The Ride
A professional
cinematographer couldn’t have framed the opening scene any better. Looking through the heated exhaust, the
trailing M1 Tank flickered and distorted in the distance. And yet, the surreal image was still
menacing. The 70 ton hulking behemoths
of precision crafted machinery arrogantly and gracefully strode down the
streets
The cars bowed in
reverence as we idled along the highway.
Seas parted, heads turned, and nothing stood in our way. We were king of the jungle at that
moment. And we knew it.
Even the
soundtrack playing over our headsets reflected the only appropriate tempo for
beasts of such destructive power: Heavy Metal.
The crews were high. High on the music. High on testosterone and
training. High
on a sense of purpose. And high on valor.
Then the ride
began.
The white BMW
occupants were enraged. Hand gestures
violently exchanged with the burgundy Mercedes.
Arabic phrases of thousand year old curses exited their lips. Tempers flared as the scene came into view
opposite the highway median.
“Crack!” The
gunshot went off. The Mercedes crew
locked their gazes on the incoming justice league as the BMW began its escape.
The chase was on.
“Full Right,
Reverse Left”…The median crumbled.
“Follow that car!”
The soundtrack
increased in tempo.
Zero to sixty, became
just a statistic…The machines left 70mph early on and were headed for three
digit velocities. Asphalt roared, and
slid under the tracks rapidly. The BMW
pushed itself even harder. Metal was
moving. A high pitched wine of engine
noise mixed with the pulses in men’s ears.
Adrenaline combusted with the same fervor that the turbine engine pushed
it host to the extreme. Street lamps whizzed
by. “Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh”
This was it. The machines were in the zone. Metal was moving, and somehow the whole world
came into balance.
The road snapped
left, then right, but the metal held its line.
A hill made a modest objection, but headed quickly. A glimpse of the BMW, then
another curve. “Which way?...Keep going…Faster…Don’t loose him…”
A curve, the view
obstructed by trees…Then the road opened up…Tail lights…That way!
The acceleration
never ceased. The Earth itself, spun faster.
Some say the laws of physics can’t be
broken…But not for a Tusker! When the
lighter BMW banked right onto the last remaining feet of a exit ramp, the US
soldier, no longer his own person, but now an integral part of extreme
machinery and science, reworked the laws that Newton explained so carefully,
and changed trajectory. The machine
responded without question. This was its
universe and the BMW wasn’t going to win.
The second tank went higher up the overpass, pivoted right, raised its
gun tube, and vaulted off the high road…Six feet down...The road complied…And
the wingman was holding tight.
The BMW was frantic
at this point. This was Death Match 2005
and the occupants were marked for termination.
A left…a right…in between two cars…panic…traffic ahead…perhaps an escape !?!
The round-about
offered a solution. Or so he thought…But
these are tanks we’re talking about.
They head to no man…And certainly no concrete raised traffic circle
complete with marble and bronze statue was going to resist.
The machines
continued their effort. In the shortest
course possible. “What are they here
for?” “What do they want?” H. G. Wells
didn’t know REAL inspiration.
The BMW rounded
the circle…engulfed by other vehicles…but he was marked. The tanks launched over the remaining
architecture, spun around into the streets…Weapons systems came to bearing. The hearts of one hundred Iraqis
simultaneously missed a beat. Looking
down from one’s harden steel perch, into the eyes of those people, one could
hear their collective conscious cry out, “Please not me…Please don’t be looking
for me!”
The world stood
still. It was our move.
Slowly, with
precision, the sum of all fears dismounted the machines and proceeded
cautiously towards the motionless white BMW.
“Out
of the car now!!...Hands
over your head!...What the hell is your problem!”
It needed no
translation.
“Out
NOW!”
In the back was a
woman in her mid thirties. She was
rocking back and forth, clutching her chest and sucking on an inhaler
feverishly.
“My
wife. She’s having an asthma attack…We need to get
her to a hospital…She needs a doctor…Now…We must leave!”
“Don’t worry, we have a doctor with us.”
I approached.
The look was
shocked.
They have a WHAT?
Not good. They have a doctor.
You’d think a
doctor would be more welcome.
The stethoscope
came out.
“Screw her modesty.!”
A hand and scope
went under her shirt and onto her warm flesh.
Clear breath
sounds…Bilaterally
“Woman…This is the
business end of a Beretta nine millimeter pistol…Get your G-D Damn Malingering
Ass out of this car…Now!”
“Oh…what’s that…A
firearm under your left butt cheek?”
“On
the ground. We ought to zip-strip every last one of you.!”
The car was
searched…Occupants interrogated…In the end, what was little more than road rage
between two Iraqi families ended up becoming a broken median, 5 miles of
damaged asphalt, the destruction of a
crappy traffic circle, and the greatest ride of my life!