Bobby sat in the plane as it headed south towards Cuba. Cuba. Fucking Cuba. Land of the motherfucking Beard himself. A pocket of turbulence sent the men in the plane bouncing in their seats. Bobby clung tightly to the Pig as the plane smoothed out and the flight went back to being steady. Besides the Pig, he had a full array of gear and a parachute. Sixty extra pounds of shit without even counting in the weight of the pig. He was ready for it. Shit, wasn't that why they always ran twenty miles in full gear all the time?

Dixon, his assistant that watched his back and fed him ammo, had it even worse. He carried the ammo belts and cannisters that Bobby would need to support the fire team. Dixon sat beside Bobby with knocking knees, his pale face turning a particular shade of green. Give the Sarge credit, his speech let them all embrace the fear without hiding behind braggadocio behavior. Bobby smoked a cigarette and looked through the dark cargo area to where the Sarge himself was sitting, right beside the door that would lead them out. He looked calm as a cucumber, but as he said he'd done this way too many times.

"Fuck Castro," Dixon said softly but rhythmically. "Fuck Castro. Fuck Castro."

"Fuck Castro," Bobby added, chanting louder and louder.

Within a minute, every paratrooper save the Sarge was chanting and shouting "Fuck Castro" at the top of their lungs. And then the Sarge got up and they prepared to jump, still yelling "Fuck Castro" over and over again.