by Harold Coyle
Without thinking, he let out a groan. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
A Marine colonel waiting in line behind him glanced over his shoulder at the headline Delmont was staring at. The Marine chuckled. "I second that."
Embarrassed, Delmont turned to apologize. "I'm sorry, sir.
It's just that ..."
The Marine smiled. "No need to! I'm just glad my wife wasn't in the room this morning when I heard that tidbit on the radio."
"Well," Delmont mused as he shuffled down along the counter as the line advanced to the cashier, "I hope that young Lieutenant Aveno doesn't get wind of this, just in case he wasn't aware of his wife's choice."
The Marine sneered. "Oh, please. Be real, Colonel. Do you for one minute think that those bastards in Damascus are going to shield Aveno from this? By this evening I imagine that they'll have clippings from every English-language newspaper they can lay their hands on plastered all over his cell." Then after taking a moment to think about what he had just said, and composing himself, the Marine added with a whimsical glimmer in his eyes,
"I know that's what I would do."
The others waiting in line who overheard this conversation were not shocked by the Marine's statement. They were professional soldiers, most of whom still managed to remember that their primary duty was to kill people and break things. Statements such as the one just uttered by the colonel were nothing more
than the articulation of an obvious course of action chosen to deal With a given situation. Though the language was a bit more colorful than most people in the Pentagon used as they went about
'their duties, the thought was nonetheless just as cold and analytical 246
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as any other man and woman in that line would put forth during the course of the day. They were the shield bearers for their nation, men and women hand picked to plan the unthinkable and do those things that their fellow citizens could not bring themselves to do.
The next jarring bit of news that Delmont stumbled upon that morning did not rear up and slap him in the face in the same manner as the newspaper headline had. Instead it slowly seeped into his consciousness as he went about trying to catch up to where he had left off. Under ordinary circumstances this was no easy task in a place like the Pentagon. In the midst of an ongoing crisis it was nigh impossible, particularly since no one who came into contact with him seemed to take into account the fact that he had not been in the office for several days. Inevitably his coworkers found their way into Delmont's cubicle or stopped him as he was scurrying about and started a conversation with him as if he had just returned from the men's room rather than the Jordanian capital. Being a bit too proud for his own good, the special
ops plans officer seldom asked whomever he was conversing with to stop, back up, and explain just what it was that he or she was talking about. Though it was a foolish thing to do, the alternative was worse. In a peacetime military that operated on a philosophy of zero defects, a career officer could not be seen as being behind the power curve. So Robert Delmont listened attentively and nodded when it seemed appropriate as his brain did its best to catch up to the subject at hand and the time zone he was now in.
It was late morning Eastern time and early evening Delmont time when General Palmer called him in to discuss Fanfare. Having just put the finishing touches on the draft trip report that he had e-mailed to his computer in the Pentagon, Delmont felt confident that he was ready to deal with anything his superior threw at him. In fact, he was looking forward to the challenge. Trooping into Palmer's officer, he waited until the general finished a conversation he was having on the phone before taking a seat Actually, conversation was probably not a good word to use since MORE THAN COURAGE
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Palmer was doing all the listening and the person on the other end seemed to be doing all the talking. Without having to be told, Delmont guessed that there were a minimum of three stars on the other end of the line passing on the diktat of the day. By way of confirming this, Palmer, ended the call by drawing a deep breath before mumbling "Yes, sir, I understand, sir."
Slowly he replaced the receiver on the secure line and stared at it for several seconds. Then, with his hands folded on his desk before him, Palmer looked over at Delmont. "Drop everything you're doing other than Fanfare over on Calvert's desk. Tell him that until further notice he's to cover for you. If he starts squawking, tell him to see me."
Though puzzled by this order, Delmont found himself smiling.
The last part of Palmer's order, the bit about telling Calvert to see him if he had a problem, was the general's way of saying,
"Shut the fuck up and suck it up."
"When you're finished with that," Palmer continued, "bring me everything you have on Fanfare."
"To include computer disks, sir?"
"Everything. Once you've accomplished that, tell the sergeant major to have the automation people wipe your hard drive clean and reinitialize it."
Up to now Delmont hadn't given any of his instructions a second thought. Everything suggested that he was being cut loose from his more mundane duties so that he could deal exclusively with a new, very high priority project. All of that pleased the ambitious plans officer. But when he heard that his computer's memory was going to be purged, alarms started to sound in his head. Dumping a staff officer's working files and records like that Was akin to stripping a soldier of his rank and clipping off his buttons in preparation to drumming him out of the service. Unable to hold back any longer, Delmont found himself having to ask the obvious. "Can you tell me, sir, why we are taking these steps? Has Fanfare been blown?"
For a moment Palmer looked at his subordinate as if he were 248
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angered by the man's obtuseness. Then, recalling the fact that Dclmont had been out of the loop for several days, he relented.
Easing back into his chair he stared into Delmont's eyes with an intensity that unnerved the special ops plans officer. "In your absence the political landscape has been rearranged. It seems that advisors to the Commander in Chief have concluded that the administration does not have the time to allow diplomacy to resolve the situation in Damascus. Rather than allowing the Syrians to control the pace and intensity of this crisis by killing off our people one at a time, something which they now appear to be intent on doing, the president has determined that the time has come to bring this affair to a quick and decisive conclusion, regardless of the cost or the final outcome. By doing so he intends to send the Syrians and anyone else thinking of thumbing their noses at us a message, a very strong message."
When Palmer hesitated to continue, Delmont again sought clarification. "I am not sure, sir, if I fully understand."
The anger that welled up in Palmer was generated as much by the fact that he was being stampeded into a course of action that he considered to be unwise and was opposed to as by the fact that he was having to spell it out to one of his subordinates. Standing up, Palmer leaned over his desk, resting upon his knuckles in order to support himself. "Colonel, be so kind as to pull your fifth point of contact out of your third point of contact and think! Fanfare is no longer a deception plan. It is the plan of operation. In fact, it is our only plan of operation. And you, Colonel, are going to be responsible for making sure that it works. Is that clear?"
Rattled, the best Delmont could manage was a quick, "Yes, sir. Clear."
After taking a moment to regain his composure, Palmer straightened up. "Once you've taken care of things here, your first stop will be at the office of the project manager for the Land Warrior at Fort Belvoir. Lieutenant Colonel Neil Kaplan, the project manager for Land Warrior, is expecting you. He will fill you in on the role his office will play in this. From there you will MORE THAN COURAGE
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proceed to Fort Irwin, where you will serve as a liaison between Department of the Army and the 3rd Battalion, 75th Ranger."
Though he hated to do so, Delmont found that he could not avoid
asking another question. "How much time do we have before we are expected to jump off?"
Bothered by the answer he was about to give, Palmer hesitated.
When he did his response was rather ambiguous. "That is not for us to decide. Our task is simply to make sure that if the Commander in Chief does decide to pull the trigger, the Rangers are ready to go. I am confident you fully understand your mandate."
"Yes, sir, I believe I do."
Never having given an order of .this nature before, Palmer didn't feel comfortable leaving things standing where they were.
Moving out from behind his desk, he stepped forward until he was standing before Delmont. With his face set in an expression that betrayed his personal concerns, Palmer slowly repeated the final instructions that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had just passed onto him. "This is for your ears and your ears only. Our people will not be left to fester in Syria for 444 days.
Nor will we stand idly by while the bodies of American soldiers are dragged through the streets of Damascus one by one. You will bring them home, dead or alive. Clear?"
Coming to attention, Delmont nodded. "Yes, sir. Clear as a bell."
Damascus, Syria
10:05 LOCAL (06:05 ZULU)
Nothing was left to chance. The military tribunal was to be a well staged affair that had one predetermined conclusion fashioned to serve several well-defined purposes. For the majority of the Syrian people the public trial of Sergeant Yousaf Hashmi and his subsequent execution would placate those who demanded biblical retribution for all the suffering the Americans had inflicted upon them. It did not matter that the death of one American was little more than a token when compared to the number of Syrians who had been killed by air strikes that periodically disrupted their lives. Blood was blood. The shedding of Hashmi's blood would also
serve as a warning to fellow Arabs who might be entertaining the idea of lifting their hand against their fellow Muslims while in the service of America or her allies.
The true yet less obvious purpose of this exercise was to provoke a reaction from the United States. Despite the fact that it was the Syrian government that held the prisoners, they set the pace of events or regulated the intensity of the emergency on their own. These factors were controlled by the media covering the story. So long as the editors of selected newspapers and producers of news programs said that it was a crisis, it was a crisis, one that no politician in the United States could afford to ignore.
Only when a story had slipped below the fold of the newspaper and American voters lost interest in it were politicians from both
sides of the political spectrum free to step down from their flagcraped soapboxes and get back to the serious business of vilifying
, their political foes and not the Syrians. Experience tended to sup 252
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port the view that when this happened, the American military became dangerous. Once they were out from under the glare of the media's spotlights and were no longer the topic of discussion on twenty-four-hour news channels, the armed forces were safe to duck into the tall grass and stalk their prey until ready to strike.
More than one international terrorist or national leader who thought he had gotten away with twisting the tiger's tail was awoken from a sound sleep by the sound of a precision-guided bomb stamped Made in the U.S.A. smashing through a window of his bedroom. Unlike their fellow Americans, professional soldiers understand that patience is more than a virtue, it's a military necessity.
In the face of the sophisticated and far-reaching military might of the United States, nations like Syria have found themselves forced to practice warfare by other means, sometimes known as asymmetrical warfare. Ordinarily this means terrorism or guerrilla warfare carried out using conventional weaponry, suicide bombers, or even weapons of mass destruction. An important adjunct to these activities is information warfare, a subset of the second-oldest profession that can include anything from the disruption of critical computer systems to the use of propaganda.
Within this realm of warfare the media has become an unwitting conduit. By manipulating the flow of information, a well
disciplined foe can strike at a nation's ability to control the course of events as well as the will of its populace.
Over the years the ease with which the American public could be turned against its own government through the manipulation of the press had not been lost to nations opposed to the United States. The American phase of the war in Vietnam has been something of a primer for those seeking to learn how to wage effective information warfare. The leadership of North Vietnam did not have to send a single soldier across the Pacific Ocean in order to derail the Johnson administration or bring the United States to the brink of insurrection. College professors, ambitious politicians, Hollywood glitterati, and rising media stars created an arniV
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of insurgents for Uncle Ho drawn from the ranks of privileged youth of his foe, an army that won the war for him in the streets and voting booths of the United States. The debacle in Somalia in 1993 was an even more stunning victory of imagery over reality.
While it was costly to the units involved and tragic to the individual American families who lost their loved ones in that engagement, the fight in the streets of Mogadishu in October 1993
succeeded in bringing the warlords to their knees. Unfortunately for the people of the region, the video clips viewed by the American Commander in Chief convinced him that the conflict there was both unwinnable and politically unsound. The precipitous withdrawal of American forces from Somalia left that nation in a state of chaos from which it has yet to recover. These lessons and countless others have not been lost on those who cannot match the United States on an open field of battle. Rather than a bane to dictators and mass murderers, the TV news crew has become the weapon of choice when those dictators, terrorists, and mass murderers wish to target the American public.
With this in mind the officers charged with preparing the military tribunal approached it not as an exercise in international jurisprudence but rather as a stage play. Since the verdict and punishment had already been decided upon, the real issues became how to present the facts that supported the tribunal's conclusions in the most dramatic manner possible. To achieve this, everything had to be just so.
.
The'room selected for this melodrama was selected with an eye toward the Western public.
It had to fit the august and
somber character that they have come to associate with judicial Proceedings. At the head of the room would be the panel of three judges. Though they were all officers belonging to the Republi_
can Guard, the criteria used in selecting the men who would hand H down the verdict of guilt was their appearance. Instead of lean and muscular military types sporting intimidating expressions, each of the three judges selected could have doubled as a wise, elderly
mullah who had spent his days studying the word of God 254
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and not the art of war. This was done for the benefit of those Muslims who would view the proceedings in Syria and every Arabic-speaking community throughout the world. They also had to be able to maintain expressions that clearly demonstrated that they were being deliberative and reflective as they weighed the facts of the case.
Before them would be the accused, Sergeant Yousaf Hashmi.
Seated in a straight-back chair the American would face his judges with nothing to hide behind. On either side of Hashmi were two guards. Unlike the panel of judges, these sentinels were picked for their size and military bearing. Standing at rapt attention while clutching their AK-74 Kalashnikovs tightly against their chests, they represented the brave and vigilant Army that stood ready to protect Syria from traitors and foreign intruders alike.
To Hashmi's left rear sat the Syrian officer assigned to plead his case. In the same way they'd chosen all the other actors, those responsible for orchestrating
this event had taken great pains to find just the right person to serve as a spokesperson for the accused. Wearing an ill-fitting uniform that hung from his skinny frame as if it were draped upon a coat rack^ the bespectacled defense attorney's discomfort with his role was reflected by his posture, or more correctly lack thereof, as well as the exaggerated deference with which he addressed everyone in the room. He knew what was expected of him. Even if he had a grasp of international and military law, the counsel for defense lacked the mettle necessary to withstand the whirlwind the prosecution was prepared to unleash.
The man chosen to stand up for the people of Syria was a cross between the trio of judges seated at the front of the room, the pair of guards posted on either side of Hashmi, and a Hollywood star. Tall and well built, the middle-aged Syrian officer was the epitome of what a good Arab father should look like. The hint of gray hair testified to the wisdom that only maturity can bring An occasional twinkle in his clear piercing eyes hinted of kindness T
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and love that had the ability to soften the firm resoluteness that his strong angular jaw established. When he spoke his tone commanded the attention of those who heard it without his needing to be shrill or harsh. Even his posture and the manner with which he carried himself marked him as a man who was confident and in control.
To support these key players a handpicked audience of "average"
Syrian citizens had been assembled. They would serve as the Greek chorus, wailing their laments as each crime against their fellow citizens and their nation was described and shouting well rehearsed adoration whenever the prosecution scored a point.
Most were women wearing traditional Arabic dress, and old men.
Here and there children wrere mixed in with the crowd to represent those orphaned by American aggression. Also scattered about in the audience were a fair number of Syrian secret police.
Dressed in mufti, they were tasked with maintaining discipline among the rabble throughout the proceedings. While none of them announced that this was what they were there for, no one in the audience needed to be told. Just as they understood their purpose, they instinctively knew what would become of them and their loved ones if they failed to measure up to expectations.