by Oliver North
“Yeah, well, our navy doesn’t do that kind of stuff anymore,” Newman replied. He paused a moment, patted Cooper on the shoulder, and said, “Be careful out here, Seth. Your Marines need you and so do Sarah and your son back home. When we left Lejeune I promised them I would bring you home alive.”
It was a promise he shouldn’t have made . . .
* * * *
The 60mm mortar round that almost killed James Newman hit the Kilo Company CP at precisely 0530 on the morning of 10 November. It was the first in a salvo of five, fired from the rubble of a house to the south of the company perimeter. No one heard it coming over the noise of a V-22 dropping a sling-load of ammo, food, and water fifty meters away. As the high-explosive projectile struck, Newman was in mid-sentence, briefing his platoon commanders on the battalion op order he had received an hour earlier.
An instant before the round hit, 2nd Lieutenant Seth Cooper dove toward his friend, knocking James up against the HESCO barrier on which he had taped an aerial photograph of the battalion dispositions. Cooper’s back took the brunt of the explosion, killing him instantly.
Gunnery Sergeant Doan and the other two platoon commanders were all wounded by the concussion and shrapnel—but they were conscious. Newman was not.
Even before the last of the incoming rounds “walked” across their little perimeter, Doan, with shrapnel holes in his face, arms, and legs, was on his feet yelling, “Corpsman up!”
Doc Fowler, the company senior corpsman, arrived in an instant, carrying his Unit 1 first-aid kit. As he and the gunny pulled Cooper’s blasted body off Newman, one of the radio operators and another Marine began tending the two other, less grievously wounded officers.
Fowler quickly checked Cooper for a pulse, shook his head, said, “He’s gone, Gunny,” and turned to Newman, who was unconscious, but breathing.
Red bubbles gurgled from Newman’s lips and a pool of blood was spreading beneath his right leg. The corpsman quickly examined the wounded lieutenant, found a gash on the right side of his scalp, and then tore open Newman’s flak jacket, looking for torso holes. He found one below Newman’s right armpit, where a piece of shrapnel had ripped through his right biceps and passed just above the flak jacket’s armor plate to puncture his rib cage.
In less than five minutes, with the help of Gunnery Sergeant Doan, Fowler applied an airtight compress over the sucking chest wound, started an IV flowing into Newman’s undamaged left arm, stopped the hemorrhage from his right leg with an inflatable tourniquet, and wrapped the lieutenant’s head wound with a battle dressing.
As Fowler turned his attention to Gunnery Sergeant Doan and the two wounded platoon commanders, 1st Sergeant Lopez arrived with a team of litter-bearers and announced, “We have a cas-evac bird inbound. How many do we need to send out, Doc?”
“The skipper is critical,” Fowler answered. “Gunny and the two lieutenants are priority.” And nodding toward the shattered body of Seth Cooper, the corpsman added, “and one permanent routine.”
* * * *
Within fifteen minutes of their being wounded, an MV-22 transported Newman, Gunnery Sergeant Doan, and the two injured platoon commanders to the USS America, where they were all X-rayed and rushed into the big ship’s surgical center. The team of surgeons operating on Newman installed a ventilator in his trachea, closed the laceration in his femoral artery, inserted a small vacuum tube to help reinflate his right lung, and removed fragments of bone where shrapnel tore into his skull.
An hour after coming out of surgery, Newman and Gunny Doan were wheeled to the America’s flight deck along with five other seriously wounded 3/8 Marines. There they were all loaded aboard a V-22 configured for transporting shock-trauma patients.
It took the Osprey less than two hours to reach the British Royal Air Force facility at Akrotiri, Cyprus, where a USAF C-17 Nightingale was waiting on the tarmac. Four and a half hours later, the seven wounded Marines were in Germany at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center.
Two days later, another C-17 aeromedical flight carried Newman, Doan, and eleven other wounded Marines to Joint Base Andrews—the big air base south of Washington, D.C. There they were loaded aboard an “ambulance bus” and taken to the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center at Bethesda, Maryland. Newman, in a drug-induced coma, missed all this.
Until he woke on Sunday, 15 November, James was unaware doctors had removed a piece of jagged metal from his right lung or that a team of neurosurgeons operated for nearly six hours to extricate a pea-sized piece of shrapnel from the right side of his brain. He looked around, saw his parents, and tried to speak, mouthing the words “Where am I and how did I get here?” With the ventilator tube in his throat, no sound came out.
After two more tries, Rachel and Peter grasped what he was trying to say. They explained where he was, told him he was badly hurt and that they had been praying for him and he wasn’t “out of the woods yet.” But, on orders from the doctors, they gave him few details more than he could learn by turning on the television mounted on the wall. The next day, Gunnery Sergeant Dan Doan rolled his wheelchair into Newman’s room and told him the rest of the story.
When the gunny explained how Seth Cooper saved Newman’s life, tears welled up in James’s eyes. Doan wasn’t being cruel—he was simply relating to his commander the truth of what happened—and of his friend’s last, lifesaving act of heroism.
The next day, the doctors took James off the ventilator and showed him how he could cover the port in his throat to talk. An hour later he cajoled a pretty Navy nurse to find out from the Marine Liaison Office when and where Seth Cooper’s funeral took place. When she told him Cooper’s memorial service was to be held at the Camp Lejeune Base Chapel on Friday, 27 November, the day after Thanksgiving, James resolved to be there. Doan said he was going, too.
A week later, on Tuesday the twenty-fourth, Newman and Doan filled out applications to take convalescent leave, promising to stay with James’s parents through the Thanksgiving holiday and report back to the hospital on Monday the thirtieth. The doctors initially rejected the request but finally relented after Peter Newman, Major General, USMC (Ret.), pledged that his wife, Rachel, a nurse, would supervise the two wounded warriors and ensure they took their medications.
James’s sister, Elizabeth, picked them up at Bethesda shortly after ten on Wednesday. Both men were wearing civilian clothes, carrying overnight bags, and using canes. James had a sling on his right arm—which he promptly discarded as Elizabeth helped them load their gear and get into the vehicle. She slid behind the wheel and exited the hospital gate toward the outer loop of the Washington Beltway, headed toward Narnia. But after crossing the American Legion Bridge over the Potomac and turning onto the ramp to go west on Route 267, James told his sister, “Get in the left lane and onto the Dulles Airport access road.”
“Why?” she asked. “It takes longer than the toll road.”
“Because we’re going to the airport,” James replied. “The gunny and I have round-trip tickets to Camp Lejeune. We’ll be back Friday night for leftovers of Mom’s turkey.”
Elizabeth shook her head and said, “James, this is not a good idea. If you do this, Mom is going to pitch a fit. And remember, Dad used to be in the business of killing people. I don’t want to be the reason he comes out of retirement.”
James smiled at her colorful language and said, “Just tell ’em Gunnery Sergeant Doan made you do it. It’s an old tradition in the Marine Corps—always blame the gunny. Now step on it so we don’t miss our flight.”
* * * *
Newman called home to apologize to his mother when he and Doan changed planes in Charlotte. When they arrived at the airport in Jacksonville, North Carolina, the two wounded Marines were met by one of Doan’s fellow gunnery sergeants, who brought them directly to the 8th Marines Regimental Headquarters, where they were greeted by Colonel Paul Sheridan, the regimental commander.
After a quick “meet and greet” in the conference room with the regimen
tal staff, Sheridan asked the wounded lieutenant and gunnery sergeant to describe their experience on what the White House was now calling “Operation Lend Hope.” Both men criticized the lack of intelligence, praised the courage and tenacity of their Marines, and showered accolades on the corpsmen, doctors, and nurses who saved them.
Afterward, in Sheridan’s office, the colonel told James, “I admire you for coming here for the memorial service on Friday. It’s pretty obvious whose son you are. Your father and I served together many years ago. Have you been able to talk to the families of any of your fallen Marines?”
“Not yet, sir,” Newman replied. “I visited all our WIAs at Bethesda and sent letters to the families of our KIAs, but I couldn’t get next-of-kin phone numbers at the hospital.”
“I’ll have the adjutant get you the numbers,” Sheridan said. “Captain Sharrod’s widow has already gone back to Ohio to be with her family. I know she would be pleased to hear from you. You know Lieutenant Cooper’s widow, Sarah, is still here?”
Newman nodded and answered, “I know she and their baby are still here. I talked to her parents. As you probably know, sir, her husband, Seth, was a year behind me at the Academy. I came up from Quantico for their wedding . . .” His voice was hoarse and faded out as he choked up.
Sheridan looked at the young officer and said quietly, “This is going to be a tough Thanksgiving for everyone. Let’s see if we can make this a little easier on all concerned. The regimental chaplain and his wife are bringing Sarah and their son to our quarters for dinner tomorrow. If you’re up to it, I think you and Gunny Doan should be there—and on Friday morning at the memorial service, I think you both should say a few words.”
James nodded and said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
* * * *
By Thursday afternoon, Gunnery Sergeant Dan Doan had somehow managed to find a dark blue suit that fit Newman perfectly, get both their dress blue uniforms out of storage, have them pressed, and still get them a ride to the Sheridans’ quarters five minutes before the appointed hour of 1700.
As the two men limped up the walk, Nancy Sheridan opened the door and said, “Marines are always so punctual. Please come in.”
The aroma of roasting turkey greeted them as they entered. Their hostess escorted them to the living room and said, “Make yourselves at home. I have a few things to get ready in the kitchen. The colonel will be right down.”
As she left the room, Doan turned to Newman and said quietly, “When I get married, that’s the kind of wife I want.”
“What do you mean, Gunny?” James whispered.
“Every Marine wife should refer to her husband by his rank.”
Newman was still chuckling as Colonel Paul Sheridan entered and said, “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. Are you allowed to have a beer or a glass of wine?”
“I can, sir,” replied Doan, without hesitation. Then, without missing a beat, he added, “But the lieutenant here had a head wound and I’m under strict orders that he cannot have any firewater. The doctors say it will make him act crazy.”
Sheridan was still laughing when the doorbell rang.
Chaplain Jayne’s wife entered first, carrying an infant safety seat—the kind designed to fit in a car. The child inside was sound asleep.
James’s first sight of Sarah Cooper caused him to catch his breath. She was wearing a black dress. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing no visible makeup. To James she was at once terribly sad, vulnerable—and strikingly beautiful.
Sarah was thanking Colonel and Mrs. Sheridan for their invitation when she looked across the room and noticed James staring at her. She stopped talking, put her hand to her mouth, exclaimed, “Oh, James,” and rushed across the room to embrace him. In a matter of seconds, they were holding each other, tears running down both their faces.
At dinner, James and Sarah sat across from each other. Colonel Sheridan, Chaplain Jayne, and Gunnery Sergeant Doan carried the conversation—carefully avoiding the specifics of what took place in the Sinai less than three weeks earlier. But after listening to them for several minutes, Sarah quietly said, looking straight at James, “Please, tell me how my husband died.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for several seconds and the chaplain said, “Sarah, there will be time for this later. I don’t think that—”
“No,” she interrupted. “I want to know what happened. How it happened. James and Gunnery Sergeant Doan were there. I might never have this opportunity again. Please.”
There was another long silence. James, looking painfully distraught, tried twice to speak but no words came out. Then Gunnery Sergeant Doan began gently, “Ma’am, you’re right, we were both there. But Lieutenant Newman doesn’t really remember it all because he had a bad head wound . . .”
For more than fifteen minutes, Dan Doan held the table spellbound, quietly and dispassionately describing the events leading up to Seth Cooper’s death. Without embellishment he described the landing on the beach, the death of their company commander, the terrible chaos of trying to separate refugees from terrorists, how Newman led a counterattack to save Cooper and his Marines, how her husband was wounded on the night of the ninth, and how he saved Newman’s life the next day.
When he finished, tears were flowing down everyone’s cheeks—even the crusty colonel’s. Sarah started to thank Doan, but then came a little wail from the living room. She excused herself, saying, “Little Seth needs to be changed and I need to nurse him.”
After she and Nancy Sheridan left the dining room, the colonel cleared his throat and said, “Thank you, Gunny. Well done.”
* * * *
The following morning the base chapel was filled to overflowing for Seth Cooper’s memorial service. Sarah and the baby were in the front pew, flanked by her mother and father and the parents of her late husband. First Lieutenant James Newman and Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Doan, in their dress blues, were seated directly behind her.
At the appointed time, Chaplain Jayne summoned Doan to the pulpit for an abbreviated version of what he had said the night before in Colonel Sheridan’s quarters. Other than quiet sobs from Sarah and from Seth Cooper’s mother, the tabernacle was so silent it might have been empty. Then it was Newman’s turn.
James spent nearly an hour on the phone with his father the night before, seeking counsel for what he should say. His father’s words, “Funerals are for the living, not the dead,” rang in his mind.
But when he looked down at Sarah Cooper’s red-rimmed eyes, James could hardly speak. Then, after a deep breath, he looked out into the congregation and said, “Seth Cooper is my friend. We have known each other for five years—ever since he arrived at the Naval Academy, in the class behind mine. We were in the same company then, and for the short time I commanded Company K, 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines, he was our 1st Platoon Commander.
“Seth is a magnificent Marine, far braver and more tenacious than I. He is missed by me, his Marines, by our Corps, by his parents, and certainly by his lovely wife, Sarah, and their son.
“If it wasn’t for Seth Cooper, I probably would not be alive today. I am consoled by the certainty I will see him again because Seth Cooper was a man who knew where he was going—and why he was going there. He knew Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior. And he lived by the motto of our Corps—Semper Fidelis—always faithful.
“From this day forward, I will think of Seth Cooper every time I hear two well-known verses. The first from the Holy Bible—Paul’s second letter to his protégé, Timothy. The second from the last stanza of our Marine Corps Hymn—the verse reminding us the streets of heaven are guarded by United States Marines.”
And then, looking directly at the flag-draped casket for the first time, he concluded, “Seth, dear friend and fellow Marine, you have ‘fought the good fight,’ you have ‘finished the race.’ You have ‘kept the faith.’ Lieutenant Cooper, take your post.”
CHAPTER FOUR
FLIGHT DELAY
OVAL
OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
TUESDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 2032
1345 HOURS, LOCAL
How do you know the Caliph isn’t lying to us?” the president asked. She was sitting behind her desk, leaning on her forearms, scrolling through her PID, and barely glancing at the three men she had summoned.
She didn’t invite them to sit, so they stood: Muneer Murad, Chief of Staff; Larry Walsh, White House Counsel; and General John Smith, National Security Advisor.
When no one answered, she glanced up and said, “Look, I have to board Marine One in fifteen minutes for the flight to Andrews so I’m on time for tonight’s fund-raiser in San Francisco. At the major-donor event I just left, all the questions were about whether the Caliph is telling the truth when he says the Caliphate had nothing to do with the Houston attack.”
Smith, trying to be helpful, said, “NSA confirms the Caliph is doing everything in his power to find Dr. Cohen—”
“Oh please, John,” she sneered. “Don’t patronize me. First, you didn’t answer the question. And second, you sound like my late, great husband, who would still be alive if he hadn’t believed all the bunk our intelligence services fed him when he sat in this office.”
Smith nodded, recalling the overwhelming wave of sympathy that swept the nation after the bombing in 2027—and how that emotional surge made her election in 2028 “inevitable.”
She continued, “Let’s be clear about this. I don’t give a flip about Dr. Cohen. But I do want to know if the Caliph was behind the attacks in Houston.”