More Than Courage (16 page)

king's own population could not always be counted on to support his decisions and actions. Among Jordan's population of 4.5 million people were many of Palestinian descent who were very pro Syrian, an outlook that was constantly being reinforced by the uncompromising anti-Zionist rhetoric that flowed unceasingly from Damascus.

The U.S. Army had made specific arrangements with the Jordanian king and his government to use a portion of his country as a staging point for American Special Forces teams and individuals who had been running recon missions in Syria for a long time.

From time to time a recon team had found it necessary to seek sanctuary inside Jordan. On every occasion, Jordan had lodged an official protest, warning the United States that it would not permit its territory to be used as a base of operations. Because the region's political, military, and religious situation was continuously volatile, Funk could not be sure if these threats were simply bluster aimed at placating the Arab states or if they were real. In Edition, he had no way to know if something might have hapPened after RT Kilo had deployed into Syria that his officers had not told them about, something that forced the Jordanian king to

curtail his nation's role in Razorback. If that had happened, the

*% point would not only be nonexistent but a potential danger.

Slowly Funk lowered the map and laid it on the passenger 124

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seat. If recent circumstances had changed the agreement between the U.S. and Jordan about the nature of the rally point, it could prove to be a trap. Funk and Ramirez would find out for sure as they tried to cross the border. Heading to Jordan would provide them with no certainties, only more uncertainties, doubts, and fears. Funk felt his anxiety growing by leaps and bounds. He and Ramirez might even have to surrender to the Jordanians and trust their fate to the machinations of self-interested, CYA-obsessed, pantywaist diplomats from the State Department.

Yet as difficult and hazardous as their immediate future might turn out to be, Funk knew that the worst part of their ordeal would not come until both he and Ramirez came face-to-face with their fellow soldiers back in the States. Whatever they had endured up to that point would be nothing in comparison to what they would suffer when it came time to atone for their sins. No matter how things turned out, they would return to Fort Bragg to face their fellow Green Berets, men who would hold them responsible for everything they had done and had failed to do.

Funk already knew that he would never be able to justify what they had done. They had run. While everyone else in RT Kilo were fighting for their lives, he and Ramirez were running away.

He had failed to execute his duties and responsibilities as a soldier.

He had abandoned his comrades despite an unspoken bond between all servicemen that no one would be left behind. This was simply an article of faith, one understood by all. But through his actions, Funk had broken the bond that held men iike him together when nothing else could. He'd reacted to combat by becoming a coward, intent on saving himself. He had failed on every level. Regardless of whether he was punished or forgiven, Funk would have to live with this agonizing, devastating truth for the rest of his life.

He was still lost in his anguish when he looked up and saw Ramirez standing in the open door on the driver's side of the Hummer staring at him. "So, genius, have you managed to figure out where we are vet?" the senior NCO asked sarcastically.

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Enraged, Funk threw the map across the hump that separated the passenger's and driver's seats at Ramirez. "You're the E-6

here. Tou figure it out."

The map didn't hit Ramirez, but Funk's anger and response enflamed Ramirez, who found.it all but impossible to hold back his own rage. While he'd been away from the Hummer, walking about oblivious to his surroundings, he too had been wrestling with many of the same demons of guilt, shame, uncertainty, and fear that were troubling Funk. He'd returned to Kilo Three even more tormented than when he'd left. Only a supreme exercise of self-control and discipline prevented Ramirez from leaping across the seats of the Hummer and throttling the only friend he had left in the world. What he did instead was to expand on Funk's reference to his being the higher-ranking NCO, to reinforce the military aspect of their relationship, and exert his seniority.

"Pick

up that map and get a fix on our location, Sergeant."

This resort to his military rank, one that carried with it the implied obligation to follow orders, made Funk realize that this was neither the time nor place to have it out with Ramirez. They were still in Syria and very much in danger. They both had more important issues that had to be dealt with at the moment. Whatever score he needed to settle with Ramirez, as well as his own remorse over what he had done, would have to wait. Still, Funk made no effort to hide his ire as he retrieved the map. Before looking down at it, Funk glared at Ramirez. "We'll settle this in Jordan, Staff Sergeant Ramirez."

"Count on it."

Syria

09:40 LOCAL (5:40 ZULU)

The ability and skill required to read a map and use that

*flowledge to find one's way from point A to point B, known in

~*e military as land navigation, is a perishable skill. If personnel 126

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don't practice it they lose their ability to eye the lay of the land and accurately gauge how the terrain features they are looking at relate to the squiggly brown lines on a two-dimensional sheet of paper. The introduction of the space-based global positioning system considerably diminished their need to keep these skills sharp.

Initially touted as an aid to land navigation, the GPS first became a crutch, then a handicap as a new generation of American fighting men abandoned the old tested techniques of keeping track of where they were in favor of technology that was far more accurate and almost foolproof.

Of course, as the saying goes, "almost" only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and nukes. Certainly the current model of

the GPS used by RT Kilo, the AN/PSN-11 portable lightweight GPS receiver was a godsend, especially when someone was wandering about the desert and didn't have forty years to spare before his next scheduled appointment. Equally certain is that the swift, bold strokes employed by Coalition forces during Desert Storm to hook around through the wastelands of southwestern Iraq and around the main line of defense would have been far more difficult without the GPS. No one in his right mind would dare suggest that the American Army forsake such a wonder simply because it could lead to overreliance on a system that might fail.

Still, as with anything that is almost foolproof, relying so much on the GPS meant that the Army was waging a losing war against the law of averages and increasing the probability of one of Murphy's more famous laws, which states that if something can go wrong, it will do so at the most inopportune time.

For the pair of spec fours fleeing in Kilo Six the problem was not a systems failure. All the satellites that were part of the global positioning system were still up there, orbiting the earth as they merrily transmitted their unique signals. The difficulty Dennis O'Hara and John Laporta faced was that the GPS they relied upon to intercept those signals and translate them into useful map coordinates relied upon batteries, batteries that have a finite lifc span, batteries that take up room in vehicles already crowded with MORE THAN COURAGE

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equipment and supplies. And while both Ken Aveno and Allen Kannen had made sure that there were more than enough spare batteries on hand, their calculations had been based on a operation that was supposed to last two to four weeks, not six. Like the soldiers who used them, the precious batteries that were available were used and used and used until they had nothing more to give, until they were exhausted and failed at a critical moment.

O'Hara and Laporta understood the principles of map reading.

Both had proven their mastery of that craft while earning their coveted green berets. But neither man had much of a need to employ those skills thanks to the GPS. Even if they had gone out of their way to maintain their proficiency in map reading the pine-studded hills of North Carolina and the mountainous high desert of California where their unit did much of its training in preparation for their role in Razorback bore little resemblance to the trackless wasteland now surrounding them. A closer parallel to the skills required to find one's way in the desert was what generations of mariners had relied on to cross the world's oceans before the age of electronics. Unfortunately O'Hara was a native of Milwaukee and Laporta hailed from Kansas, places where nautical skills were not required.

Both men had already come to the conclusion that their chances of hitting the precise point on the Jordan border where they were supposed to cross was nil. This much had become clear when, they couldn't even agree on where they were with any degree'of certainty. The best they could do was to simply keep moving north toward Turkey. Any regrets they had over not payWg more attention to the team's escape-and-evasion plan were orgotten. Even Burman had not taken it seriously, choosing to 'gnore it except when he joked that once they crossed the border

tween Syria and Jordan the team would stop and break out in a Chorus of "Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore."

At the time everyone familiar with the folksong had chuckled.

^ ^> however, as O'Hara and Laporta sped across the open

;ft toward the invisible line that separated Syria from Turkey 128

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there was nothing to laugh about. In the hours immediately following their run-in with the Syrians outside the village and while still pumped up from the adrenaline rush that combat brings on, O'Hara and Laporta had celebrated their narrow escape. Only later, after they'd checked their map and decided to just keep driving away as fast as they could, and after their bodies finally managed to purge the adrenaline from their bloodstream, did exhaustion set in. Along with it came an acute realization of what they had done and an appreciation of the consequences of their actions. In the course of this self-examination, they both started to experience the same feelings of guilt, shame, and psychological shock people experience after an accident or traumatic incident.

Shock, with all its sinister side effects, finally began to set in.

Of all their feelings, the syndrome known as survivor's guilt began to dominate. As the distance between them and the village continued to grow throughout the night and into the following morning, both O'Hara and Laporta began playing what-if games in their minds. What if they had charged forward in search of their commander and Sergeant Hashmi instead of fleeing into the night? What if they had ignored the XO's order to break contact and had given Burman and Hashmi a little more time to get back to them? What if they had stood their ground and provided covering fire for their comrades? What if? Neither man betrayed his thoughts to the other. They didn't need to. Both suspected what the other was thinking and feeling without having to say a word.

Overwhelmed by these grim thoughts and consumed by a growing sense of failure, O'Hara began to sink into a state of despondency that led Laporta to believe that his friend was asleep Only after he had driven all night and well into morning and stopped to check his bearings did it dawn upon Laporta that O'Hara was behaving strangely. At first the young Kansas-born Hispanic thought O'Hara was simply suffering from the same exhaustion that was beginning to take a toll on him. Having already dismounted, he reached back into the Hummer and shook O'Hara. "Hey, Dennis. Climb out and stretch your legs."

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For the longest time O'Hara did not respond. When he finally did so, all he did was turn his head and face Laporta. In an instant Laporta knew what was happening. He had seen the same blank expression on the face of other men who had just survived a traumatic experience. Concerned now, he gave O'Hara another shake. "Hey, buddy. You with me?"

Blinking, O'Hara tried to focus. The soft, almost whispered

"Yeah," he finally did manage only served to heighten Laporta's concern.

Laporta stepped back from the humvee and looked around as he struggled to collect his thoughts. It was already midmorning.

After driving through the night he knew that it would be impossible for him to continue without a break. Sooner or later his weariness would hit him. Neither of them could keep up their current pace. Yet there seemed to be no alternative. Despite the risks of remaining in one place, he needed to get a few hours' sleep. So did O'Hara. Laporta knew that a troubled mind that had suffered a severe psychological blow such as the one they both had experienced needed time to recover. It needed an opportunity to dis: connect itself from the conscious world so it could begin mending

itself. Perhaps, he thought, all O'Hara needed was some sleep, a chance to let his brain sort things out.

Yawning, Laporta wandered away from the vehicle as he continued to look around. Maybe sleep was the answer to all their problems. Maybe when they woke after some sleep things wouldrf't look so bad. If nothing else at least they'd be able to operate at something closer to near normal levels. Of course the flip side was also true, he reminded himself as he looked back at the humvee where O'Hara sat. What if the situation were more serious than they thought and the Syrians pursuing them were just below the southern horizon? What if a few hours' rest didn't do the trick and O'Hara got worse? Could he, Laporta wondered, take care of O'Hara while simultaneously driving Kilo Six trough enemy territory and keeping an eye open for trouble?

"Ould he be able to keep himself alert and ready to deal with 130

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whatever lay ahead for as long as it took them to reach Turkey, if they ever did in fact make it that far?

As he pondered these questions, questions for which he had no clear answer, Laporta could feel his own exhaustion growing.