More Than Courage (52 page)

Concerns over what would happen in the next hour, let alone the next day, were the furthest things from DeWitt's mind at the moment. Throughout his foray into the prison dispensary he had quite literally lived second by second, focusing on his next move, his next step, his next order, and little more. It wasn't until they were safely back in the prison cellblock, an area that he was familiar with and where he knew friendly forces were waiting, that the young company commander finally began to feel as if he were back on track and in control again. There was of course still the need to disengage and withdraw from the prison, then make a mad dash through the streets of Damascus to the airfield. But these phases of the operation were part of the OP plan and had been rehearsed. His brief sortie into the

unknown was over. As things now stood, success was within his grasp.

Behind him came Jones's squad. To a man their hearts were still pounding from their precipitous retreat from the dispensary and the vicious encounter in the confines of the stairwell. They were still animated by that encounter as they spilled out into the open space of the cellblock where the second tactical breach and point of exit was. Their sudden entrance caught the squad defending the breach off guard. Like everyone else, they were nervous as hell and teetering on a hair trigger. Startled by the First Squad's sudden and tumultuous appearance, the defenders of the breach trained their weapons on the mass of soldiers coming their way, flipping their weapons' safety to the fire position as they did so. Only the squawk of the "friend" ID over their Land Warrior earpiece and well-drilled restraint kept a bad situation from becoming a disaster.

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Ignoring the danger that he had just escaped, DeWitt headed straight for the Rangers manning the breach. "Where's your lieutenant?"

A sergeant stood up and pointed out through the hole in the wall. "He's back at the first breach, sir."

Coming up to the sergeant who had replied, DeWitt whipped around and waved on Jones and the stretcher party that had been following him before turning his full attention back to the man next to him. "You're to stand fast here until Lieutenant Quinn and his rear guard have passed. Give them ten seconds before pulling out. Clear?"

The sergeant in charge of the inner breach nodded. "Roger that, sir."

',

By then Kaplan was in sight. When he saw DeWitt he shouted to him as he went by. "That's it for this squad. Quinn and his people are right behind me."

"Good, good."

With that, Kaplan ducked through the hole in the wall. For a moment a strange silence returned to the cellblock. Even the distant firefight that DeWitt's First Platoon had been engaged in ceased, indicating that the platoon had successfully broken contact and begun to make its way back to the airfield. This brief interlude did not last long as the hurried pounding of boots on concrete announced the approach of Quinn's rear guard.

Anxious to pull out of the prison compound as soon as he could, and have his company mounted and moving DeWitt called to the NCO next to him. "Okay, here they come. Remember, give them ten seconds and then go."

"Yes, sir. Ten seconds."

DeWitt was just about to head out into the open courtyard when he paused to take one more look back. When he did he saw something that brought him to a complete stop. Watching the figures approach he was taken aback by the sight of two men dragging a third seemingly lifeless form between them. Instead of 404

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leaving the cellblock DeWitt pivoted and all but leaped forward toward the trio. "Who's that?"

Specialist Four William Hoyt called back as he and the medic assigned to third Platoon staggered on as best they could while pulling the limp body between them using the man's flak vest.

"It's Lieutenant Quinn. Grenade fragments."

As the radioman and medic rushed by DeWitt called out,

"Where was he hit?"

Leaning closer to his company commander without stopping, the medic lowered his voice. "The buttocks and back of the legs.

Messy but not fatal."

Despite the fact that his company's tactical situation left it quite vulnerable, DeWitt could not help thinking that the injuries suffered by Quinn would forever be a source of embarrassment to him. As he watched Quinn's faithful radioman and the medic pull their platoon leader through the breach, DeWitt shook his head.

"Poor bastard."

Once he saw that the stretcher bearing Burman was secured in the Hummer, Kaplan stepped back to allow the Rangers of the First Squad to climb in while he caught his breath. They were almost done, he told himself. They were almost finished. Now all they needed to do was mount up and move out. In fifteen minutes they would be at the airfield, where the giant open maws of the cargo bays of the Air Force transports would be waiting to greet them. That was true, he suddenly corrected himself, provided the way back was still clear.

This thought caused him to pull out his handheld display and keyboard. Laying the keyboard and display on the hood of a nearby Hummer he pulled up the joint tactical and common operating environment program. In an instant a map filled the screen.

One by one, as fast as the computer spit out the data, tactical symbols began to crop up on the display. Even before the program had completed spewing the information it had gathered and MORE THAN COURAGE

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stored while he had been tending to other, more immediate concerns, Kaplan could see they were not quite Out of the woods yet.

Battles are won by those who have superior information concerning their own tactical situation and that of the enemy. Knowing where your enemy is and what he is doing are perhaps the most important elements of warfare. This knowledge allows a commander to exploit his foe's weaknesses while avoiding his strengths. It gives him the confidence to go forth and do things that logic and common sense would otherwise veto. Arming himself with as much knowledge as possible about the enemy before battle has been a goal of every commander since the age of sharp sticks and rocks. To achieve this the Armed Forces of the United States has dedicated enormous resoufces. From satellites to high tech optics, electronic eavesdropping to computer hacking, the modern American military has created a panoply of intelligence gathering devices that would impress Buck Rogers.

Yet as important as gathering information is, it is useless unless it can be delivered to the commander in the field and the soldier on the ground in a timely manner. It is in the area of processing, packaging, and disseminating combat information where the most noted failures of combat intelligence occur. To this end one of the most useful features of the Land Warrior that the Army insisted upon including was a means of plugging the combat soldier into the massive informational web that it was developing.

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."

Kaplan answered as he continued to pound away on the key MORE THAN COURAGE

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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.