Operation Naji: Sean's File, #1

Chapter 1: Sense of Direction

Little Germany

Manhattan, New York City

April 17, 1987

Nearly every still-living soul who had made an appearance in his nineteen years attended. The people who had always been there were here again now. He remembered them from the times when he was a small child, and then a lanky kid, before growing into whatever he was now. A man, he thought. I’m supposed to be a man. They were all here, except for the one whom he missed the most. But for the empty shell left behind, the woman was gone.

Goddammit, kid. I’m sorry. One of those men he had known all his life placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, even though for his paternal uncle it was now a reach upward instead of down.

"Ralph, for God’s sake, it’s a funeral. Will you watch your language?" Aunt Emma stood next to him, somber and dressed in black, as were most of the mourners.

Yeah, Em, sorry, his uncle said. Can we do anything for ya, Danny Sean? the man asked him.

Daniel Sean Ritter felt as if he really needed to get this part over with before he broke down right in front of them all. I’ll be OK. Things are … tough, he replied. He was damn near twenty years old. It meant he was supposed to be a man. He was not going to cry in public. Not even here, Ma, he resolved.

You got to let it out, honey, Emma encouraged her nephew. It’s not healthy. You need to grieve just like everyone else.

I will. Just not now, the young man insisted. "Things to do. I gotta do ‘em now."

Em’s right, boy. Men are allowed. Shit, my sergeant said so in the Ardennes after the Germans hit us bad. ‘Men are allowed tears for family and comrades-in-arms,’ he said. He lined us all up in the snow to hear it too. Nobody was gonna tell Sarge he was a pussy either.

Aunt Emma actually hit her husband on the arm before she shook her head and moved off to commiserate with some of the other women in the vestibule of St. Mark’s. The man followed her with his eyes, and his hands spread wide. Their nephew could almost hear the unspoken What? What did I say?

The young man offered assurance to his uncle. "Thanks, Ralph. I’ll get to it. I ain’t that tough,"

"Kid, what you gonna do now? Your mom’s gone. Ralph glanced toward the casket. Tough lady. Lung cancer killed her, but it never beat her, yanno? It’s why your dad—God rest his soul—married her in the first place. That was back in the Hell’s Kitchen days."

I know, I know. I heard more’n once. I dunno what I’m gonna do yet.

"You want my advice? Get out of here, Danny Sean. Someone needs to put you to work. You hang around home all day, lifting weights and running up and down the Island. You spend all night out with your buddies and their bullshit. A kid your size is gonna kill somebody one of these nights, and then you’ll be done. Don’t care how big ya are, you’ll come out of prison with an asshole the size of a Chinaman’s sleeve."

"Ralph, Jesus, please," he begged.

Sorry, kid. His uncle looked very sad. They stood together for a short while before the older man continued. Ever think about the military?

Think they’ll make a man out of me? Daniel Sean asked with a hint of a smile.

"You are a man now, Danny. They’ll make you a better one. It’s what they do. And once you’re in they’ll give you a purpose, if you get your mind right. It’s been all about you ‘til now—they’ll change that, believe you me. His uncle paused again. You got what it takes, kid. Shit … you’re half Italian and a quarter each Irish and German. Half of you anyway will never stop fighting even once you know you’re dead."

The man seemed to withdraw a bit, his appearance mellowing into a more thoughtful expression than the kid was used to seeing on his face. "There’s more to this life than you, though. You want to take my advice, go see what I mean."

The words sunk in, right to the middle of his mind. God, he could be right, the nineteen-year-old thought. Anything has to beat hangin’ around here. He had thought of the streets in this neighborhood as his home all his life. Now, he knew, home was just a starting point for everything happening afterward. He realized the first portion of his life was over. It stood as a sobering reality.

They were at the cemetery not long afterward, and the final words and prayers had concluded. Some of Melba Maria Ritter’s relatives were gone already after giving her son a few kind words.

Danny Sean himself showed no interest in leaving. The last of the people who loved Melba lingered, saying good-bye to her one by one so the waiting grounds crew could finish the work of laying a good woman down to her final rest.

Ten years to the day after she lost Sean. Maybe she hung on because she wanted it that way? I wouldn’t doubt it, Emma wondered in a barely audible voice as she looked at the waiting, open grave.

Nobody would. Nobody who knew her, another woman, even more gray and matronly, agreed.

The priest stopped by, face saddened but his chin high. Ladies, thank ye for being here for Mrs. Ritter. Can I do anything for ye? the godly Irish man, his hair long since faded from red to white, asked them both.

Can you say a prayer or two for the boy, Father Kyle? He’s going to need them, Aunt Emma pleaded.

I’ll be happy to, ma’am, the padre confirmed. He looked at the young man, still standing graveside, staring at his mother’s casket. He had not yet outgrown the suit he wore, but it was a near thing.

Six feet and all muscle, Daniel Sean Ritter had to be over two-hundred pounds in his boxers, the padre thought. The youth’s hair was black and hung down to his wide shoulders, and the knuckles on the hands hanging at his sides carried the callus of a street fighter.

Have you talked to him, Father? Emma asked, hopefulness in her voice.

I tried just now. He’s not ready—God needs to do some work on him first, Emma, he said with a sad tone. Everything in His good time. Don’t ye worry about him. You knew his mother, after all.

The gray-haired woman fretted, "Yes, Father, but we do worry anyway."

"And it will extend yer life not a day, ladies. Love him, but don’t ye worry. Have ye seen his eyes? They’re not dead yet. There’s a soul there. It will blossom in its own time, and the Good Lord’s work is a lifetime. Take my word and wait to see."

Emma nodded, tearing up again. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "God bless you in your work, Father."

And ye in your grief, ladies. My deepest condolences to ye both. The man moved on to more of those who could not yet tear themselves away.

Aunt Emma took the arm of her companion. The two of them began to move toward the vehicles.

Daniel Sean Ritter realized a while ago his hands had clenched into fists. He let them open and relax. He was pissed, but it did not change anything. She was gone. He stood looking down at the lid of his mother’s casket, missing her and thinking how wrong it was she was now absent from his life.

The priest had told him they had not laid his mother to rest today—merely what she left behind on her journey. Some people need to hear that kind of thing, I guess. Probably just a crock of shit.

He remembered the same spiel when Pop died. Danny Sean was nine then, and people had been full of encouraging words for a boy who had no clue what the hell had just happened to his world.

We found out pretty quick, didn’t we, Ma. Melba Ritter went to work and raised her boy the rest of the way on her own. There had been a lot of pain … and more deprivation than either of them had ever wanted.

It was a tough life for a kid who spent too much time on the street. He had learned bullies preyed on weakness the hard way, so he came to despise any infirmity he discovered in himself. Daniel Sean Ritter had spent the last ten years beating it out of his body and sometimes out of the bodies of others who screwed with him. The street, he thought, can be a gym too sometimes.

He got stronger as she got weaker; then, when she finally started coughing up blood, her son had taken her to the docs. It was the day they both learned the end was in sight. Daniel Sean Ritter knew he would never touch a cigarette again.

We reached your end, but not mine, his defiant mind thought. What the fuck am I supposed to do now, Ma? What do I even matter anymore?

The words imbedded in Danny Sean’s mind by his uncle came back. I got a purpose. I gotta find out what. I gotta find out where. I’ve had it with this shit.

’Bye, Ma, he whispered. I think I’m gonna have to leave you now. Though he barely uttered the words, they still were almost too much for him to produce. He was not going to cry. Not here. Not yet.

Early the next morning—before the uncharacteristic alarm he had set even sounded—Danny Sean was wide-awake. Beginning his Wednesday by staring at the cracked plaster of his bedroom ceiling, he tried to determine the validity of the plans rolling through his mind. His mother had actually been gone from the apartment for a few weeks, but it was undeniable this morning that the previously missing element of the place was now a permanent emptiness.

The worn wallpaper and the meager possessions she had accumulated over the course of what he now knew to be a lifetime seemed to cry out for her. She was gone. He accepted it now. He needed to get used to living with the reality she would never be back.

As a first order of business, the nineteen-year-old pulled on his sweats and took a run because he needed one, drenching himself in perspiration as the sun started its climb. Five miles later, he turned to walk it off on the way back home, taking time to look at the streets of his neighborhood as he paced.

There’s a hell of a lot of other places in the world to see, and most of them are probably better than this one, he decided. Am I really gonna do this?

The question stayed with him until he was back in the walk-up, having showered and shaved for the second time in two days. He flipped through the Yellow Pages though he did not know where to look.

Military recruiters? Nope. U.S. Army—see Armed Forces Recruiting. Shit, there they are. He picked up a Bic pen and wrote down the addresses on a slip of scratch paper. He would take a longer-than-usual ride on the subway, but he did not have anything else to do today. I might as well go see what the buzz cuts got to say.

By the end of the afternoon, things were looking as if it was going to end up being a bullshit day. The USAF recruitment center was in a storefront in the shopping district Ma had gone to sometimes. She had dragged him along more than once, so it kind of made the place his turf. He walked in the door, looking around. It was finally his last stop before he headed home.

Ritter had ridden the subway up to see the U.S. Army sergeant to whom he had talked on the phone. The man had lots of starch, ribbons, and promises. It was a great place to start, he said. Careers, careers—they were all the guy talked about. The world would be his friggin’ oyster once they finished with him. Six years of his life were all Sergeant Rock wanted in return. Danny Sean had walked out of there unimpressed and knowing green was not his color.

Or Navy blue, for that matter. See the world my ass, he had thought. He figured out before the Chief was done that most of what he would see would be battleship gray, and it would be on the inside of one of those ships making it back to dock on the Island every once in a while. Those sailors went ape-shit every time Fleet Week came around, and Ritter had finally figured out why. It’s called cabin fever for a reason.

The Marines had been a trip. Meat eaters, those guys. They kill it themselves and don’t even bother cooking it. They just rip a piece off with their teeth and growl at the other Jarheads. Damn right, he would end up with dirt in his teeth. A Marine loved the feeling, another big sergeant told him. If you want to learn a trade, join the Army. If you want to travel the world, join the Navy. You want to fight, boy, join the U.S. Marine Corps! Two words had popped into Danny Sean’s mind then:  cannon fodder.

Might as well get this last stop over with and go get some food, he thought, glum and hungry. The guy in here was as spotless as the others, crisp and ironed. He’s a showpiece, just like everyone else I talked to today. Covered with ribbons and insignia. He has shoes you can see your reflection well enough to comb your hair in. Ritter readied himself for another storefront sales pitch.

The man rose. Four stripes on his sleeve. Some kind of sergeant again, Danny Sean thought. The recruiter came over to him as Ritter perused the racks of literature on the wall. There were a few dozen pamphlets, all seemingly the same, each with bold text and sharp color photography. With so much presentation, nothing he saw stood out.

Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you? the staff sergeant asked his prospect.

Thinking about the Air Force. Came to check it out.

The noncom nodded. Good choice. Lots of directions to go. What do you want to do in the service?

Not sure. What you got?

The sergeant looked over the brochures with him. Got your diploma?

Yeah, man, I graduated. Two years ago next month.

What have you been doing since then? the recruiter asked him.

Wasting my goddamn time. This would be all working on planes, wouldn’t it?

The man shook his head and smiled. There’s a lot more to us than that. It takes hundreds of roles to staff any branch of the Armed Forces, and the Air Force is as diverse as any of the others. Been talking to the other branches?

Ritter snorted. Yeah. Not impressed so far, really.

Why not, if I can ask? the sergeant inquired while lifting an eyebrow.

Everyone was so damn sure they are perfect for me. Every one of them wanted to make me feel like a hero. I ain’t stupid. It’s a job, not an adventure.

It’s a job, the Air Force guy agreed. A lot of young men check out the other services and then come here when they get turned off. USAF is different. Most of the time, it’s our officers who do the actual fighting. Most of our positions are support roles, not combat—believe me, we have those too—and some of our recruits feel more secure enlisting knowing so.

Man, I’m not afraid of fighting. I just want to know the Air Force isn’t going to waste my life. I’d want the worst training you got.

The recruiter smirked. Really? The worst we got? That’s what you want?

You know it, man.

Reaching out to the rack, the sergeant pulled up a pamphlet featuring an airman covered in green face paint, packing gear and looking dangerous. "Ever hear of USAF Pararescue? It’s the worst training anyone’s got."

Nope.

Read this, then, and come back to see me if you’re really interested. We won’t waste your life, sir … if you’ve got what it takes.

Ritter flipped open the brochure. Parachutes. Guns. Pulling the other guy’s ass out of harm’s way. He realized he no longer felt bored. "I’ll do it, then, thanks … I mean, thank you, sir," Ritter added.

"I’m not a sir, I’m a sergeant. I work for a living … but you’re very welcome, sir, the Air Force sergeant said, smiling. We’ll see you tomorrow."

Ritter smiled back and nodded, turning for the door. Yeah. You just might.

Friday morning in Queens, Ralph Ritter settled down to a cup of coffee and the morning paper while Emma clattered the breakfast pans in the kitchen. He wondered why he even bothered reading the news anymore. The world was full of idiots, and they seemed to be the only ones who ever got any of the attention.

He had been retired from the docks for a year now but kept the same schedule he had all his working life. No sleeping in, not yet. That shit is for pussies and old people.

Ralph rose at the knock on the door. It was the kid’s cadence, and the shadow falling on the window was his size. Sure enough, Danny Sean stood there wearing a jean jacket with a duffel bag on his shoulder. The kid had a crooked grin on his face.

Mornin’ bud. Whatcha doin’ across the river this early?

Gotta catch a bus in a couple hours, man. Goin’ to Texas. Wanted you and Em to have these. He held out his hand with Melba’s key ring. Everything belongs to you guys. I won’t be back for a while. You both been there for me, ya know? the kid said. He reached inside his jacket and handed over an envelope. You guys are the executors for her will now too. I declined. Here’s the paperwork.

Kid, whaddid ya do?

Air Force, sir. I’m gonna learn to parachute jump.

Choking up as his wife joined them, Ralph Ritter opened up his arms. His nephew came in for the hug.

Emma joined them, crying. Oh, Danny Sean, we’re so proud of you.

What she said, kid. Make us proud.

His eyes were glistening when they let him go. "I gotta run. Can’t miss my bus. I am gonna miss you guys."

Go, kid. Best thing I’ve seen you do yet, his uncle managed, tearing up as well.

It almost got to the boy. Nodding, he accepted a last kiss on the cheek from his aunt. He looked at both of them and grinned, and then he turned and headed back to the cab waiting for him. One last wave from the back seat and the checkered vehicle disappeared down the quiet Edgemere street.

Will he be OK? Emma wanted to know.

Oh, shit yeah. He’ll be everything he can. They’ll make sure, Ralph Ritter posited. They had just watched a boy become a man.

Lackland AFB

San Antonio, Texas

One year later

The training cadre and the candidates had all been on the move for more than twenty-one hours. The close of Extended Training Day was finally at hand. An ordinary person would have called the U.S. Air Force training instructor tired. The man knew, however, in comparison to the pain of the fifteen candidates in front of him, his own fatigue would not have even registered.

He watched them lower the twelve hundred-pound log down to their shoulders one last time and make the battle cry sounding more vigorous than even they expected. They were off the bus that had returned them from the hell-field of the training grounds.

They stood again in front of the classroom building. It was the tenth rep. They had to be thinking it must be over. The instructor let them stand there for a bare second to wonder if more log lifts were coming. It had been such a second, he remembered from his own training, seeming as if it would last longer than any other in his life.

"Down team … down!" he ordered.

Gently and properly, they lowered the log to rest on its supporting blocks, knowing better by now. He pointed toward the door. Without hesitation, they dropped their hands to the pavement and bear-crawled inside. There were fifteen of them left, and it meant they were the toughest class in a while.

Five weeks ago, though, there had been one hundred and twenty. In the interim, the cadre had watched ninety of them lose the will to continue. Nearly a dozen more suffered training injuries but would be allowed to return and try again later if they so desired.

The instructor himself watched some of those last eleven drown and revive. He and his fellow Pararescue veterans, whose responsibility it was to screen the program’s candidates, pulled them from the pool; the candidates had passed out underwater after stubbornly refusing to give in to their body’s desire for oxygen.

All told, nineteen had made it to Extended Training Day. Over the course of the last twenty-one hellish hours, the instructor and his colleagues had washed out four more for training failures. The ones who remained would have the best shot at surviving their future duties.

The instructor again recalled his own ETD, a surreal number of years in his past. He thought about the myriad experiences from his tours of duty. Passing his own test had enabled them.

More trials would come for some of these airmen, maybe even worse than the ones he had seen after he pinned the Pararescue badge onto the flash of his own beret. He had done his best to make sure they were the ones who could handle challenges the trainees still were not able to imagine. Not even now. Their instructor turned to follow them inside.

"It is my duty as a Pararescue to save lives and to aid the injured! I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts! These things I do, that others may live!"

Their voices rang out as they recited the Creed. After twenty-one hours of torture, every one of the airmen sounded stronger than could be expected of any other human being in similar circumstances. The cadre had weeded candidates out mercilessly because young men such as these would serve a purpose in war, and war was the most unforgiving environment of all.

Team, take … seat!

"Hooyah!"

Like his fellows, the instructor had cleaned up in record time and now stood at the head of the class in an unadorned yet immaculate Battle Dress Uniform, wearing his maroon beret. This moment always made him proud. He showed it only with his eyes. It is 0022. It is a new day. Extended Training Day is over. You are no longer candidates. You are now trainees. You have proven yourselves worthy.

He felt as physically wasted as he could ever remember. The muscles of his body had never burned like this, and his limbs had never hurt in the joints before. Staring at the instructor, Airman Daniel Sean Ritter sat with a blue ascot perfectly positioned on the table in front of him, as an identical one did for all the others.

Not one of them had yet reached for the prize. No one dared; the order directing him to do so had not come. His rational mind said it was over, but his older, deeper consciousness told him it could all be a ruse, and another training exercise could be on the way.

Earlier in ETD, the instructors had lulled the candidates onto a false summit more than once, and he watched some of his classmates nearly break under the strain. He himself almost broke, but somehow kept going each time. His exhaustion had melted into near euphoria as he realized he was still doing everything they ordered him to do. I made it through yesterday. God, I must be able to do anything now.

His prior life—everything and everyone who played a role in bringing him to this moment—was running through his mind. The instructors, one by one, told the group how surviving this day would prepare them for the challenges service as a Pararescue Jumper could present. They had proven their character, another of the cadre was telling them now. Character was the strength that would allow them to bring the fallen back home, even in the heat of battle, even through deadly danger.

Character, Ritter’s mother had said, was the reason she worked instead of going on public assistance when Pop had died. It was the reason she raised her