Lone Survivor_ The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10 ( PDFDrive )

were adults and kids, all mixed up, and they were all yelling the same thing —
“Parachute! Parachute! Parachute! Dr. Marcus, come quick!”
I made my way outside, aching to high heaven all the way. I resolved to have
another shot of that opium soon as I returned, but for now it was all eyes upward,
straight at the clear blue, cloudless skies. What could we see? Nothing.
Whatever had landed was down, and I stood there trying to make them
understand I needed to know if there had been a man on the end of that
parachute, and if so, how many parachutes there had been. Was this a drop zone
for my buddies to come right in and get me?
The upshot of this was also nothing. The tribesmen simply could not
understand me. The kids, who I detected were the ones who had actually spotted
the parachute, or parachutes, were just as mystified. All the hours of study we
had done together had come to nothing.
There was a sudden conference, and most of the adults upped and left. I went
back in. They returned maybe fifteen minutes later and brought with them all my
gear, which they had hidden away from the eyes of the Taliban. They gave me
back my rifle and ammunition, my H-gear (that’s my harness), and in its pocket,
my PRC-148 intersquad radio, the one for which I’d lost the little microphone
earpiece. It still had its weakish battery and its still-operational emergency
beacon.
I was aware that if I grabbed the bull by the horns and went right outside and
let rip with this communications gear, I would once more be a living, breathing
distress signal, which the Americans might catch from a cruising helo. On the
other hand, the Taliban, hidden all around in the hills, could scarcely miss me. I
found this a bit of a dilemma.
But the rearmament guys of Sabray also brought me my laser and the
disposable camera. I grabbed my rifle and held it like you might caress a
returning lover. This was the weapon God had granted me. And, so far as I could
tell, still wanted me to have. We’d traveled a long way together, and I probably
deserved some kind of an award for mountain climbing, maybe the Grand Prix
Hindu Kush presented to Sherpa Marcus. Sorry, forget all that, I meant mountain
falling, the Grand Prix Hindu Crash, awarded unanimously to Sherpa Marcus the
Unsteady.
Outside, I put on my harnesss, locked and loaded the rifle, and prepared for
whatever the hell might await us. But with my harness back, I was not yet done
with the kids. That harness contained my notebook, and we had access to the
village ballpoint pen.