Guardian Angel: Life and Death Adventures with Pararescue, the World's Most Powerful Commando Rescue Force

by William F. Sine

Overview

US Air Force Pararescue is the most skillful and capable rescue force in the world, taking on some of the most dangerous rescue missions imaginable. PJs (short for para-jumpers), are members of an elite unit whose commando skills are so wide-reaching they often seem like something out of science fiction. They routinely tackle perilous operations that are beyond the capabilities of other rescue organizations, and sometimes dare the seemingly impossible. Since their inception in 1947, PJs have saved more than thirty thousand lives. They can pluck near-frozen climbers off jagged mountaintops and recover shot-down jet pilots stranded deep in hostile territory. In the dead of night, the PJs parachute into ominous, black, twenty-foot-tall waves to save distressed seamen, and they brave the cruelest and most desolate deserts to recover victims. US Air Force pararescuemen have played a prominent role in every armed conflict since the Korean War, rescuing thousands of soldiers from behind enemy lines. Guardian Angel provides a rare glimpse at a PJ’s mind-blowing adventures. You follow Sgt. Sine’s trek across exotic lands and share his encounters with mysterious cultures. Learn what it takes to lower from a helicopter onto the slippery decks of storm-tossed ships to rescue dying sailors. Feel what it’s like to be caught in the middle of a bomb blast so powerful that it tears high-rise buildings in half, and flattens armored vehicles hundreds of yards away. Soar high above towering jungle trees and experience the danger of swinging on a slim cable below a helicopter, while performing a mid-air rescue of a pilot, dangling from his chute a hundred feet above a mountain slope. Go to war in Afghanistan and parachute onto a nocturnal battlefield, surrounded by land mines, to help a mortally wounded soldier. This is a deadly serious business: When things go wrong, they can go terribly wrong. Aircraft crash into mountainsides, killing all onboard, while some PJs live through horrendous helicopter crashes only to struggle with freezing temperatures, snapped limbs and torn flesh in a desperate fight for survival. This book presents true stories of uncommon courage told from the perspective of the actual men in the arena. PJs belong to an exclusive brotherhood and forge unbreakable bonds of loyalty, commitment, and sacrifice. They do these things for their country, to protect their brothers in arms, and to honor their motto: “That Others May Live.”

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781480406537
Publisher:	Casemate Publishers
Publication date:	04/02/2013
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	256
Sales rank:	79,394
File size:	8 MB

About the Author

Senior Master Sergeant Bill Sine entered the US Air Force after graduating from high school in 1975. He immediately volunteered for pararescue duty and completed the rigorous training in 1976. Sgt. Sine has more than 2,500 flying hours and is an accomplished military scuba diver, mountain-rescue instructor, and confine-space and structural-collapse technician. He retired from active duty in 2003 after twenty-eight years of distinguished service. Sgt. Sine’s decorations include a Distinguished Flying Cross. In 2005, he returned to the PJ community to become the first PJ instructor in history. He currently serves as the assistant director of pperations at the Pararescue and Combat Rescue Officer School, Kirtland Air Force Base, New Mexico.       

Read an Excerpt

Guardian Angel

Life and Death Adventures with Pararescue, the World's Most Powerful Commando Rescue Force

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By William F. Sine

Casemate Publishing

Copyright © 2012 William F. Sine
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0653-7

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CHAPTER 1

INTO THE VALLEY

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

—Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken"

HELMAND VALLEY, AFGHANISTAN, 16 FEBRUARY 2002

A huge military plane speeds through the night. I stand inside with my legs braced wide, weighed down with combat gear. My attention is laser focused on the ramp and door at the tail end of the plane. I am about to lead my pararescue team on a desperate rescue mission, a night parachute jump into enemy territory. My mouth is as dry as the desert thirty-five hundred feet below. We're wearing state-of-the-art military parachutes. Underneath our parachutes, our tactical vests contain thirty pounds of ammunition, hand grenades, and fighting gear. Massive rucksacks snap to the front of our parachute harnesses with quick-release connectors and hang almost to the ground, making it awkward to walk. Each rucksack contains eighty pounds of equipment including night vision goggles, medical supplies, and satellite radios. We have M4 assault rifles strapped to our sides, updated versions of the M16 of Vietnam War fame, fitted with powerful grenade launchers and laser sights. All told, each man is burdened with nearly one hundred and fifty pounds of parachutes and combat gear.

I am a pararescue team leader flying in an HC-130 Hercules, a large four-engine cargo plane reengineered to conduct combat rescue missions. This unique rescue aircraft boasts sophisticated radar and communications arrays and uses cutting-edge navigation computers. HC-130s can fly through the eyes of hurricanes and refuel rescue helicopters in mid-air. But most importantly, this plane can drop paratroopers. Like my teammates I am saddled with full combat jump equipment, but with adrenaline charging my muscles, I feel like Superman; I'm ready to go.

Slowly, the back of the plane opens like a giant clamshell and cold winter air suddenly rushes around the cavernous interior. The loadmaster gives me a thumbs-up, signaling that in thirty seconds our pilot will flip a switch turning the red jump lights to green. When the lights turn green, my team is clear to jump from the plane. My two teammates follow me as I carefully shuffle to the edge of the open ramp and stand just inches away from a thirty-five hundred foot drop. This is it!, I think. I stare into the night, poised to dive into the cold, empty sky.

We are jumping to save a soldier who had a leg blown off by an antitank landmine. Once we parachute from the plane my first responsibility will be to land my team clear of the deadly minefield. When my parachute opens I'll use its steering toggles to avoid the minefield and land on safe ground marked with a strobe light. In a deadly earnest game of follow-the-leader my two teammates will chase me through the air, mimicking my every turn. I bend over and brace my hands on my knees, temporarily shifting the weight of my jump gear off my spine. Doubts and second-guessing threaten to overwhelm me, but I know that moments of greatest turmoil and stress require the greatest calm and professionalism: it's the pararescue way. I rein in my emotions, clear my mind, and focus on the task at hand.

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I reflect back on the peculiar series of events that led to this moment. Only a few short months ago I was training in Florida with members of my pararescue unit. We were at Patrick Air Force Base conducting week-long parachute training, High-altitude, low-opening jumps we call HALO. HALO parachuting is a bread-and-butter pararescue skill. Gathered in front of the 39th Rescue Squadron's operations counter, we were preparing for the day's parachute training. Occasionally, we glanced at a large TV mounted on the wall. Suddenly, we were watching passenger jets crash into New York City's World Trade Center towers. Everyone crowded around the screen, mesmerized by the stunning events unfolding before us on the screen. Gradually we came to the sickening realization that terrorists were attacking our country. In short order, the president grounded all planes in the United States and ordered all military personnel to report to their units. We immediately canceled the remainder of our training, organized into vehicles, and began the four-hour drive back home to Moody Air Force Base, Georgia. My boss, Maj. Terry Johnson, rode with me in my SUV. He was the 38th Rescue Squadron's operations director and second-in-command under Maj. Vincent Savino, our commander.

I felt the 9/11 attacks in the pit of my stomach, like large angry butterflies. During the drive home I was nervous, jacked up on adrenaline. Reality felt shaky. Just as normally solid ground cannot be trusted during an earthquake, I felt as if the foundations of my world-view were shifting and unstable. I was surprised by the depth of my feelings. The 9/n attacks had an emotional impact on par with that of the JFK assassination decades earlier. Like the Kennedy assassination, everyone remembers where they were when the Twin Towers came crashing down.

Isolated and alone in the confines of our speeding vehicle, Major Johnson and I listened to news on the radio. Except for the occasional phone call, the radio was our only link to the outside world. We listened transfixed as the drama unfolded, the radio announcers revealing the scope of the attacks one piece at a time. We learned of the kamikaze-like crash into the Pentagon and the failed attack on the capital that ended in a Pennsylvania pasture. We listened in disbelief as the announcer described the towers imploding and collapsing into colossal mounds of twisted concrete and molten steel. Our conversation was disjointed, each man absorbed by his personal worries and thoughts. We wanted to be with our families to keep them safe. The entire day was surreal. The major and I both realized, though neither of us said the words, that nothing would ever be the same. We also knew we had a lot of work to do. We were almost certain to go to war.

In the days that followed the 38th Rescue Squadron prepared to deploy overseas with our men and equipment. We just didn't know exactly when or where we would go. As the operations superintendent I had a key role in readying our PJs for war. Our unit had a lot of young inexperienced troops. Some were fresh from PJ School and had not yet had a single rescue mission. But we also had a lot of experienced men who could lead the way. It was a hectic time. Our squadron was less than a year old. As a brand new rescue unit we had a lot to prove.

Where and when would America counterattack? We watched and waited with the rest of the nation. Eventually, our country's leaders finished plotting our nation's course of action and sent orders streaming down our chain of command. Squadrons from Air Force Special Operations Command at Hurlburt Field, Florida, deployed first. We envied those PJs and crews who would get the first opportunities to fly combat missions. But we knew that in a few months those squadrons would return to the United States and we would get our chance to serve.

From the beginning I had certain knowledge that I could have a direct role to play in the coming conflict if I wanted to. My feelings were magnitudes stronger than a vague premonition. I felt I could influence events by my sheer force of will. I had experienced this peculiar state-of-mind before, always at important crossroads in my life. I know I'm not the only person to have this experience; Robert Frost described the feeling in his poem "The Road not Taken." It's as if I am traveling towards my future when I suddenly come to a fork in the road. One path is safe; the other path fraught with risk and uncertainty. My decision to join pararescue twenty-six years earlier had been the result of choosing the risky, life changing path. In the coming days I could choose to contribute as a behind-the-scenes rescue planner, or I could get right in the middle of the combat action.

I was a forty-four-year-old senior master sergeant I was in good physical shape and was well versed in virtually every advanced PJ skill. The problem was that with my rank and experience, when I deployed my commander would almost certainly relegate me to a staff position. Normally, at this stage of a PJ's career it is time to coach, not play. I understood that rationale, but I still wanted to serve as a team leader in the thick of the action; I wanted to be in the game, not on the sidelines. Although my chances were slim, I had that premonition—that secret knowledge—so I acted as if I would deploy as an operator. While I helped ready our team I prepared myself. I sharpened my skills by flying as many helicopter training missions as I could. I did the same on the HC-130, performing night full equipment training jumps at every opportunity. I flexed my PJ skills as often as I could. Physically, I upped my training runs to five miles every other day. In between I swam fifteen hundred meters and crushed weights in the gym. When I am in top physical shape I feel like I am invincible. I am the dominating alpha male, the pack leader with unshakable confidence. PJs are mostly always like that but the older you get, the harder it is to keep that edge and, as operators go, I was pretty old.

In early October, the United States and its allies initiated began bombing Al Qaida and Taliban strongholds in Afghanistan: Operation Enduring Freedom. We all watched the action unfold on television. We were champing at the bit to get to Afghanistan and fly combat missions. Word trickled back from the war zone about the exploits of our special-ops PJs racking up combat saves. When the initial wave special operations forces rotated back to the United States in a few months, the 38th was slated to take their place overseas. In the meantime, I had to train and help keep unit morale high. As the weeks crawled by our situation crystallized. We would deploy two PJ teams sometime in November. One PJ team would support 41st Rescue Squadron helicopter operations, deploying to Karshi-Kanabad, Uzbekistan, an old Soviet era airbase we nicknamed K2. The second element of PJs would support 71st Rescue Squadron HC-130 operations to be flown out of Jacobabad, Pakistan. A three-man PJ team would crew each of the two HC-130s. A combat rescue officer (CRO) would accompany the PJs and exercise overall command of the teams. If necessary, he could also step in as an operator. Finally, my unit was going to war, but they were going without me.

Major Terry Johnson was the CRO on the first rotation into combat and chided me about not being able to go. The unit's plan was for me to deploy on the second rotation in a staff position. My plan was to deploy as an operator and I trained harder and harder as the weeks seemed to crawl by. At Moody we received regular classified reports from the front. It was clear that our men were participating in some intense wartime missions. It was frustrating to know that our teammates were seeing action while we cooled our heels stateside, but the knowledge that we would soon join them was good for morale and kept our heads in the game. I distributed a monthly newsletter to pass on information and keep the mood loose. I filled the newsletter with sage advice to the PJs gleaned from my years of experience: eat power foods, like Wheaties, with Jack Daniels, and watch your drinking ... in a small hand mirror.

First thing every morning all PJs and CROs assembled in the equipment room. Leadership passed on important information and set priorities for the day. Once I told the team, "Stop and look around at your teammates. There is a chance that not everyone in this room will return unharmed. Some of you may be killed in combat. On the other hand, you have the opportunity to save lives under such difficult conditions that no one else can pull it off. Think of all the military schools you attended, all the sweat and tears, the years of training needed to perfect your skills. Your entire life in the United States military has led you to this moment; this is the end game. I think you are all up to the challenge and will do pararescue and your country proud."

I knew everyone was stoked to go to Afghanistan, but I also wanted to steel them for the worst. "Prepare well. Your life and your teammate's life may depend on your skill and resolve." War is serious business and sometimes catastrophe is unavoidable, beyond our ability to influence the outcome. I specifically remember that talk, because it proved prophetic.

Whenever I mentioned my desire to deploy as a team leader my commander, Major Savino, would roll his eyes and chuckle. "Bill, I know you want to go as a team leader, but that's not going to happen. We need you in a staff position where we can use your experience." I knew Major Savino was right. As a leader and commander he is as good as they come. The top brass in the air force picked him to be the very first CRO commander of a rescue squadron: a singular honor. He integrated thousands of disparate pieces of information and formulated the most effective ways for our squadron to accomplish our lifesaving combat mission. It was a monumental responsibility with life and death repercussions.

As operations superintendent I ran scheduling and training and picked the PJ teams who would deploy next. It was difficult because we were experiencing serious personnel shortages. We only had half of the men we were supposed to have, barely enough to meet our basic mission responsibilities. We were especially short on recovery team leaders. A fully-qualified team leader must be an expert PJ who can lead any type of mission on helicopters or HC-130s. It takes many years to master the intricate skills required to be a team leader.

We were conducting night-jump operations a few weeks before the fresh teams were slated to replace our PJs who were returning from Afghanistan. During the jump a team leader who was scheduled to go had a hard landing and tore his knee cartilage. The injury was serious; he would not be able to deploy. I studied the list of possible replacements. There were no other team leaders available ... except me. I went to Major Savino and, as I struggled to keep from grinning, explained the situation to him. Savino studied the roster of PJs looked at me, and shook his head. "Alright Sine. You can go, but this is the last time you'll ever deploy as a team leader. You understand?" "Yes sir!" I replied.

A few weeks later it was finally time for my group of PJs to deploy. After two days of flying our plane touched down, throttled back, and taxied to parking. We had finally arrived in Jacobabad. Jacobabad, also known as Jbad, is located in southern Pakistan, a short flight of three hundred miles from Kandahar, Afghanistan. Our teammates met us at the plane and helped collect our gear. Besides the runways, the base consisted mostly of a large tent city. Everything was in tents, the dining hall, latrines, even the showers. There were a few hard structures including a large camouflage hangar that sheltered the helicopters and contained offices for planning. The HC-130s were parked a mile away on a nearby taxiway. There were other aircraft on the base, including a contingent of MQ-i Predator drones. I love it when a new tent city is first set up. It reminds me of a lawless Wild West frontier town. As time passes a tent city becomes established and military rules and bureaucracies increase exponentially. This is always the progression, but initially bare base set-ups are a lot of fun because the rules are lax.

Most Muslim men wear a beard at least one-fist long primarily because the Prophet Muhammad wore a beard. Because special operators oftentimes conducted their missions in the mountains and country side of Afghanistan, they let their beards grow in order to garner respect and be more effective when dealing with the tribes. The military rank and file, however, never leave the base. They are not allowed to grow beards and have to adhere to normal uniform and grooming standards. Conventional military personnel quickly figured out that Americans with beards were special operators: Green Berets, SEALs, PJs, and the like. Those with beards soon noticed the special treatment they received from their conventional military colleagues. Our bearded PJs were suddenly perceived to be as powerful as comic book super heroes. We quickly learned to exploit our new super powers. PJs used "the power of the beard" to brazenly requisition supplies and equipment, and sometimes just to have fun.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Guardian Angel by William F. Sine. Copyright © 2012 William F. Sine. Excerpted by permission of Casemate Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

INTRODUCTION,
CHAPTER 1: INTO THE VALLEY,
CHAPTER 2: PARARESCUE SELECTION,
CHAPTER 3: ENGLAND,
CHAPTER 4: OKINAWA,
CHAPTER 5: PHILIPPINES,
CHAPTER 6: ETHIOPIA,
CHAPTER 7: ICELAND,
CHAPTER 8: KHOBAR TOWERS,
CHAPTER 9: TROUBLE COMES IN THREES,
CHAPTER 10: CASUALTIES OF WAR,
CHAPTER 11: TO BOLDLY GO,
CHAPTER 12: YEMEN,
CHAPTER 13: WARRIOR DOWN,
CHAPTER 14: LIFE AFTER PARARESCUE,