More than courage Read online

  In the tradition of American soldiers throughout the ages, a few members of Kilo used humor to fill idle hours. SFC Kannen was especially good at this. One night, after listening to Specialist Four Salvador Mendez's daylong rant about being unable to keep up with American sports, Kannen chuckled. "Look at it this way.

  When we get home, we'll be like Rip van Winkle. Only instead of waking up and finding that many years have passed, we'll discover that we were lucky enough to miss an entire political season."

  A native of New York City, Mendez responded with a bit of his own humor. "That's what I am afraid of. I can see it all now.

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  I'll get back home and find out that the folks from upstate elected a senator who's from Kansas to make up for that carpetbagger from Arkansas."

  The sort of wit and attempts to engage conversations that were not mission related tended to reflect the character of the senior officer or NCO who rode up front in the passenger seat of each humvee. By default they established the rules and tone everyone followed in their respective vehicle. This was particularly true in Kilo Six, the lead humvee, where Erik Burman literally led from the front in all matters. With Burman were Specialist Four John Laporta who drove and maintained the Hummer, Sergeant E-5 O'Hara, the team's comms specialist, and Sergeant Yousaf Hashmi, an American born to Syrian immigrants.

  The conflicts in personalities and vast divergence of backgrounds that existed within Kilo tended to make long conversations difficult. This was especially true with Sergeant Hashmi.

  While he had never lived in Syria, Hashmi was the primary translator for the team. All of the recon teams had at least one member who was intimately familiar with the customs and culture of the nation whose sovereignty they were violating.

  That Hashmi's knowledge was gained through his parents and therefore secondhand did not matter to the army. Hashmi had been aggressively recruited for just this sort of operation.

  Unfortunately, the qualifications that made Hashmi such an important member of the team also served to isolate him from the others "in many ways. Though born and raised an American, his cultural heritage and Muslim religion were foreign to most of his fellow countrymen. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did, he remained very much apart from what his father referred to as real Americans whenever he was angered by the subtle prejudice that the Arab-American community lived with day in and day out.

  Like Hashmi, Specialist Four John Laporta was born in the United States of foreign parentage. His Mexican mother had entered the country alone and illegally while still pregnant with 38

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  him. Laporta had been raised south of Kansas City, where his stepfather, an illegal Mexican alien, worked as a stable boy at a riding club while his mother earned extra income by doing housework for the owner. Like so many of his countrymen, Laporta lived with the fear that his parents would one day be caught by an INS sweep and sent back to a country that was as foreign to him as Syria was to Hashmi. To ensure that his children would never be tormented by the same uncertainty and fear, the Mexican American had enlisted in the army the day he graduated from high school. Only when he had an honorable discharge from the United States Army in hand and sufficient funds safely tucked away to cover the cost of advanced technical training would John Laporta feel safe enough to quietly melt into the middle class of hardworking people who populate the nation's heartland and start a family of his own, an ail-American family.

  Of the three enlisted men who traveled in Kilo Six only the team's comms chief, Sergeant Dennis O'Hara, came close to having anything in common with Burman. The gregarious NCO was what he liked to call "a real American," someone who could claim Irish, German, Polish, and Italian heritage. He often bragged that he could walk into most neighborhoods in Milwaukee and feel right at home. In the beginning Burman had found O'Hara's outgoing personality a welcome break from Hashmi's aloofness and Laporta's guarded nature. But O'Hara's habit of rambling on and on even when he had nothing of value to say became more and more irritating over time, very much like the fine grains of sand that tormented them all. Burman, who enjoyed an equal measure of intelligent conversations and quiet periods of meditating and thinking, quickly found ways of cutting off O'Hara that he assumed were harmless. Unfortunately, O'Hara always took great offense.

  Everything about Burman, from his background and personality to his worldview, tended to separate him from his men. This, not to mention the fact that he was their commanding officer, went far in stifling chatter in Kilo Six. With a single word he could MORE THAN COURAGE

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  send any Kilo member into harm's way. The plans he conjured and the orders he issued governed every action and waking hour of the thirteen men entrusted to him. An error on his part, a failure to properly address every possible contingency, or a lapse in judgment could result in the failure of their mission and the death of all of them. No one person in the entire army's chain of command, not even the president himself, had the same impact on American combat troops as a captain leading troops on the field of battle.

  The four occupants of Kilo Two, the humvee next in the line of march, did not suffer the same tension that those around Bur man did. The senior man was Sergeant First Class Allen Kannen, making those assigned to Kilo Twe.the only group that was all enlisted. This alone did much to make the atmosphere more conducive to a free exchange of views and thoughts. Though he was RT Kilo's senior NCO, responsible for the good order and discipline among the team's enlisted soldiers, Kannen was able to lead Kilo Two with a light hand because of the quality and professionalism of the others who rode along with him in Kilo Two.

  The only topic of conversation that was out of bounds was criticism of their unit's officers. Though they might make fun of Bur man and Aveno on occasion by referring to Burman as Captain Ahab, Kannen would not tolerate any disrespect. Whenever someone in Kilo Two came close to doing so the senior NCO

  would cut him off by reminding them that until they were in charge, the only response the enlisted men would give when their commanding officer issued an order was a crisp salute and a gusty

  "Airborne."

  None of the men who traveled with Kannen had any problem with this. They had more than enough material to work with, jabbing fun at each other or exchanging puns when the mood struck them. Salvador Mendez, who drove Kilo Two, was the only man who enjoyed driving through the desert, though the experience would have no value when he returned to New York City. "No one will ever believe me when I tell them that I was able to drive 40

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  for hours on end without ever hitting a red light or having to lean on the horn."

  Specialist Four David Davis, a young black man born and raised in rural Mississippi, and called Dee Dee by officers and enlisted alike, was never sure when to believe the stories Mendez liked to tell about his experiences in "the city." Davis had joined the army for many of the same reasons Laporta had. "I'll go back to Mississippi after I get out so I can take advantage of the cheap tuition given to in-state students at Ole Miss while living at home.

  But I'll be damned if I'm going to stay in that state after I graduate.

  Having the family close is okay. And the folks down there are friendly. But it's just too damned hot for my liking."

  Whenever Davis complained about the heat, someone in Kilo Two would point out that if he was trying to escape warm climates, he had definitely made a bad career move when he enlisted in the army. Usually it was the team's weapons specialist, Sergeant Samuel Harris, who pointed this out. Like Mendez, Harris was a native of New York State. Unlike the Puerto Rican-American, Harris was from Watertown in New York, near the Canadian border.

  Mendez enjoyed poking fun at his fellow New Yorker, referring to him as a hillbilly without hills or an almost-Canadian.

  Harris took all this in stride and managed to serve up his own retorts. "I've been to New York City once or twice," he'd reply whenever Mendez would
go off on a rant about how backward the people were in the region of the state where Harris came from. "The only part I was able to enjoy was the sign that reads Welcome to New Jersey." Though most of the banter in Kilo Two was rather silly, it served to pass the time and lighten the mood.

  The same could not be said of the pair who made up the air force liaison team in Kilo One. While they were cordial to each other in a sergeant-lieutenant sort of way, during these protracted marches through the desert, there was little opportunity for idle banter. Nighttime was prime time for air strikes, and patrols in the no-fly zone were looking for unusual activities on the ground.

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  With the HF radios turned to the frequency of the E-3A AWACs on station, First Lieutenant Joseph Ciszak kept track of who was airborne, where the various aircraft were in relationship to RT

  Kilo, what sort of ordnance those aircraft were carrying, and who would be best able to come to-their assistance if Kilo blundered its way into trouble. When Ciszak and his NCO did exchange words, it was usually in response to something heard over one of the many radios that were crammed into the rear of the humvee.

  After doing this work for so long, Ciszak and his driver, Airman First Class Jay Jones, were as familiar with the personalities of the AWACs' crews and pilots of the strike aircraft as they were with the other members of Kilo. What comic relief they did enjoy was derived from banter the strike pilots tossed back and forth in an effort to break their own boredom.

  Bringing up the rear of the small column was Ken Aveno and Kilo Three. The silence that permeated this vehicle was due primarily to the dust that they had to eat because of their assigned position in the line of march. The only time they escaped this curse was when there was a strong wind blowing in from the side.

  But even then the chatter between Aveno and his fellow travelers was limited. Seated next to the executive officer of Kilo was Specialist Four Insram Amer who served as Aveno's driver and the backup translator. Amer was a Palestinian who had lived in Jordan before coming to the United States to attend college. Lacking the funds necessary to continue his pursuit of a doctorate and having no desire to return to a nation that would never be a home to his people, Amer opted to join the United States Army. Since one of Kilo's escape-and-evasion routes took them through Jordan, Amer was viewed as a valuable asset by those who had selected the personnel for Kilo.

  Equally valuable to the team was Sergeant Glenn Funk, their medical specialist. Like all army medics Funk took great pride in looking after his companions. In time, if he did not reenlist, Funk planned on returning to Texas where he hoped to find a position 42

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  as an EMT in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Until then he devoted himself to learning all he could about emergency medicine by practicing his craft whenever possible.

  The fourth man who made up Kilo Three's complement was Staff Sergeant Angel Ramirez. He served as Kilo's second-ranking NCO and its demolitions expert. Like Kannen, Ramirez was a career soldier, a man who had no intention of ever going back to the state he had once called home. While the two senior NCOs joked about having found a home in the army, it was painfully true for the thirty-one-year-old Ramirez. Many of the Chicano youths he had hung out with while growing up in Los Angeles were either dead or serving hard time in one of the state's prisons.

  The Latino NCO knew that had he not enlisted when he did, he'd be with them, in prison or planted six feet under. That his chosen career routinely put him in harm's way was of little concern.

  As he saw it, at least in the army his life had meaning and value. None of his former friends who were still alive could make that claim.

  Behind Kilo Three, there was nothing. Ahead, the other three Hummers. And somewhere out there in the darkness that hid them all was a site they had been assigned to locate, and designate for an air strike if it turned out to be worth the risk. That people could very well die because of their actions that night didn't matter.

  Someone of higher rank, someone whom none of them would ever meet, had already made that decision. Nor would the members of RT Kilo actually be responsible for the dead. They were only the messengers of death, a collection of men from across the United States, brought together by their profession and a cabal of faceless staff officers.

  Syria

  20:35 LOCAL (16:35 ZULU)

  Seated upon the hood of Kilo Two with his back braced against the windshield and feet tucked up so that he could rest his elbows on his knees, Allen Kannen peered through his night-vision goggles.

  Slowly he scanned the horizon from left to right. He tried hard to ignore the pair of humvees that kept cropping up in his field of vision as they moved forward, but he was concerned because they were far too exposed, moving too fast, and waiting too long before dismounting. Though both Kilo Six and Kilo Three were commanded by officers who had done this sort of thing countless times before, Kannen was beginning to wonder if they were getting careless.

  Behind him Sam Harris stood with his upper torso sticking up through the ring mount fitted to the hard shell of Kilo Two.

  Leaning forward, the team's weapons expert grasped the traverse and elevation knobs of the TOW missile launcher while keeping his right eye glued to the tracker. Like Kannen, Harris was searching for trouble. Just what sort of trouble they were looking for was as unknown as the form it would take, if in fact there was any danger out there. With a more powerful sight, Harris had the advantage of being able to stop when he came across something suspicious. With the flip of a lever on the TOW's tracker he was able to change the sight's magnification, allowing him to carefully inspect the object that concerned him. Though the sound of this action was minute, it was loud enough to put Kannen on edge every time he heard it. When he did not hear Harris switch back 44

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  to the lower setting within a second or two, the senior NCO

  would call out in hushed tones. "What ya got?"

  Though Harris knew Kannen was anxiously awaiting a response, he would say nothing until he was sure of what he was seeing. In most cases the weapons expert would heave a sigh of relief and relay a belated "It was nothing" before nipping the lever back and picking up his search where he had left off.

  The other members of Kilo Two were not idle. Mendez remained behind the steering wheel with the night-vision goggles he had used during the long trek to this spot hanging down around his neck. Peering through those devices for hours on end could be very painful, feeling as though someone with long skinny fingers was reaching behind the eyeballs in an effort to pull them out. Even without the goggles on, Mendez was still watching and listening. Strange as it may seem, the basic-issue unaided M-1A1 eyeballs were still just as valuable a search engine at night as were the most sophisticated night-vision goggles in the army's inventory. Any sort of night-vision devices or binoculars tend to narrow the focus of the observer and eliminate peripheral vision.

  Often it was what a soldier perceived rather than heard or saw that first cued him to a danger he was not looking for.

  Davis was also on his guard. Unlike the others, he was dismounted.

  Leaning against the rear of Kilo Two with his weapon cradled in his arms, Davis kept watch over the team's rear 180degree arc, alternating between using his night-vision goggles and scanning the empty horizon without them. This was a lonely vigil, as demanding in its own way as were the efforts of Kannen and Harris. That Davis was not anticipating anything popping up in his sector made his task all the more tiring.

  The only thing that broke up the otherwise barren landscape that Davis was assigned to cover was Kilo One, the ALO's, or air liaison officer's, humvee. While Burman in Kilo Six and Aveno with Kilo Three went forward in search of that night's target, First Lieutenant Joe Ciszak and Jones remained with Kannen and the crew of Kilo Two. When either Burman or his XO found what MORE THAN COURAGE

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  they were searching for, they would notify Ciszak. via the team's
internal radio net. The air force officer would contact the AWACs using his radios, and pass on targeting information. Once his authority to attack was confirmed, the mission offjcer would hand off the action to the strike aircraft that had been specifically sortied for this task. If they were unavailable for whatever reason aircraft that had been running routine patrols were tagged to fill in.

  When all was ready and the colonel aboard the AWACs had all the data concerning the time on target and angle of attack calculated, he would send this information back to Cis/,ak, who would in turn, inform whichever Special Forces officer w,$ observing the target. The army officers never knew the identity of the aircraft that would be coming, or the type of ordnance that would be falling from the sky. All they needed from Ciszak was what the minimum safe distance was, and when he needed to switch on his laser designator and "paint" the target for the incoming laser guided bomb. This was the American way of war fought at a distance, relying on technology to synchronize the assets of several services, and delivering overwhelming firepower on a target with an accuracy that would have been unimaginable in past wars For the Americans, these strikes were swift, unexpected and damned near antiseptic. Staff officers back in Washington D C

  charged with briefing civilians on these sorts of activities liked to refer to them as "surgical."

  To the Syrian soldiers and Iraqi expatriates located at ground zero there was nothing surgical about the bombings. If they were lucky the only thing they would experience was being shredded by razor-sharp fragments from the 750-pound bomb's detonation--countless white-hot shards of metal filling the air and slicing through exposed flesh in a most efficient and completely random fashion.