by Harold Coyle
On one side of the room sat a steel cage. Behind its iron bars was a row of four chairs set one meter apart from each other.
These chairs were for Hashmi's fellow Americans. The Syrians brought the remaining members of RT Kilo into the room in reverse order of rank, filling the chairs from left to right. The first to be led into the cage was Specialist Four Salvador Mendez.
Though haggard and clearly suffering from the beatings that had been heaped upon him, he carried himself with as much moxie
^nd swagger as his situation and the guards would permit. He Wanted all who saw him to see that he was bloodied but Unbowed. Next came Specialist Four David Davis. Dee Dee tried
; to follow his companion's example but found that he could no 1 longer muster the strength to do so. Every ounce of courage and 256
HAROLD COYLE
grit had been pounded out of him. To his right was Sergeant First Class Allen Kanncn. Whatever Kannen thought, whatever he felt he kept to himself. He was being driven by a desire to give the Syrians nothing. To this end he made every effort to keep his emotions and expressions in check no matter what happened, trusting that those who saw the video back home would understand his silent defiance.
Over the course of their captivity all the members of RT Kilo had been kept in isolation. Unable to gauge how the others were being treated and were holding up, each man had been left to deal with his pain, suffering, and fear on his own as well as he could. So it was not surprising that each man felt a moment of joy and hope when he saw his companions. Not only did it prove that he had not been alone, it permitted each of them to judge just how bad he himself must have looked since none had been afforded an opportunity to inspect themselves in a mirror.
Guards cut from the same mold as the pair who stood behind Hashmi served as escorts to Kannen, Davis, and Mendez. They prevented the Americans from speaking to each other and limited their freedom to look around. Once the Americans were seated in the cage, each of the three guards posted himself behind one of the American prisoners. The three enlisted men were in place when Ken Aveno was brought into the courtroom. As the others had been, Aveno was led to the cage where his seat awaited him.
Unlike the others, the executive officer of RT Kilo made no effort at all to put up a brave and noble front. Whereas Kannen, Davis, and Mendez had stood erect and marched forward with as much pride as their injuries and leg irons permitted, Ken Aveno shuffled forward stoop-shouldered with a faltering pace. With his head bowed low, he made no effort to look left or right, even as he was paraded before his fellow Americans. Staring down at the floor, his face betrayed a pained, almost shocked expression.
Whatever strength the trio of enlisted men had managed to garner when they laid eyes on each other was sapped in an instan by the pathetic image that their lieutenant presented. Like the rest MORE THAN COURAGE
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of the spectacle being played out in this room, this was exactly what the Syrians had planned. They suspected that the three American enlisted men would look to Aveno as a source of strength and for cues on how to carry themselves during the proceedings that were about to take place. To prevent this from occurring without resorting to the beatings that might not work and would leave telltale signs, the Syrians chose to break the American officer's spirit by delivering a crippling blow to him just prior to the commencement of the tribunal. In an anteroom just outside the courtroom, Aveno was escorted to a table. Upon it were clippings from English-language newspapers covering the story of the strange love triangle involving Aveno's estranged wife and Karen Green. The Syrians had no'need to embellish anything that American and British journalists said. Every conceivable and juicy little tidbit, no matter how perverse and twisted, was articulated in the pieces before Aveno.
No amount of torture, no other psychological trick, could have had the same crushing impact that the revelation of this story had on Aveno. He had fallen in love with Elizabeth at college.
It had been a maddening all-consuming sort of passion that romantic novelists only dream about. He had ignored her coolness at his insistence that they marry. He even managed to disregard the stories that his friends passed on to him of what they had heard about Elizabeth's preferences. Only when his first commanding officer found it necessary to call Aveno into his office to inform Him that Elizabeth had approached another officer's wife with an indecent proposal did Aveno find he had no choice but to face reality. Yet even then the young officer was unable to cast aside his feelings. When it came time for them to part, Aveno and Elizabeth opted to begin by going their separate ways, rather than immediately commencing divorce proceedings. Eventually Aveno
"^w he would have to do what was necessary. Eventually he Would have to take some sort of action to end the farce that his Carriage had turned into. But at the time of his separation from Elizabeth he could not find the courage necessary to act. Con 258
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fused and stunned by what was happening, he had done nothing while the love of his life walked away and left him alone to deal with his failure.
This was where things had stood when RT Kilo met its demise.
Now, as Ken Aveno glanced from news story to news story he came to realize that whatever hope he had of pursuing a military career was over. No officer, no matter how good or brave or technically and tactically proficient he was, could survive with something like this following him around from assignment to assignment. For the first time since he had been taken prisoner, Ken Aveno began to see that death had become more than an option.
Lost in his own private crisis, Aveno did not take note that the other two officers who had been taken prisoner were not present.
All of the enlisted men, however, picked up upon this glaring omission. Though none of them were able to communicate with the other, in time each man came to the same conclusion. As near as they could figure, both Captain Burman and the Air Force officer were being kept back as hostages in an effort to ensure the NCOs' good behavior in public should the guards behind them not suffice. Just what the Syrians would do to Burman and Ciszak was less clear. Having undergone days of unimaginable torture themselves, however, Kannen, Mendez, and Davis all had an excellent frame of reference as to what could happen if they did something that displeased their captors.
Surprisingly this effect had not been part of the equation that the Syrians had so carefully worked out. The truth of the matter was that Joseph Ciszak was already gone, bartered to the People s Liberation Army for badly needed military hardware. In Bur man's case, he was safely tucked away in a military hospital where life-support systems were keeping him alive. Just what they would do with Burman had not been determined. Since they had already released the names of the American soldiers killed in action at the time of their capture, it had been decided that it would not look good to announce that one had died while in their custody. So MORE THAN COURAGE
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they kept him alive, figuring that even a damaged poker chip" had some value in the game they were playing.
The tribunal began with the entrance of the three Syrian judges.
With great ceremony they trooped to the front of the room where they took their seats under the watchful eye of a flag draped portrait of their national leader. With a somber tone the senior officer and chief judge called the proceedings to order before reading the charges against Sergeant Yousaf Hashmi aloud.
"Yousaf Hashmi, you are being accused of treason against the people and the government of Syria. You have knowingly assisted foreign invaders to violate our national sovereignty for the purpose of waging a cruel, unjust, and inhuman war against its people.
As a result of your actions, untold numbers of your fellow citizens have died or suffered."
Suspecting that he was already condemned to die and unwilling to play his part in the manner that the Syrians wished, Hashmi interrupted the reading of the charges against him. "I am an American, born and raised in the United States of America. I am not a Syrian."
Havi'ng ventured this far, Hashmi was determined to press on, regardless of the cost. Controlling the fear that gripped his entire body, he repeated his statement. "I am a citizen of the United States of America and a sergeant in the United States Army. I am guilty of no crimes against Syria or its people."
As the chorus of spectators drowned out his words with jeers and hoots, one of the guards behind Hashmi took a step forward and slapped the American NCO's head with the back of his hand.
At the front of the room the president of the tribunal continued 260
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to pound the table and demand Hashmi be still. Having made his i
point and shown that he would not go quietly to his predeter mined
doom, Hashmi eomplied, for the moment.
When silence was restored the president of the tribunal nod 1
ded
to the prosecutor. Taking his time, the Syrian selected to be I'
the hero of this production stood up and approached Hashmi.
When he was standing before Hashmi, the prosecutor folded his arms and looked down at the American NCO. "What is the nationality of your parents?"
jj
Hashmi looked into the Syrian's eyes before answering. He knew where all of this was going. He knew what was going to I
happen. He was going to die. That was a given, which nothing he said or did here would change. The only choice he had was how the world would see him and what they would hear him say. In I
the heavy silence of the room, Hashmi glanced at his fellow sol diers.
When he saw that his lieutenant was making no effort to look up at him, Hashmi's gaze fell upon Kannen. The NCO
1
guessed what Hashmi was asking him with his eyes. Though he knew that it would be hard on him and the others, Kannen closed I
his eyes and gave a slight yet noticeable nod.
Having received Kannen's sanction, Hashmi looked up at the Syrian before him. With a steady voice that betrayed no hint of wavering, he spoke as loud as he could without shouting. "I am an American soldier, charged with the duty of defending my fel III I I
I
low Americans against all enemies, foreign and domestic."
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It was not the words that angered the Syrian prosecutor. It
|i
wasn't even the tone of Hashmi's voice. Rather it was the glint in
'I
the American's eye, and the hint of a smile that threw the Syrian 1|
into a fit of rage. Tossing aside the decorum by which he was sup
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posed
to be abiding the Syrian raised his hand as far as he could and delivered a stunning open-handed blow that sent the American before him sprawling onto the floor. Taken aback by this breach in protocol and unexpected deviation from the script before him, the president of the tribunal stared at his chief prosecutor, then at a figure standing behind a bank of cameras at the MORE THAN COURAGE
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rear of the room. With a single motion of his hand, the producer of this stage play brought the opening session to an abrupt close.
For the moment he had enough footage with which to proceed.
They no longer needed the Americans. Through careful editing, a body-double shot from behind^ and a dubbed voice delivered by a Syrian soldier who was even able to mimic Hashmi's accent, the Syrian Ministry of Information would be able to complete the tribunal without having to worry about any further interference from the accused. Their goal would be met and on schedule. By the next day a story that had been fading from the public's radar would once more be dictating the agendas of decision makers in the United States and around the world.
Fort Irwin, California
07:00 LOCAL (14:00 ZULU)
Seated on the hood of his humvee with his feet resting on the I-beam front bumper, Lieutenant Colonel Harry Shaddock watched the Air Force transport as it taxied its way over to where the hangars were. Standing to either Side were his sergeant major, John Harris and his XO, Ben Castalane. When the roar of the aircraft's engines had subsided somewhat, Shaddock grunted. "Am I the only one who feels like a Trojan soldier watching a horse being hauled through the gates of his city?"
With a chuckle Castalane looked up at his commanding officer.
"What's the matter, sir? Don't trust our good buddies from Puzzle Palace?"
Shaddock looked at his XO. "You know, when I was doing my time at Fort Benning a Russian officer who was visiting us presented a briefing on the war plans the former Soviet Union had drawn up for waging war against the United States. When he listed the primary targets the Strategic Rocket Force would take out in their first strike, all of us noticed that the Pentagon was not included. Well," Shaddock continued as he waved his hand about,
"being the spring butt that I am, I took the bait. In a flash I threw my hand up. When the Russian stopped and called on me I pointed this out, asking him why the Pentagon had been left out.
With a straight face and without missing a beat the Russian looked at me, and replied, 'Well, after careful analysis of your nation's command-and-control structure, it was determined that destroying the Pentagon would only serve to enhance the combat capability of your armed forces.'"
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Amidst the chorus of laughter, Sergeant Major Harris lifted the lapel of his uniform. "Ah, sir, could you repeat that? I don't think my hidden mike got everything you said."
Shaddock threw his hands up. "Sergeant'Major, I'm only relating to you a true 'story."
Castalane chuckled. "That's right, Sergeant Major, with the
|
emphasis on 'story.'"
The laughter faded as the transport rolled to a stop. Not being privy to what exactly was going on behind the scenes, Har Iris
looked up at his commanding officer. "I take it from your demeanor, Colonel, this is a new wrinkle."
Shaddock didn't respond as he sat there wondering what the sudden appearance of this aircraft, its passengers, and the cargo it carried would mean to his battalion. Those suspicions he did harbor could not be shared with his subordinates. In an eyes-only I message that had been
hand delivered to him the night before by a
courier who had been flown in, Shaddock was made aware of how much the situation in Syria was in flux. The message was as short as it was encrypted. "Original goals of Fanfare no longer applicable.
Fanfare is now the primary response. Personnel with revised orders as well as additional equipment required for execution of revised iFanfare will be arriving your location by air 1400 hours Zulu."
When his colonel didn't respond to his comment Harris let the matter drop. He haci no doubt in his military mind that he would find out what all of this was about soon enough.
After easing himself down, Shaddock reached behind with his right hand and pounded on the hood, shouting to his driver who tended to drift off to sleep whenever the engine wasn't running
"Jackson, crank it up!" Turning to his XO and sergeant major, the commander of the 3rd of the 75th Rangers pointed to the transport.
"What do you say we go over there and see what the pros from Dover have for us."
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By the time the crew chief of the transport had the ramp down, Robert Dclmont was up, out of his seat, and ready to go. Leaving the project manager for the Land Warrior system and his training NCOs to deal with the load of equipment, Delmont trooped down the ramp and into the bright desert dawn. Pausing as soon as his feet were on the ground, he glanced at his watch, then up at the sun. It was still early morning and already he was perspiring.
By noon his brown-and-tan desert BDUs would be soaked with sweat.
> He hadn't been on the ground for more than a few moments when a covey of three humvecs roared up to the transport and came to a screeching halt, throwing up a cloud of dust that drifted into the open cargo bay. Despite the fact that the people who emerged from the humvees outranked him, the transport's crew chief gave Lieutenant Colonel Shaddock, Major Castalane, and Sergeant Major Harris a look that could kill.
Ignoring the Air Force sergeant, Shaddock marched up to Delmont. "Are you in charge here?"
Somewhat taken aback by Shaddock's brusque manner, the special ops plans officer raised his right hand in preparation to receive Shaddock's in greeting. "I am Lieutenant Colonel Robert Delmont from the Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff of the Army for Special Operations."
"I'm Shaddock," the Ranger officer snapped without making any effort whatsoever to take Delmont's proffered hand. "You're supposed to have orders for me."
For a moment Delmont stared at the commander of the 3rd of the 75th with his hand held out between them. When he finally realized how things stood, the plans officer withdrew his hand behind his back, where he clasped it with his other hand. Rocking back on his heels, he took a moment to size up both the man before him and the situation. Well, Delmont thought as they eyed each other like a pair of pit bulls in the ring, if this is the way you want to play it, then by God that's the way it will go down. "Is there
^T
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a secure area where we can go, Colonel, and discuss those orders?"
With a smile that reflected not a whit of warmth, Shaddock reached out with his right hand, took Delmont by the forearm, and raised his left hand in the direction of the open desert.
"Please, Colonel. Step into my office."
Making no effort to mask the scathing expression that clouded his face, Delmont fell in behind Shaddock as the two stormed off in silence. When Shaddock was sure that he was out of earshot of everyone gathered about the rear of the transport he stopped and pivoted. "Before we get started here," he stated, making no effort to hide his anger and frustration, "are you someone who knows what's going on or are you simply another messenger boy who doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground?"