Search-Rescue-Escape-Evade: The Story of a K9 Search Team

By Billy L. Smith Sr.

A professional search-and-rescue team goes to South America to search for and rescue an executive of a large US company.

Money for the rescue is unlimited, and the talent is top-notch. However, something does not always go as planned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496938510

Billy L. Smith Sr.

Billy L. Smith Sr. (retired US Navy, retired Texas Depatment of Criminal Justice) has forty-three year experience as a canine trainer and handler.

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© 2014 Billy L. Smith Sr. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/05/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3852-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3851-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916003

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32    Epilogue

Preface

This a novel about an average 50 year old man winning the biggest lottery ever and goes wild for a year with his best friend. Then Charlie decides to give back to society by forming the best Search Team ever. When duty calls, they are asked to search for a kidnapped U.S. industrial executive in Peru by friends from the old days, the Viet Nam era. The U.S. State Department won’t touch an attempted rescue; Peru is in a political turmoil, yet Charlie thinks money can buy anything. But the victim’s employers want their man out without raising any dust. There is also an unknown Mystery Man in the background who seems to appear when least expected who makes things happen. Some think he is from the CIA.

This is a novel, a pack of lies, figments of an old man’s imagination and none of this ever happened. All the characters are fictional and the names are made up. Some of you may say I remember that, but you know nothing and will say nothing.

As you read this book, think about the movie actors Ward Bond or Wilford Brimley being Charlie and telling you a story around the camp fire.

All the women are beautiful and the men handsome, except Charlie.

This is the first of three novels about Charlie. Please enjoy them all. I need the money.

Chapter 1

If you have ever been in a Holiday Inn Bar, you have been in them all. At 2:00 in the afternoon when the bar tender was unlocking the door, I was walking by. Why not! I said as I walked in.

While sipping on a stale, overpriced beer out of a tall glass, a couple of other people walked in. They all appeared to be regulars from the greetings given by the bartender. I just sat there with nothing to do. My traveling partner was still in bed. I guess he was suffering with the world’s biggest hangover.

We had been boozing and whoring for almost a year. We had gotten lucky and won the BIG LOTTERY of 83 million in Texas the year before. I had kept my mouth shut, went to a lawyer, made sure my wife of 40 years, our grown kids, and all the grandkids were taken care of for life.

Immediately thereafter I went bumming, in style. A big motor home with two drivers so we could keep that sucker rolling. We had a hard time finding two female drivers with the right type of license.

My lawyer made me run everything through him. Big tits do not a bus driver make, Max the Mouth Piece yelled at me. I have to say that Max is one of the few honest lawyers I have ever known. He charges the shit out of me, but he keeps his word.

And why not? You ever have seen them drive a bus? I asked. But I knew he was right.

Yes, I have he screamed. "And I am still trying to settle everything with the two guys that the two blonde bimbos ran over making the turn off IH-10

a couple of days ago. It is a good thing the drivers were not hurt. I had to promise them a new pickup each for a signed release from them. They are at the dealers right now picking them out. Do you know the price of a new Ford Diesel?"

I noticed that those veins in his neck stick out a lot when he talks to me.

Here I am 60 years old and he talks to me like my daddy would if he were still alive. He is right though. I knew I was too drunk to drive that big Greyhound looking thing. Bart was in the back puking, so what were my options? Let one of the bimbos drive the bus? I can’t even remember where we found them.

One of them told me she used to live with a truck driver, so that had been good enough for me. Away we went, out of the parking lot of a Gentleman’s Club, up on the west bound ramp of IH-10 on the eastside of Houston, Texas. We made it across town okay. The Bimbos did okay while I was in the back trying to make myself a vodka martini. I gave the one driving instructions to take us to the Wal-Mart on the west side of Houston. I told them we had to stop and get supplies for a trip Bart and I had planned. That is when things turned to shit.

Get off here, I hollered as I felt the bus swerve to the right. …There was a terrible sound on the right side of the bus. Even Bart stopped puking cheap wine long enough to open the bathroom door.

What the fu__! Bart said over the screech of metal. And then a second screech and grind as the bus made a skidding stop.

I looked outside. There was the remains of a pickup smashed against the cement guardrail. I got out and looked. Here came two very pissed off individuals in hardhats…looking directly at me.

I knew the drill. Say nothing. Called Maximillian Guerra, Esquire, Attorney At Law. I ran it down to him what had happened and he hung up and told me to stay in the bus and not say a word. He called back and wanted to know EXACTLY where we were. I told him we were on an exit west of Houston and the two guys banging on the door had hard hats on that said International Lighting Company, INC. Houston. There was blood in their eyes. Mine.

That’s great! yelled Max the Mouth Piece. What do you mean ‘GREAT’, , I said.

The owner of the company and I went to college together. Let me make a call and he hung up.

I left the phone on and waited about fifteen minutes and the phone rang. Yo, I said.

Charlie, ask out the door if either one of the guys trying to get in is named Steve Riley said Max in a very tired voice.

Yo, …any body named Steve Riley? I shouted over the crowd noise. Several of his buddies had shown up too.

Yeah, I ‘m Riley. What’s it to you Shit Head. How did you know? The biggest of them all shouted back.

Yup, there is a Steve Riley here I said in the phone to Max. Put him on he said.

What? You want me to go out there? I said. I then noticed that the two bimbos were leaning out the window on the driver’s side giving all the boys an eyeball of tits. At least it kept them off Bart and me.

NO! NO! NO! Just hand him the phone through the door. Any cops showed up yet? Max asked.

Nope

Yo! Steve. Its for you. I said What kind of shit is this? You know my name and now you trying to tell me I am wanted on the phone. What kind of shit is this? As he took a large piece of two-by-four and attempted to pry open a window.

He don’t wan…. I started to say.

I have his boss on the phone on conference call…. tell him it is Ben Price calling and please talk to him…. groaned Max.

Hey, Ben Price wants to talk to you. I said. And then all of a sudden things got quiet. Steve Riley looked at me strangely…took the phone and walked away from the bus towards the front and stood in the lights with one hand over his left ear while talking. After a few seconds, he came back…tossed the phone back up to me in the bus and said, You got a deal.

He said you got a deal. What deal? I asked. That was when I was told I had just bought two new pickups.

A few minutes later, I felt like we could open the door of the bus without being dragged out and stoned. I opened the door and five or six guys all wearing hard hats and T-shirts with International Lighting Company, INC Houston got on. All of them were scoping out the bimbos while Bart and I got off the bus and walked over to the Wal-Mart parking lot. As luck would have it, a taxi was dropping someone off. Bart and I jumped in and said Hyatt Regency, please.

The driver turned and looked at us. It was 7:00 AM and we looked and smelled like bums. I handed him a $100.00 bill, he smiled and away we went.

So, the next day Max called me about hiring two drivers. The bus had minor repairs that could be fixed in a week in Dallas.

He hired me two drivers alright. Not bad looking, a little rough around the edges, quiet types. Great drivers, but they did not smile. He made me promise that Bart and I would leave the hired help alone. We did. They were gay and we didn’t know it until we had been on the road for about a couple of months later when we got the bus back. Bart comes up with a black eye he never did explain.

That sorry piece of shit, signed a years contract with them two at six figures and per diem, I said to Bart Duffy, my traveling companion. Max was looking after my best interest. I got to admit they were good at their jobs…the bus was always clean inside and out…and they were Johnny on the Spot. Good mechanics too. Maybe, Max knew what he was doing after all.

My partner in crime was an old Navy buddy of mine…we had both been with Inshore Warfare Group Pacific. We were not SEALS in any way shape or form…those guys were good…. we were not sea going sailors either. In fact we had been McHale’s Navy type all the years we were in the Navy, but we kept the brass happy by doing things that were not Navy when the others could not find rules to follow, so they left us alone. The Navy Department gave an audible sigh when we Bart and I retired. No ceremony. No nothing. I just threw the wife and three kids in the station wagon and headed back to Texas.

We trained dogs in the Navy. Oh, did I not mention that? Well, I did. Met Bart Duffy while doing hair brained things with dogs and parachutes at the Navel Test Station, El Centro, California. Bart was the Master Chief of the Parachute loft. We used an R4D to jump out of a plane with a dog strapped to us. Bad idea. We had the dog in a safe strap, but Bart figured with our weight and the weight of the dog, air temperature being hot and thin that we needed a better idea.

O.K. Chief, what you got in mind, I said.

Now, Bart was the Chief Rigger too. He knew his business, but I did not recognize it at that time. We were both young bucks who had all the answers in those days and I bet we looked like two Bantie roosters standing there, trying to impress each other.

Bart suggested we use a bungee cord. One end attached to the harness and one end on the dog’s hoisting sling. When we jumped, the dog was strapped tight to our chest. Both of our arms were placed over the top of the dog that was strapped crossways in front of us. We did not have a reserve chute since it was supposed to be strapped to the chest where the dog was. So, we would static jump. This means we would have the ripcord attached to the aircraft and when we jumped, the chute would be pulled open.

The plan was this: after we jumped, the chute would open. After the chute opened and we stabilized, we would release the quick-connects and allow the dog to be eased down on the bungee cord, which was about thirty feet long. The objective was that the dog would reach the ground first. By landing first, the dog would take the pressure off the chute and jumper, long enough to make a softer landing in an old T-type chute.

Chief Duffy, that sounds like a great idea. Lets try it I stated in my best military voice.

Away we went to the parachute loft. We rigged up the dog’s harnesses with a few modifications, along with the harness we were going to use. The chute was packed with special care. The bungee cords were folded back and forth and secured with the correct size thread. We dangled in the tall parachute loft over and over to make sure that everything was correct. Chief Duffy’s Parachute Riggers were real pros. Stayed up all night making sure we could do it the next morning since it was going to be a calm day. Calm days in El Centro were rare for that time of year. But the weather guessers said it would be a good day. Chief Duffy’s boss was the Air Operations Officer (AirOps) and he made arraignments for the R4D aircraft that the Air Force called a DC-3.

We were all set for the jump the next morning at dawn. All of Duffy’s men and my team slept on the long riggers’ tables with our heads on the chute bags. Our dogs slept on the floor beside us.

The dogs were German Shepherds. Nothing special in the breeding. In fact they were rescued from several places. Pounds. Backyards. And mine was a stray named Hobo or just Bo for short. Bo was a black shepherd with a large white patch on his chest. Solid as a rock and brave. Could not ask for more. I picked him up off the streets in National City, California at the back of a Shoney’s Big Boy at 14th and National Ave. He was hanging around, probably eating out of a trash can for a living when I drove in. The kids and I were down there getting a special treat when we spotted the dog.

BO looked at us and we looked at him. The kids made some comment and I told them not to pet strange dogs and all that. When we came out, he was still there. He sat there as we got in the old pickup and watched. Bo caught my eye and something happened.

Well, if you want to go, get in, I said and with that Bo jumped from the ground over the side of the old ragged ‘60 Chevy pickup and looked in the back window at the kids. I know he smiled a little smile. But hell, we all know dogs can’t smile, don’t we? Anyway, we went home.

The next day, Bo went to the Coronado Vet Clinic and was given all the shots a dog would need to be a working dog. Bo was supposed to be taken to the Military working dog kennels and processed. The U.S. Navy at that time did not use the DOD Kennels in San Antonio. There dogs did not meet the Navy’s needs was the official reasons. The truth to the matter was the asshole running the place, some chair bound USAF major, who had been stationed at Lackland (Medina) all his career except once when he got transferred to Italy someplace. To inspect veggies for the O Club. This man turned out to be a wart on society’s ass.

But Bo never did officially go the kennels in Imperial Beach Radio Communications Station. He lived with the family and slept with the kids on the bed.

Back at El Centro we got up early and went to the flight line for a briefing. Three teams would jump with dogs. One team member was a Photographers Mate, Second Class named Casey (what else) Jones. Casey was going to photograph everything he could and had lined up a few of the assigned base photographers to use the long lenses out on the test jump area to make moving pictures.

Now, remember this is back a long time before VCR cameras were even thought of. These were big and bulky type cameras. But Casey would do it.

Bo and the others dogs had been strapped into their canvas jump suits and then after being airborne, they were strapped to us with the help of Bart Duffy’s crew. Bo went along with everything real well. All three of the dogs were very sociable dogs and had no problem with all the noise.

To the best of my knowledge this was the first time any of the dogs had ever flown. They did just great.

The takeoff was at dawn,very dramatic looking with the blue flames from the Pratt & Whitney 1300 engines belching blue flames as the Gooney Bird struggles to get airborne. Dawn was coming up over the dessert and we were a little chilly. The dogs are laying up over the wing spars so the engine sync wall will not be on top of us.

Finally the throttles start coming back to cruise speed and we can see out the square windows while setting on canvas folding troop seats, which meant we must be getting close. The Test Range rules state that it must be full light to make an experimental jump of this type. And since the pilot was also our Air Ops. Boss, we waited till dawn.

The three of us are setting there, trying to look calm as we look at each other every so often. Here I am, the Team Leader, what the fuck did I get us into this time? thoughts going through my head. But the idea is great. While we were in Viet Nam a few months before, we wanted to be inserted to do some blood tracking for a sniper team. But the Hueys were noisy and I was not in the Infantry. But that is how we went in country. A place where myself and the two other dog handlers just dropped away from an Army leg Company sized patrol and lay in the bush while they went past. The shooters dropped off with us along with the spotters and a couple of automatic weapons men we had hand-picked from an Army group we knew. I do not think anyone except the First Sgt. even knew we were there or when we dropped out. We were dressed in OD fatigue uniforms and looked like the rest, except we had no flashings or markings of any kind. Just like we wanted it, we were just there.

I have to say our U.S. Army counterparts were great people. They helped with logistics (dog food and supplies) and even brought the beer to the hooch so we could drink. We never left our dogs unattended.

After making that long walk into the bush the next morning, I said, There has to be a better way.

So now comes the bright idea of Charlie Gray, that’s me, to have a parachute dawg team. So the idea was born.

Now, you have to understand that you do not go and do things like this on a whim. The U. S. Navy has channels and official paperwork to do. So we did it.

I wrote (or Frankie Roberts, the Yeoman wrote) a long mega page proposal to the Commander of the Naval Air Forces Pacific Fleet, a three star admiral in charge of all navy airplanes (see, we are thinking of transportation too) in the Pacific Ocean. The very last page of the proposal I wrote Unless otherwise directed, I will commence this experimental canine program under the direction of ComNavAirPac (Code 049) as soon as possible…submitted: Charles P. Gray, Senior Chief Petty Officer, USN.

I took the finished document to the Code 049, a Navy Commander named Johnson. Commander Johnson was an old war horse who had done several tours in Viet Nam on carriers in the mid-60, He was a real live hero, an A4D driver. This job he had as Code 049 was a reward. So he did not get excited about the petty shit as he always said.

We invented a Take-Your-Boss-To-The-Chiefs-Club-For-Lunch- Day. So off the Chief Petty Officers’ Club we go.

Commander Johnson-it-is-so-nice-you-could-join-us attitude with our Dress Tropical White Long Uniforms on. Smiling a lot, my co-worker in this deal was a Chief Aviation Machinist Mate by the name of Howard Mueller. And we looked so neat and pretty in our dress canvas.

How come you two are in Dress Whites? Commander Johnson observed looking out the corner of his eyes at us. You two hoodlums don’t own a pair of Dress Whites. Who did you steal ‘em from?

Oh, that’s a good one, Sir. But since we are on ComNavAirPac Staff, we must make a good showing, right, Sir? Howie said.

Humph! You guys with the dogs are here because the Boss said to take you in. No one else wanted you. One of you were squiring the C.O.’s old maid sister-in-law at the last base you were stationed…and he was going to shit can all of you if the Admiral had not seen the dog program a few weeks before…. and what you guys had done in ‘Nam. And that’s another thing…how did the Navy get involved in all of this anyway? This is supposed to be an Army deal

Well, Sir, here we are at the Chiefs Club…we can talk about it inside, I said as we drove up to the guest parking area. Howie jumped out of the back seat and opened Commander Johnson’s door for him while I parked the car.

After I parked the car I went inside, Howie and the Commander were at the bar having a drink while waiting for a table. Howie would normally have a beer, but today he was drinking a Martini with Commander Johnson. Commander Johnson was explaining the finer techniques of making the perfect Martini to Howie when I walked up. Oh, and Howie was playing the role. He was very attentive and hanging on every word, while going through the motions of making a Martini and nodding the head. I sat back and listened, but drank a coke.

After about three martinis, neither one of them was feeling any pain. The table was ready and we ate. And of course they had a few more martinis. By the time the meal was over Commander Johnson and Chief Petty Officer Howard Mueller were, what is the technical term…shit faced.

As we were walking away from the table, we ran across Vinnie Rideout.

Now, Master Gunnery Sgt. Vincent Rideout is a hell of a Marine’s Marine. I had been with him at several duty stations and our kids played together. But when he had been drinking, he was a bear to get along with.

Vinnie came over to Naval Air Station North Island for lunch from Marine Corp Recruit Depot, San Diego about once a week. The Chief’s Club had good food and he could go home from there that night with a minimum drive to The Strand Housing area for senior enlisted men. And today, Vinnie was steaming on all boilers.

What the fuck you squids doing in ice cream suits? he laughed real big and slapped me on the back. You look like a bunch of pussies dressed like that. and roared with laughter. Vinnie had only seen us in OD green utilities, which made us look like grunts except we had U.S. Navy above the left breast pocket.

Commander Johnson, may I present Master Gunnery Sgt. Vincent Rideout. Vinnie is an old friend of ours from in county. He helped us, how would you say, procure necessary logistic support from our friends in the Army. I was hoping it would help the situation by trying to be formal. But, alas, never to be.

Commander, Vinnie said in his best drill field voice….these two fucking squids are the only ones I allow in my compound…they can steal a loaded round from a 105 while being loaded….hah hah hah…

I went out the door to get the car from the parking lot. I drove to the front door and poured Commander Johnson inside the front seat. I went back inside to get Howie but could not find him. He was gone. Vinnie was gone and I had a shit faced senior staff officer in a U.S. Navy sedan in front of the Chiefs Club, which is a NO NO in itself.

I found Howie and Vinnie back at the bar. Howie was trying to explain to Vinnie how to make a martini. About every other sentence, Vinnie would say, Fuck you, squid. I knew it was about to happen. A fight.

I got a few of the others to distract Vinnie and I scooped up Howie and took out the keys to the…it’s gone, the fucking car is gone, I said out loud.

I sat Howie down on the patio chairs and went to look for the car and Commander Johnson. I went around the corner near the Beach Front and there was the car, in the sand up to the axles, with Commander Johnson passed out at the wheel. The Base Police were coming around the bend by the end of the airstrip, but had to wait for taxing planes.

Oh, shit I thought, Now what?

About that time, the side door to the Chiefs Club bangs open and out comes Vinnie and two Staff Sergeants who were in the club. They stop and look at what is happening. Without a second thought all four of us jumped into action stations. I shoved Johnson over and started the car. Vinnie and the two Staffs went to the front of the car and pushed. The car only had to go about one car length and it was on hard surface.

Just as the car got on hard surface, I turned the wheel and hid the car behind a series of Dempsey Dumpsters setting outside the Galley Entrance to the Chiefs Club. The Base Police drove buy, and did not even look where we had been, but it had been a close situation.

I jumped in the car, drove around the corner and picked up Howie, who for all practical purposes, had passed out. I got them all in the car and headed out. But to where?

I drove Commander Johnson home since he lived on base. When we got to his quarters, I got him out and helped him inside. I knocked on the door and Mrs. Johnson came to the door. She just opened it and stepped outside.

Oh, Leon, she said what have you been doing out with those enlisted men? as she turned to her daddy, a retired four stripper from the old Battle Ship Navy.

Four Stripper is a term used for a Navy Captain, and very senior Captains were often Commodores. The old gentleman smiled and nodded not saying a word.

Chief? he finally said as we placed Commander Johnson in his easy chair, What happened?

I think it must be the Hong Kong flu shots, Commodore, I said. We went to lunch and he didn’t feel well, so I brought him home.

Hmmm….. Chief, just how many Hong Kong Flu Shots did he have? asked Captain Jonathan Prebble Dahlgren, USN (retired) with a slight twinkle in his eye and an almost curled up corners on his lips.

About twelve, Sir was all I could say.

Thank you, Chief, Mrs. Johnson and I will carry on from here. as I was steered towards the door.

Very good, Sir as I walked on the battleship gray porch of the senior officer quarters.

Chief. Yes, Sir?

Some things never change do they? the Captain chuckled, as he looked over the railing of the porch towards the sedan in the drive. Howie, who was in the back seat, had his head back and his mouth open. Passed out. Sir?

When I was a young Gunnery Officer on the Old Indianapolis, I was invited to a social event by the Gunnery Department Chiefs…down in Panama…. took me three days to sober up…was in ‘hack and harness’ for thirty days over that…the only difference was they brought me back to the ship in a wheel barrow…those were the days as he signed and looked away to some unseen time. Yes, Sir

‘The Indianapolis was sunk in ‘45…last capital ship of the line to…."

Yes, Sir. I know. Going from Guam to Australia…my father was Chief Gunner’s Mate Daniel Grey, Chief Master At Arms…he survived…. sharks got the rest as we looked in each other’s eyes.

The old Captain nodded as I walked away and went to get in the car. A slight wave was exchanged from the porch as I backed out. But I still had to get Howie home.

I was still driving around the base with a dunk chief in the back of a Navy sedan that was borrowed from the staff motor pool for official business and now overdue. What now?

I then noticed the Commander’s hat with all the gold braid on the bill…called scrambled eggs…. lying on the seat beside me. I have an idea as they say in the cartoons.

I took the senior officer’s hat with scrambled eggs and put it on Howie s head. The dress whites of chiefs and officers appeared to be the same if you did not look too hard.

I reached over the rear seat and grabbed Howie and made his head flop forward. Slammed the hat on his head and threw a trip ticket log on his lap as if he was reading it. I eased up to the gate and the Marine popped a salute as we drove through. I bet they thought that this was a very senior officer to have a chief petty officer as a driver.

I drove to Coronado Avenue, made a right turn and away to Strand Housing we went. A few minutes later I pulled into Howie’s driveway and got him out.

Okay, now what have you assholes been up to? asked Joann, Howie’s gorgeous wife. A tall blonde and the most charming lady in the world…most of the time.

I think it is Hong Kong flu….

Bull shit, he had Hong Kong flu last week when you brought him home drunk…and the time before that is was Asian Dingy Fever or some shit…

Well, you ain’t gong to believe this….but….

You fucking A I ain’t going to believe this shit, Charlie Gray…get your ass out of here…

And with that I left. I backed out of the drive and went across the street to my house. Put on a new set of dress whites and went back to the base to return the car. You would be surprised how dirty one gets wrestling drunks.

The next morning Howie and I were standing tall before the man as they say. Commodore Johnson was a little upset. …and hung over.

I have never been so humiliated in my life…my father-in-law, Commodore Dahlgren, said not to say a word to either one of you…and I had to promise. Between him and my wife, they were on my ass all morning at breakfast…her daddy kept mentioning the old Indianapolis Gunnery Department…I don’t know what that means…he has been acting strange lately….. as he answered the ringing phone.

Yes, Sir Captain….(It was the Chief of Staff) …..I am sorry I missed the staff meeting …Yes, Sir….I know…..Yes, Sir……I became ill while eating lunch and had to go…..my hat?…..was in your car this morning……?….I will be right over…Yes, Sir!…..

Commander, before you leave could you sign a little routine document here concerning a training program…… as I handed him the prepared folder.

Yes, yes, yes…..here let me read it. as Commodore Johnson perused the pages. With a quick flick of the wrist he grabbed the U.S. Naval Academy pen off his desk and signed the documents.

Howie and I were still standing in his office when he ran across the street to the Chief of Staff’s Office.

Thank you, Sir! we said in unison. The jump was approved.

And we smiled.

Chapter 2

A blast of cold air rushed through the plane when the cargo door on the left rear was opened by Parachute Rigger Second Class Tommy Ricks, acting as Jump Master for this trip. I jerked to an awake position and Bo stood up too. I scratched his head as we turned on a north -south heading on an approach to Area W28, the jump zone.

O.K., Asshole. You said you could do it. Now lets see you do it. Tommy looked down at the dessert below and was talking into the Inter Communications System, a microphone and headset commonly called an ICS. He stepped back from the door and faced forward where we were. Tommy gestured to Stand-Up by raising his extended arms up with the palms up like the Choir Director at church would do. Next, he made a Hook-Up" gesture towards the wire or static line running from front to rear of the aircraft.

We had discussed everything at a plane side briefing prior to takeoff. We wanted to stand-up-hook-up in a minimum of time because we would have the dogs strapped to our chest. Their own weight pressing against our bodies would be somewhat uncomfortable to say the least. We anticipated that we might get some resistance from the dogs. Well, all except old Bo, I knew he would be okay.

We planned to place both arms on top of the dogs jump sling about shoulder high. This would help us hold the dog down when we jumped and the chute opened. This would also keep the dog from flying into our faces. Once the chute opened and we stabilized, we would unhook the dogs and let them ease down to the end of the bungee cord. We only wanted to be suspended in the air a total of one minute after the opening shock until we hit the ground. Once the chute opened, we would release the rocket fittings and slowly lower the dogs to the end of bungee cord, I thought.

I was worried about Cup Cake, Howie Muhler’s dog. She was a mean bitch and that was all there was to it. Jessie Long and Sam, Bo and I would be okay. And the dog we had to leave behind because he was vomiting would have been OK also, but we had to leave both the handler and dog on the ground. The handler, Frankie Roberts, who had written the whole plan in one day, was disappointed. Frankie understood he had to do it. He would be with Bart Duffy at the drop zone to help us with the dogs once we were on the ground, especially Cup Cake.

Before Tommy made a gesture to Stand in the Door several of Bart Duffy’s riggers helped us hook up the dogs to our harnesses. The handlers knelt down low and bent over. The Rigger would make sure the rocket fittings were secure and then the handlers would stand up straight with the dogs in the jump suits. The handlers then would hook up and walk to the door. Shuffle is a better word. Place there arms over the top of the dogs and jump, we thought.

All of this took place with a very short time, less than a minute. The idea at the briefing was that we would all stand and walk to the door and go out as a stick. All of this had to be timed so we would arrive over the jump zone when we marked on top.

Cup Cake decided enough was enough. She tried to eat the Rigger helping Howie, and even tried to eat Howie. Now remember, Howie is locked to this dog and her head was only a few inches from his face when locked in. She was trying to get out of the jump suit. Howie is Hooked up and the jump zone is coming up fast. It was briefed that for any reason the handler didn’t want to go that he would set down flat on the floor. This would be a signal that he was N.F.G., No Fucking Guts is what we teased each other about, but that was for safety reason.

Jump point was coming up fast. Howie was supposed to be number one in the stick with Jesse in the middle and me last.

With Cup Cake acting up, I thought that Howie would sit down and Tommy would unhook him. Howie was throwing his head back as best he could while trying to avoid Cup Cakes snapping jaws and push down on harness at the same time.

The alternating yellow lights started flashing, meaning Stand in the Door, and get ready. Tommy was trying to plug his ICS back in so he could talk to the pilots. It had come unhooked while Howie was dancing with Cup