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B
REAKING AND
E
NTERING
W
e had a long break from war, but we were busy the whole time,
retraining and, in some cases, learning new skills. I went to a school
run by FBI agents and CIA and NSA officers. They taught me how
to do things like pick locks and steal cars. I loved it. The fact that it
was in New Orleans didn’t hurt, either.
Learning how to blend in and go undercover, I cultivated my
inner jazz musician and grew a goatee. Lock-picking was a
revelation. We worked on a variety of locks, and by the end of the
class I don’t think there was a lock that could have kept me or
anyone else in our class at bay. Stealing cars was a little harder, but
I got pretty good at that, too.
We were trained to wear cameras and eavesdropping devices
without getting caught. To prove that we could, we had to get the
devices into a strip club and return with (video) evidence that we’d
been there.
The sacrifices you make for your country . . .
I stole a car off Bourbon Street as part of my final. (I had to put
it back when we were done; as far as I know, the owner was none
the wiser.) Unfortunately, these are all perishable skills—I can still
pick a lock, but it’ll take me longer now. I’ll have to brush up if I
ever decide to go crooked.
A
mong our more normal rotations was a recertification class for
parachuting.
Jumping out of planes—or, I should say,
landing safely
after
jumping out of planes—is an important skill, but it’s a dangerous
one. Hell, I’ve heard it said the Army figures in combat, if they get
70 percent of the guys in a unit to land safely enough to rally and
fight, they’re doing well.
Think about that. A thousand guys—three hundred don’t make
it. Not a big deal to the Army.
Oh-
kay
.
I went to Fort Benning to train with the Army right after I first
became a SEAL. I guess I should have realized what I was in for on
the first day of school, when a soldier just ahead of me refused to
jump. We all stood there waiting—and thinking—while the
instructors tended to him.
I’m afraid of heights as it is, and this didn’t build my confidence.
Holy shit,
I wondered,
what’s he seeing that I’m not?
Being a SEAL, I had to make a good showing—or at least not
look like a wimp. Once he was taken out of the way, I closed my
eyes and plunged ahead.
It was on one of those early static jumps (jumps where the cord
is automatically pulled for you, a procedure usually used for
beginners) that I made the mistake of looking up to check my
canopy as I left the plane.
They tell you not to do that. I was wondering why when the
chute deployed. My tremendous sense of relief that I had a canopy
and wasn’t going to die was mitigated by the rope burns on both
sides of my face.
The reason they tell you not to look up is so that you don’t get
hit by the risers as they fly by your head when the chute opens.
Some things you learn the hard way.
And then there are night jumps. You can’t see the land coming.
You know you have to roll into PLFs—parachute landing falls—but
when?
I tell myself, the first time I feel something I’m going to roll.
The first . . . time . . .
the f-i-r-s-t
. . . !!
I think I banged my head every time I jumped at night.
I
will say I preferred freefall to static jumping. I’m not saying I
enjoyed
it, just that I liked it a lot better. Kind of like picking the
firing squad over being hanged.
In freefall, you came down a lot slower and had much more
control. I know there are all these videos of people doing stunts and
tricks and having a grand ol’ time doing HALO (high altitude, low
opening) jumps. There are none of me. I watch my wrist altimeter
the whole time. That chord is pulled the split-second I hit the right
altitude.
O
n my last jump with the Army, another jumper came right under
me as we descended. When that happens, the lower canopy can
“steal” the air beneath you. The result is . . . you fall faster than you
were falling.
The consequences can be pretty dramatic, depending on the
circumstances. In this case, I was seventy feet from the ground. I
ended up falling from there, and having a couple of tree branches
and the ground beat the crap out of me. I walked away with some
bumps and bruises and a few broken ribs.
Fortunately, it was the last jump of the school. My ribs and I
soldiered on, glad to be done.
O
f course, as bad as parachuting is, it beats spy-rigging. Spy-
rigging may look cool, but one wrong move and you can spin off in
Mexico. Or Canada. Or maybe even China.
Strangely, though, I like helos. During this workup, my platoon
worked with MH-6 Little Birds. Those are very small, very fast
scout-and-attack helicopters adapted for Special Operations work.
Our versions had benches fitted to each side; three SEALs can sit
on each bench.
I loved them.
True, I was scared to death getting on the damn thing. But once
the pilot took off and we were in the air, I was hooked. It was a
tremendous adrenaline rush—you’re low and fast. It’s awesome.
The momentum of the aircraft keeps you in place; you don’t even
feel any wind buffeting.
And hell—if you fall, you’ll never feel a thing.
T
he pilots who commanded those aircraft are among the best in the
world. They were all members of the 160th SOAR—the Special
Operations air wing, handpicked to work with spec warfare
personnel. There’s a difference, and it’s noticeable.
When you’re fast-roping from a chopper with a “regular” pilot,
you may find yourself at the wrong altitude, too high for the rope to
reach the ground. At that point, it’s too late to do anything about it
except grunt or groan as you hit the ground. A lot of pilots also have
trouble holding station—staying put long enough for you to get in
the right spot on the ground.
Not so with the guys from SOAR. Right place, first time, every
time. That rope drops, it’s where it belongs.
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