Documentary : Storming the Beach--and Meeting the Press : ‘This is probably the most important thing you will do in your life,’ the U.S. Navy commodore told his tense troops before the pre-dawn landing.

Eight hours before H-Hour, 25 miles off the coast of Africa, Marine Capt. Bob Castellvi gathered some of the best and brightest of Team Tiger in the dim light of the officers’ dining room.

Each was dressed in camouflage battle fatigues and held an M-16 rifle. A few also wore revolvers strapped to their chests. The mood was tense and somber. No one smiled.

As the room rocked steadily back and forth, Castellvi, a 30-year-old father of two from San Clemente, spread a three-foot-square map of Mogadishu, Somalia, on the table. Over it went the top-secret battle plan--a plastic sheet with colored circles, arrows and lines denoting planned troop movements and potential trouble spots.

It sounded impossibly complex, with wave after wave of rubber boats, amphibious assault vehicles, helicopters and LCACs, short for Landing Craft Air Cushions, arriving on Green Beach near Mogadishu’s airport beginning at 4:30 the next morning.

The show of force, it was explained, was designed to intimidate any possible resistance. As one officer put it: “This will be a wake-up call to Mogadishu. We’re saying, ‘We’re here to help, but don’t mess with us.’ ”

Right. Or as they say here, “Check.” But it also sounded pretty dangerous to me, mostly because, after 54 hours at sea, I was going to be one of a handful of reporters riding ashore with Team Tiger, Castellvi’s 100-soldier Mobile Combined Arms Team, in the fifth wave--with nothing but our notebooks and pens to protect us.

“Don’t worry,” Castellvi assured us. “We won’t leave you behind on the beach.”

Sgt. Steven Fisher, an 18-year Marine veteran from Peekskill, N.Y., and the senior enlisted man in the company, tried to reassure me too.

“This mission is no different than any other,” he said confidently. But he added as we left the room, “Keep your head down now, son.”

A few hours earlier, the young Marines in Castellvi’s company had lounged nervously on their bunks in the sweaty barracks below deck. For most, it would be their first taste of action.

Their thoughts were on the task ahead, but also on home. A batch of mail, the first in three weeks, had arrived, and many were reading letters. One young Marine smiled as he looked at a brightly colored letter with hearts drawn in the corner by the writer.

And many also were thinking of the people of Somalia. At the ship stores, tin cans wrapped in a hand-stenciled note--”Give to Operation Rescue Hope”--rattled with spare change.

“Our aim is to help feed Somalians,” said Cpl. Hector Cardona, of St. Augustine, Fla. “We’re not going into a full-scale war. This is a good mission.”

Or, as the mission commander, Col. Greg Newbold,

had said earlier, “Someone called 911, and we came.”

But everyone knew it might be dangerous. Trained to fight wars where they would know their enemy, the Marines were worried about a mission where the enemy--the bands of roving gunmen in Somalia--would be largely unknown.

The only humor evident was of the gallows variety. “Got any valuables you want to leave with me?” a naval recruit who would be remaining shipside asked a Marine friend who wouldn’t.

Shortly before dinner, the ship’s captain, Navy Commodore Bruce Dunscombe, gave a pep talk over the loudspeaker.

“This is probably the most important thing you will do in your life,” he said. “Here is a chance for you as an individual to have a profound impact on the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. You will never have an opportunity like that again.”

Then the ship’s chaplain took over, praying the prayer of all soldiers before battle: “Oh Lord, grant us victory, and answer when we call on you.”

We were awakened with the Marines at 2:30 a.m. The ship now was just a mile from shore. Castellvi’s company climbed deep into the ship’s cavernous hold and boarded three giant LCACs, loaded with dozens of Humvees and light armored vehicles.

Some drank coffee as they tested their engines. Many admitted they hadn’t slept the night before. All were excited.

“This is what we’ve all been training for,” said Cpl. Roger Holliday, of Waco, Tex. “It should be a good show.”

All Castellvi said was, “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long day.”

At 4 a.m., the hold was flooded with seawater, and the Landing Craft Air Cushion floated on its inflatable base. We then were warned sternly not to take flash pictures when we arrived on the beach because it could jeopardize the mission.

Promptly at 4:55, the first craft fired up its engines and backed into an Indian Ocean lit by a full moon. It paused and then moved forward at 40 knots, propelled by two huge fans toward shore, kicking seawater onto the deck.

As we approached shore, the puzzled pilot pointed a finger toward the beach.

“That red light on the left and green light on the right mark our corridor,” he said. “But I don’t know what those other lights are.”

They turned out to be the camera lights of the world’s media. And as we arrived, we were almost blinded by camera flashes and klieg lights.

Castellvi left us on the beach, as Team Tiger, often digging with their hands, spent most of an hour trying to get their vehicles over the sandbank. With Team Tiger armored vehicles scurrying past, we walked, luggage in hand, to the airport in the breaking dawn.