More Than Courage (45 page)

Syria

19:55 EASTERN, 03:55 LOCAL (23:55 ZULU)

"Sound off for equipment check!" Each successive command bellowed by the jumpmaster ratcheted up the tension and anticipation that permeated the transport one more notch. Already on their feet and hooked up, upon hearing this command each Ranger responded by slapping the man to his immediate front after feeling a similar tap from the one behind him, and yelling out, aOkay!sThis action acknowledged that he had checked all of his gear, was hooked up, and ready to step off. When Harry Shaddock felt the man behind him sound off, the commanding officer I

of the 3rd of the 75th Rangers and first man in his stick standing next to the open door looked into the eye of the senior jumpmas rter

who had initiated this last check. Pointing his finger at the jumpmaster Shaddock shouted out at the top of his lungs "All okay!"

Having completed this last precombat check there was now nothing left for the mass of Rangers and their attending jump masters to do but wait until the red jump light flickered off and the green began to flash. For them everything now rested, as a devout Muslim would say, in the hands of God.

On this night God had an intermediary. This was the transport's pilot and his flight crew. In a cockpit illuminated by nothing more than the faint glow of the aircraft's instruments and computer displays the pilot of the lead aircraft carrying Shaddock, part of his staff, and most of Company C maintained the course and altitude dictated by his navigational computer. Like the rest 348

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of his crew the pilot was literally on the edge of his seat, watching, listening, waiting. He was waiting for the moment when they reached the exit point. He was waiting for the enemy air defense to come alive and light up the sky before him with antiaircraft artillery fire, known as triple A. He was waiting for a call over the radio instructing him to abort the mission. Above all he was waiting for a report from the senior jumpmaster back in the cargo hold informing him that all the Rangers were safely away and his aircraft's door was closed and secured. Only then would he be free to take command of his aircraft once more. Only then could he head back to the barn with the sense of satisfaction and clear conscience that a man feels when he has played a role in a major undertaking such as Fanfare. The success and failure of Fanfare did not rest solely upon the shoulders of Harry Shaddock and his Rangers. Were it not for the thousands of supporting players like the transport pilot and the jumpmaster who stood nose to nose with Shaddock during these last brief seconds of relative calm, Fanfare would be impossible. Like the crews of the E-3A AWACs, the pilots of the F-18s, and the men and women who readied and launched the cruise missiles, unmanned bombers, and strike aircraft, the air crews of the transports carrying the 3rd of the 75th were all part of the equation. Together with the Rangers they would determine if the survivors of RT Kilo would meet the new dawn as free men or face another day of despair.

With all the intensity of a child watching the clock on a classroom wall, the pilot kept his eye on the computer display. When the small dot following the computer-generated course he was flying finally illuminated and the tone sounded in his earphone his hand all but leaped for the switch that triggered the "go" signal.

Back in the cargo bay Shaddock did not give the jumpmaster an opportunity to shout the order to go. As soon as the light on the panel next to the door changed colors the commander of the 3rd of the 75th Rangers was gone, whisked away by the jet transport's slipstream and swallowed up by the dark night sky. In his wake came an unbroken chain of a hundred Rangers, all shuffling their MORE THAN COURAGE

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feet along the aluminum floorboards of the transport and screaming aGo! Got Go!" at the men before them as they pressed forward.

Though the senior jumpmaster and his assistants stood ready to literally boot any man out the door who hesitated at the last moment, no one flinched. Within seconds the cargo bay was empty save for the crew of the transport. After taking a moment to catch his breath, the senior jumpmaster carefully edged over to the open door, leaned out as far as he dared, and peered off in the distance as the last of his former charges disappeared below. With a wave of his hand, he murmured a heartfelt farewell that was drowned out by the howling wind. "Vaya con Dios, ctmigos."Having done all he could to speed the Rangers along, the jumpmaster pulled himself back in and ordered his* assistants to close the door behind him.

The blare of air-raid sirens roused Allen Kannen out of the fitful sleep he had managed to slip into. Opening his eyes he looked about his barren cell for a moment as he listened closely in an effort to hear the sound of the bombs or perhaps the roar of the attacking aircraft themselves. For the longest time he heard nothing save the mournful wailing of the sirens. As he lay there alone, a strange and curious thought popped into his head. What if the target of those inbound bombers were this prison? What if someone back home had finally come to the conclusion that the only way to end this whole sordid mess was to level the prison itself and kill them? In a twisted sort of way this idea began to make sense to Kannen. After all, it was an accepted principle that if a hostage could not be freed through a rescue attempt or negotiated means, the best way to end the crisis was to devalue the hostage. And the best way to devalue them, Kannen figured as he began to rouse himself and get up off the floor, was to kill them.

A corpse being dragged through the streets was only good for one photo op and a single news cycle. After that, while the dead hostage's family would always remember, the American media 350

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would forget about what had happened in Syria and move on to the next big story, the next sensational event.

Having set this train of thought into motion Kannen found himself intrigued by the possibilities that it offered. All his suffering would be at an end. The gnawing pangs of hunger, the festering wounds that refused to heal, the constant threat of random beatings and the long hours that he had to endure alone in this cold, filthy cell would be over. Death would free him from all that and much, much more. He would no longer have to worry about the other members of RT Kilo, wondering how they were doing and when their turn to be killed off would come. He wouldn't have to endure bouts of depression during which he sobbed every time his thoughts turned to his sons, who would have to find their own way into manhood without him. Everything for him would be over. Everything would be at an end. Looking up at the ceiling of his cell as if he were trying to peer into the night sky above, Kannen began to whisper a prayer to his Lord and the pilots of the unseen aircraft that were flying around out there, waiting to deliver their payloads. "Dear God, give\hem the strength to do what they must do and the skill to make it sure and quick."

Kannen had become so lost in his dark thoughts that he failed at first to hear the sounds of excited voices and pounding feet in the corridor outside his cell. It was only when one of the guards stopped just outside the door of his cell and yelled down the length of the corridor at a companion that Kannen became aware of the commotion. Cocking the one good ear that he had left, he tried to determine what was going on. As he listened for the dreaded rattle of keys and the sliding of the bolt he began to notice another sound, one coming from outside the walls of the prison. Not even the layers of concrete could mask the familiar whine of jet engines that appeared to be growing louder and louder. For a moment this didn't make any sense. Air force tactics generally dictated that their strike aircraft maintain an altitude of ten thousand feet or higher in order to avoid triple A fire from the ground.

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By now the American NCO was on his feet and trying to reconcile this disparity as the screech of jet engines became deafening.

Instinctively, Kannen continued to look up. He was standing there in the middle of his cell peering at the ceiling when a thunderous clap and violent shudder bowled him over. As he lay flat on his back on the quivering floor choking as chips of loose concrete showered him and dust filled the room, Kannen smiled.

"Thank You, Lord. Thank You."

Of all the decisions that had to be made by the people who approved Fanfare, the most difficult one involved the air attacks targeted against the prison. No one cpuld be sure what the Syrians would do once it dawned on them that the air attacks were part of something more than simple retaliation. No one was willing to predict what the guards at the prison would do once it became clear to them that an effort to free their charges was in progress. In the wake of the execution of Sergeant Hashmi no one was willing to rule out the possibility that the guards had standing orders to shoot the surviving members of RT Kilo if that became necessary. So the question that this speculation raised was how exactly were the Syrian guards going to be kept from shooting the prisoners until DeWitt and Company A arrived?

Under the original plan of Fanfare the Deception, Delta was supposed to be dropped right onto the roof of the prison by helicopters belonging to Task Force 160. Since Fanfare was a deception plan, the practicality of this approach never had to be seriously weighed. Only after Fanfare became a real-world contingency plan, then an actual OP plan did Delmont and others of his ilk look seriously at this aspect of the operation. Both plans officers belonging to Delta and Task Force 160 responded with a crisp and unabashed "Bullshit! No way in hell!" when they were briefed on it.

It was in the aftermath of this universal rejection that the concept of bombing the prison was born. The idea sprang from an 352

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incident that had occurred in the first Persian Gulf War. Unbeknownst to the Coalition, the Syrians were keeping a number of POWs they had captured in Baghdad at the headquarters of the Baath Party. Since all the Iraqi national leaders were members of the Baath Party and hung their hats there, the building was a legitimate military target. Only luck kept the POWs confined there from being killed by their fellow aviators.

When it was decided to employ this high-risk strategy as part of Fanfare, the air force targeting officers and pilots who would actually make the attacks did their best to make sure that they had more than luck going for them this time. Using every intelligence source that could be tapped, a detailed layout of the prison had been created. Every known aspect of it was cranked into that layout.

The areas where it was suspected that members of RT Kilo were being held were colored red and labeled No-Bomb Zone.

When all parties involved were satisfied that they had done everything possible to ensure the safety of RT Kilo, they next turned their attention to those portions of the facility that would make the best targets. Areas that had been identified as barracks and mess areas were at the top of the list. Mechanical and administrative areas were next. Those that fell within those categories but were deemed to be too near the red zones were colored yellow.

All others were filled in with green. It was these green spaces that the targeting officers concentrated on and it was into those areas that a steady rain of bombs would be directed.

Unlike the other air strikes being conducted in support of Fanfare, the bombing of the prison was scheduled to be a protracted assault. While no one was willing to bet the farm on it, everyone who had a part in the decision pretty much agreed that the most likely response of the Syrian prison guards would be to run to the safety of the nearest bomb shelter as soon as it became clear to them that they were ground zero. The plan called for the Air Force to maintain a steady drumbeat of bombs with an eye toward suppressing the Syrian guards or any reinforcements that might be dispatched to the prison. Only when Company A MORE THAN COURAGE

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arrived would this bombing cease. To assist the Rangers in clearing a path to the cellblocks, the bomb shelters that the Syrian guards would be counting on for safety were slated for destruction through the use of special bombs designed to burrow deep into the ground before detonating. As the actual execution of the plan continued and the first wave of attack aircraft swooped in low and released their payloads, neither Kannen, who continued to lie on the floor of his cell waiting for the end nor the guards huddled in their shelters several floors below had any idea what was in store for them.

The length of time between exit and cpntact with the ground was but a minute, maybe not even that. But it was long enough to remind Robert Delmont just how much he hated this aspect of his chosen profession. In all his years as a Green Beret he had never found the courage to confide this sorry fact to anyone.

"The only things that fall out of the sky," Delmont mumbled nervously as he closed his eyes and braced himself for the imminent impact, "are birdshit and fools." Since he was not the former, the

* Department of the Army special ops plans officer was left to con is elude that he had to be the latter. The fact that he didn't have to

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be here doing this reinforced that supposition, one that was abruptly interrupted by his sudden return to terra fir ma.

Fortunately for the forty-plus staff officer, his responses were still keen and the patch of ground he landed on was not paved.

With more grace than he gave himself credit for Delmont collapsed and rolled along the ground as if he were still at Fort Benning under the watchful eye of a black-hatted instructor belonging to the Airborne committee. Once he was stretched out on his back, he remained dead still long enough to do a quick inventory of his body parts in an effort to make sure that all were functional and undamaged. It took a spattering of small-arms fire and the eruption of grenades less than a hundred yards from him to reenergize the special plans officer.

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Rolling over and rising up onto his knees Delmont gathered the suspension lines to one side of his parachute and began to haul them in in an effort to deform the canopy and keep it from reinflating while he was climbing out of the harness. He was in the middle of doing this, looking about and assessing his situation as he did, when it suddenly dawned upon him that perhaps being on this mission was not a good idea. This belated reflection was not brought on by fear. Rather, it was his realization that he had knowingly placed himself into a situation that exposed him to capture. After all, he was an officer on assignment to the plans section of the Army's General Staff, a duty that made him privy to all sorts of contingency plans and highly classified operations that were being carried out by Army personnel around the world.