An unmarked black helicopter descends onto the dirt field, our dirt field. I grab the handheld radio attached to my web belt, an oversized walkie-talkie that barely fits in my hand. 

“We expecting traffic?” I ask, releasing the transmit button and starting an internal timer, waiting impatiently to hear from the control tower—our control tower.

“Negative.” The tension in the reply mirrors my own.

The helicopter continues its descent, sliding down the earth-repelling line that non-fixed-wing aircraft travel. The shiny black aircraft looks freshly washed and waxed. I look for the unique alphanumeric code assigned to every aircraft, the airborne world’s license plate. The slick paint job runs from nose to tail with zero markings where the tail number should be. 

An unmarked helicopter descending upon your turf is just as suspicious, irritating and nerve-wracking as an unmarked car accelerating up your tail pipe on the highway.

The unmarked helicopter isn’t an unusual situation in the combat zone I’m in.

An unexpected and unannounced unmarked helicopter is.

Our small team of 100 airmen joined a dozen CIA operatives in Uzbekistan to establish this airfield as a major airlift hub immediately after the September 11th attacks.

Confusion and incomplete communication are some of the many enemies we battle.

There’s no telling if that’s the enemy hovering overhead or a true threat is falling from the sky.

I shout an order for people to take cover. 

I dive into a tiny makeshift above-ground foxhole (I guess that be a rabbit hill), closest to the helicopter’s projected landing area. I hunker down next to the one other resident lying on his stomach inside the tiny sandbag-walled, roofless accommodations. The quarters are tight (I guess that make them nickels) and our closeness allows me to see the young man’s acne. It’s not a skin condition, it’s an age condition. He’s one of our younger security force defenders, not old enough to drink, which is a good thing because his non-drink-holding hands are gripping his machine gun.

He doesn’t flinch when I join his one-man post. 

His eye stares intently through the scope. 

I rest my right hand on his left shoulder. It provides physical support since I’m crouched uncomfortably and unsustainably next to his prone body. My touch also provides battle-buddy support as we face the threat together. In high-risk situations, there’s an undeniable and unspeakable connection.

The bipod legs of his weapon rest on the sandbag wall’s top.

The butt of the weapon is cradled between his right shoulder and his thin, clenched jawline.

His left hand cradles the base of the weapon while his right hand cups the grip, with his right trigger finger extended along the weapon’s body, ready to breach the trigger guard and fire if necessary. 

This trigger discipline is a universal rule of safe gun handling to avoid accidental discharge. Next time you watch a cop show, notice the actors’ trigger fingers while they destructively break down a door and search the house for the bad guy.

Back to our bad guy …

The helicopter continues its descent and the young defender glances up at me. Our eyes meet and time slows in compliance with a neurological coping mechanism of survival. And in that single moment of eye contact, we fall in love and start an awkward, helmet-bumping, soul mate-finding embrace … just kidding. That’s what happens on the cop show, right after the bad guy is caught and the treasure recovered. Spoiler alert: the credits are about to roll.

The machine gun wielding airman’s glance is seeking permission to fire. 

I don’t know what he sees in my face, because I’m not ready to approve shooting down a helicopter.

He turns back to the scope on his real love — his weapon. My grip on his shoulder tightens. I continue making calls to tower. They keep giving the same response, “We don’t know who this is and we aren’t expecting anyone.”

To this day, I don’t know why I didn’t say, “Fire.” It was a gut feeling I can’t explain. The only moment I was sure not firing was the correct choice was when I made eye contact with the pilot as the helicopter neared touchdown.

I saw his eyes, he saw our position.

I saw his craft, he saw our weapon.

As I watched his craft near the ground, he saw our weapon trained on him.

There were two unspoken realizations: he realized he was almost shot down and I realized I almost approved it.

Although we haven’t confirmed anything just yet, I loosen my grip on my hitman’s shoulder. I feel our collective release of tension.

The helicopter touches down and the blades start decelerating.

Slowly (and smartly) the pilot opens his door. He and I maintain eye contact, trying to wordlessly communicate.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELF!” I yell, more pissed and irritated than frightened and rattled.

His response startles me, “CIA!” 

I think, “Worst secret agent ever.”

His face is white. It’s not a skin condition, it’s an emotion condition. His body shakes, either because he’s survived a “flight” in a helicopter which doesn’t really fly so much as beat the air into submission or because he realizes his silent arrival almost ended in a loud and deadly bang.

We confirm that he is the sole occupant of the helicopter.

We also reconfirm the continued presence of the confusion and incomplete communication enemies.

I leave the sandbag hut and slowly approach the pilot from the side, leaving my gun-wielding combat partner a clear line of sight that doesn’t include me.

“Do you realize we almost shot you down?!”

“Y-y-y-yes.” I suspect his stutter is only present during moments like this.

“You can’t just fly in unannounced, making a fucking radio call!” I felt the profanity was warranted in this combat situation.

“I know."

Again, I don’t know why I sensed “safe” with this intruder. It was a gut feel based on his response, his remorse, my F-bomb and a myriad of other non-verbal indicators.

I suppose if I was wrong, I would be writing this from the other side, my story dictated through seance.

Once the CIA pilot regains his color and loses his stutter, we get him the right frequencies for the next time he chooses to fly in and visit. Then we usher him off to the place he flew in to visit.

It isn’t until we’re staring at the back of his head riding away in one of our pick up trucks, that we get a sense of what just happened and what had almost just happened.

That’s when I lost my color and gained a stutter, “H-h-h-holy shit.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You good?” 

“Yes ma’am.”

I squeeze his shoulder, unaware I was still gripping it. I remove my hand and double-tap his kevlar vest, “Great job. Thanks for staying calm and patient.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I push myself up out of my crouch, using the hard surface of his bullet proof vest as leverage. I get myself on the outside of the combat cubicle, double-tap his helmet in a misspelled 

Morse code of thanks and head out to give the all clear.

As I think back on that moment in my life, more than two decades ago, I still feel a connection and camaraderie with my sandbag partner. 

If we were to do a Monday-morning-quarterback dissection of the incident, it would sound like this: you pointed a loaded gun at a helicopter making a landing. And that would be accurate.

In the moment, all the unknowns made it a much different game, not a game at all. A life or death situation that could have gone a number of different ways.

The two of us in that small defense post were involved in a risky situation. One where the outcome was uncertain.

I’ve since traded combat boots for more fashionable shoes. I see how risk-taking in the civilian world mirrors the high-stakes decisions from the military world. The unknowns, the need for quick judgment and the reliance on gut instincts are all present.

Just like deciding whether to approve firing on an unmarked helicopter, organization leaders must often make decisions with incomplete information.

We assess the situation and gather as much information as possible, understanding we may never have the full picture.

We trust in our team's abilities and judgment.

We learn that sometimes, the best decisions come from an inexplicable gut feeling. 

We clearly communicate to avoid confusion and ensure everyone is on the same page.

We reflect after the fact, analyzing decisions to learn and improve from every risk taken.

Calculated risks, in a combat or corporate setting, are essential for growth and success. Embrace the unknown, trust your instincts and learn from every experience.