by Harold Coyle
HAROLD COYLE
and sword. Yet even a man such as Raseed could not bring himself to interrupt a fellow Muslim while he was expressing his fidelity to Allah. With a wave of his hand the Syrian colonel dismissed his personal assistants and stepped over the threshold. As if sensing his mood, the guards took great care when they closed the door.
Transfixed by the unexpected passion of the moment, Raseed watched and listened in silence. The sight of Hashmi praying evoked a momentary sense of peace within him that his assigned duties denied him. He even found himself admiring his prisoner.
Hashmi's role in the forthcoming drama would be a simple one.
The Syrian-American had become little more than a pawn, one that was about to be used in a gambit he had been ordered to engineer. If the truth be known, and Raseed was a man who never allowed himself to forget the reality of his situation, he feared that his superiors were on the verge of making a major mistake. He had tried to tell them that there was a very real danger their next move could have repercussions that none of them could foresee. But Raseed was a colonel, and in this drama nothing more than a stage manager. He could do little but follow his orders even if he did not believe doing so was wise. After all, the Syrian colonel reminded himself, if things did not go as his superiors wished, he could very well be the next man seeking divine guidance within these walls.
Finished, Yousaf Hashmi paused before turning his head slowly toward Raseed. When he did, the American's expression betrayed no fear, no concern. "I thank you for permitting me to complete my prayers."
Again Raseed found himself once more thrown off guard by a simple gesture of a man whom he was supposed to be intimidating.
Flustered and unable to find a response that was appropriate, the Syrian colonel was reduced to acknowledging Hashmi's gratitude with a shrug. After averting his eyes from those of his prisoner, Raseed grasped his hands behind his back, turned, and began to pace. "Up until now you have been spared the sort 01
treatment that the Americans have been subjected to."
Making no effort to rise up off his knees, Hashmi followed MORE THAN COURAGE
227
Raseed with his eyes. "I know. The guards make it a point to pause just outside my door and beat upon my comrades for several minutes each time they are taken to their next round of torture."
This confession brought a smile to Raseed's face, for it meant that not only were his orders being carried out to a T but the tactic was having an effect upon Hashmi. Reaching the rear wall of the cell, Raseed pivoted about and continued his pacing. "I suspect that you have been wondering why they have been interrogated while you have not."
Hashmi's bland expression did not change as he continued to watch Raseed. "I suspect that you are here to explain that to me."
Stung by this response as well as Hashmi's demeanor, Raseed ceased his pacing and turned to confront the American. Yet even now the Syrian colonel found himself off balance as he looked down at Hashmi. Why, the colonel wondered, was he still on his knees? Is he trying to show to me that he is a more dedicated follower of our faith than I? Is he trying to convey the idea that we are both equal in the eyes of Allah? Or is he simply assuming a position of submission in an effort to hide his defiance? In truth Raseed was not interested in the answer, for it did not make any difference. Still, this seemingly harmless act annoyed Raseed. It disturbed him and kept him from concentrating on the task at hand. Having dismissed his henchmen and accepted a one-on-one confrontation, Raseed was at a loss as to how to handle this situation.
Stymied, the colonel turned his back on Hashmi and resumed his pacing. This caused a flicker of a smile to flit across Hashmi's face, an expression that he quickly checked.
"You are to be tried as a traitor," Raseed announced.
"I do not understand how that is possible," Hashmi replied, betraying neither surprise nor concern. "I have been loyal to my with, to my comrades, and to my nation."
Stopping in place, Raseed spun about and faced his prisoner.
That is where you are wrong, and I shall prove it. You are a Syrlan citizen, one who has raised his hand against his own people.
^.¦*ty doing so you have gone against the teachings of the Koran."
228
HAROLD COYLE
Again Hashmi was able to maintain his stoic demeanor as he responded. "I have betrayed no one. I am a Virginian by birth and a professional soldier pledged to defend my native country, its laws, and its people. Even the prophet Mohammed could find no fault in what I have done."
Hashmi's line of reasoning angered Raseed. It was not what he saying, which Raseed realized was all true. Rather it was the manner in which the American was stating his case. Despite the kneeling position that he continued to maintain, the man showed no sign of fear, no indication that he was concerned about what lay ahead. His answers were delivered as if he were engaged in a theoretical debate. It had been a mistake, Raseed suddenly came to appreciate, to have spared him from the beatings that had been heaped upon his companions.
Then, in an instant, the colonel hit upon the course he would need to steer in the next few days. Triumphantly Raseed marched over and confronted Hashmi. With folded arms and a smile on his face he leaned over and stared into the American's eyes. "You may be prepared to accept your fate and all that it entails, but I do not think that your companions are. Nor do I believe that you have the stomach to watch as the scum you have chosen to call friends are beaten every time you choose to defy me."
For the first time Raseed could see a hint of concern creep into Hashmi's expression. Satisfied that he had finally achieved a degree of moral ascendancy over his prisoner, the colonel stood upright and grasped his hands behind his back while maintaining eye contact with Hashmi. "Tomorrow morning you will be brought before a military tribunal. It will judge you and your actions. During the course of the proceedings you will be expected to demonstrate to our people the respect and reverence that our law and the tribunal demand. Each time you fail to do so, each and every one of your companions will suffer. Do you understand?"
This time Hashmi made no effort to hide the anger and contempt he felt as he glared at the towering figure before him
^1
MORE THAN COURAGE
229
Coming to his feet, the American sergeant gathered himself up and looked into Raseed's eyes before he replied. Though his muted response was pretty much what Raseed expected, he knew that he had not even come close to breaking the American's spirit.
Well, he thought as he forced a smile and turned to leave. It did not matter what the American thought. Cameras seldom captured the truth. They reflected an image, an image that could be easily manipulated and twisted.
Amman, Jordan
18:05 LOCAL (15:05 ZULU)
The orders that Lieutenant Colonel Robert Delmont had found waiting for him at Andrews Air Force Base proved to be of no help to him in delineating his duties and responsibilities. When he finally was able to arrange a private meeting with the two sergeants who had managed to make their way across the Jordanian frontier, he was on his own.
As he feared, this meeting did not happen overnight. To appease its neighbors and those members of its citizenry who were decidedly anti-American, the Jordanian government needed to make a show of publicly expressing its outrage over the incident.
It took time to properly organize and stage anti-American rallies for the benefit of TV cameras. Statements condemning the violation of their nation's sovereign boundaries by armed combatants
"needed to be drafted and released by both the king and prime minister. Selected members of the government's inner circle had to be permitted ample opportunity to express their dismay over the affair. All of this had to be carefully orchestrated and Played out before arrangements for the transfer of Staff Sergeant Ramirez and Sergeant Funk from a Jordanian military facility to the American embassy could be quietly negotiated and carried out. When Robert Delmont arrived in Amman these maneuver
s
^ere still under way, leaving the special ops staff officer little choice but to patiently wait while the diplomats of the two
230
HAROLD COYLE
nations observed the dictates of protocol and performed their ritualistic dance.
This sort of enforced idleness is unnerving to a man whose routine consisted of twelve-hour workdays. To be out of the loop just as Fanfare was beginning to take shape only served to accentuate his angst. Were it not for the fact that this unwelcome interlude left him free to lose himself in the latest Tom Clancy novel, Delmont was convinced he would have gone totally mad.
When he was finally afforded an opportunity to sit down with the Kilo Three NCOs in a secure area alone, Delmont discovered that his frustrations were only the beginning. During the course of these meetings Delmont was able to confirm that any information Ramirez and Funk had concerning the status or whereabouts of their teammates who had been taken prisoner was of no use to him. Not even their knowledge of the terrain or the Syrian military was of value to the operation that he had been working on.
And to make matters worse, when all was said and done, Delmont wasn't even able to ascertain with any degree of certainty what had actually taken place that night. All in all he walked away with exactly what he had expected--zilch.
As discouraging as this was, putting together a summary of his findings and conclusions proved to be equally disheartening.
Using a vacant workstation in the secure area of the military liaison's office at the embassy, Robert Delmont quickly discovered that there was no way that he could piece together a full accounting of the affair without its reflecting adversely upon his own superior and a fellow special forces officer. Repeatedly both NCOs made statements that alluded to a deterioration of morale within RT Kilo and an appreciable decline in vigilance by every member of the team as they were told time after time that they would have to remain on station. Sergeant Funk was particularly bitter when this subject came up. When Delmont had pointed out that they were expected to follow orders, he snapped. "Yes, sir, we're soldiers. But there's only so much crap even the best of uS can tolerate, especially when no one else back home gives two
MORE THAN COURAGE
231
shits about what we're doing. Can you tell me," Funk asked rhetorically, "what exactly our sacrifice achieved? Can you, sir?
Can anyone?"
Accusations such as this one rattled Delmont. Even as Funk was speaking Delmont found himself recalling each and every time he had walked into General Palmer's office bearing the file on Razorback along with staff recommendations that he himself had drafted. How easy it had been for him to assess RT Kilo's state of readiness and ability to continue until RT Lima could be deployed to take its place. Anything was possible when one was sitting at a desk in Arlington, Virginia, safely tucked away within the Pentagon. There is no sand in the food served in the cafeterias there. Columns of armed soldiers- are not lying in ambush in the parking lot. With few exceptions every one of the thousands of military or civilian employees assigned there are free to turn their back on their labors when their shift is over and retire to their place of residence where they are free to enjoy the company of family, friends, or a few hours of calm, peaceful solitude.
Even a hardcore field soldier such as Delmont found that it was easy to set aside his muddy-boots mentality and adapt to the Pentagon's prevailing psychology and mind-set. As much as he wanted to think that he had somehow managed to avoid slipping into that pit, the results of his debriefings were proving otherwise. He may not have been there. And he definitely had no control over how each of the men belonging to RT Kilo dealt with the situation that night. But in so many ways, he was responsible.
Inevitably, this train of thought came to shade how Delmont now viewed the entire incident. Unable to escape the fact that he nad been a factor in creating the conditions that resulted in the demise of RT Kilo, the special ops plans officer found himself at a loss. In putting together his report, did he purge his prose of any verbiage that could lay culpability for the disaster upon someone's
doorstep? Or did he draft a document that passed judgment on tfre whole sorry affair using what he knew as well as the informa 232
HAROLD COYLE
tion he had managed to glean from the two NCOs and the results of O'Hara's and Laporta's debricfings?
Needing time to figure out how to deal with his troubled thoughts as well as formulating an approach for his report that was factual without being controversial, Dclmont left the embassy early. He reasoned that a good meal and a solid night's sleep would improve his ability to approach the subject in a more analytical and objective manner. If nothing else, the interlude would allow him an opportunity to clear away some of the mental fog generated by a lethal combination of jetlag and self-condemnation.
Unfortunately, like the solution that he sought, Robert Delmont was unable to set aside his problems. They followed him back to the hotel like an unwanted stray dog. There was simply too much going on, too many issues to be addressed, and too much that he needed to sort out. All during his meal he found himself thinking about the hardships the two NCOs had endured every time their redeployment was postponed. Even after he turned off the light next to his bed Dclmont discovered that his brain refused to disengage itself from dwelling upon the challenges he had yet to deal with. In desperation, he threw back the sheets, got up, dressed himself, and made his way to the hotel's bar. While he doubted that he would find a solution to any of the issues he had to deal with there, knocking back a beer or two wouldn't hurt.
One element that confused Dclmont was the attitudes of the two NCOs. During his debriefings of them he had become so obsessed with his own role in this crisis that it took him longer than it should have to pick up on the contempt each man held for his erstwhile companion. Only when he began to pay attention to their tone and choice of words, especially when referring to each other, was Dclmont able to discern the hostility each expressed when the other NCO was mentioned. Mixed in wit'1 this animosity were scattered hints of self-loathing that both men
continually alluded to when discussing their actions that night MORE THAN COURAGE
253
While not exactly material to his mission, his personal involvement in the operation shaded everything the two NCOs told him, depriving Delmont of the objectivity that would have helped him to paint a more complete and factual picture of that night and its aftermath.
Sitting at the quiet little bar, Lieutenant Colonel Robert Delmont did his best to focus his entire attention on nothing but the beer sitting before him. Even in this modest endeavor the Fates conspired against him. The officer had not given any thought to which seat he took when he had entered the bar. As chance would have it he found himself facing a television that was tucked away in one corner of the bar. The drone of elevator music that filled the room drowned out most of the so'und but did nothing to mitigate the flickering images that caught Delmont's eye every now and then. Like a moth drawn to a light, he found himself glancing over at the boob tube more often than he intended.
During the first half hour or so the program the barkeep watched between tending to customers appeared to be the Jordanian version of MTV. The beat of the local music that accompanied the relatively tame performance mixed with the soft jazz that played throughout the lounge in deference to the Western businessmen who filled it. No doubt, Delmont mused as he watched a comely young woman covered from head to toe in layers of silky , veils twirl about, a single showing of Madonna's latest music video would earn the station manager an old-fashioned stoning.
The American colonel was well into his second beer, an Irish brew that he favored, which somehow didn't quite taste the same here as it did back in Virginia, when the bartender walked over to the TV and changed the channel. In place of the female dancers adorned in traditional dress, a news reader who seemed to be far too Western for these parts appeared on the screen. In the traditions of the BBC he duti
fully read the latest news in a crisp monotone.
Delmont was about to turn away and survey his fellow Occidentals who had migrated into the lounge from the dining 234
HAROLD COYLE
room when the image of a member of RT Kilo flashed on the screen. Though he had come down to this place to escape thinking about that issue, Delmont was too much of a professional to turn his back.
For several seconds the news reader rattled on about something in Arabic while the mug shot of Sergeant Yousaf Hashmi was displayed. At first Delmont thought nothing of this. It was quite natural for Arabs to be drawn to the only surviving member of RT Kilo who was a fellow Muslim. That conclusion quickly evaporated, however, when a recent press photo of the Reverend Lucas Brown popped onto the screen next to that of Hashmi.
This apparition struck Delmont as being both incongruous and worrisome, especially since the previously attentive bartender suddenly turned his attention away from what he had been doing and instead focused on what the news reader was saying. In the twinkling of an eye, the dreamy and warm state of mind into which Delmont had slipped evaporated. Shifting about in his seat, the American colonel cleared his throat and lightly tapped his half-empty glass on the bar in an effort to get the barkeep's attention.
That the news item being announced had captured the full interest of the man was obvious by the manner with which he backed away from the screen without taking his eyes off it. Only when he was nearing Delmont did he bother to face him. Even then the American could tell that he was keeping one ear cocked as he tried to do two things at once.
"What's he saying?" Delmont asked when he was sure that the Jordanian was paying attention to him.
Without skipping a beat, the barkeep turned to face the screen while he answered. "The Syrian Ministry of Information has announced that the Syrian who was taken with the Americans is going to be tried by a military tribunal for treason."
Whether it was the offhanded, almost matter-of-fact manner with which the bartender spoke or the news itself, Delmont found himself stunned by this revelation. "Sergeant Hashmi is an American citizen!"