by Harold Coyle
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streets after a failed operation is worth its weight in gold on the proverbial Arab street."
No one had any way of knowing for sure if this was the reasoning behind the Syrians' delay in seizing the pair of Americans.
Yet lacking any other credible explanation, the commander of CENTCOM decided to list it as one of the assumptions when he issued his planning guidance for the operation. In doing so, a simple search-and-rcscue was turned into a full-bore military incursion, requiring the commitment of the entire panoply of air power deemed necessary to achieve air superiority and support the hefty contingent of troops assigned the task of securing the area while search-and-rescue helicopters flew in to snatch O'Hara and Laporta from the jaws of certain death. By the time this package had been assembled, briefed, and approved, one of the more cynical members of the CENTCOM staff likened the whole affair to dispatching a carrier battle group to rescue a kitten from a tree.
If there was anyone in the Army War Room at that moment who agreed with this analogy, they held their tongue. Few watching the operation on various monitors that displayed the operational graphics and current sitreps pouring in from the field would have been amused by an observation such as that. To those who made up the various staffs that populated the Pentagon, this was simply business as usual. The American military had both the power and the willingness to use it when it came to saving their '
own. It was what conventional wisdom dictated. It was what their code demanded. To have done otherwise would have been seen as a breach of faith.
The data tracking events unfolding in Southwest Asia continued to stream into the Army War Room from space-based platforms designed to gather intelligence and link every unit actively involved in the operation to their controlling headquarters no Matter where it was in the world. Computers gathered this information, sorted it, and distributed it to predesignated nodes all around the operations center where it appeared on screens of Countless monitors and overhead displays as symbols, graphics, 158
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numbers, diagrams, or simple verbiage. Much of it was of little value to the senior army officers and their subordinates gathered in the operations center. Even those snippets of information that were worthy of serious consideration at the Department of the Army level could not be acted upon at that level during the conduct of the operation. Tactical decisions such as commitment of additional forces, shifting planned strikes from primary targets to secondary targets, and even the ultimate "Go--No Go" call belonged to subordinate commanders much further down the chain of command who were looking at the exact same information Delmont and Palmer were privy to.
Not every officer gathered to watch appreciated this. Even some of the most senior generals continued to entertain the notion at this late hour that they were still in charge. While Robert Delmont understood how some of the high-speed personalities in the room needed to think this way in order to justify their presence, he knew that their notions were little more than a fantasy, a four-star wet dream. So long as none of them tried to exercise their authority, Delmont mused, no one would get hurt.
No one, that is, who wasn't scheduled to get hurt.
I
From among the gaggle of spectators, a full colonel called out to no one in particular, "There go the Apaches!"
Setting aside his wandering thoughts, Delmont looked up at the display upon which the current situation was being projected.
Blue symbols representing elements of an air cavalry troop began to close with a red symbol used to mark the location of a Syrian ground reconnaissance unit that had been following O'Hara and Laporta. Even on the big display each of these graphic representations appeared to be no different from thousands of other such symbols Delmont had seen during countless training exercises and in the classrooms of the Command and General Staff College.
It almost took a conscious effort for him to appreciate the fact that the blue air cavalry symbol was more than a visual aid used by higher headquarters to track units on their maps. I he
^wp
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blue rectangle with the diagonal slash and designation "1-9 Cav"
was the digital depiction of real people operating multimillion dollar weapons systems that were, at that very minute, roaring across the pitch-black wastelands of a country ten thousand miles away in search of their prey. They were, quite literally, the tip of a spear that had been put into motion by some of the men and women who were now rubbing elbows with Delmont.
Closing his eyes, the special ops plans officer found that he could almost see the dark, featureless desert slipping away beneath the attack helicopters of the air cav troop as if he were there with them viewing the world through their night-vision goggles and sights. Instinctively his memory conjured up the sounds of the aircraft engines, punctuated by crisp, almost encrypted chatter, as pilot and gunner exchanged information.
For a moment Delmont imagined that he could even smell the sickly sweet scent of warm hydraulic fluids and taste the bitterness that a dry mouth produces when one is about to engage in mortal combat.
Syria
02:20 LOCAL (22:20 ZULU)
The confrontation that Lieutenant Colonel Robert Delmont envisioned taking place between the AH-64s of the 1st of the 9th Cav and the Syrian recon unit was not near as dramatic as he imagined. In fact, as far as the air cavalry gunners and the pilots were concerned they were almost as detached from the engagement they were involved in as were the men and women in the Army War Room. There was very little of the underlying apprehension or trepidation that one would image a soldier going into combat would experience. All the Apache crews were profession^s If they did feel anything, it was a strange, unspoken pleasure that many soldiers feel when they are finally allowed to practice
their trade. The opportunity to pit one's skills against a living, 160
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thinking foe is something few people understand, matched only by the chance to fire live missiles and kill something. If any of them felt any regret over what they were doing, it was that they, the shooters, would not be able to linger and watch as their missiles ripped through the thin armor of the Syrian recon vehicles and tore them apart.
The mayhem created by the Hellfire missiles loosed by the distant Apaches did not go completely unobserved. This honor belonged to two pairs of OH-66 Arapaho scout helicopters.
Those nimble aircraft, crewed by a single pilot/gunner, were the eyes of the 1st of the 9th. Ranging far in advance of the attack helicopters, the Arapahos skimmed and wove their way along, flying mere feet above the surface of the desert. In addition to the stateof-the-art night-vision devices that allowed their pilot/gunner to view the world outside his cockpit as if it were high noon, each Arapaho sported an array of sensors that monitored the airwaves for unseen threats, such as enemy surface-to-air search radars.
Thus doubly cloaked by darkness and their innate ability to avoid their foe's best efforts to detect them, the Arapahos made sure ip
that none of the Syrian recon detachment that had been following
"ill
.
O'Hara and Laporta survived long enough to do something foolish like rush forward and attempt to seize them before the Black hawks arrived.
Like a pack of raptors stalking unwary prey, the scout helicopters shifted until each had found a spot in which it could observe its target. One by one, they reported to their troop commander that they had their mark in sight and were ready to light it up with a laser designator.
Within the darkened confines of his own attack helicopter, the young captain charged with "neutralizing" the Syrian recon unit studied the tactical situation as displayed on his monitor while these reports came in. After each Arapaho gave an "up," indicating that he was primed and ready to play his role in the pending attack, the troop commander replied with a businesslike "Roger If
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W
hen all his scouts had checked in, he turned his attention to his Apaches. "Red Six, this is Six. Stand by to fire, out." Without waiting for a response, the troop commander switched frequencies and informed his squadron commander that his unit was set and ready to execute even though the lieutenant colonel who commanded the 1st of the 9th already knew this. Thanks to the wonders of modern electronics, information gathered by the Arapahos was relayed simultaneously to the troop commander, the squadron operations center, and other headquarters scattered about the globe that had an interest in what was happening on the ground. Satisfied that his subordinate out in the field was indeed ready, the squadron commander gave him a crisp "Roger"
before turning to the Air Force colonel who was in command of this mission. "Colonel, the One Nine Cav is ready to rock 'n'
roll."
Like the director at NASA's mission control, the Air Force colonel sitting in his own operations center in southeastern Turkey methodically checked with each officer who was either in command of an element playing an active role in the rescue attempt, or was supporting it from afar. Each of them responded in turn that their particular piece was set and ready. The colonel drew in a deep breath as he lifted the receiver of the direct line to his superior. "Sir, we are set," was all he said when the general officer on the other end of the line answered.
The general did not hesitate. "Execute. I say again, execute."
With that, he hung up. Having gotten "the go," the colonel relayed the order. "People, we have a go. Execute now." These Words shot through the airwaves like a surge of electricity, energizing all who heard them, and raising the curtain on a deadly ballet.
Having relayed to his subordinates the order to fire, the air cav troop commander turned to his own heads-down sight. He
tttade a quick check of the status of his aircraft's weapon system before dispatching the first of his Hellfire missiles. Once it was 162
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away he announced over the air that it was inbound. Several kilometers away the Arapaho assigned to designate that missile's target lit up the lead Syrian BRDM with its laser designator.
Arlington, Virginia
18:23 LOCAL (22:23 ZULU)
"Bingo! They've got the Syrians dead-on."
Opening his eyes Delmont found that he was sweating despite the crisp filtered air of the room. He was even shaking a bit, the way one does when the heart rate increases in anticipation of imminent danger. He scanned the assembled mass of generals and straphangers to see if anyone had noticed his behavior. Fortunately all were watching the nearest display as additional graphics suddenly began to appear. Originating at the blue air cav symbol, flashing arrows crept across the monitor toward the red rectangle.
The attack had begun. While F-22 fighters hovered high above providing air cover for the entire operation, the AH-64 Apache helicopters of 1st of the 9th Air Cavalry unleashed a volley of Hellfire missiles into the Syrian recon unit that had been pursuing Kilo Six. With the F-22s keeping the skies free of Syrian aircraft and the ground-hugging attack helicopters butchering every Syrian unit that was close enough to intervene, a pair of UH-60
Blackhawks belonging to the 160th made a mad dash forward to snatch up the wandering Green Berets.
Delmont hated moments such as this. He could not view the events unfolding on the ground in Syria with the same detachment that many of the duty officers seated at monitors around the room were able to. Nor could he identify with those staff officers who let out hoots and cheers whenever a symbol of a Syrian unit flashed to represent a change in that unit's diminishing strength.
The highly polished low quarter shoes and the immaculate class A uniform he wore could not camouflage Robert Delmont's true nature. He was a muddy-boots soldier at heart. His view of the world was a soldier's view; mission, enemy, troops, terrain. For T~
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him there was reason to be a soldier, one purpose in life. And that was to close with and destroy the enemy by the use of fire, maneuver, and shock effect. All of this, he thought to himself as
he looked around the crowded War Room, was necessary, but it was not war.
Sensing that he was on the verge of losing the calm, detached demeanor that General Palmer expected of his staff, Delmont made his way toward the door. His absence was noted only by those officers junior to him in the food chain who saw his departure as an opportunity to move into the vacated space that was closer to the large overhead projector and "the action."
Syria
02:25 LOCAL (22:25 ZULU)
While the 1st of the 9th Cavalry was carrying out its assigned duties with lethal precision, one of the strangest participants in that night's operation was also going into action. Like other aircraft filling the night sky over Syria, the techniques and tactics employed by this pair of naval strike aircraft were no different than those perfected by American ground attack aircraft during World War II and utilized ever since. Just short of its initiation point the lead aircraft's "pilot" conducted a systems check one more time before commencing its final run against a Syrian air defense radar site that planners felt could cause problems. The only difference was that the "pilot" .of the Navy F-45 Pegasus making this attack was not flesh and blood. The closest the Pegasus came to having a human pilot was the programmer who had
downloaded the data for that night's mission into the aircraft's master computer. Unlike cruise missiles that are designed to crash cuve into its intended target, the Pegasus was programmed to drop bombs and return, just like a conventional attack aircraft.
While still few in number, the Pegasus unmanned combat air Chicles, or U-CAVs, were the harbingers of things to come. No j longer would young American men and women have to place 164
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their lives on the line executing D-3 missions--those that were dull, dangerous, and deadly. The future belonged to robopilots and the computer geeks who programmed them.
With dimensions comparable to a single-engine Cessna but designed using the latest stealth technology, the lead Pegasus did not flinch upon reaching its initiation point, or IP. There was no hesitation, no last-minute humanitarian concerns to stay the aircraft's relentless advance as it turned and began to make its run into the target. With digital precision, the lead Pegasus assumed the appropriate glide path. Effortlessly it pressed on until the targeting node of its onboard computer signaled that it was time to release a pair of cluster bombs within nanoseconds of the time a twenty-year-old technician aboard the USS Reajjan had programmed.
Once its payload was away, the Pegasus automatically took up a new heading that would take it back to the carrier from which it was launched. There it would be caught by a net stretched across the flight deck, checked over for any damage before being wheeled belowdecks and placed back in storage where it would wait in silence, without want or complaints, until a new D-3 mission was downloaded into its computer by its human handlers.
Not everything that night played out as the operational plan had envisioned. Aboard an E-3A Sentinel flying over Turkish airspace, its all-seeing radar eye tasked with monitoring Syrian air activities, detected a pair of Syrian fighters being scrambled from a military airfield east of Damascus. Though it was far from the area where the rescue was going down, a controller on the Sentinel thought it would be prudent to take the Syrian jet out. With nothing more than a shrug, the Air force colonel in command on the E-3A agreed. "Better safe than sorry," he muttered, before returning to the computer screen he had been monitoring. With that, the officer charged with controlling those aircraft assigned to the air superiority mission, dispatched a pair of F-22s to take out the unexpected Syrian threat. With nothing more than the MORE THAN COURAGE
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click of a computer mouse he signed the death warrant of two eager young pilots whose only mistake that night was in seeking an opportunity to log a few hours of flight time.
Last but by far not the least important clement set in motion by the ord
er to execute were the UH-60 Blackhawks of the Air Force's elite search-and-rescue command. Like the other elements of this far-flung drama, they had been hovering offstage waiting for the order to go. Once this was given, the pilots turned the nose of their aircraft toward the spot where the two forlorn American soldiers waited, opened up the throttle, and roared into action.
About the only people involved in the operation who had nothing to do by way of ensuring its success were the two men who were the focus of the entire operation, Dennis O'Hara and John Laporta. Outside of the fact that help was coming their way and that they were to halt wherever they happened to be at 0100
hours, the two specialist fours knew nothing. Somewhere along the chain of command that started in Washington, D.C., and wove its way through CENTCOM headquarters at MacDill and stretched across the Atlantic and Europe to Turkey, someone had determined that it would be best if the particulars of the operation be withheld from them. Since there remained the possibility that they could be captured at any moment, this precaution was deemed to be a prudent measure designed to maintain operational security and protect the members of the rescue force.
Such logic meant nothing to O'Hara and Laporta. Not since they had broken contact with the Syrians outside the village had they been as doubtful about their chances of making it out alive as they were at that moment. While neither man openly spoke of the growing concern each harbored, they were able to read each
°ther's mood. Unwilling to give voice to their misgivings, the pair Wstead worked through this growing anxiety by throwing themselves into carrying out their last orders to the letter.
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As instructed, Laporta and O'Hara stopped at precisely 0100
hours and set about destroying the documents that they had not already shredded by hand or burned. As they waited for their deliverance, even their commanding officer's map was torn apart and tossed into a fire Laporta had started in a shallow hole in the lee of their humvee. While Laporta was ripping various documents into pieces and feeding scraps of paper into the fire, O'Hara was busy smashing radios and other sensitive equipment in the Hummer. The only piece of comms equipment he did not turn his ball-peen hammer on was Kilo Six's PRQ-7, also known as the combat survivor evader locator system, or CSEL. While the GPS feature on this piece of survival gear was dysfunctional, the remote tracking beacon was still capable of transmitting. It would be the signal from the CSEL that would guide the Blackhawks in.