by Harold Coyle
DeWitt slowed down. "Any idea what those doors are made of? Are they swinging doors?"
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In response to this question, Kaplan accessed the detailed schematics of the section of the building they were in. These particulars, along with numerous other items of interest, had been provided to the Army by the CIA and the Israeli Mossad and uploaded into the memories of Kaplan's and DeWitt's computers.
When he found what he was looking for he read off the information.
"Steel doors with small windows. The ones we'll be moving toward open out and away from us. On the other side is the dispensary."
Instinctively, DeWitt replied, "Okay, good," even though he had no clear idea if the data he had been provided was a plus or a minus.
Clicking his fingers, DeWitt caught the attention of the two men on point. Specialist Four Rodriguez Sanchez placed a hand on his partner, PFC Anthony Park. Together the two men paused. As Park watched their front, Sanchez looked back at his commanding officer. Using a standard hand-and-arm signal, DeWitt indicated the new direction that he wanted the pair of riflemen to take. With a nod, Sanchez acknowledged the order before he passed it on to Park.
From behind DeWitt, Kaplan watched in silence. On one hand he felt a keen sense of disappointment that the officer in command wasn't using the Land Warrior as he should be. DeWitt could just as easily have contacted his men on point using the radio built into the system and then, if he really wanted to be fancy, zip the visual schematic of their planned route to the pair up front. Still, he was not surprised by the young officer's actions.
This sort of thing was to be expected. The entire company simply had not had enough time to become comfortable with all the features of the system. Until they were afforded the opportunity to work with it on a daily basis, soldiers like these Rangers would never be able to maximize Land Warrior's full potential. That and the appreciation that old habits died hard mitigated his frustration.
In a pinch, people tended to resort to the tried and true 386
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methods that had served them so well in the past. The situation DeWitt was currently facing was the textbook description of being in a pinch.
Up front Sanchez had other, more immediate concerns. After slowly making their way forward as far as they could without exposing themselves, the pair came to a halt. Leaning his right shoulder against the wall, Sanchez poked his rifle out into the intersecting corridors, pointing its muzzle and the thermal weapon sight mounted on it in the direction of the doors Kaplan had described. This was not as easy as it sounded. Being right handed, Sanchez held the pistol grip of his weapon with that hand, and supported it by grabbing the hand guard with his left.
This placed the weapon in a natural, streamlined posture that allowed him to bring it up into a good firing position in a flash.
The act of using it and the Land Warrior sight as a probe, however, was awkward at best. After extending his rifle and its high tech sight out and away from his body, Sanchez had to cross his arms so that the left hand gripping the hand guard was now opposite his right shoulder and his right hand on the pistol grip was off to the left. Not having had the time to get used to the necessary hand-eye coordination needed to maximize the thermal sight's potential when used under these circumstances, it took Sanchez a few seconds to sort out which hand he needed to move in order to obtain a clear and steady image of what lay ahead. This juggling act, conducted with the sharp echo of battle reverberating through the corridor and the pressure of getting on with their duties proved to be frustrating as hell to Sanchez. "Christ! This is worse than wrestling with a snake."
Park laid his hand on Sanchez's shoulder. "Slow down, my good man. You're doin' fine."
In his excitement, Sanchez was mashing down on his transmit button, which meant that every man in the First Squad as well as DeWitt and Kaplan heard his muttered complaints. Yet no one said a word.
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"Okay, got it." Once he had achieved a balance of sorts and was able to observe the double doors just ahead, Sanchez took a moment to study them, focusing on their small windows. When he saw nothing that presented an immediate threat, Sanchez pulled his weapon back and prepared to take a peek around the corner. For as good as the thermal sight was, it did have its limitation.
Thermal sights function by detecting subtle differences in the amount of heat an object throws off. Sensors in the thermal sight collect these variations in radiated heat. Through the use of gee-whiz electronic wizardry, an image based upon this collected data was created and displayed in the sight's eyepiece. The problem was that anything that blocked or mitigated radiated heat has the ability to defeat this system. Glass/such as that in the door, is one such material. So it came as no surprise that it wasn't until Sanchez poked his head around the corner, and used his good old standard-issue M-1A1 eyeballs that he saw beams of light fluttering on the other side of the double doors.
After watching for a few seconds he pulled back and reported.
"There's activity on the other side of the doors. Looks like people shining flashlights all around."
Back down in the corridor, DeWitt took in the report before turning to Kaplan. Even though he didn't ask, he guessed what he was thinking. "It makes sense," he stated. "If that is the dispensary then that's where the wounded Syrians would be taken and treated. With power out all over the city, the medical staff would have to rely on flashlights."
DeWitt grunted. "Great, combatant, noncombatants, and unarmed wounded all mixed together."
"Lieutenant, as far as I am concerned there's only one person in that room we need to concern ourselves with. Everyone else is roadkill."
For the first time, DeWitt took a hard look at the officer whom he had tended to dismiss over the past weeks as little more than a run-of-the-mill support weenie. Even in the dark he could 388
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see that the expression on his face was as cold and unfeeling as his words had been. He was of course right. Collateral damage had been expected.
Seeing no need to make a direct response, he turned his attention back to the situation at hand. "Okay, Third Platoon, here we go. First Squad will move round the corner and into the next room. Mark your targets, take 'em out, and don't use grenades.
Our boys are in there somewhere. The first man to find them is to sing out as soon as he does. Once we have both of them out of the dispensary we'll withdraw by two. Second Squad will hold at the intersection of the corridors and cover our rear while we're in there and during our withdrawal. Acknowledge, over."
Over the radio, Lieutenant Quinn came back with a question.
"Red Six, this is One Six. Where do you want me?"
"Stay with your Second Squad, One Six. I'm going forward with the First Squad."
Upon hearing this, Quinn found he could not contain his anger. "Shit! Not again?"
Hoyt, crouching next to him, looked at his platoon leader.
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Nothing," he mumbled "It's nothing."
Hoyt knew better than that. As he waited next to his platoon leader, the radioman could almost sense the frustration his platoon leader was feeling at being left behind again.
Up front, Sanchez and Park led off the advance as soon as DeWitt and the balance of the First Squad closed up on them. When they reached the double doors, Park, keeping as low as he could, reached up, grasped the door handle, and slowly gave it a twist to see if it was unlocked and could be opened. When he was satisfied that this would be no problem and had done the same with the other door, Sanchez looked back at DeWitt and gave his commanding officer a nod.
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Glancing back over his shoulder, DeWitt looked at Staff Sergeant Jones, who was right behind him. "Okay, here we go."
Then, facing front, DeWitt pointed at Sanchez.
Twisting his head, Sanchez stare
d at Park and whispered, "On the count of three, two, one . . ."
In unison the two Rangers threw open the double doors and lunged forward, bringing their weapons up to the ready as they did so. By the time they had accomplished this, Jones and PFC
Johnny Washington had reached the open doorway and stormed into the dispensary side by side.
For a fraction of a second there was a stunned silence as every Syrian in the dimly lit dispensary stopped whatever they had been doing and turned to gaze in horror at the oncoming Rangers.
Having been taken by surprise each of them suddenly found himself faced with a simple decision that had to be made without hesitation, without thinking. Their choices were simple: flight, fight, or surrender.
Most were not given a chance to act upon their choice.
Brought to a fever pitch by the presence of danger and prospect of impending combat, Jones and his companions executed their commanding officer's last order to a T. With measured ease each man selected his target, brought his weapon to bear, and fired. In the twinkling of an eye pandemonium in the close confines of the dispensary area of the prison reigned supreme. Over the chatter of rifle fire, the screams and cries of panicked men mixed in with the shrill screeches of the wounded and dying. To this was added the shouts of excited men as they pushed arid shoved their comrades aside in an effort to flee, or duck for cover from the charging
Rangers. Some who had not been in the main area of the dispensary inexplicably rushed out of rooms where they had been safe and into the line of fire.
Added to these sights and sounds was a riot of peculiar smells.
Some of these were smells one normally associated with battle, such as the pungent odor of gunpowder, the stench of loose bow 390
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els, and the sickly sweet smell of freshly shed blood. To these were added the scents familiar to any medical facility, such as alcohol, disinfectant, and medications. Through all of this riot of sight, sound, and smell Staff Sergeant Jones, Washington, Sanchez, and Park pressed forward like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, slaying all before them and adding to the carnage with each step they took. This was war at close quarters, combat at its basest, purest form, up close, impersonal, cruel, vicious, and completely uncompromising.
In their wake came the rest of the First Squad led by DeWitt with Kaplan right behind him. In pairs this follow-on party ducked into each room they came across. When they were met by a threatening figure that stood in their way the members of these search parties dispatched the hapless Syrian with the same unflinching speed as that employed by Jones and his trio. Only the thoroughness of their search equaled the ruthlessness with which they dealt with those who stood in opposition on purpose or by happenstance.
It was the lead-footed Pulaski, moving through a room with George Bannon, who found what they had come for. "Hey, he's in here!"
This announcement caused everyone on the net to pause for a second. Jones ceased his advance, and yelled to his companions.
"Hold back!" At this, the two men on the outside, Sanchez and Park, pressed themselves against the walls. Both Jones and Park simply dropped to one knee.
From the room where he was DeWitt called out over the radio. "Where are they?"
"Third room on the right."
In response, everyone who had been in other rooms emerged from them, moved through the main area of the dispensary, and converged on that third room. Kaplan was first in. Without ceremony he made his way through the pair of enlisted men who guarded the bed, and inspected the motionless figure before him.
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miniature flashlight out of its holder and flicked it on. He was conducting this head-to-toe inspection when DeWitt arrived. "Well?"
Kaplan shook his head. "No blood or open wounds. And he's breathing. But he's out cold."
Without hesitation, DeWitt, turned to Pulaski and Bannon, who had stepped back from the bed to make way for the two officers.
"Find a stretcher or something."
In unison, the pair looked at each other, then began gazing around the room. When he saw this DeWitt bellowed as loudly as he could, "MOVE IT, NOW!"
The two Rangers dance about and rushed to the door. In their haste, they collided when they both tried to squeeze through the door at the same time. Under ordinary circumstances this would have been amusing. At the moment, however, it evoked only rage, a rage that DeWitt could not vent since Pulaski and Bannon quickly sorted themselves out and disappeared before he had a chance to yell. Clenching his fists, DeWitt found the strength to hold his tongue in check as he turned back to inspect the motionless form of Captain Burman.
Kaplan, who had been taking a closer look at Burman, sighed.
"I don't think there's much left here."
Caught off guard by this remark, DeWitt looked at him.
"Excuse me?"
Moving the beam of his flashlight along Burman's body, he stopped when its beam' fell on Burman's bruised and bandaged face. At the same time he reached over, lifted one of Burman's arms and let it flop. "Either he's on strong drugs, or he's more dead than alive."
While his comments were crude, DeWitt thought he understood.
"Be that as it may, Colonel, I don't see that we have any choice but to take him with us."
Confused by this comment, he looked at the company commander.
"I'm sorry, but what made you think otherwise?"
Embarrassed by this misinterpretation of his comments, DeWitt was scrambling to come up with an appropriate response 392
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when the two Rangers that had gone hunting for a stretcher returned. "We found one, sir," Pulaski called out. "The Syrian soldier on it didn't seem to mind us borrowing it."
If he was trying to be funny, his effort failed miserably. At once DeWitt and Kaplan threw back the sheets that covered Bur man and hoisted him onto the waiting stretcher. This sudden burden caused Pulaski to grunt.
At first, Kaplan wondered if the pair would have trouble carrying the comatose captain as well as all the equipment they were fitted out with. He was about to suggest that they shed some of their gear when DeWitt headed for the door, calling out over the net as he went, "Okay, let's find that other guy,".
Even before he was out of the room Jones responded to DeWitt's order to continue the search for First Lieutenant Joseph Ciszak. "Six, we're at the end of the dispensary and there are no more rooms that haven't been gone through."
Confused, DeWitt stopped in midstep. "Are you saying no one has seen the other prisoner?"
One by one the members of Jones's squad came back with a negative. Stymied yet again, DeWitt turned to Kaplan. "Now what?"
Remembering what Aveno had said about the Air Force officer, Kaplan did not hesitate. "There's nothing more we can do.
We've already been on the ground longer than we should have.
To spend more time bumbling around looking for him would be to put everyone in jeopardy. We have to go."
Knowing that the colonel was right and having no desire to dally here any longer than they needed to, DeWitt put aside whatever reservations he had about terminating the search. "Okay, Red, we're headed back to the cellblock."
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charging down the corridor, whipped around the corner, and continued without pausing. Next out was DeWitt with three members of First Squad on his heels. When DeWitt drew up even with Quinn he waved the others on and turned to the platoon leader. "Once everyone is out of there give your First Squad a few seconds' head start, then follow with the Second Squad. Maintain contact with the First Squad while covering our egress with the Second."
Without waiting for Quinn to acknowledge, DeWitt turned away and r
ejoined the First Squad as Staff Sergeant Jones and the trio who had spearheaded the attack came sprinting up to the corner.
Only Jones bothered to slow a bit to yell out to Quinn, "I'm it.
No friendlies behind me." Like DeWitt, he took off, headed back to the cellblock, leaving his platoon leadef-to his own devices.
It was for moments like this that the old saying, "Be careful what you wish for," was coined. The First Squad was still in the process of making its way down the corridor, when Quinn caught sight of something flying through the double doors leading out of the dispensary. With a sharp crack it hit the floor and bounced once before it began to roll toward him. It took far too long for the young platoon leader to recognize the grenade headed his way for what it was. By the time he did, he had just enough time to throw himself on the floor, landing on his side.
Kaplan took the stairs leading back down to the cellblock two at a time only to find that he had to pause-at each landing in order to wait for the heavily burdened stretcher party to catch up. During these brief intervals that seemed to last forever, his attention fluctuated between what lay ahead and how Pulaski and Washington were progressing. Holding himself at the ready, he would wait until the pair of struggling Rangers were but a step or two away before turning to dash off again.
Trailing along behind the stretcher party was the balance of the First Squad. Whereas Kaplan alternated between dashing forward at full tilt and periods of dead stop, Staff Sergeant Jones 394
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found he had no choice but to advance at the same laborious pace as Pulaski and Washington. Every so often he contemplated taking advantage of a gap that was created when his two men bearing the stretcher slowed down to maneuver their way around a corner.
Only the chatter of small-arms fire coming from the corridor that they had just vacated and the spat of harried reports telling of enemy troops putting pressure on their rear guard kept him from doing so. If the situation demanded that the balance of his squad go back and help extract the Second Squad, Jones knew he needed to be in a position from which he could lead that effort.