by Harold Coyle
On the Land Warrior this feature is known as the user interface, a program that provides commanders both tactical and mission-support data in near real time. These data, gathered by platforms and agencies scattered around the world, allow the modern infantryman to literally see what is on the other side of the mountain.
After studying the tactical situation on his display, Kaplan looked up and glanced to his left and right. When he didn't see DeWitt, he keyed his radio. "Red Six, this is Black Niner Two. We need to talk."
"What's up?"
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Startled by the deep booming voice behind him that had responded to his radio call, it took every bit of self-control that he could muster to keep from jumping straight up. Turning around, Kaplan pointed at the display, "The Syrians are on the move.
Look here."
Moving closer, DeWitt surveyed the tactical map Kaplan had called up. He remembered Kaplan's briefing him on how this feature of the Land Warrior worked in conjunction with an all source joint service intelligence system, but had forgotten about it in all the confusion. "Tanks, huh?"
"At least three, according to this latest intel dump. And all three are sitting on our primary egress route."
DeWitt grunted. "And the secondary route?"
With a whirl of a track ball and a couple of keystrokes Company A's secondary route popped up on the screen. After a cursory inspection of it and the adjoining streets Kaplan grunted.
"At the moment it's clear. But this unit here is moving on a road that runs parallel to that route."
"Are those troops truck-mounted or in APCs?"
Kaplan shook his head. "Negative knowledge. Regardless of what they are," he quickly added, "the last thing we want while we're beating feet back to the airport is to turn the corner and run into them."
"Agreed. Any ideas?"
By way of answering, Kaplan called up another program that displayed a larger tactical image that showed all U.S. forces in the area. When he found what he was looking for he highlighted the unit and clicked on its ID. "There, an AC-130 loitering just north of the city. According to this program it has just the sort of ordnance that this situation calls for."
As Kaplan typed away on the keyboard, DeWitt continued to study the tactical display as he prepared to contact battalion.
"Okay, great! I'll make the request and see if battalion can task those naval aviators to lend a hand."
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board. "No need to bother with that. I've already e-mailed the AC-130 and tasked them. Since we have priority and I have access codes and a direct link to the joint targeting folks on the AWACs, our request trumps everyone else's. They'll be rolling in on target in three minutes. May I instead suggest you get your people mounted up and moving?"
DeWitt blinked, knowing full well that this short-circuiting of the traditional system and chain of command was unusual, but given the situation, a necessity. "With pleasure."
Not being privy to what was passing directly from Kaplan and the AC-130, using the Joint Tactical Operating system that was part of his Land Warrior, the announcement that an air strike was in progress stunned Lieutenant Colonel Harry Shaddock. His first response was concern over the prospect of mistaken identity and a friendly-fire incident. Even before anyone had a chance to explain, he was yelling at his ops officer. "Who the hell called that in and where?"
Equally surprised by this development, the ops officer turned to the Air Force liaison officer who had been attached to the 3rd of the 75th to coordinate these sorts of missions. "Get hold of your people and find out what they're doing."
All of this excitement came as something of a surprise to the Air Force captain who had been monitoring the close air-support net. "Excuse me, but that strike was called in by someone with Company A. It's being directed against a mech infantry column."
Both Delmont and Shaddock simultaneously converged on the map on which all of the operations graphics were displayed.
"Show me where those strikes are."
Reaching in between the pair of lieutenant colonels, the Air Force officer placed his finger on the map. "Right there is the center of mass. I assume that it's a linear target that is moving along this street."
"And where exactly," Shaddock asked, "is Company A?"
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The assistant ops officer who was monitoring the battalion command net called from his post. "They're currently approaching check point Three Seven, sir, moving along their alternate egress route."
When he located that point on the map, Shaddock placed his finger on it. "Jesse, that is close."
Sensing that the battalion commander's comment was a rhetorical one, neither the Air Force liaison officer or the ops officer responded. Instead, they simply stood back and watched as the man who had planned this operation and the one charged with pulling it off stared impotently at a map and waited for word from the people upon whom its success now rested.
It's called Spectre, the son of Vietnam's Puff the Magic Dragon.
The converted C-130 Hercules is designed to support special operations such as Fanfare. To accomplish this task it totes a most impressive array of weaponry. This inventory includes a 105mm howitzer, a pair of 20-mm Vulcan Gatling guns, and a Bofors 40mm cannon. The teeth of the gunship are controlled by an equally impressive computer-driven fire-control system that allows the pilot to aim and fire any and all of the weapons with an unimaginable accuracy. When called upon, Spectre has the ability to literally chew up its target with an unerring accuracy that is both startling and inescapable.
The rumble of the AC-130 lumbering along at rooftop level followed by the sharp report of its awesome arsenal ripping into the Syrian convoy one block over from the street that he was driving down startled PFC Pulaski. Instinctively he jerked the Hummer's wheel away from the unseen pandemonium that the AC-130 was creating. More concerned about his driver's erratic behavior
than what was happening on another street, Jones reached over and slapped Pulaski's helmet. "Pay attention to the road, damn it."
It took Pulaski a moment to regain control of his vehicle.
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Even when he did, he found he was unable to ignore the rumble of secondary explosions and the sudden flashes of light that lit up the night sky. "Christ, I hope those guys over there know what they're doing."
Jones snapped back. "It's not them I'm worried about. It's your driving that's scaring the hell out of me."
Ignoring the banter between Pulaski and his squad leader, Kaplan monitored the air attacks as best he could, Company A's progress, and the tactical display that he was struggling to balance on his lap. Only when he saw the buildings of Damascus begin to thin out and then suddenly disappear behind them did he turn his full attention back to the keyboard. In addition to the order to cease the attacks, he added a thanky@u.
When the screen flashed an acknowledgment Kaplan tucked both the display and keyboard back into their pockets on his load bearing equipment. Finished with that, he flipped his helmet mounted display up and out of the way. Turning around in the Hummer he took a moment to study the column of vehicles that trailed off behind the one he was in and watched the skyline of Damascus disappear in the dark.
The sky was alive with streams of tracers racing up in a vain effort to lash out at aircraft that were no longer in range. Here and there he could see flames leaping over the roofs of buildings.
Every now and then an explosion erupted on one of the streets, throwing off a bright orange fireball into the sky. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned around and stared down at the stretcher at his feet. Even in the dark he could see the bloodstained sheet that covered the body that lay on it.
How ironic it was, he found himself thinking as he looked back at the ravaged city that was fading in the distance. For all of the precision and exactness
that every participant had demonstrated that night, the one round that killed Captain Burman had been a stray shot fired during a confused and vicious firefight that no one had planned for or rehearsed. Like war itself, his death had 410
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been nothing more than an accident, a simple twist of fate. Even in an age of high-tech weaponry and instantaneous communications, war was still very much an affair of chance.
From his position, Captain James T. Stone watched the last of the transports bearing the 3rd of the 75th Rangers, thunder down the runway and leap into the night sky. After giving the now abandoned airfield and its immediate environs a quick once-over, Stone eased himself back and away from his concealed perch.
When he was back under cover, he rose and headed for the cluster of vehicles where his team was waiting for his order to move out.
"Okay, folks," he called out in a low voice. "Time to go."
As one the members of RT Lima gathered about their vehicles, climbed in, and prepared to head out into the open desert where they would hide. Dawn would be breaking soon, and Stone was anxious to put as much distance between them and this spot as possible. They had executed their part in that night's operation flawlessly. Now it was time for them to disappear as completely as they could and wait for their next mission, their next opportunity to place themselves in harm's way.
Arlington, Virginia
10:05 LOCAL
The fourteen men who had been collectively known as RT Kilo had lived in the shadows. Some of them died there. Their deeds and accomplishments were not trumpeted across the land that they served. Even those who loved ,them and shared their lives with them would never know exactly what they did. The carefully crafted and well-chosen words on the citations and letters of condolence lavished upon bereaved widows arid grieving parents spoke of courage and dedication, but made no mention of the squalid conditions or the fears that each of their husbands and sons faced as they executed their assigned duties. In the end those who remained would be left to deal with the harsh reality of their loss without ever being subjected to the horrific details.
All of this was not the result of some great government conspiracy to hide the truth. Nor was it part of a sick propaganda ploy designed to keep those who would follow RT Kilo into the shadows from losing heart. Instead, this reliance upon sentiments that appealed to the noblest aspects .of service to one's country and its people was the result of an unspoken desire that each and every member of RT Kilo be remembered as a man standing tall and proud. This longing for dignity in the face of death is shared by many, military and civilian. It was a last wish that those who survived did their best to honor.
Of course it would be a lie to deny that the Army did not take advantage of the situation to do more than simply honor the men of RT Kilo and the 3rd of the 75 th Rangers who were killed in action. The dedication of a monument to them was used to 412
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acknowledge the sacrifice of those hereto unheralded souls who lost their lives in other black operations that were just as much a part of America's worldwide war against terror and evil.
The event was conducted with all the pomp and ceremony that are the hallmarks of a proud and professional military. The soldiers of the Army's Old Guard maintained their poise and dignity that was very much symbolic of the manner in which Erik Burman and his tiny command had gone about their assigned duties day in, day out. The somber notes of muffled drums tapping out the half-step cadence tempered the joyous riot of red, white, and blue flags and buntings meant to stir the soul. Dignitaries and honored guests greeted one another in hushed, sober tones as they set aside petty differences and partisan concerns and prepared to honor those who sacrificed for something greater than themselves.
The monument that would be the center of attention that day was a strikingly modest affair. The four-sided block of shiny granite was said by some to be as black as the shadows that those it was meant to memorialize died in. There was no bold statement setting forth in clear and concise terms the cause that demanded such a sacrifice. Rather, there was an extract from a 1919 poem entitled "Old Valiant Hearts" written by John Stanhope Arkwright.
Proudly you gathered, rank on rank to war,
As you heard God's message from afar;
All you had hoped for, all you had, you gave
To save mankind--yourself you scorned to save.
On the left side of the monument were the names of the men and women who had lost their lives during operations conducted in Afghanistan. While they were not the focus of this day, it had been decided that this was an appropriate place to record both their achievements and the price of their devotion to their fellow MORE THAN COURAGE
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countrymen. It was on the other side where the names of Erik Burman, Joseph Ciszak, Samuel Harris, Yousaf Hashmi, Jay Jones, Insram Amer, and David Davis were engraved together with those of the Rangers who died during freeing their comrades.
The inclusion of Ciszak's name had caused some heartburn among those who knew the true story of that officer's fate. The reality of international politics, however, dictated that rumors floated by the CIA that the Air Force officer was still alive had to be ignored. Even if they could be proved, few doubted if anyone in a position to do so would make his return an issue.
Seated front and center before this stark panel was Diana Burman.
On one side of her sat a small boy whose age and curiosity demanded that he fidget throughput the course of the entire affair. On the other was the man who had once been her husband's Commander and Chief, the man who bore ultimate responsibility for the events that led to this occasion. Arranged about this trio were the spouses, children, and parents of the men who were no longer with them. Others had come to grieve the loss of a comrade out of a sense of duty, or simply because they were expected to be there.
Foremost among those who were there who would have preferred to have been elsewhere was Ken Aveno, the senior surviving member of RT Kilo. To either side of him were the other men who had survived. As they had on the night they left Baghdad, Allen Kannen and Salvador Mendez stood next to Aveno because they had no choice. While none of the after-action reports and inquires examining the destruction RT Kilo and its captivity found fault with Aveno's conduct, no one could convince Kannen or Mendez otherwise. Neither man could put his finger on why he felt as he did. They simply knew that somehow he had failed them.
Another cluster of officers had no qualms about their seating assignments. In fact, they were quite pleased to see each other again. It was the first opportunity Robert Delmont, Harry Shad 414
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dock, and Neil Kaplan had to congratulate each other on their promotions. Each had gone back to his previous assignments in the aftermath of Fanfare. In the hushed prelude to the ceremony, these officers took the opportunity to exchange some personal chitchat.
Of the trio only Shaddock had subsequently been reassigned, a fact that Delmont was quick to comment upon. "I hope you're managing to find some fulfillment at the Infantry School."
Shaddock responded with a chuckle that did little to hide the letdown he still felt after going from command of a Ranger battalion to being little more than just another colonel at Fort Benning.
"Let me just say that you've not experienced culture shock until you've made a transition like that. My kids still call their mom to ask if it's safe to come home from college during the holidays."
Delmont did his best to maintain the decorum that their circumstances dictated. Turning to Kaplan he asked him how the Land Warrior project was going. "Well, there are days when I get the same feeling I do when talking to my cat. There's just too many hard-liners out there in the bushes who haven't heard that we've entered a new millennium that demands new methods."
Having experienced a similar response from senior officers he had to brief, Delmont nodded in agreement. "You've used the Land Warrior in battle, Captain DeWitt. Do you think it's the way to go?"
Glancing over at Delmont, Kaplan pointed at DeWitt. "See what I mean?"
"I'm afraid," Shaddock chimed in, "I have to agree with our young Ranger here. The best equipment in the world is worthless unless there are men willing to close with and destroy their nation's enemies."
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"And," Delmont quickly added, "well-trained officers to lead them."
Sensing that he wasn't going to win any points here, Kaplan raised his hands in mock capitulation. "Okay, okay, gentlemen.
You win. Turn in your muskets and I'll see that you get your crossbows back. Fair enough?"
Before anyone could respond the signal announcing the commencement of the dedication ceremony was given. Taking their places, the four officers who had been brought together by battle prepared to pay tribute to those who had perished in the course of that struggle. Their collective efforts would never bring about an end to war. But so long as there were soldiers, men and women who were willing and ready to place themselves in harm's way, the nation they served and the world they lived in would continue to prosper. Call it dedication, call it commitment, but whatever it is, it takes more than simple courage to stand a watch and sally forth into harm's way.