More Than Courage (21 page)

The general did not hesitate. "Execute. I say again, execute."

With that, he hung up. Having gotten "the go," the colonel relayed the order. "People, we have a go. Execute now." These Words shot through the airwaves like a surge of electricity, energizing all who heard them, and raising the curtain on a deadly ballet.

Having relayed to his subordinates the order to fire, the air cav troop commander turned to his own heads-down sight. He

tttade a quick check of the status of his aircraft's weapon system before dispatching the first of his Hellfire missiles. Once it was 162

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away he announced over the air that it was inbound. Several kilometers away the Arapaho assigned to designate that missile's target lit up the lead Syrian BRDM with its laser designator.

Arlington, Virginia

18:23 LOCAL (22:23 ZULU)

"Bingo! They've got the Syrians dead-on."

Opening his eyes Delmont found that he was sweating despite the crisp filtered air of the room. He was even shaking a bit, the way one does when the heart rate increases in anticipation of imminent danger. He scanned the assembled mass of generals and straphangers to see if anyone had noticed his behavior. Fortunately all were watching the nearest display as additional graphics suddenly began to appear. Originating at the blue air cav symbol, flashing arrows crept across the monitor toward the red rectangle.

The attack had begun. While F-22 fighters hovered high above providing air cover for the entire operation, the AH-64 Apache helicopters of 1st of the 9th Air Cavalry unleashed a volley of Hellfire missiles into the Syrian recon unit that had been pursuing Kilo Six. With the F-22s keeping the skies free of Syrian aircraft and the ground-hugging attack helicopters butchering every Syrian unit that was close enough to intervene, a pair of UH-60

Blackhawks belonging to the 160th made a mad dash forward to snatch up the wandering Green Berets.

Delmont hated moments such as this. He could not view the events unfolding on the ground in Syria with the same detachment that many of the duty officers seated at monitors around the room were able to. Nor could he identify with those staff officers who let out hoots and cheers whenever a symbol of a Syrian unit flashed to represent a change in that unit's diminishing strength.

The highly polished low quarter shoes and the immaculate class A uniform he wore could not camouflage Robert Delmont's true nature. He was a muddy-boots soldier at heart. His view of the world was a soldier's view; mission, enemy, troops, terrain. For T~

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him there was reason to be a soldier, one purpose in life. And that was to close with and destroy the enemy by the use of fire, maneuver, and shock effect. All of this, he thought to himself as

he looked around the crowded War Room, was necessary, but it was not war.

Sensing that he was on the verge of losing the calm, detached demeanor that General Palmer expected of his staff, Delmont made his way toward the door. His absence was noted only by those officers junior to him in the food chain who saw his departure as an opportunity to move into the vacated space that was closer to the large overhead projector and "the action."

Syria

02:25 LOCAL (22:25 ZULU)

While the 1st of the 9th Cavalry was carrying out its assigned duties with lethal precision, one of the strangest participants in that night's operation was also going into action. Like other aircraft filling the night sky over Syria, the techniques and tactics employed by this pair of naval strike aircraft were no different than those perfected by American ground attack aircraft during World War II and utilized ever since. Just short of its initiation point the lead aircraft's "pilot" conducted a systems check one more time before commencing its final run against a Syrian air defense radar site that planners felt could cause problems. The only difference was that the "pilot" .of the Navy F-45 Pegasus making this attack was not flesh and blood. The closest the Pegasus came to having a human pilot was the programmer who had

downloaded the data for that night's mission into the aircraft's master computer. Unlike cruise missiles that are designed to crash cuve into its intended target, the Pegasus was programmed to drop bombs and return, just like a conventional attack aircraft.

While still few in number, the Pegasus unmanned combat air Chicles, or U-CAVs, were the harbingers of things to come. No j longer would young American men and women have to place 164

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their lives on the line executing D-3 missions--those that were dull, dangerous, and deadly. The future belonged to robopilots and the computer geeks who programmed them.

With dimensions comparable to a single-engine Cessna but designed using the latest stealth technology, the lead Pegasus did not flinch upon reaching its initiation point, or IP. There was no hesitation, no last-minute humanitarian concerns to stay the aircraft's relentless advance as it turned and began to make its run into the target. With digital precision, the lead Pegasus assumed the appropriate glide path. Effortlessly it pressed on until the targeting node of its onboard computer signaled that it was time to release a pair of cluster bombs within nanoseconds of the time a twenty-year-old technician aboard the USS Reajjan had programmed.

Once its payload was away, the Pegasus automatically took up a new heading that would take it back to the carrier from which it was launched. There it would be caught by a net stretched across the flight deck, checked over for any damage before being wheeled belowdecks and placed back in storage where it would wait in silence, without want or complaints, until a new D-3 mission was downloaded into its computer by its human handlers.

Not everything that night played out as the operational plan had envisioned. Aboard an E-3A Sentinel flying over Turkish airspace, its all-seeing radar eye tasked with monitoring Syrian air activities, detected a pair of Syrian fighters being scrambled from a military airfield east of Damascus. Though it was far from the area where the rescue was going down, a controller on the Sentinel thought it would be prudent to take the Syrian jet out. With nothing more than a shrug, the Air force colonel in command on the E-3A agreed. "Better safe than sorry," he muttered, before returning to the computer screen he had been monitoring. With that, the officer charged with controlling those aircraft assigned to the air superiority mission, dispatched a pair of F-22s to take out the unexpected Syrian threat. With nothing more than the MORE THAN COURAGE

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click of a computer mouse he signed the death warrant of two eager young pilots whose only mistake that night was in seeking an opportunity to log a few hours of flight time.

Last but by far not the least important clement set in motion by the order to execute were the UH-60 Blackhawks of the Air Force's elite search-and-rescue command. Like the other elements of this far-flung drama, they had been hovering offstage waiting for the order to go. Once this was given, the pilots turned the nose of their aircraft toward the spot where the two forlorn American soldiers waited, opened up the throttle, and roared into action.

About the only people involved in the operation who had nothing to do by way of ensuring its success were the two men who were the focus of the entire operation, Dennis O'Hara and John Laporta. Outside of the fact that help was coming their way and that they were to halt wherever they happened to be at 0100

hours, the two specialist fours knew nothing. Somewhere along the chain of command that started in Washington, D.C., and wove its way through CENTCOM headquarters at MacDill and stretched across the Atlantic and Europe to Turkey, someone had determined that it would be best if the particulars of the operation be withheld from them. Since there remained the possibility that they could be captured at any moment, this precaution was deemed to be a prudent measure designed to maintain operational security and protect the members of the rescue force.

Such logic meant nothing to O'Hara and Laporta. Not since they had broken contact with the Syrians outside the village had they been as doubtful about their chances of making it out alive as they were at that moment. While neither man openly spoke of the growing concern each harbored, they were able to read each

°ther's mood. Unwilling to give voice to their misgivings, the pair Wstead worked through this growing anxiety by throwing themselves into carrying out their last orders to the letter.

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As instructed, Laporta and O'Hara stopped at precisely 0100

hours and set about destroying the documents that they had not already shredded by hand or burned. As they waited for their deliverance, even their commanding officer's map was torn apart and tossed into a fire Laporta had started in a shallow hole in the lee of their humvee. While Laporta was ripping various documents into pieces and feeding scraps of paper into the fire, O'Hara was busy smashing radios and other sensitive equipment in the Hummer. The only piece of comms equipment he did not turn his ball-peen hammer on was Kilo Six's PRQ-7, also known as the combat survivor evader locator system, or CSEL. While the GPS feature on this piece of survival gear was dysfunctional, the remote tracking beacon was still capable of transmitting. It would be the signal from the CSEL that would guide the Blackhawks in.

"Let's just hope," Laporta ventured as O'Hara turned the device on at 0130 hours, "that's all this squawk box attracts."

Both men were in the midst of this frenzy of destruction when the first Hellfire found its mark little more than five kilometers from where they sat. The flash, followed some fifteen seconds later by the sound of the initial detonation, caused them to stop what they were doing and turn to where the Syrian recon unit was being destroyed. In quick succession antitank missiles from other Apaches in the air cav troop found their mark.

Unsure if this was a good thing or the harbinger of bad tidings Laporta reached down, without taking his eyes off the onesided battle being waged in the distance, and picked up his rifle.

"Hey, Dennis," he called out in a subdued manner. "When was the last time you heard from the search-and-rescue folks?"

Staring at the satcom set he had just finished smashing O'Hara was overcome by a growing sense of dread. "Maybe fit teen minutes ago."

Slowly, Laporta began to make his way to the driver's side of the humvee in preparation to mounting up. "Well, I guess a I"1 can change in fifteen minutes."

Taking note of his companion's actions, O'Hara put down his Wl

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hammer, shifted about in the littered interior of the humvee, and slipped up through the hatch in the vehicle's roof. After shuffling his feet to clear away bits and pieces of shattered equipment scattered about on the floor, he planted his feet and grasped the spade grips of the M-2 machine gun. "Well, amigo, looks like it's time for another mad dash into the desert."

Laporta didn't say a word as he slid behind Kilo Six's wheel and prepared to start the Hummer. "Just say the word, GI, and we're outta here."

With mounting concern O'Hara watched the slaughter of the Syrian recon unit. By now he was able to count six discrete fires glowing in the distance. Unsure of what was going on, O'Hara refrained from giving Laporta the order to move out.

It was at this moment, when the full attention of both men was so riveted on the distant engagement that the covey of rescue helicopters came screaming in upon their position. Startled by their sudden appearance, O'Hara did what came naturally to him.

Without thinking he swung his machine gun about and prepared to engage what he initially perceived as a threat.

With his night-vision goggles on and his focus on the humvee directly in front of him the pilot of the lead helicopter was equally caught off guard by O'Hara's unexpected response. It took everything he had to keep from jerking his joystick to the right and climbing in an effort to escape before the Green Beret pointing the heavy machine gun at him had a chance to open fire.

It took but a second for O'Hara.realize that the unexpected intruders were his saviors. As quickly as he had brought his weapon to bear, he depressed the barrel of the M-2 machine gun, let go of the spade grips, and began to flap his arms. Since his aircraft was carrying a detachment of ground troops tasked with providing security during the pickup, the lead pilot overflew Kilo Six and touched down fifty meters beyond, inserting his troops between the decimated Syrian unit and the men he had been dispatched to fescue. At the same time the Blackhawk assigned to snatch O'Hara

^d Laporta landed as close as it could to the humvee.

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Sensing that time was of the essence, O'Hara and Laporta scrambled out of Kilo Six and made for the nearest Blackhawk.

Both men were on the ground and running for all they were worth for the helicopter, heading straight for the crew chief of that aircraft, who squatted in its open door, yelling to them to watch their heads at the top of his lungs. Neither Green Beret bothered to give a helicopter crewman who jumped out and ran past them a second look. They had but one goal in mind and did not deviate from achieving it until they were safely inside and being strapped into their seats. Only then did O'Hara look back at Kilo Six where he saw the lone helicopter crewman stop, pull a pin from a satchel he was carrying, and toss it inside the abandoned humvee before pivoting and running back to the helicopter.

With

a hop and a bound, the last crewman flung himself back into the Blackhawk. Even as this man went sprawling across the floor headfirst to where O'Hara and Laporta sat, the helicopter's crew chief was shouting over the boom mike of his helmet to the pilot.

Just as the helicopter lurched off the ground, the explosives that had been chucked into Kilo Six went off, tearing that vehicle to bits.

Ignoring the churning of his stomach caused by their precipitous takeoff, Laporta turned to O'Hara and gave his companion a broad, toothy grin. Overwhelmed by the sense of relief he felt, O'Hara tugged against his seat belt as he reached out and wrapped his arms around Laporta. "We're going home, amigo!