As if a switch had been hit, all thoughts of future glory disappeared from King’s mind. In their stead the plan his company was about to execute quickly played out. 1st and 2nd Platoons were with him on the transport using Global 901’s flight plan. They would hit the ground, form up, and rush the National Guard facilities where the bulk of Idaho’s combat vehicles were stored. The rest of the company, led by the XO with 3rd Platoon would follow two minutes later in a C-141 squawking out the identification code for a cargo jet. They would land farther to the east, form up, and overrun the small ammo storage site located there. Without stopping, 3rd Platoon would then continue on to secure the AH-64 attack helicopters and A-10s that were the pride of the Idaho National Guard. When all initial objectives were in hand and both assault groups had linked up, the entire company would go forward and secure those sites and facilities that would permit the rest of the battalion, now coming on fast, to land.

There was no time left for King to finish out his review of the operation. The instant the red light over the C-141’s open jump door blinked off and was replaced by a flashing green glow, the jump master slapped King’s arm. “GO!”

Without thought or hesitation Andrew King grabbed the side of his reserve, tucked his chin into his chest, and stuck his left foot out into the howling stream of wind that was screaming down the side of the Air Force transport at better than two hundred knots an hour. In a flash he was gone, followed by the paratroopers of 1st and 2nd Platoons.

The British were on their way.

In an open bay, under the combined lights of the maintenance shed and motor pool, Master Sergeant Glenn Sours sat on the edge of an M-1 turret and looked down at the tank’s exposed engine. He was tired. Two dejected mechanics stood at the rear of the vehicle with their heads hung low and their hands shoved into the pockets of their greasy coveralls. Like the great Sphinx, the tank sat there silent and unwilling to yield up the secret of its mechanical problem.

Pulling a rag from his pocket, Sours wiped his hands without taking his eyes off the engine. He hated to admit defeat. He hated to throw his hands up, turn his back, and walk away from a problem. Yet he knew there were times when all his years of experience, all his intuitiveness when it came to things mechanical, could not overcome a problem that was not yet ready to be resolved. Balling up the rag as tightly as he could, Sours threw it at the engine below him in a final fit of rage. And like his efforts to date, his ineffectual missile unraveled in flight and fluttered harmlessly down upon the engine.