More Than Courage (13 page)

"Elizabeth, this morning my office was contacted by an offiCer from the Department of the Army. He asked if we had an Eliz 100

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abeth Aveno at this firm. My secretary replied that we did not. It was only when he called back an hour ago and asked if we would check our employment files for an Elizabeth Stan ton that we realized our mistake." Elizabeth started to panic. "Why were they looking for me?"

Wishing there was an easier way to break the news, Ira Stein burg had to tell her the blunt, painful truth. "Your husband, First Lieutenant Kenneth Aveno, is missing in action."

Stunned, her mind and emotions went whirling, leaving Elizabeth momentarily speechless. It took her a moment to recover her composure. "Missing in action? What action? Where?"

It was now Ira Steinburg's turn to be shocked. Though he had correctly assessed the state of Elizabeth's relationship with her estranged spouse, the hard-nosed New York lawyer had expected Elizabeth at least to know that her husband was on assignment in Syria. That she didn't know he was in harm's way was completely unexpected. He knew that Elizabeth was tough, but her total lack of information about her husband's current mission was bound to make the unexpected news of his being MIA that much more painful.

"I suggest, Ms. Stanton," he announced with a decided chill in his voice, "that you contact the Army directly and get the answers from them." Standing up, he looked down at the young lawyer. "May I also suggest that you take the remainder of the day off and sort this out?"

Elizabeth stood, nodded, and left without saying another word to deal with a part of her life she thought she had put behind her.

Syria

05:35 LOCAL (01:35 ZULU)

Cloaked in the darkness that precedes dawn, Dennis O'Hara and John Laporta leaned against the side of their Kilo Six humvee, munching on crackers they had saved from the previous night's rations. On the ground between them lay a map both men took turns studying under the glow of their blue filtered flashlights. "I could have sworn we went a lot farther than we did," O'Hara finally stated. His words were muffled and the map was showered with a spray of wet cracker morsels as he spoke while he pointed at a spot on the map. "I think we're here, or damned near it."

Using the edge of his flashlight Laporta pointed to their original location just outside the village that had been that evening's objective and traced a circumspect route to a point well short of that indicated by O'Hara. "We were going fast, but not that fast. I don't know if you remember, but I had to make some wide detours in order to get around and through some pretty impressive wadis."

O'Hara grunted. "How could I forget? You hit one that lifted me clean out of the Hummer. If I hadn't been holding on to the spade grips of the MawDuce you would have turned me into a hood ornament."

"What can I say? I was driving fast and in total blackout. We were on top of the wadi before I saw it. I tried to brake before we

Went over the edge, but it was too late."

Though still smarting from the bruises, O'Hara nodded. "I Know." Then he looked back in the direction from which they

"ad come. "Do you think anyone else made it?"

"I can't see how the Syrians could have gotten everyone. It's 102

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not possible. Even if there was more of them on the other side of the village and they had the drop on us, at least one of the other humvees had to have gotten away."

"After we had gone a few kilometers I was able to catch a glimpse of the far side of the village. I counted three vehicles burning." O'Hara paused. "In order for us to be the only survivors all three of those wrecks would have had to have been Hummers. If you ask me, RT Kilo is too good to go oh and three against the Syrians. And since one of those vehicles I saw in flames was definitely a BRDM, that means there's at least one other humvee out there."

"You're probably right. I know I heard the XO order Sergeant Ramirez and Kilo Three to make for the rally point."

"I heard that too," O'Hara added, "even before I saw the three derelicts."

"I sure hope they all managed to break contact, and that at least one of them was lucky enough to have a GPS with them."

O'Hara laughed as he turned his flashlight off and sat upright.

"Correction there, good buddy. You hope they have a GPS with batteries that work."

Extinguishing his flashlight, Laporta struggled to his feet, looking down at O'Hara once he was up. "I told you two days ago to go to the XO and get some new batteries for the GPS."

"I did," O'Hara countered. "And as soon as I got back I promptly put them into the CO's GPS."

Laporta grunted. "And a shitload of good that does us. The batteries were for the GPS we keep with the vehicle, not the old man's."

"Well, you didn't tell me that."

Seeing this was getting them nowhere, Laporta decided to drop the subject and move on to a more pressing concern. "Now

what?"

O'Hara took his time before answering. Faced with what seemed to be an overwhelming number of Syrians, the pair had MORE THAN COURAGE

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sped off in the direction that offered them their best hope of breaking contact and escaping. Regrettably this took O'Hara and Laporta due north, away from the Syrian soldiers but also away from the unit's designated rally point located south of the village.

By the time their adrenaline surge had subsided and Laporta had slowed down, neither man could see the village or burning vehicles, either of which would have served as a crude but effective navigational aide and landmark.

"Well," O'Hara finally concluded as he peered off in the direction from which they had just come, "I don't think we should go back. Even if we aren't being pursued, the Syrians will be wide awake and alert back there. The chances of getting around the village in broad daylight without being.seen are pretty much nil."

Slowly pivoting about he looked off at the unseen northern horizon.

"Our orders are for us to stay off the radio and make for Jordan or the Kurdish-held area of Iraq if things go to hell. But if we stick to those orders, we'll have to go back where the whole Syrian Army is probably waiting for us to do something boneheaded like that."

Understanding what his companion was getting at, Laporta agreed. "Turkey does seem to be our best bet. It is a big country with a long border. I'd say our chances of stumbling upon it somewhere are pretty good."

"Well, be that as it may," O'Hara concluded as he glanced nervously over his shoulder. "I daresay at the moment all that matters is putting as much distance between us and those Syrians as possible."

"Amen, Brother O'Hara. Amen."

It took Staff Sergeant Angel Ramirez longer than it should have to notice the faint glow in the eastern sky announcing that the new day had finally arrived. His long vigil and the trauma of that

flight's cataclysmic events had plunged him into a mental stupor that was not easily shaken. For hours Kilo Three had sat hidden 104

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away in a shallow wadi at the rally point with Ramirez standing upright in the humvee's open hatch, clutching the spade grips of the 40-mm grenade launcher and peering into the distance watching and waiting for the other humvees to appear. During this lonely watch neither Ramirez nor Glenn Funk had uttered a word. The only sound that stirred the night air was the ceaseless desert wind whipping past the solitary humvee and its forsaken occupants.

Tired, sore, and forlorn, Ramirez shifted his weight from one leg to the other, groaning slightly as his stiff aching muscles protested. Down below Glenn Funk was roused by this sudden movement. He had also been teetering on the verge of losing his fight to stay awake after spending the night seated behind the steering wheel prepared to answer the radio or continue their flight at a moment's notice. Like his companion up top, it took him a moment or two to clear his head and sort out where he was.

After blinking his dry eyes in an effort to generate some moisture, his blurred vision cleared enough for him to see that they were still at the rally point. After glancing about and confirming that they were still the only ones there, he looked up at Ramirez.

"Anyone coming?"

Ramirez again looked out at the tracks Kilo Three had left in the sand. With every passing minute of growing daylight he could see farther along the twin ruts that led right up to their humvee.

The desert wind and its fine grains of sand had been busy erasing the ruts all night, but they were still crisp enough to provide anyone interested in following them a clear and unmistakable trail. A curt no was all Ramirez could manage. Inside Kilo Three Funk thought about this as he slowly scanned the horizon through the windshield of his humvee before he asked the question that both men had been avoiding. "What do we do now?"

Ramirez knew that there was only one answer he could give if he followed the standing orders by which RT Kilo operated.

"Should the mission be compromised by hostile action and subsequent events prevent the team from re-forming at the designated MORE THAN COURAGE

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mission rally point, each individual element will escape and evade on their own. As the Syrians have a sophisticated electronic warfare capability and will be monitoring the entire electronic spectrum seeking to track elements attempting to escape and evade, all radio communications and the employment of emergency beacons is to be avoided unless the tactical situation dictates otherwise."

By now it was obvious that he had no choice but to proceed accordingly. Yet following this simple, straightforward order did not come easily to Ramirez. To do so would mean going against a proud Special Forces tradition that dictated that no one ever turned his back on a comrade. They didn't leave anyone behind, regardless of the circumstances. This, together with a growing feeling of guilt that was beginning to manifest itself at having fled as they had done while the battle was still in progress stayed his hand.

Squirming in his seat as he watched the sun begin to break the horizon, Funk became impatient when Ramirez failed to response to his question in a timely manner. Anxious to be doing something other than sitting still, he grabbed Ramirez's pant leg and gave it a tug. "Angel! What do we do now?"

The physical contact and the abruptness of Funk's tone ended Ramirez's internal struggle. He turned his back on the trail they had left in the sand and eased himself down into the seat First Lieutenant Ken Aveno had filled less than twelve hours before.

Taking only enough time to get his bearings, he pointed toward the southwest in the direction of Jordan. "Move out."

While relieved that Ramirez had finally made a decision, Funk found the consequences of that order as difficult to accept as it had been for Ramirez. Failure of any kind was hard for proud, highly trained soldiers like Angel Ramirez and Glenn Funk. It was even worse when it meant abandoning men who had become closer to them than brothers. Having to explain how they had survived and the others had not to the widows and the fatherless children of the comrades they were now turning their backs on

^as a burden that would grow with every mile they put between 106

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themselves and the members of RT Kilo who were back there, somewhere.

In the darkness Ken Aveno had been able to see little of the limp figure that bounced about and slid back and forth along the steel floor of the truck that seemed to hit every pothole and bump in the unpaved desert track. When dawn finally did break and the growing daylight cast some light upon the figure, what he saw made Aveno wish for a return of darkness.

When Aveno and Amer had been captured in the desert neither man had offfered resistance. The Syrian soldiers had simply bound their hands and led them back to the village where they were separated, with Amer doing his best to contain his growing fear as he was being led away. Things, it seems, had been far different for his commanding officer. It was clear that Burman had been subjected to a merciless beating.

As distasteful as it was for him to do so, Aveno stared at his commanding officer. The severity of Burman's injuries indicated that he had resisted, something that made Aveno ashamed at having allowed himself to pass into captivity without a whimper. At the time it had seemed to be the smart thing to do. To have done otherwise would have been folly. Still . . .

Pushing these thoughts from his mind, Aveno studied Burman in the growing light of a new day. His captain's hands and feet were tightly bound with wire in the same manner as his.

Aveno found the binding painful, almost intolerable. But Burman showed no indication that these restraints were causing him any discomfort. Since laying eyes on him back in the village, Aveno could not recall seeing Burman move on his own or even make a sound as the Syrians dragged his limp body to the truck and tossed it in as if he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

The only movements Aveno had observed were those caused by the motion of the truck. The fact of the matter was that Aveno could not be sure if Burman was still alive.

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Aveno studied Burman's face more carefully. It was little more than a collection of black-and-blue bruises smeared with blood, and deep red abrasions. Massive swelling hid Burman's right eye.

Above that was a hairline slit from which thin rivulets of blood dribbled down across his brow and onto his cheek before falling away into spreading pool on the truck's floor. If not destroyed outright, Aveno felt sure that Burman's right eye had been severely damaged. His left eye was only a little better. The socket and surrounding area were puffy and badly discolored. Every now and then Aveno caught a glimpse of white, indicating that the eyeball was probably still intact. Burman's nose was bent to one side and clogged with dark bloody plugs that oozed a thick reddish gray fluid. His jaw was slack an'd canted off to one side, his mouth agape. Between Burman's split and discolored lips, swollen to twice their normal size, Aveno could see a number of broken, blood-covered teeth. Dangling limply and off to one side was Burman's tongue, lazily swaying this way and that in rhythm with the motion of the truck like the pendulum of a clock.