by Harold Coyle
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equipment and supplies. And while both Ken Aveno and Allen Kannen had made sure that there were more than enough spare batteries on hand, their calculations had been based on a operation that was supposed to last two to four weeks, not six. Like the soldiers who used them, the precious batteries that were available were used and used and used until they had nothing more to give, until they were exhausted and failed at a critical moment.
O'Hara and Laporta understood the principles of map reading.
Both had proven their mastery of that craft while earning their coveted green berets. But neither man had much of a need to employ those skills thanks to the GPS. Even if they had gone out of their way to maintain their proficiency in map reading the pine-studded hills of North Carolina and the mountainous high desert of California where their unit did much of its training in preparation for their role in Razorback bore little resemblance to the trackless wasteland now surrounding them. A closer parallel to the skills required to find one's way in the desert was what generations of mariners had relied on to cross the world's oceans before the age of electronics. Unfortunately O'Hara was a native of Milwaukee and Laporta hailed from Kansas, places where nautical skills were not required.
Both men had already come to the conclusion that their chances of hitting the precise point on the Jordan border where they were supposed to cross was nil. This much had become clear when, they couldn't even agree on where they were with any degree'of certainty. The best they could do was to simply keep moving north toward Turkey. Any regrets they had over not payWg more attention to the team's escape-and-evasion plan were orgotten. Even Burman had not taken it seriously, choosing to 'gnore it except when he joked that once they crossed the border
tween Syria and Jordan the team would stop and break out in a Chorus of "Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore."
At the time everyone familiar with the folksong had chuckled.
^ ^> however, as O'Hara and Laporta sped across the open
;ft toward the invisible line that separated Syria from Turkey 128
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there was nothing to laugh about. In the hours immediately following their run-in with the Syrians outside the village and while still pumped up from the adrenaline rush that combat brings on, O'Hara and Laporta had celebrated their narrow escape. Only later, after they'd checked their map and decided to just keep driving away as fast as they could, and after their bodies finally managed to purge the adrenaline from their bloodstream, did exhaustion set in. Along with it came an acute realization of what they had done and an appreciation of the consequences of their actions. In the course of this self-examination, they both started to experience the same feelings of guilt, shame, and psychological shock people experience after an accident or traumatic incident.
Shock, with all its sinister side effects, finally began to set in.
Of all their feelings, the syndrome known as survivor's guilt began to dominate. As the distance between them and the village continued to grow throughout the night and into the following morning, both O'Hara and Laporta began playing what-if games in their minds. What if they had charged forward in search of their commander and Sergeant Hashmi instead of fleeing into the night? What if they had ignored the XO's order to break contact and had given Burman and Hashmi a little more time to get back to them? What if they had stood their ground and provided covering fire for their comrades? What if? Neither man betrayed his thoughts to the other. They didn't need to. Both suspected what the other was thinking and feeling without having to say a word.
Overwhelmed by these grim thoughts and consumed by a growing sense of failure, O'Hara began to sink into a state of despondency that led Laporta to believe that his friend was asleep Only after he had driven all night and well into morning and stopped to check his bearings did it dawn upon Laporta that O'Hara was behaving strangely. At first the young Kansas-born Hispanic thought O'Hara was simply suffering from the same exhaustion that was beginning to take a toll on him. Having already dismounted, he reached back into the Hummer and shook O'Hara. "Hey, Dennis. Climb out and stretch your legs."
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For the longest time O'Hara did not respond. When he finally did so, all he did was turn his head and face Laporta. In an instant Laporta knew what was happening. He had seen the same blank expression on the face of other men who had just survived a traumatic experience. Concerned now, he gave O'Hara another shake. "Hey, buddy. You with me?"
Blinking, O'Hara tried to focus. The soft, almost whispered
"Yeah," he finally did manage only served to heighten Laporta's concern.
Laporta stepped back from the humvee and looked around as he struggled to collect his thoughts. It was already midmorning.
After driving through the night he knew that it would be impossible for him to continue without a break. Sooner or later his weariness would hit him. Neither of them could keep up their current pace. Yet there seemed to be no alternative. Despite the risks of remaining in one place, he needed to get a few hours' sleep. So did O'Hara. Laporta knew that a troubled mind that had suffered a severe psychological blow such as the one they both had experienced needed time to recover. It needed an opportunity to dis: connect itself from the conscious world so it could begin mending
itself. Perhaps, he thought, all O'Hara needed was some sleep, a chance to let his brain sort things out.
Yawning, Laporta wandered away from the vehicle as he continued to look around. Maybe sleep was the answer to all their problems. Maybe when they woke after some sleep things wouldrf't look so bad. If nothing else at least they'd be able to operate at something closer to near normal levels. Of course the flip side was also true, he reminded himself as he looked back at the humvee where O'Hara sat. What if the situation were more serious than they thought and the Syrians pursuing them were just below the southern horizon? What if a few hours' rest didn't do the trick and O'Hara got worse? Could he, Laporta wondered, take care of O'Hara while simultaneously driving Kilo Six trough enemy territory and keeping an eye open for trouble?
"Ould he be able to keep himself alert and ready to deal with 130
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whatever lay ahead for as long as it took them to reach Turkey, if they ever did in fact make it that far?
As he pondered these questions, questions for which he had no clear answer, Laporta could feel his own exhaustion growing.
Once more he surveyed their surroundings. For as far as he could see there wasn't anything remotely resembling a concealed position that would accommodate the Hummer. Besides, with O'Hara of no use in his current state, Laporta wondered if he could even take the risk of sleeping himself, leaving them both unguarded. He had little doubt that once he laid his head down nothing short of a world war would wake him.
Heading back to the humvee Laporta looked through the open door at O'Hara, who was staring straight ahead with an expression as vacant as the desert. Then he looked over at the PRC-137F special mission radio wedged neatly between the two rear seats. With that SATCOM radio, he knew he could talk to the world. That would mean violating his orders governing the team's conduct while escaping and evading. Yet he saw that he had no choice. The contingency plan that no one had paid much attention to, had been written by someone who could never have envisioned the sort of fix Laporta now found himself in. As a Green Beret, he was expected to improvise, to use his judgment and exercise initiative in combat. Though he had no idea what the consequences would be for him and O'Hara if he violated the team's standing order and used the radio now, Laporta was fairly sure he understood what would become of them if he didn't.
Too exhausted to continue analyzing all the possibilities, complications, and consequences of his actions, he opened the rear door of the humvee, climbed in, and turned on the SATCOM
radio. Reaching over to the front, he grasped O'Hara's shoulder and gave it a vigorous shake. "Hey, Dennis. Wake up and get your butt in gear. We need to crank this sucke
r up."
Laporta was almost yelling as he shook O'Hara again with ever-increasing vigor in an effort to cut through O'Hara's mental MORE THAN COURAGE
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fog. His roughness with O'Hara was compounded by his fear of the consequences of his decision to use the SATCOM radio.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, O'Hara began to emerge from his deep stupor. Like a man waking from a deep sleep, he looked at his companion. Laporta managed to scare up his best toothy smile as he greeted his companion. "Well, amigo. We're either about to save our collective asses or buy a one-way ticket to hell.
Either way, I've decided the time has come to phone home."
11!
Arlington, Virginia
01:40 LOCAL (05:40 ZULU)
Delmont was madly banging away in the quiet of his small cubicle when the words and letters on his computer screen inexplicably began to jump about. Leaning back in his seat he blinked his tired eyes, making them so blurry he couldn't even see the characters.
When his vision finally cleared he scrolled back and reread the portion of the last couple of paragraphs of his document. What he saw appalled him. None of that made a lick of sense. Obviously he'd allowed himself to become so exhausted that he could no longer think or write straight. It was time, he concluded, to avail himself of that desperately needed break he had been putting off for better than an hour and take on a fresh supply of caffeine before attempting to finish the operations plan, or OPLAN.
With all the enthusiasm of a galley slave released after hours of incessant rowing, Delmont pushed his office chair away from the desk. The stiffness in his fingers and the amount of effort that'
standing up required reminded the Special Forces officer of just how fast he was losing his edge. Despite his demanding physical fitness regime he was no longer able to run as far or as fast as he used to. Of course he realized that he was getting older. The gray of his dark, close-cropped hair was a daily reminder of that.
While his wife was able to soften that blow by telling him the gray made him look noble and distinguished, nothing could hide the fact that time was slipping away from him. It was more than just aching muscles that didn't recover as quickly as they had when he had been a junior officer. He was finding he wasn't able to work through the night without a break the way he used to. Even his 134
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enthusiasm for a profession that had once been an all-consuming passion was beginning to wane as he caught himself wondering what life after the Army would be like. All of these little cues served as a warning to him that he was fast approaching a time when he'd no longer have the strength and stamina to return to doing what he loved most, being a soldier.
When he reached the break area where the section's personnel I1!
gathered during normal duty hours when they needed to escape from their mundane tasks, Delmont remembered that he had consumed the last cup of coffee from the community pot during his last break. The trace amount he had left in the glass decanter had long since dried out from the heat of the metal plate, leaving only charred residue behind.
His tired mind considered the alternatives, none appealing.
Coffee from the vending machine could easily be mistaken for bovine urine. To get the necessary caffeine he needed he'd have to drink a couple cans of soda, a solution that would eventually result in more interruptions in his work as he made frequent runs to the restroom. Thus he decided to commence on a coffee hunt.
Picking up an empty cup, he flipped the coffeemaker's switch to the off position as he should have done long ago and set out on his lonely nocturnal quest.
He knew that in some tiny obscure corner of the Pentagon's jij:
3.7 million square feet of office space there was a coffeepot filled I
with fresh-brewed coffee to keep folks like him awake and alert so 11|
they could tend to their nation's security. All he needed to do was i
to keep looking until he found it.
I;!!1
Like an old southern bloodhound seeking a raccoon, Del mont
sniffed the air for that telltale aroma of hot coffee as he prowled the long empty corridors. It was when he stepped into the main corridor that the idea of going to the Army War Room occurred to him. He would surely find coffee there, he told himself.
And while he was begging the staff of the War Room for coffee, he could get an update on RT Kilo's current situation. He didn't think much had changed since he'd last checked in with MORE THAN COURAGE
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the ops folks, but at least he would be able to report to Palmer in the morning that he had been monitoring the situation throughout the night. The general expected his people to stay updated on what was happening outside the five-sided squirrel cage in which they toiled.
To gain access to the Army War Room Delmont had to navigate numerous security checkpoints. Unlike his own workstation, this was a secured area. Practically every document and piece of paper in the room was classified, a fact that led the people who worked there to be rather casual when handling secret and top secret documents. By making the entire area secure they were relieved of "the need to close every work file on their computer or lock away every scrap of paper as Delmont and his co-workers did whenever they left their desk. Lining one wall of the War Room were shelves holding dozens of volumes of contingency plans, orders, and operational plans prepared in advance and designed to deal with any conceivable emergency that the Army might suddenly face. Highly classified information, most of it routine, as well as topographical and situation maps were displayed on monitors and overhead screens throughout the ops center. Each display was neatly and clearly marked with a date/time group that indicated the time of the most recent update.
While his duty description was plans officer, Delmont was no stranger here. His responsibilities often required him to be pres'
ent when plans he had drafted were being implemented as part of a training exercise or a real-world operation. So most of the people on this evening's graveyard shift were familiar with his face, if not his name. As he stood there with empty coffee cup in hand,
Delmont looked at a screen displaying the current situation in Southwest Asia, of which Syria was part. As expected, he saw that there'd been little change in the status and routine of the Army Units permanently assigned to the region. Everything was about
the same as it had been before an as-yet-undetermined number of
| -NT Kilo humvees had been destroyed, and team members killed, bounded, or MIA. Only the Navy and Air Force had significantly 136
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increased their activity. Delmont knew that because the Army War Room, like the Air Force and Navy ops centers monitored the status, location, and activities of all sister services as well as military units belonging to Coalition forces, host nations, and friendly powers throughout all theaters of operations and around the world. Even military personnel belonging to nations that were playing no active role in the current crisis were watching and tracking every move that the far-flung U.S. forces made. This was especially true of those nations that believed the very forces they were intently watching would one day be dispatched against them. Each of the elements being monitored was clearly identified by type, nationality, and size.
Delmont noted that the USS Ronald Reagan and its accompanying battle group had turned around and was making for the eastern Mediterranean again. Once past Cyprus the Reagan would join the Truman's battle group, which had just relieved it.
That would give the Joint Chiefs two carriers' worth of aircraft to play with should the Commander in Chief decide to take immediate action.
Delmont was aware of the consequences to the navy of this change in plans. The Reagan's delayed departure meant a postponement of its homecoming and well-earned rest for the crews of the carrier and its escorts. The change also meant that other carrier groups scattered throughout the world would be forced to amend their deployment schedules and activities. Scheduled trainin
g exercises were being put on hold in order to preserve the operational strength of all combat elements. Replenishment ships and tankers had been dispatched to the eastern Med to service those vessels in the Reagan's battle group that were running short of fuel, rations, and supplies.
All around the world falling dominos sent others tumbling over. Spare parts that had been held at homeport awaiting the Reagan's return and that were needed to repair aircraft and
machinery aboard the battle group's vessels had to be rushed to the region by the Air Force's Military Airlift command. With the MORE THAN COURAGE
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airlift command already overextended in meeting its commitment to support America's worldwide forces, these unanticipated airlift sorties forced the cancellation of previously scheduled airlift missions.
Priorities had to be reevaluated. Some missions would be scrubbed or handed off to Air National Guard units that were being called on to augment the airlift assets belonging to the Air Force's active component. Men and women who were expecting to awake in a few hours and pilot a commercial jet filled with harried businessmen from New York to Denver would instead find themselves hauling F-18 engines and cluster bombs out of Dover to forward bases and ports in the Med.
These ramifications were of little concern to Robert Delmont.
Only securing fresh coffee mattered to him. He found the coffeepot tucked away in a small break area off to one side of the Army War Room, and filled with fresh brew that he knew to be stronger than that found elsewhere. Dumping a packet of artificial sweetener into his cup, Delmont shoved it under the large stainless steel pot's spout, and opened the valve.