January 28, 2000, 04:36 hours, aboard the Neptune's Footlocker, a civilian heavy freighter commandeered at the docks in Antwerp, now a mile off the southeastern shore of Florida.

"Soldiers and Officers of the reformed 1st Fire Brigade it is my great joy to welcome you home after three years in Europe." General Marcel said. A round of cheers and applause went up throughout the freighter. "As the Commanding Officer of the 101st it's is my duty to remind you that our return to CONUS is not without requirements. We will begin docking in approximately twenty minutes. Once ashore proceed immediately with your prepared orders. Do not waver. The Soviets have a considerable force based within fifty klicks. Time is of the essence if we intend to carryout our attacks with the element of surprise. I'll turn you over to your company commanders now. Good luck, and God bless."

General Marcel stepped away from the microphone. Throughout the freighter non-commissioned officers shouted Attention! as people surged to their feet. Everyone waited as the old man made his way across the crowded deck to a waiting  helicopter.

"Well, shit." A gruff voice said from the heart of a formation standing at attention watching the General board his helicopter. "Boys, if you thought it was tough in the ETO wrap your minds around this. We are home, this America, our America. The Russians and their pals are dug in with no hope of returning home as heroes. This will be a fight to the bitter end."

Below the tumult of the deck a small group of men gathered around a large cork board as Major Pamela Cortes conducted her briefing....

"Once R-three-zero-five has cleared the beach they will signal with three pulses with a red flashlight. That's a red torch for our British friends." The Major said. Everyone laughed, knowing it was and old and lame joke, because the tension in the room couldn't have been cut with a chainsaw. "At that time the rest of the boats will start engines and move in to drop of the other teams."

She turned and swung a pointer up to the map and continued, "R-six-six will be the only infiltrating team along this avenue of ingress. The four other teams will set up control points and a radio repeater to safe guard the landing craft."

Major Cortes turned to face the assembled teams and pointed at a sand table with a well constructed approximation of the land where the teams would be operating. It boasted water ways, the slightly undulating terrain, and foliage. She stepped up next to the table and pointed to one corner before she spoke, "R-six-six will be delivered to this point roughly three hundred meters west of the north shore of the Princess Place Preserve on Pellicer Creek. From there you should be able to obtain visual recognition of this house. This is the location being used to house a small contingent of Polish infantry."

Pivoting to point out a series of photos of a large home, the Major made sure to denote a large flatbed truck, normally used to haul a single automobile, that had a red star painted across the breadth of the flatbed. "They have commandeered local transportation for what appears to six to eight personnel armed with assault rifles and a pair of SA-seven surface to air missiles."

Several whistles and 'oh, damns' escaped the gathered Recondos.

"Yes." The Major said. "I agree. We discovered this by accident. And nearly lost a Navy seahawk in the process. Luckily the Intel group aboard had the where-with-all to get these photos as the chopper was inbound. Gentlemen, the helicopter insertions will be over-flying this area in less than two hours. Any questions?"

Captain Bill Marsh, commander of Recondo group six, stood and asked, "Mame are you through wasting our time?"

Eleven minutes later the men of R66 were nestled low in the belly of an aging zodiac boat as it sped toward the Florida coastline at nearly forty miles per hour. The sky was clear, the moon was full, and just the faintest hint of per-dawn purple banded the skyline to the east behind them. Every man's guts were water tight; his anus was snapped airtight and his jaw was clenched tighter than a good girl's knees on prom night. But, the insertion always was the most dangerous part of a mission. Wasn't it?