More Than Courage (8 page)

This object lesson, like all important lessons learned in battle, comes at an awful price, one that was often paid over and over again.

The report of another 20-mm cannon not far from where he was standing jarred Kannen from his trance. Turning away from the burning humvee, he saw a second BRDM emerge from the darkness that lay outside the flickering light of flames. Without having to see it, Kannen realized that it was another Syrian recon vehicle, the one that had destroyed Kilo One and was now preparing to take out Kilo Two as well. Jolted back to the reality of the here and now, Kannen took off as fast as he could to recover the body that had been thrown clear of Kilo One.

Syria

20:48 LOCAL (16:48 ZULU)

On the other side of the village Ken Aveno and Insram Amer emerged from the cover of the last building and into the open. In the distance Aveno caught glimpses of the exchange of fire between the Syrian recon detachment, and Kilo Two, taking in the entire situation on the fly. In an instant he appreciated that this would be their only opportunity for escape, while confusion reigned and before the Syrians in the village had an opportunity to come to a full state of alert. So the two men abandoned all caution and broke into a dead run as they made for the spot where they had left Kilo Three.

As he ran to where his humvee waited, Aveno kept glancing over to Kilo Two and the pair of BRDMs that were fighting it out. The act of running as well as the sudden flash of an explosion made it difficult for him to sort out what he was seeing. Only after they had covered better than half the distance to the spot where'

they had dismounted was he able to assess the situation before him with any accuracy.

In the foreground stood Kilo Two, silhouetted by the flames that engulfed a freshly killed BRDM. Ignoring the stricken Syrian vehicle as fire consumed its crew and cooked off stored ammunition, Aveno looked at its sole victim, Kilo One.

Suddenly it struck him. They had lost one of their humvees, perhaps the most valuable of the four, for Kilo One was the only

°ne that could communicate with the AWACs. As he looked at the blazing remains of Kilo One, Aveno wondered if Ciszak and Jones had managed to call for an immediate air strike to cover the 62

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team's withdrawal before their vehicle was destroyed. He wondered if either of them had been wounded or killed.

The executive officer of Kilo was not being cold or unfeeling by the order in which he assessed the situation before him. He was a professional soldier and an officer, a person who had trained his mind and body for these sorts of situations. More often than most officers would admit to outsiders, success in battle often depended on an officer's ability to subordinate his personal feelings and concerns for the welfare of the men, and instead focus on accomplishing his assigned mission. The status of equipment, the availability and disposition of weapons, and the ability of those weapons to inflict the maximum damage upon their foe were what won battles. The soldiers under his command were the currency with which victory was purchased. It was cold. Inhuman.

Perhaps it was even morally repugnant. But it was war, and war, as Sherman had pointed out, was hell.

From where he was Aveno had no way of knowing how many Syrian vehicles were out there. What he was able to make out was the form of a man atop Kilo Two struggling to fit a large cylinder into the rear of the TOW launcher. It had to be Harris, Aveno thought. The team's weapons expert was in the process of reloading, meaning that there was another BRDM out there. Either that or Harris was expecting more.

Only when he took the time to look around again did Aveno belatedly realized that his own Hummer, Kilo Three, which had been parked just beyond Kilo Two, was no longer there.

Stunned, Aveno called out to Amcr. "Where the hell is Kilo Three?"

Before he could answer a stream of green tracers emerged out of the darkness ahead and struck Kilo Two, causing Aveno to wonder what was really going on. Why wasn't Kilo Two moving while Harris reloaded? Why were they standing there giving the bastards an easy target? Then, belatedly remembering that he was linked to the other members of Kilo by radio, he added another, MORE THAN COURAGE

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even more telling question to his litany of concerns. "Why the hell isn't anyone reporting?"

At the moment the questions Avcno was posing to himself were less for information than they were expressions of his frustration at finding himself in a position from which he could neither exercise command nor control. Caught up in his own struggle for survival coupled with a futile effort to sort the situation that was playing out before him, it never dawned on Ken Aveno that he had not heard his commanding officer's voice for some time.

A fresh spate of small-arms fire followed by a chorus of frenzied cries that sounded like orders brought Erik Burman's movement

through the village to another abrupt halt. Throwing himself against the wall he had been moving along, he slowly slid to the ground. Hashmi, who was watching their rear while brushing up against the same wall with his shoulder as he backed up didn't see Burman stop. Before he realized what he was doing, his boot came down onto Burman's ankle.

The sound of cracking bone indicated the seriousness of the damage. Yet despite the wave of pain, Burman somehow maintained silence as he jerked his injured leg from under Hashmi's foot. Already off balance, Hashmi fell to the ground, hitting it'

hard and unwittingly crying out in pain. Between his wild gyrations to keep from falling and the sudden impact, his rifle flew out of his hands. Like his exclamation there was nothing Hashmi could do to muffle the noise that his weapon made as it clattered across the loose rocks and stones that littered the narrow alley they had been moving through. Adding to his embarrassment at losing his weapon and injuring his commanding officer was a fear that his clumsiness had inadvertently betrayed their presence.

Burman was struggling with his own problems at that moment. Once the initial surprise, shock, and pain associated 64

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with his broken ankle had passed, he rolled onto his back. The Kilo commander's struggle to suppress screams of pain and anger caused his face to turn beet red and his throat to bulge and quiver. Taking as much time as he dared, Burman sat up and slowly bent over until he could reach his foot. In the darkness of the narrow ally he could see that the toes of the foot Hashmi had stepped on were pointed up just like the other foot. That was a good sign. But when he tried to move his left leg the searing pain that coursed through his body blinded him to the sudden light that was cast upon them when a boy opened the shutters of a window above the pair of Americans.

Hashmi looked up right into the eyes of the small Syrian boy who had opened the window, curious to discover what had caused such a racket. The two looked at each other for the briefest of moments before the terrified boy turned and fled into the interior of the house screaming as he went.

"Jesus!" Burman yelled, feeling the pain intensify. Hearing the boy's panicked shouts hadn't helped. "We're fucked for sure.

Give me a hand."

Without giving his weapon another thought Hashmi scrambled to his feet and reached over to help his commanding officer stand. Burman flung his weapon over his shoulder onto his back and out of the way. As he fought off the waves of pain that swept over him, with Hashmi doing most of the lifting, Burman managed to get up and stand on his good leg before draping his left arm securely over Hashmi's shoulder. For the first time in his military career Burman came to the realizion that his six-foot-three, two-hundred-ten-pound frame could be a serious liability. While Hashmi was as tough as every other member of the team and almost as strong, Burman wondered if the five-foot-six Syrian American was up to the task. When they were both set he gave Hashmi a quick nod and curt order. "Let's go."

Slowly the pair took their first tentative step together. Burman closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping weight off his broken MORE THAN COURAGE

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ankle while choking down a sudden bout of nausea brought on by the pain. Struggling to support his burden, Hashmi took it easy at first. Only when Burman ordered him to pick up the pace did he lengthen his gait.

All hope of a quick and stealthy exit from the small village was now gone. Linked together the two staggered on, remaining in the shadows as best they could and halting only when the thumping of boots and sound of voices grew too close to ignore.

Despite the clumsiness of their arrangement, Hashmi was able to get the hang of supporting Burman while negotiating their way through the back alleys.

Focused on each next step, Hashmi was shocked when he suddenly looked up and found that they had cleared the last building of the village and reached the open desert beyond. When he came to an abrupt halt, Burman opened his eyes.

In an instant he understood what had happened, though he didn't quite know what to do about it. In their effort to get out of the village as quickly as possible Burman had not given any consideration to how to best cross the open ground that lay between the edge of the village and where Kilo Six sat waiting.

Only now did it dawn upon him that it might be a good idea to radio Kilo Six and have Laporta make a quick run in to pick them up. But just as quickly as this thought came to him he rejected it. He wasn't sure precisely where they were. That and the fact that the sound of an approaching humvee would be impossible to mask made doing so a risk he was unwilling to take. The Syrian soldiers in the village behind them would be drawn to the sound of a foreign vehicle coming toward them like moths to a candle.

"Captain, we must keep moving."

Burman could see the sweat running down Hashmi's face. He drew himself up and nodded. "Yes, let's get the hell out of here."

Tightening his grip on Burman, Hashmi headed into the

°pen desert beyond.

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Throughout their high-speed flight in Kilo Three neither Staff Sergeant Ramirez nor Sergeant Funk thought to turn the volume up on the radio that was set to monitor the team's internal net, thus missing Ken Aveno's repeated calls to them. Like bandits fleeing the scene of a crime, they sped off into the night until Ramirez was sure that they were well out of danger and finally ordered Funk to let up on the gas and slow down. Only then were the two men able to hear the voice of their XO above the roaring engine of Kilo Three.

Realizing what he had done, Ramirez grabbed the hand mike and mashed the talk button. "Kilo Three Alpha, this is Three Bravo, over."

From the vacant spot in the desert where he and Amer had expected to find Kilo Three, Ken Aveno was having a difficult time trying to decide whether he should be furious with Ramirez and Funk for disappearing or thankful that he had finally managed to establish contact with them. In the end he opted to maintain as calm and professional a tone as his circumstances permitted. "Three Bravo, what is your current location and status?"

It took Ramirez but a minute to check the coordinates displayed on the GPS and look them up on a map that he'd managed to fish out of a pile of notes and papers that had been scattered about everywhere during their precipitous retreat. "This is Three Bravo. We are about three-quarters of the way to the rally point.

We're headed back your way, over." Upon hearing this Funk started doing what Ramirez had reported they'd already done.

By the time he heard the last part of Ramirez's message Aveno had already done some time-distance calculations and had come to a decision. "Negative, Three Bravo. We'll catch a ride with Kilo Two. Keep heading to the rally point and secure it, over."

Within the dark confines of Kilo Three, Staff Sergeant Angel MORE THAN COURAGE

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Ramirez's first thought was relief and joy, relief over the fact that they would not have to turn around and go back into the maelstrom they had so narrowly escaped. Only after he glanced over at Funk to see if his driver had noticed what Ramirez was feeling did that sudden and unexpected elation over being spared turn to guilt.

Firmly gripping the humvee's steering wheel and focusing on his driving Funk kept his emotions in check, his eyes straight ahead, and his thoughts to himself as he drove Kilo Three away from where his teammates continued their struggle for survival.

Ashamed of himself, Ramirez slowly turned away from Funk.

From his perch atop Kilo Six O'Hara caught sight of movement some fifty meters to the right of his position. With a single easy motion he swung the heavy .50-caliber machine gun to bear.

When he was set, he pulled his night-vision goggles down over his eyes and adjusted them so he could see properly. What he saw were Syrian soldiers deployed in skirmish line, advancing through the desert as if they were looking for something, or someone.

"John!" he whispered while keeping his eyes on the Syrians and his hands on the smooth grips of the machine gun. "We've got company."

John Laporta didn't need to ask O'Hara where the threat was coming from. He could tell by the direction the .50-caliber was pointed. Catching sight of the dark figures drawing nearer, Laporta carefully groped around in the dark interior until he felt the stock of his weapon and laid it in his lap. Leaning back he cocked his head, looked up into the ring mount where O'Hara stood, and whispered, "They're not acting as if they've seen us yet."

From his vantage point O'Hara could see that the Syrian soldiers were veering away from them. Slowly scanning the horizon

° the left, right, and rear while keeping the machine gun aimed the Syrians, he searched for any sign of more of them. When he 68

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was satisfied that the dozen or so enemy soldiers off to the left were the only ones in the immediate vicinity, O'Hara lowered himself into the humvee to speak to Laporta. "See if you can contact the captain." Then, recalling that there had been firing in the village and they had not heard from Burman, O'Hara added, "If you can't raise him, try the XO."