Free of his harness and with rifle in hand, Andrew King looked about and took in everything that was going on around him. While the last of his soldiers to hit the ground were still wrestling with their collapsing parachutes, others were already flinging their grossly overweight rucksacks onto their backs or trotting over to where their squad leader stood waving his hand over his head. As best he could see no one seemed to be injured or unable to get up. That, King told himself, was a blessing. A nagging problem that was as old as airborne warfare itself was the terrible fact that the mere act of landing often took its toll. Though usually only sprained ankles or an occasional broken bone, a casualty, regardless of what caused it, was still a casualty.

“1st Platoon,” a voice bellowed, “Over here, now.” Locating the source of that order, King hoisted his own ruck up and headed in that direction. He would initially go with the 1st Platoon as they made their sweep of the motor pools. From there King planned on moving over to 2nd Platoon, whose primary objective was Gowen Field’s headquarters and admin building located on West Guard Street. Since there was only a small chance that the Adjutant General of the state was there, King considered the task of securing the armored combat vehicles of greater importance. Hence, he placed himself where he felt the critical blow would be made. Denied the means of waging war, a general and his staff would be useless.

King was better than halfway to where the platoon leader of the 1st platoon stood surrounded by a growing number of men when a vaguely familiar sound broke the otherwise still morning air. Instinctively Andrew King’s ears perked up. Even before his conscious mind was able to sort out what was generating the high pitched whine that appeared to be growing closer, King’s subconscious had already raised the alarm and quickened his pace from a slow trot to a steady run.