by Harold Coyle
"Let's just hope," Laporta ventured as O'Hara turned the device on at 0130 hours, "that's all this squawk box attracts."
Both men were in the midst of this frenzy of destruction when the first Hellfire found its mark little more than five kilometers from where they sat. The flash, followed some fifteen seconds later by the sound of the initial detonation, caused them to stop what they were doing and turn to where the Syrian recon unit was being destroyed. In quick succession antitank missiles from other Apaches in the air cav troop found their mark.
Unsure if this was a good thing or the harbinger of bad tidings Laporta reached down, without taking his eyes off the onesided battle being waged in the distance, and picked up his rifle.
"Hey, Dennis," he called out in a subdued manner. "When was the last time you heard from the search-and-rescue folks?"
Staring at the satcom set he had just finished smashing O'Hara was overcome by a growing sense of dread. "Maybe fit teen minutes ago."
Slowly, Laporta began to make his way to the driver's side of the humvee in preparation to mounting up. "Well, I guess a I"1 can change in fifteen minutes."
Taking note of his companion's actions, O'Hara put down his Wl
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hammer, shifted about in the littered interior of the humvee, and slipped up through the hatch in the vehicle's roof. After shuffling his feet to clear away bits and pieces of shattered equipment scattered about on the floor, he planted his feet and grasped the spade grips of the M-2 machine gun. "Well, amigo, looks like it's time for another mad dash into the desert."
Laporta didn't say a word as he slid behind Kilo Six's wheel and prepared to start the Hummer. "Just say the word, GI, and we're outta here."
With mounting concern O'Hara watched the slaughter of the Syrian recon unit. By now he was able to count six discrete fires glowing in the distance. Unsure of what was going on, O'Hara refrained from giving Laporta the order to move out.
It was at this moment, when the full attention of both men was so riveted on the distant engagement that the covey of rescue helicopters came screaming in upon their position. Startled by their sudden appearance, O'Hara did what came naturally to him.
Without thinking he swung his machine gun about and prepared to engage what he initially perceived as a threat.
With his night-vision goggles on and his focus on the humvee directly in front of him the pilot of the lead helicopter was equally caught off guard by O'Hara's unexpected response. It took everything he had to keep from jerking his joystick to the right and climbing in an effort to escape before the Green Beret pointing the heavy machine gun at him had a chance to open fire.
It took but a second for O'Hara.realize that the unexpected intruders were his saviors. As quickly as he had brought his weapon to bear, he depressed the barrel of the M-2 machine gun, let go of the spade grips, and began to flap his arms. Since his aircraft was carrying a detachment of ground troops tasked with providing security during the pickup, the lead pilot overflew Kilo Six and touched down fifty meters beyond, inserting his troops between the decimated Syrian unit and the men he had been dispatched to fescue. At the same time the Blackhawk assigned to snatch O'Hara
^d Laporta landed as close as it could to the humvee.
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Sensing that time was of the essence, O'Hara and Laporta scrambled out of Kilo Six and made for the nearest Blackhawk.
Both men were on the ground and running for all they were worth for the helicopter, heading straight for the crew chief of that aircraft, who squatted in its open door, yelling to them to watch their heads at the top of his lungs. Neither Green Beret bothered to give a helicopter crewman who jumped out and ran past them a second look. They had but one goal in mind and did not deviate from achieving it until they were safely inside and being strapped into their seats. Only then did O'Hara look back at Kilo Six where he saw the lone helicopter crewman stop, pull a pin from a satchel he was carrying, and toss it inside the abandoned humvee before pivoting and running back to the helicopter.
With
a hop and a bound, the last crewman flung himself back into the Blackhawk. Even as this man went sprawling across the floor headfirst to where O'Hara and Laporta sat, the helicopter's crew chief was shouting over the boom mike of his helmet to the pilot.
Just as the helicopter lurched off the ground, the explosives that had been chucked into Kilo Six went off, tearing that vehicle to bits.
Ignoring the churning of his stomach caused by their precipitous takeoff, Laporta turned to O'Hara and gave his companion a broad, toothy grin. Overwhelmed by the sense of relief he felt, O'Hara tugged against his seat belt as he reached out and wrapped his arms around Laporta. "We're going home, amigo!
We're going home.''''
^f
Northeastern Jordan
07:40 LOCAL (03:40 ZULU)
The end of Kilo Three's precipitous flight from the team's rally point to the Jordanian border was considerably less dramatic than that which O'Hara and Laporta had experienced, but no less hazardous.
In many ways, the easy part of Staff Sergeant Angel Ramirez's and Sergeant Glenn Funk's escape was over. The problems they would now face as they crossed over from Syrian territory into that of an unsuspecting sovereign nation could prove to be far subtler and decidedly less predictable.
Crossing Jordan's frontier at the point designated in the team's OPLAN was simple. There was no boundary fence or sand berm such as the one used to separate Iraq from Saudi Arabia.
One minute the patch of desert upon which they were traversing was Syrian, the next it was Jordanian. There was no hint of the line that British and French diplomats had drawn on a map in 1919 at Versailles when dividing the Middle East between them.
Only sand that knew no nationality or political allegiance.
This seemingly insignificant fact was the first problem that Ramirez had to deal with. Since there was no clear demarcation between the two nations there was nothing keeping any Syrians who might still be tracking them from continuing their quest. ¦The legality of hot pursuit, which international jurists and diplomats
love to debate in an academic setting, was meaningless to Ae soldiers on the ground charged with defending a nation's borders or apprehending those who sought refuge on the other side °f an imaginary line. Until Ramirez and Funk were physically in
the protective custody of Jordanian officials, the two Americans 170
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knew they would not be safe from being snatched by determined Syrians and dragged all the way back to Damascus.
Nervously Funk glanced in the side-view mirrors trying to see past the clouds of dust their own vehicle was throwing up as they sped toward an uncertain future. Taking note of his companion's concern, Ramirez turned in his seat and stuck his head up through the open hatch in the humvee roof. After scanning the horizon behind them, he eased back down into his seat. "I guess those mines we left behind last night did the trick."
The fear of pursuit had driven the two Americans to push on to the crossing point into Jordan as quickly as they could. Stopping only when physical necessity demanded it and refueling required them to, Funk and Ramirez had pressed on nonstop. In addition to doing their damnedest to outrun any pursuers, they zigzagged this way and that in order to frustrate Syrian efforts to set up and ambush them along their projected path of retreat.
Whether the Syrians were actually doing this was impossible to tell. What was clear very early on was that they were being followed.
The same sort of dust plume that betrayed their highspeed flight likewise compromised every effort by the Syrians behind them to keep their presence a secret.
This led to Ramirez's decision to set out an ambush of his own using mines Burman had insisted on carrying for just such an emergency. The six old-style antivehicle mines they had could be activated by either direct pressure or by means of a tilt rod. Deciding where to place them w
as easy. Assuming that the lead Syrian vehicle would take the path of least resistance and follow their humvee by driving in the same ruts that Kilo Three had left behind, Ramirez buried the first mine right in the center of one of the ruts, using the pressure detonator. Discovery of this mine, either through an alert driver or activation of the mine would stop the pursuit for a few minutes as the Syrians figured out what had happened while tending to their wounded and dead. It would also cause a bit of fear in the next driver selected to take the lead.
He would be less anxious to put the pedal to the metal in order to
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catch the Americans. He would also avoid driving in the ruts their vehicles had made, choosing instead to drive off to one side, close enough to see and follow them, but safe from any mines that might be hidden beneath the sand.
Ramirez expected this, which was why he placed the next two mines a few meters on either side of the trail his Hummer was blazing, and attached the tilt rods on them. Unlike a pressure detonator, a vehicle's wheels or tracks do not have to make contact with a mine with a tilt rod. As the name implies, there is a long thin rod attached to the mine's detonator. All a vehicle has to do to set the mine off is to brush the rod or knock it over as it drives over it.
Surprised a second time, the Syrians would now find themselves facing a serious problem, both tactically and physiologically.
While they could attempt to fan out farther from the trail they were following, there was no guarantee that this would do them any good either. The next line of mines they stumbled across just might be deployed in anticipation of this sort of response. This would more likely than not, Ramirez theorized, lead them to go back to driving alongside the ruts, just not in them, taking it slow while watching for tilt rods as they went. To frustrate this tactic,
he planted the last of his mines in the burrow between the ruts, using a tilt rod on the first one, than a pressure detonator on a second a hundred meters farther along. Upon discovering the first mine, the one with the tilt rod, the Syrians would assume they now understood what they needed to search for up ahead, setting them up for the shock that would result when they discovered the second by running over it without seeing the telltale rod Protruding from the ground. Whether they actually hit all the mines was not really the point. The delay, caution, and fear that these infernal devices would cause among his pursuers were what Ramirez was after.
Tired and unable to set aside the loathing he felt for Ramirez tttet grew with every mile they put between them and the village
^ where they had left the rest of the team, Funk ridiculed Ramirez 172
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every time they stopped to deploy a string of mines. During one such pause, Funk put his thoughts into words. "This is fucking stupid. The Syrians aren't going to be dumb enough to fall for this."
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With a disdain that matched what his fellow soldier felt for hif
him, Ramirez turned on Funk. "Listen, you. I don't give a damn what you think. All that matters is that you do what you're told to do and keep your mouth shut. Is that clear?"
Thus the hatred each bore for the other as well as that which they harbored for their own failures tore away Funk's and Ramirez's frayed nerves, threatening their very survival in a way the Syrians never could. When they had finished setting out the last of their mines, not knowing if this effort had been of any use, they drove on as fast as their Hummer could take them in a vain effort to escape from the Syrians as well as their own guilt, a guilt that gnawed away at them no matter how hard each man tried to hide it.
ill i'f
Upon arriving in Jordan both Ramirez and Funk managed to set aside the animosity each felt for the other and turn their full attention to other, more pressing issues. Even if they did manage to make contact with Jordanian officials willing to entertain their request for asylum, the two knew their trials and tribulations would not be over. During one of those rare occasions when the two managed to overcome the bitterness that poisoned their efforts to work together and discuss practical matters, Funk pointed out that they had no way of knowing for sure it they could trust the Jordanians. "The bastards are just as likely to turn around and either boot us back across the border or call their Syrian counterparts to come over and pick us up. Either way, we re screwed if we don't do this right."
Though he hated to admit that the medic had a point, Ramirez found that he had to agree with him. "You know what that means, don't you," he finally replied after giving the problem HR
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some thought. "It means we're going to have to hang on to our vehicle and weapons for as long as we dare while doing our damnedest to contact the American embassy in Amman or wait for the Jordanians to do it for us."
Unable to completely set. aside the anger he felt toward Ramirez, Funk used this opportunity to take a swipe at him. Making no effort to hide the cynicism of his tone, he chuckled. "Yeah, right. While you're in the phone booth dialing up the embassy I'm sure the Jordanians will be more than happy to wash the windshield of our Hummer and check the oil on the grenade launcher.
Exasperated by Funk's snide remark, Ramirez snapped back without hesitation. "Well, what the fuck do you recommend, Sergeant Funk? Maybe we should skip Jordan and drive straight through the night to Israel. Or perhaps it would be better if we forget Israel and try Germany. I'm sure they'd be thrilled."
Funk said nothing during his companion's tirade. He simply continued to stare straight ahead, grasping the steering wheel and squeezing it until his knuckles turned white. Even when Ramirez was finished, Funk said nothing.
Whether it was due to his own sense of self-loathing, Ramirez had done all he could by way of avoiding confrontation with the only man who could bear witness to his actions. Yet there was only so much that he was willing to take. Coexisting with his desire to keep from squabbling with Funk was a burning need to have it out with him. Ramirez had no doubt that Funk held him fiilly responsible for turning their backs on their fellow teammates.
And even though Ramirez knew in his heart and soul that he had been the one who had made no effort to question the order to flee without having giving a second thought to the wclfore of Aveno and Amer, the Hispanic NCO found Funk's unspoken self-righteousness intolerable. Spoiling for an opportunity to v^nt his own pent-up anger, Ramirez glared at the medic, wait^g,
almost daring him, to say something in response.
Wisely Funk did not oblige him. The team medic opted to say 174
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nothing as he continued to peer out across the barren landscape before him, holding in check all the dark thoughts and recriminations he harbored. He knew there would come a time when the two of them would have to face up to what they had done. Either separately or together they would need to atone for their sins against their comrades back there as well as their failure to uphold the traditions of their chosen branch of service. Though the word
"coward" had yet to be mouthed by either man, it was always there, lurking behind their every conscious thought.
It was not much of a town. In fact it didn't even have a name on the map that Ramirez was using. The solid black squares and rectangles used to depict buildings on the map were clustered around a junction where two desert tracks joined together with a dirt road. Even the road that began where the goat trails merged failed to pass muster and rate a name or numerical designation. In the eyes of the American who had made the map, this piece of God's green and sometimes brown earth was not worth the time or ink needed to record that information.
Such trivial concerns were of no interest to Ramirez or Funk as they approached the nameless collection of Jordanian dwellings that someone in the Pentagon had stumbled upon long ago when he was looking for a place where teams seeking refuge from Syrian pursuit could turn to. Long before they reached that place Ramirez had come to the conclusion that creeping
about under the cover of darkness in search of a Jordanian border post might not be a smart thing to do. Instead, he had opted to go slowly once they had crossed the border, and proceed only after the sun began to rise. Surprisingly, when they reached the small village the appearance of a strange-looking military vehicle sporting a large-caliber weapon caused less of a stir among the handful or
inhabitants going about their daily routine than Ramirez had expected. Women in the traditional black head-to-toe garb drew back into the shadows or slipped through the open doors of the'r 1
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modest mud-brick-and-stone dwellings but otherwise ignored them. A cluster of old men sitting around a table set outside of a small shop drinking coffee interrupted a heated discussion only long enough to look up at the American humvee as it rolled down the dusty road that doubled as the village's main street. With a collective shrug, they returned to the topic they had been debating as soon as Kilo Three rumbled by.
The response was not quite as casual when Funk reached the center of the small village where all the trails met the dirt road. At the apex of this junction was a fortresslike building sporting the Jordanian flag. When it came into view, Ramirez spotted a soldier sitting in the shade of the building on a rickety wooden chair. As Kilo Three turned the corner, the Jordanian took one look at the American humvee sporting its ominous-looking 40-mm grenade launcher, jumped to his feet, and bolted inside without bothering to close the door behind him.