The lifesaver

Appel, 40, now a doctor in his second year of residency at Albany Medical Center Hospital, was a member of the Air Force Parajumpers, an elite rescue team. For days, U.S. military helicopters had been flying over the valley where Petty Officer Marcus Luttrell and three other Navy SEALs had dropped in to capture or kill a Taliban leader in 2005. The SEAL team had been attacked by the Taliban. Everyone but Luttrell was killed.

"Lone Survivor," Luttrell's account of his ill-fated mission, is at the top of the New York Times bestseller list. The second anniversary of his rescue was July 2.

The helicopter that carried the first team sent to rescue Luttrell's team was struck by a rocket-propelled grenade, killing all 16 people aboard. It was the military's highest single-day death toll since the war in Afghanistan had begun.

Appel and his team the next in line for the rescue mission doubted whether anyone from Luttrell's team could be alive, but an Afghan shepherd appeared at a U.S. Marine base with a note written by Luttrell saying, "This man gave me shelter and food, and must be helped."

Luttrell, injured and unable to walk, had been taken in by tribal elders who fended off the Taliban. In accordance with tribal law, he was under village protection. Despite bribes and threats, the villagers refused to give Luttrell to the Taliban.

Appel's unit was chosen to fly in and get him.

An elite unit

Born and raised near Berkeley, Calif., Appel was an emergency medical technician who hoped to become a doctor. When he failed to get into medical school, he joined the Air Force in 1994 because the rescue unit sounded adventurous and noble. Short, muscular and confident, the 145-pound Appel was 25-- old for the parajumpers unit. There was no guarantee he'd be chosen.

The elite unit, nicknamed the PJs, is primarily a combat search and rescue team. All members are EMTs trained for parachuting, static line airdrop, scuba diving, shooting and survival in all climates. Their motto is, "So Others Might Live."

PJs rescued soldiers in Mogadishu, Somalia, during the "Black Hawk Down" battle. They plucked fishermen to safety in the story made famous by the book, "The Perfect Storm."

The 12-week selection process for the unit started with 64 candidates and ended with eight. Appel was one of them.

Appel served with the PJs for four years and retired from active duty in 1999 and joined Air Force Reserves so he could go to medical school. He attended the University of Arizona's College of Medicine, graduating in May 2005.

His internship at the university hospital was to begin in late June, so in the weeks in between, he volunteered to deploy with the PJs to Afghanistan for 45 days.

He had missed other deployments while in school, and thought he would take the pressure off someone else who was returning. Plus, this is what he had trained for.

"I felt like it was my duty," he said.

Emergency rescue

Appel's unit transported injured Afghan children to U.S. military hospitals. They searched unsuccessfully for a Marine who fell off a humvee and landed in a river. Appel was packing his gear to go home when news of the attack on the SEALs and the fatal rescue attempt spread.

"We unpacked all our stuff and flew up there," he said.

Appel contacted the Arizona hospital to say he'd be late for his internship. He didn't care if they fired him.

Another team of PJs retrieved the 16 dead rescuers, and Appel and his crew flew night-time search patterns scanning for signals from survivors: flares, electronic signals and formations in the terrain.

After four days with no sign of the SEALs, Luttrell's note arrived. The PJs crafted a plan, and looked to Appel to lead them in. Respected by his colleagues and fresh out of medical school, the sergeant was the natural fit to lead the mission to retrieve the injured SEAL. If it succeeded, they all knew it would be the mission of a lifetime.

Appel accepted.

The evening before the second rescue attempt, more than 1,000 personnel on the base gathered on the tarmac to send the bodies of the first rescue team home. Sixteen flag-draped humvees rolled toward an airplane between a path created by military men and women, standing more than 20 deep on each side. They saluted as each vehicle passed.

Tears flowed. Standing at attention, they didn't wipe their eyes. Appel said he cried like a baby. Would there be a flag-draped Humvee for him tomorrow? He thought of his family. In moment of grim humor, he wondered if he'd get as good of a turnout.

Afterward, his thoughts quickly turned to the mission.

"I had a job to do and I wanted to get this guy out," he said.

Night flight

The PJs loaded two Pave Hawk HH-60s, small helicopters that fly fast. They flew in under the cover of night. Appel carried medical gear and 300 bullets for his M4 machine gun a smaller version of the M16 equipped with night sights and laser targeting.

A big moon lit the landscape on that July night. Too bright, in Appel's opinion.

An 810 gunship, basically an airplane wrapped around a big gun, laid down fire to keep the Taliban busy. Tracer rockets streaked across the sky.

The PJs awaited the command to go in. The military had already lost at least 16 people and wasn't eager to lose more.

As team leader, Appel's radio picked up all the chatter.

"I'm hearing reports that there's known enemy 300 meters north of where we are going," he said. "A couple minutes later, we hear there is known enemy 100 meters south of your location. I'm like, there's no way they are going to send us into this."

Appel struggled with emotions.

"On the one hand, you are hoping they don't send you in, and on the other hand you're hoping that they do," he said.

But nobody believed Luttrell would escape the Taliban another night. The order came: Go in.

"The nervousness just washed away," Appel said.

Going in

The landing zone was a ledge on a mountainside. The terrain was like the "Adirondacks on steroids," he said. The rocks were sharp and the land was dusty. The Taliban knew they were coming and the valley only had one way in and one way out.

"And they know where to sit," he said.

The plan was to spend as little time on the ground as possible.

As the pilot approached the landing, the helicopter's rotors stirred up a blinding dust.

"The pilot lost spacial awareness, so he really didn't know where the ground was," Appel said. "Too far to the right, we'd hit the mountain. Too far to the left, and you go over the cliff."

The helicopter dipped to the right, paused and then swung left. Appel, on the cliff side of the helicopter, thought for sure they were going to crash.

A tiny bush materialized out of the dusty cloud. The pilot locked on it, got his bearings and slammed the helicopter to the ground.

Appel yelled to his teammate, Staff Sgt. Chris Piercecci, "Go!"

They slid the doors open and started scanning for Luttrell. The helicopter's rotors thundered and blew sand and dirt. Minutes felt like hours, Appel said. Finally, a pair of men dressed in Afghan garb appeared and walked toward them.

Training his laser on the tall one, Appel moved his finger toward the trigger, but he hesitated. This could be their man.

Piercecci moved toward the men and asked questions that only Luttrell would know.

"What's your favorite dog's name?"

"Emma."

"Who's your favorite superhero?"

"Spider-Man."

It was Luttrell. Unsure what to do with the Arab shepherd, the Americans grabbed both of them and pulled them into the helicopter. They'd sort it out later.

Get out of here, Appel yelled to the pilot.

Fly away home

"My head was on a swivel" looking for gunfire, Appel said. Takeoff is the most vulnerable time for the rescue operation.

They flew away safely and delivered Luttrell to a waiting plane. The 6-foot-5 Texan leaned on the PJs as he walked up the airplane ramp. Appel patted Luttrell on the shoulder and said something like, "Welcome home" and left.

Appel returned home on July 12, 2005, and reported to his internship on July 14.

He spoke with Luttrell for the first time about six months ago, just before the publication of "Lone Survivor." Their kinship was instant.

"I kind of feel responsible for him," Appel said. "I pulled him off that mountainside."

Appel still has nightmares about helicopters crashing and people screaming for help, but he said he doesn't get them as often.

"I think about the demons I'm battling and it's nothing compared to him," he said. "To be the only surviving person on that team and then to have 16 people killed trying to save you, it's hard on him."

Luttrell sent Appel a text message on the July 2 anniversary of his rescue. Appel pulled his cellphone out from under his purple scrubs and flipped it open.

The message said: "Thanks bro."