Rusty Quill Presents

Written by K.C. Welland

Specialist Anthony Robbins, Second Battalion 135th A Company, Wolfpack, Colorado Army National Guard, date of incident, December 4th, 0600.

We got scrambled and sent out to check the flight path of one of our shinnooks that lost contact after a special might op.

It left Long Beach and from what I was told, it might have run out of fuel.

Whatever happened, we were pushed out in a damn hurry. Too fast, if you ask me.

As crew chief of my Black Hawk, I'm responsible for her. And in this weather, she can act funny.

It was me as a door gunner and four other soldiers, some medical who just got thrown in right before liftoff.

Shit, it was cold that morning.

It's freezing in here. First time? One of these? Yeah. Carl Thomas. What? Carl Thomas.

Screw it. Here. Put the helmet on.

Can you hear me now? Yeah, yeah. What were you saying?

Should we be talking on this? The pilots can hear us.

Ah, we're not bothering them. What's up? Yeah, we don't fucking care.

I was just saying my name. Carl Thomas. Oh, Anthony Robbins.

Tony Robbins? Like the self-help guy? No, not him. What do I look like him? Oh, we got dim time. I swear. I should kick your ass.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to bother you with that.

I'm just messing with you. You asshole. Oh, hey, check out the treeline on the right.

Moving there.

No, never mind, that's nothing. All right, heading back to the flight path.

So what do you know about this mess? They were taking someone important back for surgery and lost contact.

Irwin radioed in with the warning that they could have run out of fuel or have a fighter outside hitching a ride.

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