Post by BG Anne McKenna on Aug 26, 2017 9:11:55 GMT -5
note: thread begins a few hours following the events in "Alliance"
Can you remember, remember my name?
As I flow through your life
A thousand oceans I have flown
And cold spirits of ice
All my life I am the echo of your past (echo of your past)
I am returning the echo of a point in time
Distant faces shine
A thousand warriors I have known
And laughing as the spirits appear
All your, all your life shadows of another day
And if you hear me talking on the wind
You've got to understand we must remain
Perfect strangers.... - Perfect Strangers, Deep Purple
"Colonel, we're ten minutes out." Looking over, Colonel McKenna smiled at her radio operator, Sgt. de la Rocha and replied, "Ten minutes, huh?" shaking the cobwebs out of her head and looking at the rest of her command team, who'd been with her from West Point's very beginning: her radio operator - Sgt. Zach de la Rocha, who hailed from East Harlem and spoke most days like he was still walking the block back on 130th Street instead of wearing Army ACUs'.....her Designated Marksman, Cpl. Thomas Morello from Idaho Falls, who it was said could shoot the wings off a fly at 1,000 yards with only iron sights instead of an ACOG scope. Opposite the three of them were Specialists Thomas Commerford (Nevada, Mo.) and Bradley Wilk (Yuma, Arizona) , two of the roughest, toughest on-the-bounce troopers in the 1st Regiment whose sole job was to keep McKenna from being bothered by outside problems (officers above her notwithstanding)....sometimes, McKenna liked to joke at times, Frick and Frack sometimes succeeded.
It'd been a rather uneventful three-plus hour flight from Albany west to Detroit but as the distant cityscape of Metropolitan Detroit began to appear in the distance McKenna thought about the flight out and how uneventuful it had been - well, she mused, other than when we picked up that distant air-search radar out of Thunder Bay, prompting a southerly maneuver to stay as far away as possible figuring that if an ASR were still active, something worse could also be active. Reaching over for the internal headset, she plugged it in and spoke to the pilot. "Okay, go ahead and give me an orbit of the eastern half of Detroit. Begin your run at the RenCen, take us out to Eight Mile and then turn us west to Coleman Young," pausing to motion everyone inside the SH-60 to begin prepping for arrival. Taking the handset from de la Rocha, McKenna got on the horn to Captain Beloi to let him know what was going on; once that was done, she got back on the internals. "Once we arrive at Coleman Young, everyone else but myself and Captain Beloi's helicopters will remain there; our two helicopters will proceed across to Belle Isle."
Flying over the Detroit River passing the abandoned spires of the Renaissance Center to their west - its broken-out windows and gutted, fiery structure a testament to the horrors of the past four years in most of Detroit proper - the helicopters made their way above the broad, twelve-lane expanse once known as Woodward Avenue. Back in the day it'd been the dividing line between Detroit's two halves; now it served as the "Magic Line", the line of demarcation between Belle Isle to the east and the unknown to the west. "All units, be advised, we are now transiting over the city of Detroit," came the radio call from Seahawk 01 to all the other helicopters in the area; looking out the left-side of the chopper, McKenna could see long, long expanses of slums and broken-down buildings, areas to watch - and avoid - over time.
Reaching the junction where the Magic Line hit Eight Mile Road, the choppers began a gentle - well, gentle by combat standards - bank to the east, using Eight Mile as a guide. "Go ahead and contact Coleman Young to let them know we're inbound to their location," McKenna said, doing one last check of her M4 carbine as they drew closer to the airport, "I don't want us getting shot as we get to them over there...."
Can you remember, remember my name?
As I flow through your life
A thousand oceans I have flown
And cold spirits of ice
All my life I am the echo of your past (echo of your past)
I am returning the echo of a point in time
Distant faces shine
A thousand warriors I have known
And laughing as the spirits appear
All your, all your life shadows of another day
And if you hear me talking on the wind
You've got to understand we must remain
Perfect strangers.... - Perfect Strangers, Deep Purple
"Colonel, we're ten minutes out." Looking over, Colonel McKenna smiled at her radio operator, Sgt. de la Rocha and replied, "Ten minutes, huh?" shaking the cobwebs out of her head and looking at the rest of her command team, who'd been with her from West Point's very beginning: her radio operator - Sgt. Zach de la Rocha, who hailed from East Harlem and spoke most days like he was still walking the block back on 130th Street instead of wearing Army ACUs'.....her Designated Marksman, Cpl. Thomas Morello from Idaho Falls, who it was said could shoot the wings off a fly at 1,000 yards with only iron sights instead of an ACOG scope. Opposite the three of them were Specialists Thomas Commerford (Nevada, Mo.) and Bradley Wilk (Yuma, Arizona) , two of the roughest, toughest on-the-bounce troopers in the 1st Regiment whose sole job was to keep McKenna from being bothered by outside problems (officers above her notwithstanding)....sometimes, McKenna liked to joke at times, Frick and Frack sometimes succeeded.
It'd been a rather uneventful three-plus hour flight from Albany west to Detroit but as the distant cityscape of Metropolitan Detroit began to appear in the distance McKenna thought about the flight out and how uneventuful it had been - well, she mused, other than when we picked up that distant air-search radar out of Thunder Bay, prompting a southerly maneuver to stay as far away as possible figuring that if an ASR were still active, something worse could also be active. Reaching over for the internal headset, she plugged it in and spoke to the pilot. "Okay, go ahead and give me an orbit of the eastern half of Detroit. Begin your run at the RenCen, take us out to Eight Mile and then turn us west to Coleman Young," pausing to motion everyone inside the SH-60 to begin prepping for arrival. Taking the handset from de la Rocha, McKenna got on the horn to Captain Beloi to let him know what was going on; once that was done, she got back on the internals. "Once we arrive at Coleman Young, everyone else but myself and Captain Beloi's helicopters will remain there; our two helicopters will proceed across to Belle Isle."
Flying over the Detroit River passing the abandoned spires of the Renaissance Center to their west - its broken-out windows and gutted, fiery structure a testament to the horrors of the past four years in most of Detroit proper - the helicopters made their way above the broad, twelve-lane expanse once known as Woodward Avenue. Back in the day it'd been the dividing line between Detroit's two halves; now it served as the "Magic Line", the line of demarcation between Belle Isle to the east and the unknown to the west. "All units, be advised, we are now transiting over the city of Detroit," came the radio call from Seahawk 01 to all the other helicopters in the area; looking out the left-side of the chopper, McKenna could see long, long expanses of slums and broken-down buildings, areas to watch - and avoid - over time.
Reaching the junction where the Magic Line hit Eight Mile Road, the choppers began a gentle - well, gentle by combat standards - bank to the east, using Eight Mile as a guide. "Go ahead and contact Coleman Young to let them know we're inbound to their location," McKenna said, doing one last check of her M4 carbine as they drew closer to the airport, "I don't want us getting shot as we get to them over there...."
A strand of silver hanging through the sky
Touching more than you see
The voice of ages in your mind
Is aching with the dead of the night
Precious life (your tears are lost in falling rain)
And if you hear me talking on the wind
You've got to understand
We must remain
Perfect Strangers....
Touching more than you see
The voice of ages in your mind
Is aching with the dead of the night
Precious life (your tears are lost in falling rain)
And if you hear me talking on the wind
You've got to understand
We must remain
Perfect Strangers....