Chapter 4

C-17 Flight, Return to stateside

About a third of Bravo Company was packed asshole to elbow with equipment pallets, sea bags, and mount-out boxes in a C-17. The other two-thirds of the company were packed into another C-17, that had departed for Germany just after 0800. While the second C-17 departed for, literally, parts unknown at 1435.

About ten minutes after lift-off, the Bravo Company XO pointed to O’Brien and two sergeants from first platoon. The lieutenant pulled three M9 rigs out of his bag and handed it to the three NCOs. “You people all have final secret clearances. You’ll be security for that pallet with the three large plastic boxes. I have no idea who owns the boxes or the contents of the boxes. Who is senior?” The black sergeant raised his hand. “Sergeant, these are the transport orders and the instructions for the final acceptance of the three boxes. Run security as you see fit, sergeant. I have this extra logbook. I would suggest using it for the duration that you are in custody of these boxes. Sorry, men. I know nothing else about this stuff.” The lieutenant handed the folder of papers to the sergeant and went forward to the cockpit.

“Ok people, I’m Jackson, this is Carmicheal.” Sgt Jackson paused and smiled at O’Brien, “and I certainly know who you are, O’Brien.”

Carmicheal, speaking with a Jersey-type accent, “The whole fucking battalion knows you, boy. You are officially the craziest, baddest mother-fucker on the block.” O’Brien noted that Sgt Jackson cringed at that description...

“Sergeant Carmichael, it’s good to meet you. If either yourself or any of your people address any members of my fire team in such a manner, I will rip your throat out and piss down your windpipe. Not fuckin one of us is crazy or is ‘bad’. We were focused on the problems of our mission and of our survival. My team did the best they could with limited assets. So why don’t we focus on the mission that was just assigned to us and hope that this super-secret shit doesn’t get us in the brig ... How do you want to do this Sergeant Jackson?”

Sgt Carmichael was about to retort, but Sgt Jackson shut him down with “get your fucking head into this assignment, Carm. I’ve done secure transport before. O’Brien is right. This shit can be a quick trip to the brig.”

Sgt Jackson paused for effect and to organize his thoughts. “We fucking log everything. I’ll open the log. It will take about 3 or 4 pages worth of bullshit. Then each of will write a statement of our acknowledgment and understanding of our written and verbal orders. One of us will be physically parked on those boxes at all times. Shift length, anyone? I vote two hours. No eating or bullshitting for those two hours.”

O’Brien considered it and gave an affirmative nod. Sgt Carmichael mumbled an ok.

“Good. I’ll take first watch. Use my first on-watch log entry for assuming post as a guide for the format your initial shit. After that, write how and what you want, it doesn’t matter. I’ll pass this folder on to O’Brien after I have read all of their shit. Then it goes to Carm. After that, keep the folder with the logbook. Who’s next watch?”

Sgt Carmichael immediately responded. “I’ll do the next watch, Jackson.”

“Ok with you, O’Brien?”

“No problem, sergeant. What do you have for RoE and contingency plans?”

“Working on it now. Will let you guys know in less than an hour.”

O’Brien was hoping that the Corps did not just issue him another shit sandwich.

O’Brien returned to his seat next to Asher and Sanchez. The trio had, by luck of the draw, been separated from the rest of the platoon. Sanchez was the first to ask, “What the fuck, man? What did the XO say?”

“We have some bullshit super-secret boxes on that pallet that have to be guarded. The XO chose three NCOs with secret clearances for the guard detail and issued us M9s. Really fuckin stupid. We’re at over 30,000 feet with a bunch of Marines just out of the Iraq mess, and they feel we need to guard it with weapons. I smell the shit of some three-letter organization.”

Sanchez shot a doubtful look at his team leader. “Shit. This is Forrest Gump shit you’re dealing with, corporal. Ya know, ‘Stupid is as stupid does’. Anyway we’ll be back at Pendleton in less than two days. Back to important stuff. Has the company said anything about leave schedules?”

“I asked Sergeant Braun and Staff Sergeant Eberly just before they left this morning and nothing yet from the C.O. I’m guessing that it will take a day or two after we are back to do all of the admin shit before they start a leave schedule.”

O’Brien re-installed a single ear plug after Ash and Sanchez returned to reading their books. He thought about turning off his hearing aid, but decided that it was not distracting. Settling into his seat, O’Brien’s mind listened to Sgt Jay’s voice. He was deliberate and slow. He purposefully took over ten minutes to get to that ‘special place’. It had been a while since he had bothered to experience and sample the physiological changes and the transitions into focused mindfulness.

The C-17, once at cruising altitude was physically smooth but burdened the human occupants with a painful cold and a noise level that was body-crushing. Removing the smooth ride and replacing it with the vibrations and bounces of turbulence could made long trips miserable for people not able to sleep through all of the various discomforts offered by heavy military transport aircraft. The sudden addition of intermittent turbulence caused Sanchez to put down his book.

As he was about to speak to O’Brien, Sanchez noted that he was meditating. Sanchez’s thoughts drifted to what was about to come when the company returned stateside. He hoped that the squad and fire team would be able to stay together, as Sanchez’s personal goal was to learn as much stuff from O’Brien as possible. For all of O’Brien’s supposed simple-minded red-neck persona, he was probably the most insightful and clear-thinking person that Sanchez had had ever known. But the odds were not with Sanchez - he had seen too many other platoons dissolve into disorganized free-for-all of TAD and schools and FAP duties and daily working parties soon after a return from deployment.

O’Brien emerged to find Asher and Sanchez patiently waiting for his return. “What’s up, guys?”

“It looks like we’re takin the long way back. We heard the Air Force sergeant tell a staff sergeant that we’ll have to divert around a few areas and that we’ll stop in Italy.”

“That certainly sucks moose cock. They say why?”

“If they said anything else, I didn’t hear it.”

“Odin and Chesty are fuckin with us. We never made offerings after each battle. We should’ve left the entrails of our enemy on an alter to Odin.” Asher and Sanchez laughed at this. They actually thought it would be cool to have such a grotesque post-mission or post-battle ritual.

O’Brien turned serious. Look people, I need to talk to Sergeant Jackson for protocol, but if we land in Italy, we’re gonna have to provide security for those fuckin boxes. So I want you two to keep your distance from that pallet but keep alert and look for any signals I might give y’all.” O’Brien went in search of Sgt Jackson.

After O’Brien headed to front of the aircraft, Asher asked Sanchez, “why would he want us away from that super-secret shit when we land?”

“Don’t know. I’ll guess that if something bad is going happen to those boxes, it will be while we’re on the ground in Italy. But if O’Brien thinks something is probable, you know it could happen. I’ll keep away, but we should keep eyes on O’Brien and be ready to support him.”

“Yeah, I agree with that. I’ll never let him down...”

“Sergeant Jackson, looks like I’ll have the watch if we stop in Italy. You have any protocols in mind if other people come aboard while we’re on the deck?”

“Yeah. Been thinkin ‘bout that. Let’s mosey back aft to the pallet and talk about it.”

“You from Georgia, sergeant?”

“From Macon. Why?”

“You have the exact same speech problems as my best bud. He’s from the Atlanta area.”

“You should fucking talk. Where ya from?”

“South Central Texas.”

“What’s your friend do?”

“He got medically discharged less than a year ago. Lower leg got shot up. I’m hoping he’ll be walking better and eventually get back to normal. Mac’s a tough guy and a damn good person. God I miss that fucker.”

“Did a pump in the sand-box with him?”

“Yeah. It was pretty fucked up.”

“Let me advise you ‘bout something, young Corporal. Don’t lose sight of your friends. You’ll never have better friends outside of your time in the Corps.”

“That’s true, sarge. At least while I’m CONUS, we try to send emails once a week. But we didn’t have any internet shit in Iraq and the fucker won’t write, so I haven’t heard from my man in several months. Sorta worried.”

“It’s ok ... Carm, we need to talk. Looks like they’re gonna dump this bird in the middle of Italy. I’ve talked to the XO. He says for us to handle it.”

“Any RoE, sarge?”

“Nothing. I think the man is scared shitless of the spooks that dumped this on us and has walked away from any responsibility. Anyway, got this roll of yellow tape from the air crewman. We’re gonna cordon off the area around the pallet and attach ‘do not enter. deadly force, etc’ signs to the tape.”

“Here’s the RoE, folks...” “One, any non-American, military or not, that crosses the tape gets shot. Two, American military crossing the tape gets yelled at and knocked down, then shot. Three, any unidentified civilian that crosses the tape gets shot.”

“Lines of fire, sarge. What’s explosive on this big flying crate?”

“Shoot aft and towards the boxes. I’m guessing there are no fuel lines directly aft. And fuck those fucking boxes. They are going be our ballistic back-stops.”

“Organized attacks, sarge?”

“We may be generally fucked in that case. Just shoot the fuck out of ‘em and hope for a response from local security. But I wouldn’t depend on the wops for directions to the head...”

“One more thing, people. O’Brien will be the principle shooter if someone drops a load of shit on our asses. We all know his shooting skills. Give him the line of fire, if ya can. Ya ok with that, O’Brien?”

“No problemo, sarge.”

Sgt Jackson walked back forward. Sgt Carmichael put a hand out. “O’Brien, I didn’t mean to talk shit about your people. Sorry about the way I said it. Some of us saw those Army videos and pictures. Just fucking unbelievable, man. And your people did that shit non-stop for over six hours.”

O’Brien shook Sgt Carmichael’s hand. “Yeah, my boys are having problems with it and I’m trying to protect them.”

“Understood, man. Hey, if they don’t totally fuck up the company and scatter us to bum-fuck, come look me up when we get back ... See ya in about an hour...”

As O’Brien returned to his seat, he noticed that Asher and Sanchez had their eyes set on him and were watching closely. “Relax, guys. Its gonna be good. I got permission to shoot up anyone inside the tape.”

“What tape?”

“They’re gonna put some yellow tape around the pallet.”

“So anyone know why we’re taking a different route back?”

“Not a fuckin clue, Sanchez. We’ll just have to roll with it...”

Before O’Brien stood up to assume ‘the duty’, he pulled the slide back on his M9 and loaded a round into the chamber, then verified the pistol was on safe. Just after O’Brien relieved Carmichael, the C-17 began its descent into Italian airspace. Carmichael’s parting comment was “We’ll put the tape up after we land. Jackson and myself will take positions based on your position. The XO has been briefed.”

“Ok. Thanks, sarge. Just one thing. If I have to pull the trigger, do not fixate on who I just shot. Keep your eyes everywhere.”

“Gotcha, O’Brien. I’m hoping for a quiet pit stop.”

“Me too, sarge...”

O’Brien took a spot just forward of the pallet, next to the starboard bulkhead. scanning the area, he saw the Air Force sergeant walking around, probably doing pre-landing stuff. He also saw Jackson and Carmichael about three rows up, sitting on another pallet, in discussion. It was obvious they were not talking about fishing. As the Air Force crew member came into the open area around the pallet, O’Brien signaled to the crewman. “Sergeant, do you plan on opening the ramp?”

“Nope. No reason to - we’re just re-fueling. It really pissed off the major when some fuckers from CENTCOM made us take this pallet. Did you know that they also changed our flight plan?”

“No shit? How could they do that?”

“I am guessing because CENTCOM is a four-star command and all of that shit.”

“Yep. Can’t argue with four stars. So what’s the changed flight plan?”

“We have to re-fuel in Italy because our next stop is the U.K., then McGuire, then March, which is where we dump your people.”

“Yeah? That’s quite the scenic route. So who signed for this shit?”

“Not us. the major refused, and told the air crew to not sign anything. The CENTCOM people eventually ordered your lieutenant to sign for the pallet.”

“Fuckin secret squirrels. Every time I see an S-2 or G-2 person, I want to go hide somewhere. Those people need to get a real job...”

“Ain’t that the truth. I’ll let you know if I have to open any doors or lower the ramp or any other thing that would not be considered normal.”

“Thanks, sergeant. Be safe.”

O’Brien looked up to see that Sanchez and Asher had moved further aft to different seats. Both Marines were now less than 4 meters from O’Brien. They were touching, perhaps caressing, their rifles. Their body language indicated readiness for combat. O’Brien was not certain if he liked the idea of his troops getting ready to jump into whatever imagined fray was forthcoming.

The C-17 started its maneuvering to thread its way through busy airspace. Air controllers tend to use military aircraft to their advantage by requesting turns and descents well past the standards rates of turn and descent and climb prescribed as ‘standard’ per instrument flight regulations for IMC. And today was no exception for the Italian enroute controllers. After 15 minutes of abrupt maneuvers, the large transport bird leveled out. O’Brien heard the landing gear being deployed and all of the other weird noises associated with getting a bird into landing configuration and on the glide slope. After another 7 or 8 minutes, the C-17 touched earth and jolted the aircraft with the immediate use of thrust reversal.

The C-17 sat on the tarmac, powered by its on-board generators, for over 20 minutes. A sudden dull thud, followed by a bright splash of light, indicated that a forward door has been opened. O’Brien watched the two sergeants in a short discussion followed by Sgt Carmichael moving forward. Sgt Jackson looked aft, made eye contact with O’Brien and signaled for him to hold tight.

About three or four minutes later, an entourage of two civilians and an unknown military man were in trail of Sgt Carmichael. While the group was moving aft through the C-17 cabin, Sgt Jackson had moved into the small open area about 2 or 3 meters forward of the pallet of secret boxes.

The older civilian asked to see the boxes. Sgt Jackson replied “maintain distance, sir. Once you touch that tape, or cross it, we’ll shoot you.”

“Understood, sergeant. May I see your orders and directions?” O’Brien handed the logbook to Sgt Jackson, whom withdrew the folder from the logbook and offered the folder to the civilian. While the older civie was reading the papers, the younger civie walked around O’Brien and came to a halt about 15 cm from the tape, intently looking at the three boxes. O’Brien said nothing, but stepped away, towards the aft center of the aircraft, for a better firing position and pulled out his M9 pistol and held it close to his right side.

The older civie finished reading, returned the papers to Jackson, and made eye contact with the young civie. The younger man nodded to the older man. “Thank you, sergeant. We are done.”

“No sir. please write a statement, with time and date and location, that says the three boxes arrived in acceptable condition and were properly secured. If you do not agree that the boxes are in acceptable condition, please explain in your written statement.”

“I do not need to make any such written statements, sergeant. We are done here...”

Jackson drew his pistol and spaced himself away from the civilian. “In that case, sir, you and your partner are under arrest until we turn you in to the proper federal authorities once we reach stateside. Please turn around with your arms away from your body.”

The younger civilian’s right hand moved to enter his coat. O’Brien immediately kicked his legs out and slammed the civie into the airplane’s steel deck. O’Brien searched the young man and found a small Sig pistol in a waist-band holster, then removed his ID. He handed the pistol and the ID holder to Sgt Carmichael. Stunned by O’Brien’s quick reaction, the older civie complied with Sgt Jackson’s instructions.

“Shit. Anyone know how to read Miranda rights?” O’Brien and Carmichael shrugged.

O’Brien thought a second and offered, “I’m not certain, sarge. But they’re feds, law enforcement officers, They’re on an Air Force aircraft. Why not use the article 31 shit? They’re gonna be talkin to JAG’s people in any case...”

“I’m no fucking lawyer, and don’t know if the UCMJ would apply to them. But the National Security Act, and all of the other shit since ‘9/11’ basically pegs these people for failing to follow the instructions of officials appointed to maintain control of assets critical to the security of the state. Now ask me how I know that...”

“I’ll bite, how?”

“My squad got stuck with guarding some I-MEF shit for a month. They sent me to a two-day school on securing materials and the federal regs for this stuff ... I’m telling you, these two idiots are so fucking busted...”

The company XO, decided it was time to make his presence known. “All correct, sergeant. You have now arrested two federal agents. So what are we going to do with these gentlemen?”

“Sir, we’ll read them their rights and give them to federal law enforcement when we get stateside.”

“Wonderful. Well I did sign the whole shebang over to you. I know the generic Miranda verbiage. I’ll do it.”

After the company XO read rights, Carmichael and Jackson secured the prisoners with nylon ties, placing them in the two seats nearest the three boxes. About that time, a catering truck arrived with 100 boxed lunches. O’Brien smirked at the two civies, “Well, gents, good timing. I’m assuming that y’all had heard about fine dining on Air Force transport aircraft. You’re in luck.”

With re-fueling complete and the cabin cleaned up, the pilot used reverse thrust to back up his C-17 to a ready position on the ramp, short of the taxiway, to wait for his clearance. The next leg was shorter. Mostly because the enroute controllers used the C-17 to fit into any available ‘hole’ or corridor. The actual destination was Prestwick Airport at Glasgow, Scotland. Arriving less than 3.5 hours after departure, it was about 2300 local time. The ground controllers, per their instructions, directed the C-17 to an apron that was occupied only by range grass and bored airline employees racing cargo-loader vehicles. Uniquely so, a tanker truck and a black sedan were waiting for the C-17 by the time it had taxied to a stop near the two vehicles.

Sgt Jackson had that particular duty period, but he wanted O’Brien’s tactical shooting skills to be running the show. “Ok, boys. Same as last time. O’Brien is our operator, we follow his lead. If they send more people to inspect those boxes, we back away and watch and ask for the same log entries.”

The company XO was up and ready this time and standing behind Sgt Jackson. “Sergeant, I understand that there are federal security regulations for this stuff. Perhaps we can just ignore the inspectors’ log entry this time?”

“Sorry, Sir. Can’t do that. When it comes to classified materials, we go by the book. I’m not going to the brig over this, sir.”

“Like I said, it’s your show, sergeant ... Wonderful, here they are.”

Two middle-age civilians navigated down the crowded aircraft cabin. Sergeant Jackson immediately stood in front to block their path. He was ready with the folder. “Gentlemen, may I see ID?” Both were NCIS. Jackson returned IDs. “Keep your hands away from your firearms. If either of you touch or cross the tape, you will be shot. Here are the orders and directions for these three boxes, sir. One or both of you shall make an entry into the watch logbook on the the acceptable or unacceptable condition of the shipment before you leave the aircraft. Failure to provide a logbook entry would violate various national security laws and regulations.

The two NCIS agents exchanged startled looks. One agent proceeded to stand about 25 cm away from the tape and slowly walked around the pallet observing the three boxes. O’Brien saw that the agent was exercising care so he did not draw his M9 pistol. The other agent was reading the papers in the thick folder. “Sergeant, I do not understand the directions. The orders state guard requirements and to surrender papers to federal law enforcement officials, but the directions and code of conduct state that the guards shall not surrender any papers until the shipment has been transferred.”

“Noted sir. Directions, per the National Security Act are not binding but are reccomendations and guide lines. Orders are all binding and are legal requirements.”

“Interesting. You have previously done this type of security detail?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jerry? Any comments or problems.”

“It is all good, boss. Just one question, sergeant. Was the ramp ever opened again after the pallet was loaded and secured?”

“Don’t know, sir. This unit of Marines was placed on the aircraft after the pallet was loaded. We do not know where or when the pallet was loaded. The last time the I know that the ramp was opened was when elements of Bravo Company, 1/5 walked up the ramp to board the aircraft. Please note all of our entries in the logbook, sir.”

The senior agent sat in a pax chair to make his logbook entry. He read the Marine entries of the logbook then passed it back to Jackson. “So whom are you going to transfer custody to, sarge?”

“Hadn’t thought about it sir. If my XO has no preferences, I was gonna call the FBI when we hit McGuire. Because after that, its all the way to March, California.”

“If you people want to minimize trouble and legal problems, I suggest you call the Pendleton NCIS office when you get to March Air Base. Here is my card. Call this number on back.”

“Thanks, sir. Much appreciated.”

As the two NCIS agents climbed down the ladder well, a service truck stopped next to the open hatch. The driver yelled, “Someone want to sign for all of this food?”

The air force major looked askance at the Marine officer. “Lieutenant, are one of your Marines ordering food at way points?”

“Unlikely, sir. We have yet to return phones to my Marines. It may have something to do with that TS/SCI cargo, sir. Otherwise, I have no idea.”

“Lieutenant, if you want, you can sign for it. I have two more long legs to fly and other stuff to worry about.”

After the Major left for the flight deck, the LT ask the load-master, “How the heck are we flying almost non-stop around the world with a single aircrew, sergeant?”

“Didn’t you notice, sir? We have three pilots. They rotate every two or three hours. Also, command got special waivers for this flight to do stuff not normally allowed. I’m thinking this flight was not set up by our squadron. You gonna get that chow, sir?”

The boxed meals were passed around, eaten, and appreciated. O’Brien was amused by the company rapidly falling into a stupor and sleeping most of the way across the Atlantic Ocean. But O’Brien’s mind was running non-stop. That intelligence and law enforcement people could be dangerous and can never be taken at face value and how to identify when they’re involved in subterfuge. He was surprised at his experiences with federal law enforcement - that you had a 50/50 chance, or greater, of being fucked by the FBI or JAG or whatever. Finally, and most painful, was that you cannot trust the chain of command. This revelation consumed much of his thoughts and was a heart-breaker for O’Brien. He had considered the Corps to be his family. He would have to revise that - his platoon or his squad was his family. Ultimately, O’Brien concluded, the only people worthy of his trust are the platoon. O’Brien was troubled. Seeing that the mental pain was clouding over his mind, O’Brien returned to the secure place provided by Sgt Jay’s voice. O’Brien played Jay’s voice in his head. O’Brien was so intensely focused that he able to reach that special place in a very few minutes.

The engine noise and cold ambient conditions were minor annoyances. O’Brien felt comfortable, so experimented with going into coming out of the meditation condition that Sgt Jay referenced as ‘level three’. After the third ‘cycle’ of level 3, O’Brien returned to assume his ‘duty post’ next to the pallet of secret boxes. Relieving Carmichael about 10 minutes early, O’Brien settled into watching the boxes, then the half-asleep troops, then the gauges and controls next to the ramp, then the prisoners, the then slumbering troops, then...

Having done a cyclical scan of the same scenes for two hours should have numbed most people senseless, but Marines were used to being bored on watch. Enduring excruciating boredom on post was worn as a badge of honor among infantry Marines. The interesting data point, though, was that O’Brien was not bored. He was alert and aware. When O’Brien saw Sgt Jackson walking between unconscious marines to relieve him, O’Brien returned his gear to his pack. “How long until McGuire, sarge?”

“Dunno. The load-master tells me 45 minutes, but one of the pilots said almost two hours.”

“Probably because we were fighting a headwind for a while. My bet is on the load-master sergeant ... only pass down I have is that the younger guy is getting cranky. Told him to shut up and deal with it or I was gonna fuck him up.”

“That was excellent advice, O’Brien ... say, you’re a good ol’boy from Texas. You fish?”

“Sure do, sarge. Have something in mind?”

“Yea, my platoon sergeant and me fish a little around Red Beach and one time we did Case Springs. We also did a trip to the Colorado last year. Was fucking amazed that you could catch shit in fast water. We’ve also been thinking about the El Capitan and San Vicente reservoirs.”

“Damn, sarge. Sounds good. But I only have an old CB450 bike. So I do not know about any long-distance trips to the Colorado river.”

“No. Fuck that. My staff sergeant has a Tundra crew-fucking cab. It’s a bus.”

Jackson and O’Brien, happy to have found fellow fisherman in each other, indulged in a 50 minute conversation on fishing sites, gear, and bull-shit fishing stories; at least until they noticed that the C-17 was in descent mode.

“Damn. Never did a log entry. Let me get this done O’Brien. Let’s get ready for our next super-secret agent inspection.”

Once again, the C-17 was directed to taxi to an isolated tarmac. And again a tanker truck was already waiting, along with the obligatory black SUV ‘super-secret’ agent car.

O’Brien could see two mountains of men walking down the aisle between marines. He wondered if some NFL linebackers had escaped from training camp. O’Brien chose to stand at an angle to the two men. Sgt Jackson approached the lead man. “Good morning gentlemen. May I see ID?” Again, both were NCIS. Jackson returned IDs. “Please keep your hands away from your firearms. If either of you touch or cross the tape, you will be shot. Here are the orders and directions for these three boxes, sir. One or both of you shall make an entry into the watch logbook on the acceptable or unacceptable condition of the shipment before you leave the aircraft. Failure to provide a logbook entry would violate various national security laws and regulations.” O’Brien noted that Jackson had repeated, almost verbatim, the intro given the previous inspection team. The lead agent approached the pallet, stopped, and looked around and noted Carmichael and O’Brien with their hands on the butt of their M9s. The large man walked around to look at the three boxes on the pallet from different angles.

The second man stood in front of Jackson and read the orders, then skimmed the directions. He asked for the log book then sat down on an adjacent pallet to read the log entries. After a few minutes the man looked up at Jackson, “What does this mean, ‘Materials removed from the secured area’?”

Jackson pulled out a trash bag and removed the contents, placing them in an array. “During a brief period of turbulence, a marine lost an unopened box lunch, which is this box. While a marine was passing out box lunches, he tripped and these two items fell inside of the tape.” Jackson pointed to a paperback book and a spiral notebook. “Finally, during the landing approach, an unknown mechanical device fell from that area. The load-master could not immediately identify the device.”