Price For A Patriot Read online

  Brandon laughed and shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

  These two seasoned veterans were as close as brothers, and had been for most of their careers. Prior to his encounter with the MPs, Brandon had achieved the rank of Sergeant Major in the Army and Smitty had been just one stripe his junior, a Master Sergeant. The sentence Brandon received changed things between them only on the surface, not deeper where it mattered.

  “I’ve never seen so much ammo in one bunker,” Smitty commented. “It’ll look like Hiroshima when we set this off.”

  “What’s your ETC?”

  “I’ll be finished in about five. Pluto and Taco may need ten. They secured the prisoners for transport and are just now wiring the far side.”

  Brandon nodded. “Okay, keep on it. I’m taking this rag head major outside. He says he has a secret to share with me but doesn’t want his men to see him tattle.”

  “Yeah, he’s peein’ in his pants. You tell your major, I’ve got a secret for him. Tell him that ‘Mother of all Battles’ thing isn’t workin’ out quite the way Saddam and his Nazi struttin’ Imperial Guard planned. I’d be more impressed by a Girl Scout troop throwin’ cookies.”

  “I’ll be sure to let him know, Smitty.” Brandon turned and roughly pulled the handcuffed major to his feet and dragged him up the ramp toward daylight.

  Minutes later, an explosion rocked the desert floor and seismographs in nearby countries registered a micro earthquake on the Richter scale.

  Thirty miles south of ground zero, an orbiting E3-AWACS, call sign “Spotter-one,” a militarized version of the 707 commercial airliner, took note and vectored a Fast FAC, an F-16 Killer Scout, call sign “Pointer,” to inspect the area. The acronym, AWACS, described the dual mission of the E3. With its rotating, sophisticated, down-look radar mounted on the top of the fuselage, the E3 was the eye-in-the-sky providing Airborne Warning and a Control System for all airborne traffic within two hundred miles. The F-16, attached to the 4th Fighter Squadron, 388th Fighter Wing, was flying combat air patrol (CAP) at 15,000 feet when orders from the E-3 were received. It peeled out of orbit into a dive, turning toward the assigned vector. At 1500 feet, “Pointer” leveled and approached the target area.

  “What have you got?” droned the controller’s voice.

  “A smokin’ hole. I’m making a sweep at fifteen hundred feet. Ammo is still frying off. This was a big mother. Chalk one up for the good guys.” The pilot smiled inside his oxygen mask, fully enjoying his role as the on-scene reporter.

  “Roger that, Pointer. Have you spotted the ‘friendlies’ who lit the candle?” questioned the disembodied voice that sought information regarding American or coalition forces.

  “Negative, Spotter. No friendlies. Standby one. I have a tally on one dune buggy, no occupants, does appear to be U.S. issue. But no friendlies and no camel jockeys in sight.”

  Spotter-one had UHF, VHF and FM radio band capability, and used them all to gather and dispense information. There was a pause before transmitting, “Pointer? Spotter-one.”

  “Go, Spotter.”

  “Roger, Pointer, be advised a Ranger team of four moved into that area an hour ago. Two buggies. Do you copy?”

  “Affirmative, I copy. I’m widening my sweep even as we speak.” Pointer smiled inside his oxygen mask. His g-suit tightened again at stomach and thighs as he rolled his eager craft left and down, aileron and elevator responding instantly and aggressively to the small input of direction and pressure applied to the side stick flight controller by his braced and almost motionless right hand. A thousand feet above the desert floor, Pointer eased out of his descent and leveled his wings.

  “I have a visual on a plume of dust on the horizon. Checking it out.” A moment later Pointer keyed his mike. “Spotter, I now have a bogey at my twelve o’clock heading zero-two-zero. I’m making an ID pass.”

  “Roger that, Pointer. Standing by,” was the calm, business like reply.

  “Spotter, I definitely got their attention, two in camo, no friendly waves. Definitely heading toward Baghdad at top speed. Permission to engage.”

  “Negative, negative,” came a sharp, now edgy, reply. “Give me a fix on that bogey and monitor movement. Standby for further instruction.”

  “I’m bingo fuel, Spotter, no time to baby-sit. Bogey is about three clicks east of Highway 8, and about midway between Lake Hammar and An Nasiriyah. Did you approve my request to engage?” Pointer smiled knowing the answer.

  “Negative, Pointer, that’s a big negative, RTB. I say again, return to base.”

  “Party pooper,” Pointer said before keying his mike. “Roger, Spotter, Pointer is goin’ home.” To himself he said, “But it would be rude not to say goodbye. That’s the least I can do.”

  Pointing his nose at the rooster tail rising behind the fleeing ATV, he quickly closed the gap and as he thundered twenty feet overhead, his right hand gave firm instruction and the F-16 leaped to his command rotating skyward as he simultaneously stroked the burner. Raw fuel dumped into the burner-can and flame shot out the tailpipe with hurricane force. Out of burner, back to full military power, Pointer looked back over his shoulder and laughed. The All Terrain Vehicle had tumbled but landed upright and drifted to a stop. Its sole occupant seemed to cling to the roll bar, or dangle from it as if lashed to it. Odd. Pointer made a final report.

  “Spotter, that dune buggy just flipped over. My guess is he was driving too fast for conditions, and, as we all know, speed kills.”

  “Occupant status?” Spotter questioned dryly.

  “The driver did a swan dive. Good form on takeoff, but entry into the sand was poor. I give him a score of two. The passenger is still holding onto the roll bar. He’s either fastened to it or he has one helluva grip.”

  Cease Fire (Later The Same Day)

  The 100 Hour Ground War was over. A cease-fire was ordered. Iraqi troops and vehicles not captured or destroyed were allowed to escape the noose that was almost in place. The U.S. XVIII Airborne Corps had raced across the Saudi border on February twenty-fourth with VII Corps on its right flank. After an initial thrust to the north, the invasion forces turned east. XVIII Corps moved toward As Samarah on the Euphrates with stunning speed. The 101st and 82nd Airborne led the way and lived up to their splendid reputations hard won in earlier wars. VII Corps mopped up the highly touted Elite Republican Guard as it moved ruthlessly toward Al Basrah on the Tigris, just north of Iraq’s only access to the Persian Gulf. One of its fighting units was the highly respected 1st Air Cavalry from Fort Hood.

  The combined forces of the two Corps would have trapped the Iraqi Army by closing a noose around Kuwait in a broad sweep from Saudi soil on the west to the Iranian border on the east. But 100 hours wasn’t quite enough, and much of the Iraqi Army was allowed to escape. They fled on foot; they fled in stolen Mercedes with Kuwaiti plates; and unfortunately, they fled in tanks and armored, personnel carriers. Among Coalition forces, therefore, there was a confusing mix of joy and frustration, of anger and triumph.

  Major General Brad Hosten was furious when the order to maintain present position was received. The poor signal officer, nicknamed “Sparks,” who delivered the message to his command vehicle had been chewed out royally and told, “Wipe that silly-ass grin off your face, Sparks. This is not good news. This is idiotic, showmanship. This is some mama’s boy on Madison Avenue telling the President of these United States that calling it quits before we get the goddamn job done is a good idea. The One Hundred Hour War…Goddamn it! What’s twenty-four times seven, Sparks?”

  Sparks, shaken by the unexpected assault stammered, “Ah, ah…”

  The general seemed to soften saying, “I’m sorry, Sparks, I thought you knew how to multiply. I thought you knew your sevens.” Then his tempo and volume began to increase again until the general was red-faced and sputtering, “One hundred hours. I can’t believe it! We’ve go
t the son-of-a-bitch by the balls and I am not letting go. A hundred and sixty eight.”

  “Sir?” the thoroughly confused radioman questioned.

  “A hundred and sixty eight. Twenty four times seven equals one hundred and sixty eight hours, a week, and a one-week war. Why couldn’t the latte-sipping spin-doctors give me a week to do my job? I’ll tell you why, Sparks, because like you they can’t multiply. A hundred might seem like a week or two weeks to a silk-slippered moron, because it sounds impressive. Am I right, Sparks?”

  By now, Sparks was with the program. He realized that the good news he relayed was bad news and replied, “Absolutely, sir, one week sounds much better.”

  “You’re damned right, Sparks, and I only need one day more at most. I can destroy those strutting bastards, but, no, we’re going to let them get away. Unbelievable.” The general stood in the fading light staring across the sand, now silent.

  Sparks was hesitant to speak but blurted out, “Sir, we have another message.”

  “Make it brief.” The general was in a lousy mood.

  Sparks summarized, “Sir, X-Ray wants a recon team sent to coordinates HPZA to assess and report.” Sparks had kept it brief, omitting all details as ordered, including mention of an upended ATV.

  As Sparks read from the message, Captain Oris Wilson, the General’s Aide de Camp, joined them.

  “Oris, send a Huey with a recon squad to—what were those coordinates, Sparks?”

  “HPZA, Sir.”

  “Right, HPZA and do it ASAP, Oris.”

  “Roger, sir, Hotel Papa Zulu Alpha. I’ll get right on it,” Oris said as he scurried from the tent.

  Two minutes later a Huey lifted from the sand and skimmed the desert heading north. At nightfall the desert glow would be replaced by absolute darkness. The recon team hustled to make its assessment before night vision goggles would be needed. They fanned out with orders to regroup in five minutes. The team leader relayed the assessment back to camp as the chopper lifted into the darkening sky.

  “Reinforced, weapons storage bunker totally destroyed. Estimate by size of crater and remaining bunker structure, this was a major fuel and ammo storage point for the Iraqi Republican Guard. One ATV on site, U.S. issue. Three enemy KIA. One friendly KIA returning with us in a body bag. No evidence of other personnel, but not surprising considering the magnitude of the blast.”

  In the confusion of concluding a 100-hour war, the fate of four Army Rangers would be recorded as killed in action, 28 February 1991.

  3

  Burial at Muleshoe; the Burn Unit

  A military escort accompanied the casket from Amarillo across West Texas on US 60. At Friona, Texas, they turned onto State Road 214, and headed straight south to Muleshoe, the small town firmly rooted on U.S. Highway 84 at its intersection with U.S. 70. It sits, smack dab, between Littlefield and Farwell, but that is not its claim to fame. Muleshoe is known as the only town in the nation dedicated to the mule for the role it played in the taming of the Wild West.

  Highway 84 parallels the railroad tracks, and where it defines the town, it’s known as East American Boulevard—a patriotic name for proud, hard-working Americans.

  Muleshoe was home to the Stiles family, always had been. Brandon, the older son, was a solid-B student, with A-grades in language and C-grades in math. He had been a high school four-sport letterman best known for his accomplishments on the gridiron. As quarterback of the football team he won all-state honors in his senior year, and his team captured the city’s first and only Division-A state title. Every fall for the past twenty years when football fever gripped West Texas, Brandon’s name was resurrected. The locals would put the year’s new quarterback to the Stiles Test. “He’s good, but he’s no Brandon Stiles,” was invariably the verdict.

  When word spread of Brandon’s death in faraway Iraq, the town turned out for the burial, to pay its respects to its favorite son. At the graveside eulogy, townspeople learned of Brandon’s accomplishments and sacrifices, of his Bronze Star for valor and two Purple Hearts, one of the latter awarded posthumously. There was no mention of a demotion or less than honorable discharge. His family never knew of such things when they received the folded flag that had draped his coffin. Sergeant Major Brandon Stiles had fought gallantly as a warrior, and a grateful nation expressed its appreciation and regret to the family for its loss. The rifles were fired with precision, and the baleful sound of Taps stretched and faded across miles of open land and scattered mesquite trees, as Brandon was lowered into the earth.

  “Too bad mom couldn’t be here,” Daniel Stiles said to his father.

  “Well,” his father paused, “he’s gone to join her. Now she’ll have family up there.”

  Daniel nodded and gripped his father’s weathered hand and draped an arm across his broad shoulders. Brandon was a hero to the town, to his father, and most certainly to his brother.

  All his life, Daniel suffered the inevitable comparison to his brother and he had tried to measure up, but couldn’t. He played ball but didn’t win state honors or a championship as his brother had. There was an eight-year difference in their ages. Brandon was always bigger than life. Hearing, “Brandon did this and Brandon did that,” didn’t make Daniel jealous or bitter. He shared the pride and simply did his best to be a Stiles and make his brother proud.

  Daniel was in the fourth grade when Brandon enlisted in the army. It was a sad day for all, because Brandon would seldom make it back to Muleshoe to visit. He was, however, a dutiful son who never failed to write and the receipt of his letters was always a celebrated event. Brandon senior would read the mail with relish, gathering the family together before opening the envelope with great fanfare. There was drama, there was anticipation, but after all, this was from Brandon, so all was hushed as the father used his penknife to slice open the envelope. The letters never began, “Once upon a time,” but they might as well have, because that’s how the reader made it sound. Brandon had written from places Daniel had never heard of, villages and towns with exotic sounding names in Central and South America that evoked images of jungles and snakes. It was his skill with languages that put him there. The Army Recruiter had taken note of his straight-A grades in Spanish, and after Basic Training, his first assignment was to the U.S. Government’s language school at Monterey, California. There, along with soldiers and diplomats, he was subjected to total emersion training, an intensive six-month course where English was never spoken.

  Years later, Brandon would return to Monterey to master another language. No raw recruit the second time around, Brandon proudly wore the Green Beret of the 5th Special Forces and a Ranger patch on his sleeve. On his rare visits home, he was always in full military dress, all spit and polish, with patches and ribbons and shiny, laced jump boots. He was a sight to see on the streets of Muleshoe. Folks waved and whistled when they saw him. Brandon was bigger than life. He was a true American hero, now laid to rest.

  Daniel hadn’t enlisted right out of high school as his brother had. Instead he worked the family farm after graduation and served six years as a volunteer fireman and emergency medical technician in Muleshoe. It was the weather that helped him make a career change. Farming was just too damn tough. He enlisted at the ripe old age of twenty-four, after a promise from a recruiter of a posting straight out of basic training to Fort Hood as a medic. Fort Hood is home to the 1st Air Cav and 2nd Armored, the only fort in the United States to house two full Divisions. For Daniel, it had the added distinction of being located in Texas only four hundred miles from Muleshoe-- an easy drive home, on roads where speed limits were often ignored. He had made the drive many times but never before to attend a funeral.

  Daniel had been one of six pallbearers. He joined five rangers from Fort Campbell, Kentucky, home of the 5th Special Forces, who accompanied Brandon’s casket on its cross-country journey. The last time Daniel saw Brandon alive was a surprise appearance at his sw
earing in ceremony in 1984. He thought he might see him again when he received a billet to a medical unit based in Saudi Arabia late in 1990. Brandon would be in the same Theater of Operations and Daniel hoped that they might run into each other. Of course, that never happened. Time passed and Desert Shield became Desert Storm. Brandon’s whereabouts remained a mystery, but Daniel knew deep down that his brother would be on the front line or behind enemy lines in Iraq or Kuwait, not enjoying the relative safety of Saudi soil.

  When the war ended, Brandon was listed as one of the 240 KIA among Coalition forces and one of 148 American casualties. From what Daniel could learn, Brandon had died just as the cease-fire was ordered. How ironic.

  San Antonio, Texas (Brooke Army Medical Center, The Burn Unit)

  Master Sergeant Jason “Smitty” Smith had spent thirty minutes in a body bag classified as KIA and only a chance examination by an alert nurse at Camp X-Ray near the Saudi-Iraq border changed that classification. “I’ve got a pulse!” the nurse shouted, setting into motion a choreographed flow of procedures. Organized chaos followed, like a marching band whose players disperse and reassemble without contact in a madhouse of activity.

  Serious burns can make setting broken bones a nightmare and can destroy already damaged and fragile skin. There was no need for anesthesia; the patient was unconscious. Some bones were reset and field dressings were applied to burns. Through it all, the victim, affectionately referred to as “the Mummy,” clung to life with such desperate determination that the doctors and nurses who cared for him made him their special mission. If they could save this soldier, it would ease the pain of having lost others.

  Without delay and with wonderful in-flight medevac care, using procedures developed by the Army Institute of Surgical Research, the Mummy began his journey around the globe. From the air transportable hospital near the border of Iraq, the bandage swathed passenger was flown by helicopter to King Abd Al-Aziz Air Base in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, where he was transferred to a DC-10 hospital ship and flown to Ramstein Air Base, Germany. After refueling, the DC-10 lifted off on its nonstop flight to the United States.