by Harold Coyle
The wild spray of fire from the lead BRDM was screaming over the top of Kilo Two as Sergeant Harris brought the TOW missile launcher to bear on the advancing Syrian vehicle. Those rounds were not wasted as they managed to find a totally unexpected mark that neither Syrian BRDM had yet spotted. The shower of small explosions impacting around Kilo Three were both spectacular and unnerving to Sergeant Ramirez, who had been topside banning the 40-mm grenade launcher, and to Funk, seated at the 56
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steering wheel. The attention of both men had been riveted on the village ahead. The unexpected hail of fire directed at them from somewhere in their rear was a shock. Twisting about, Ramirez caught sight of the BRDM for the first time. When he saw the bright orange tracers of incoming rounds looming larger and larger, he naturally assumed that Kilo Three was their intended target. Dropping down into the humveev Ramirez screamed, "Get the fuck out of here, NOW!" as loudly as he could to Funk, who was still frantically looking backward trying to figure out what was going on.
Without the slightest hesitation the team medic started the engine, engaged the gears, cut the wheel to the left, and stomped his foot on the accelerator until it bottomed out on the floorboard.
Moving through a cloud of dust thrown by Kilo Three's wheels, Ramirez and Funk chose flight over fight, totally unaware that the 20-mm rounds had been meant for Kilo Two and not them.
Though Sergeant Kannen knew his rifle fire was having no effect and the 20-mm shells weren't even coming close to hitting Kilo Two, he continued to blaze away at the Syrian recon vehicle barreling down on them. To have lain there on the ground, doing nothing as the Syrian gunner made the necessary corrections to his aim, was simply not in Kannen's nature. Only when he'd emptied the weapon's magazine and was reaching for a fresh one did he take the time to look up at Harris and yell out to his weapons expert. "What the hell is taking you so long?"
Harris ignored Kannen. With his right eye shoved against the TOW's sight he took one more second to refine his aim before bracing himself and unleashing the wire-guided antitank missile, momentarily blinding Kannen with the ignition of the missile's rocket motor. Harris stayed focused on the oncoming BRDM.
Inside the Hummer Davis was already in the process of trying to unstrap a reload for the TOW launcher while Mendez squirmed in the driver's seat, waiting for someone to give the order to take MORE THAN COURAGE
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off. None of them were paying any attention to Kilo One when it suddenly disappeared in a ball of flames.
Hearing one massive explosion in the distance, followed shortly thereafter by another explosion of equal force, Erik Burman realized the battle had intensified significantly, thus magnifying the risk he ran if he and Hashmi remained where they were much longer.
Still, he once more delayed taking any action, waiting and listening a few moments longer until he was sure he and Hashmi were in no immediate danger. Only when he was absolutely sure that it was safe to do so did Burman rise and cautiously begin to make his way along the wall that had provided a modicum of protection and concealment.
Without having to be told, Hashmi followed crouched low in an effort to make himself as small a target as possible.
They had not gone very far when a burst of small-arms fire from around the corner caused them to flatten on the ground once more and bring their weapons up to the ready. After it became apparent that the AK gunfire had not been directed at them, Burman said to Hashmi. "What are they firing at?"
Hashmi's response was short and to the point. "Not us."
Taking a second or two, Burman listened. When he was confident that Hashmi was right he pushed himself up off the ground and continued to snake his way through the back alleys of the village, hugging walls and staying as low as he could. They had not gone far before a second burst of small-arms fire broke out from somewhere behind them. This time Hashmi did not hesitate as he called out as loud as he dared, "It's not us. Keep going, sir. Keep going."
Both Dennis O'Hara and John Laporta had heard the opening burst of fire on the far side the village. Both men had heard their commanding officer's desperate plea for situation reports. When
"icy heard no response from their compatriots or anything more 58
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from Burman, the two special fours prepared themselves for the worst. Wrapping his hands around the spade grips of the M-2
machine gun he was manning, O'Hara called out to his companion.
"Well, amigo, it looks like we're finally going to get a chance to kick some ass and take some names."
Laporta clutched his steering wheel as he peered into the darkness in the hope that he would catch sight of Kilo Six's other occupants headed back their way. "I don't know if I'm ready for this, Dennis."
O'Hara said nothing for a moment as he slowly traversed his weapon back and forth, taking his time to scan the dark outline of the village up ahead in a vain effort to understand what was going on out there. "Ready or not, we're in it."
"Maybe we should go forward a bit, get closer so the captain and Yousaf can find us easier."
O'Hara shook his head even though his companion couldn't see him. "The CO knows where we are. If he wants us to move, he'll tell us. Best we stay here where we can cover them when they reach the edge of the village and make a break for it."
"And if they don't?"
"Have a little faith, Johnny," O'Hara replied without hesitation.
"Don't worry about that. "They'll make it. You can bet on that."
The destruction of the first BRDM by Sergeant Harris brought no respite to the men of Kilo Two. Even before the stricken Syrian recon vehicle had rolled to a dead stop, Sergeant First Class Kannen was up off the ground and running to where he had seen a body land after being forcibly ejected from the blazing Kilo One, the air liaison team's humvee. As he ran the only thing that kept running through his mind was the hope that his efforts weren't in vain.
As he approached Kilo One Kannen saw the driver's door on the left side of the humvee fly open. A sheet of flames leaped from Bi1'
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the open door, followed by the most horrific spectacle imaginable, a living person totally engulfed by fire struggling to climb out. Stopping in midstride, Kannen watched in horror as the human torch struggled to free itself from the inferno that had once been a tactical vehicle. Once on the ground the stricken figure stood upright with legs apart and arms held out at its side, twisting this way and that as if in a forlorn effort to escape the flames that covered it from head to toe.
There was nothing Kannen could do. The man before him was dying, dying in unimaginable agony. As he watched, the grotesque figure managed to take a step, one last faltering step away from its own funeral pyre before toppling over in a heap of burning flesh and rags.
,
It had never occurred to anyone in RT Kilo that having cans of diesel inside was a bad idea. No one had ever given much thought to the risk they were running by carrying spare cans of fuel inside their vehicles. They all merrily believed that because diesel had very low volatility and the Hummers had thick metal walls that were difficult to pierce, carrying fuel in the cargo bay posed no threat to the passengers. This supposition, based on the assumption that most of their foes would have only small arms, was never challenged even as Burman was arming one of the humvces to fend off tanks. No one took into account what an exploding 20-mm high explosive round would do to fuel cans wedged in between cases of spare ammunition.
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 no
w 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 t
heir 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.