More Than Courage (47 page)

thumped down on the runway. Without waiting for the aircraft to come to a complete stop he began to hack away at the last of the nylon tie-downs that secured the Hummers to the floorboards.

They had practiced all of this so many times before that it was no big deal doing so in the dark interior of the transport, with all the engines of the Hummers revved up and the adrenaline glands of every person in the cargo hold madly pumping away. The only difference now was that there were no neutral observers standing around, watching every move and making notes. That, and the fact that the opposing force Company A was about to take on had real bullets.

Such trivial nuances were the furthest thing from Emmett DeWitt's mind. Seated in the lead Hummer he was leaning so far forward that the seat belt strapped about his waist seemed to be the only thing keeping him from springing up and out of his vehicle.

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staring at the partially open rear ramp of the transport waiting until it dropped away completely to reveal what lay beyond. They did not have long to wait.

With a lurch the pilot brought the massive transport to a complete halt. When the loadmaster felt this, he finished dropping the ramp. Having gauged the time that this would take during repeated rehearsals back at Fort Irwin, DeWitt had no need to wait for a signal to go. Thrusting his clenched fist forward, the young company commander let out a shout that had become something of a motto for Company A. "Let's roll, Alpha!"

Forward they rolled, squirting out of the C-17 as fast as they dared. In quick succession each Hummer charged down the ramp and onto the concrete runway. In an instant everything was familiar and everything strange. All of the structures DeWitt laid eyes upon were familiar, every major landmark where it was supposed to be. But now it was all so real, all so correct and clean and solid.

There was none of the rickety ad hoc appearance of the mock buildings that they had trained on in California. Everything that DeWitt's eyes took in as his humvee sped across the open runway was so real that it bordered on being almost surreal.

But real it was, as real as the wind whipping across his face as his driver raced for the front gate of the airfield. With a quick shake of his head DeWitt cleared his thoughts and slipped back into his company commander mode. His Hummer had neither top nor full doors, giving him an unobstructed 360-degree view.

Unhooking his seat belt DeWitt grasped the frame of the windshield, pulled himself up, and looked behind him. Through the night-vision device that was part of his Land Warrior system he could see the line of Hummers flowing from the pair of transports in a fast-moving and unbroken chain. So far so good.

Easing back into his seat, DeWitt keyed his radio transmitter.

"Black Six, this is Red Six. Red is on the ground and rolling. Do we have a go, over?"

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In lieu of full radio call signs it had been decided to use abbreviated call signs that would be easy to recall during fast-moving operations, thus expediting rapid and clear communications. Battalion used the pro-word Black followed by a number such as six, which has become over the years the universal numeric designation for a commander. The companies used the colors, red for Alpha, white for Bravo, blue for Charlie, and green for Delta.

In the admin building where the battalion operations section of the 3rd of the 75th had set up Shaddock's command post an assistant operations officer heard DeWitt's call. Snatching up the radio hand mike, he called out to Shaddock. "Sir, Red Six is on the move and asking for permission to proceed.

In an instant all conversations came to an end. Making every effort to maintain an aura of calm, Shaddock reached out and took the proffered hand mike. Clearing his throat he keyed the radio. "Red Six, this is Black Six. Wait, over."

Lowering the hand mike, he looked at his operations officer.

"Well?"

The battalion S-3 nodded. "All companies have secured their assigned objectives. The road to Damascus is clear."

While taking in a deep breath, Shaddock glanced at Delmont.

"Well, here we go." Lifting the hand mike to his mouth, the battalion again keyed it. "Red Six, this is Black Six. You are a go, over. I say again, you are go."

From somewhere out on the runway, just outside the open doors of the admin building DeWitt came back with a quick, crisp

"Roger that. Red Six out."

With nothing left for him to do at the moment, Shaddock gave the hand mike back to the assistant ops officer, turned, and walked out of the bustling ops center. After looking around and sensing that he was simply getting in the way, Robert Delmont followed. By the time Delmont caught up with the commanding officer of the 3rd of the 75th, DeWitt's company was roaring by.

When Delmont fell in on Shaddock's left, Shaddock glanced at him, then back at the Hummers. "Is this going to work?"

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The question came as no surprise to the special ops plans officer who had given birth to and nurtured Fanfare. Having asked himself the same question over and over again, Delmont now found that he was unable to respond with the same forcefulness that he had been able to use so many times before when senior officers back in Washington had asked the same thing. Like DeWitt and the platoon leader he had accompanied to the admin building, Delmont found the experience of coming face-to-face with the reality unfolding all around him almost overwhelming.

Almost, but not quite.

Syria

04:15 LOCAL, 20:15 EASTERN, 00:15 ZULU

There is only so much that training can do to prepare a soldier for the experience of combat. This truism quickly became apparent to Second Lieutenant Peter Quinn as he led his Third Platoon down the road from the military airfield and into the heart of the Syrian capital. The transition from open desert to city was startling.

As his Hummer charged down the broad and deserted boulevards Quinn found he was unable to keep himself from glancing left and right, catching glimpses of the same sort of urban landmarks and features that were at once familiar to him and yet strange. Unremarkable was the sight of shops and restaurants lining the streets Quinn's platoon traversed. Like any city just before dawn, automobiles sat idle at the curbside, patiently awaiting their owners, who lived in the apartments that towered above them.

Yet there were more than enough cues to remind the young platoon leader that he was going into battle. Over the roar of his Hummer's engine Quinn could discern the wail of air-raid sirens that continued to blare a warning to people who had long ago fled to shelters and basements. The weight of his high-tech battle gear and the weapon lying across his lap served to keep him focused on his duties. Still, he found it all but impossible to shut out the guilty childlike exhilaration he was experiencing at being in a military vehicle bristling with guns as it flew along in total darkness at breakneck speed. The muted reports being rendered over the radio by the other platoon leaders calling in the check 366

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points along their route as they crossed them added to the excitement.

All of this brought the young officer to a state of heightened awareness unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

It was an intoxicating feeling, an all-consuming sensation that bordered on being erotic.

If it were to succeed, the assault on the prison had to be swift and decisive. The walled complex of buildings that occupied a city block and included the prison where RT Kilo was being held would be hit from two directions in quick succession. The first in would be DeWitt's First Platoon. Their task was simple and straightforward. They were killers, men tasked with seeking out, engaging, and eliminating those Syrian soldiers who had managed to stay alive up to that point. In executing this duty the members of the First Platoon had been instructed to be bold, ruthless and conspicuous. By going in first the First Platoon would offer itself up as a matador's red cape. Though the cape is flashy and inflaming, it is the sword that is held back until the right moment that presents the real threat to the bull.

In executing their duties the First Platoon was ordered to do everything it could to restrict its activities to that portion of the prison complex where the garrison was billeted in and to reduce the chance of friendly-fire incidents. Of course there was always the possibility that the Syrians would not cooperate with the American plan. Just in case a Syrian officer did manage to correctly assess the situation and attempt to keep First Platoon in check while turning on the rest of Company A, the .First Platoon had the freedom to push on beyond the garrison area in an effort to keep pressure on the enemy and off the rest of the company. If this became necessary the First Platoon would be greatly assisted in sorting out Syrians and fellow Rangers by employing the identify-friend-and-foe feature of their individual Land Warriors.

Since the prisoners would be locked away in cells anyone who was MORE THAN COURAGE

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up and running about had to be either a member of Company A or a Syrian. When confronted with a target in the open, if the IFF

didn't squawk out the code for friend, the Rangers of the First Platoon would be free to fire. In another day and age the rules of engagement might have required both visual as well as some other sort of confirmation like a password and countersign. But the young men belonging to the First Platoon were comfortable with their electronic gadgets and computers. They had no reservations whatsoever about betting their lives and that of their fellow Rangers on the highly sophisticated system designed to enhance and magnify their abilities to carry out their grim and bloody undertaking.

While the First Platoon was in the process of hunting down their hapless prey, Quinn's Third Platoon would hit the prison from a point directly opposite of where the First Platoon was busily slaying the garrison and raising hell. The task assigned to the Third Platoon was decidedly less dramatic, but no less important.

Supported by a section of combat engineers it had to first breach the outer wall that ran along a side street not much bigger than an alley. Once it had secured this point of entry as well as both ends of the street, the bulk of the platoon would press on into the prison building itself. Upon reaching that structure rather than storming the main entrance, the combat engineers would once more execute a tactical breach through the wall of the cellblock where RT Kilo was believed to be. That was as far as the Third Platoon would go, since by now it would be spread rather thin.

At that point the Second Platoon came into play. They were the chosen few, the select handful of men who would make or break Fanfare. The efforts and labors of thousands of American servicemen and women scattered around the world as well as the other platoons of Company A had one purpose and one purpose only: to support the thirty Rangers of Second Platoon. For the next fifteen minutes success or failure hung in the balance as those 368

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men swept into the cellblock and secured the surviving members of RT Kilo.

To carry out their assignment, DeWitt had divided each of Second Platoon's squads into two teams. Led by an NCO each of these teams carried all the wherewithal needed to overcome any barriers that barred their way or take out any opposition they met.

Once in the cellblock area of the prison the teams would move from cell to cell, conducting a methodical search until they had secured all of the American prisoners. When a four-man team did come across a member of RT Kilo, it would husde him out through the pair of tactical breaches defended by the Third Platoon and back into the alley where the Hummers of both Second and Third Platoons were parked. Only when all personnel from both platoons and all members of RT Kilo were accounted for or all possibilities had been exhausted would Company A break contact, withdraw, and charge back to the airfield.

Throughout this entire operation, First Lieutenant Emmett DeWitt would be with the Third Platoon's squad assigned the task of securing the cellblock breach. With him was a radioman and Lieutenant Colonel Kaplan. DeWitt's executive officer was with the First Platoon. For DeWitt this part of the operation would be the most difficult, for he was right there, literally standing in the open door where he would be able to watch the men of his Second Platoon going about their tasks. Yet there was nothing for him to do during this portion of the raid. Everyone knew what was expected of him. Each and every officer, NCO, and enlisted man had rehearsed their part over and over again until they knew it by heart and could execute the entire operation without saying a word. In theory, if all went the way it was supposed to, DeWitt could go through this entire operation uttering nothing more than an occasional "Roger" as his subordinates rendered updates on their status and progress. Of course, if there is one thing that history does teach, it is that theory is little more than an academic exercise. War is not. It is instead an affair of chance.

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Just before the transport carrying the Hummer driven by PFC

Bryan Ulysses Pulaski, and the rest of Quinn's First Squad, had touched down, Pulaski's squad leader had repeated DeWitt's orders. "We do everything just as we did during the last rehearsal. Don't change a damned thing." Unfortunately Staff Sergeant Henry Jones had forgotten to remind Pulaski not to slam on the brakes when he brought the Hummer to a stop, a habit he had developed at Irwin. So it should have come as no surprise to anyone that Pulaski, pumped up by the excitement of the moment, instinctively stomped down on the brakes as soon as he rounded the corner and entered the back street that ran alongside the outer prison wall. Only the fact that they were going into combat kept Jones from slapping his driver up the side of his helmet as he repeatedly did at Irwin whenever Pulaski's precipitous braking launched Jones headlong into the Hummer's windshield.

The other members of the squad who shared this vehicle weren't as forgiving. Using the butt of his rifle, PFC Johnny Washington thumped Pulaski from behind. "Asshole! You do that on purpose. I know you do that on purpose."