"What am I doing here?" Rick thought to himself.
             Just yesterday morning he had gotten out of his warm bed. He had kissed his wife goodbye and told her that he would be home around lunch time. He had explained to her that, because it was the Christmas season, he only had to work a half-day schedule until
             Now, eighteen short hours later, he and one hundred and nineteen other paratroopers are packed like sardines in a military airplane bound for Panama. He has a parachute strapped on his back and is loaded down with so much equipment that he can hardly breath. This equipment, however, is different from what he has trained with over the last three years. This equipment is real. The bullets are real and so is the mission.
             "I can't believe this is really happening" he whispers to himself, for about the millionth time. He doesn't have to worry about anybody hearing him, though, for the whine of the aircraft's engines has pushed each man on the airplane into his own mind. The men are squeezed so tightly together that there is no hope of movement. The only light in the aircraft comes from the soft red glow of the emergency lights overhead.
             Rick has been sitting in the same position for over three hours. The weight of the backpack on his lap has cut off the circulation to his feet but there in no way to relieve that weight. He would like a drink of water but he can't reach either canteen on his hips. The only thing he can do is go over the last eighteen hours in his head again.
             It started off normal enough. He had gotten to his company and done the usual physical training. The rest of the morning, also, had gone as usual. At lunch time, however, things started to rapidly go crazy. He had returned from the chow hall expecting to be released for the rest of the day. Instead, he was hurried into the company breakroom, along with the rest of the artillery spotting teams, and told that they were being alerted for an ...