Nathan looked at the soldier, trying to decide if it was best to tell him what he actually thought, or simply regurgitate the party line that King had passed on during his briefing of the company. But before he could, one of the troopers who had been displaced by Wahler threw his two cents in. “Hell, yes,” he shouted above the steady drone of the jet engines. “They’re weekend warriors, for Christ sakes. There’ll not be a clean pair of underwear in Boise when we hit the ground.”

Turning his attention to this confident soldier, Nathan listened as the man went on.

“Listen, I’ve seen those good ole boys train. I drove the battalion commander this past summer when he and some of the officers went to evaluate a Guard unit at summer camp. Given detailed directions, those yahoos couldn’t open a case of MREs without the help of the regular Army.”

“They’re not going to be serving us chow when we get there,” the soldier next to Nathan reminded his friend.

Frustrated by his companion’s rebuke, the trooper across from them ignored the comment. “All I’m trying to say,” he went on, “is that even if they wanted to they’re not going to be able to stop us. If anything they’ll do more damage to each other if they choose to resist.”

Screwing his face into a blank expression, the soldier next to Nathan came back with a response made popular by an old Star Trek movie: “Resistance is futile.”

Angered, the soldier across the way gave his companion the finger. “Up yours,” he said, then turned away as he tried to settle himself into a comfortable position again.

With this debate closed Nathan looked over at the man next to him, hoping that the young soldier had forgotten why he had brought the subject up in the first place. The trooper didn’t seem at all interested in continuing the discussion. Instead he folded his arms over his own reserve parachute, and let his head go back until it came to rest against the high backed nylon seat. Nathan decided to follow suit. It would be a busy morning, he told himself. With nothing to do now but wait till the pilot flashed the ten minute warning, he decided go back to sleep.

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

GOWEN FIELD, BOISE, IDAHO JUST PRIOR TO DAWN, OCTOBER 31

Off to the east the sun was starting its slow, tortuous ascent. For Chester West, on duty at post number four, the sun’s appearance that morning would come none too soon. Standing upright, he stomped his feet and rubbed his arms in an effort to warm up. From a dark corner of the pit a woman’s voice, interrupted by a cough brought on by the early morning chill, called out. “Quit blundering about like a puppy with a bladder problem. You’re keeping us awake.”

“I’m cold,” West whined.