’t deliver at all—this time it had supplied personnel magnificently. There had been the bewildering moment when the tall brunette with hair falling in soft waves to her shoulder had shown up at Incirlik Air Base. “Chief Petty Officer Teresa Mann assigned to your detail,” she’d dropped a set of transit orders into his lap. “I didn’t—” ask for a liaison officer, he almost said, but bit off the words. There was something about how a Special Operations field soldier stood that no one else could match. It wasn’t attitude, it was competence. And she had it. His initial thought was to ask her the usual litany of questions when facing an unknown soldier with undefined skills, but then he thought better of it—when the roles were reversed, those questions always just pissed him off. So instead he went with, “What was your last assignment?” And she’d given him the blank stare of experience with those cool brown eyes that said it was classified and he needed to find himself a new question. It was a good sign that her looks aside, she was one put-together soldier. Factor those in and…he looked down at her orders quickly for a distraction. She had her Master Parachutist Badge and also had the security clearance to know what was and wasn’t classified—both key elements to this operation. Hal had waved her to a seat and started right in on the briefing. As they worked out the final shape of the plan, she’d offered suggestions that showed field experience—not deep field experience, but rough enough to learn important lessons the hard way. Maybe women making it through the Delta Selection process and OTC wasn’t such an obscure possibility. Ten thousand feet. On target. The next bolt of lightning was so close that he wondered if they were about to be fried in the sky. Not that it would phase Petty Officer Mann. His few lame attempts at getting personal had revealed her near-robotic degree of control and dedication to the service. Gorgeous, but she had a wind chill factor even worse than the storm’s.