From his perch behind his commanding general’s seat Major Brad Underwood considered the subject. The idea that he would ever be called upon to choose between his core beliefs and his loyalty to the Army had never dawned upon him. He had always assumed that both he and great men like GO Thomas would always be on the same side. It was unsettling to this young officer to think that he could be called upon to march north, with an Army he so loved, to fight a man who stood for everything that he believed in. While other straphangers hung on every word and thought that their seniors were tossing back and forth, Brad Underwood turned his well-disciplined mind to a problem that he had no clear answer for yet.

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA • OCTOBER 16

It is a display of power that few Americans ever witness. It’s not meant to be a show of force. Nor is the daily ritual staged in order to convey a message to potential foes. It’s just PT, the Army’s acronym for physical training. Yet anyone who has participated in these morning excursions understands that it is more than a toughening drill. It is the only time during the day when the entire body of a combat division functions as one. It is the only time when the naked might of an airborne division, its soldiers, can be seen unencumbered by the high tech weapons and gadgets that make the modern American Army such a deadly foe.

The sounds, the image, even the smell of this collection of infantrymen, artillerymen, aviators, engineers, signal troops, staff officers, and combat commanders putting their bodies through the paces create a beast unlike any other. As with a creature in a science fiction novel, the individual pieces of this unique animal appear every morning as if by magic and assemble themselves. Then, guided by an unseen force, the animal begins to move. From the front of barracks and headquarters buildings all over Fort Bragg, the blocks that make up this combat division spill out into the streets and roads of the post. Slowly, they pick up a steady, methodical pace. Even on days when brigades and battalions do not form and run as units with their commanders and staffs at their head, the component parts of those organizations still merge together to create an enormous serpent that winds and twists its way through the predawn darkness. The rhythmic slapping of ten thousand pair of running shoes echoes off the silent buildings that line the streets. Cadence, called by senior sergeants, provides the heartbeat that keeps the twenty-thousand-legged beast moving forward, always forward, together and in step. To call this spectacle anything but awe inspiring would be to do disservice this holiest of holy airborne rituals.