Free Tom Sileo by Brothers Forever Page A

providing air support to the dozens of Marines and vehicles in his unit. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Travis had been outside since about 5:30 a.m. in heat that now measured well over 100 degrees. Despite his neck being so sunburned that it felt like a boiling teapot, Travis waskeeping hydrated and focused on his job. After all, fellow Marines were depending on him.
    Travis knew there were IEDs around the patch of desert the Marines were slated to patrol, so he was navigating them in a safer direction while checking with the helicopter to make sure there were no signs of enemy fighters preparing to ambush the platoons. The helicopter would also check adjacent mountains for snipers using large rocks and the midafternoon sunlight’s glare as cover.
    After a few minutes, the chopper pilot indicated everything was clear. Travis would radio his command, which would then give the final go-ahead for the patrol. It’s this kind of vigilance that often saved American lives on the battlefield.
    As Travis pressed the button on his radio to relay the final order, a loud, familiar voice suddenly overtook the frequency.
    â€œUh, Lieutenant, this is Coyote 6,” the voice said. “I’m not really sure what you’re trying to do out here, but you’re not following proper radio procedure.”
    â€œSir?” Travis asked, puzzled.
    â€œYou need to figure out what you’re trying to do, because I sure as hell can’t tell by listening to your orders over this radio,” the rising voice said. “Do things right or do us all a favor and just go home.”
    Travis wasn’t in a battle in Iraq or Afghanistan. He was in the miserable frying pan of Southern California’s Mojave Desert. The Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center at Twentynine Palms—the world’s largest Marine base—is where thousands train every year for twenty-first-century desert warfare. In August 2005, Operation Mojave Viper involved several mock Iraqi and Afghan villages and enough sand to fill most of Rhode Island. Upon his arrival at a base that housed well over ten thousand Marines, Travis had been astonished by its size and scope.
    The Marine yelling at Travis over the radio was a “coyote,” tasked with making sure units headed for Iraq and Afghanistan were learning the proper techniques, tactics, and procedures developed during nearly four years of war. Though they could be a thornin a Marine’s side during long, grueling training exercises, their close attention to detail helped make the Marine Corps a well-oiled battlefield machine. Still, Coyote 6 was particularly antagonistic and had just embarrassed Travis in front of dozens of Marines listening on the radio.
    Clicking his handheld radio, Travis said the two safest words in the Marine Corps: “Yes, sir.”
    Everyone hurried back to work after the coyote-induced stoppage, continuing the desert patrol while following what they thought was proper communication procedure. The sooner they got it right, the sooner every Marine could take a cold shower.
    Travis was once again talking to the helicopter, making sure that no enemy fighters, who were usually played by contractors or fellow Marines, were lurking on the faux battlefield. Though their guns shot blanks and IED explosions were simulated using Hollywood-style special effects, even a fake battle could be loud and jarring.
    After about five minutes of going back and forth with the helicopter pilot, the Marines were surprised when Coyote 6 retook the airwaves. Aside from a misplaced word here and there while relaying orders, Travis was doing nothing wrong, and it was clear by this point that the coyote was singling out “the new guy.”
    â€œLieutenant Manion, this is Coyote 6,” he said as dozens of eyes rolled. “I have to ask you a question, son. Do you have any idea what the hell you’re doing?”
    The radio was dead silent for almost thirty