Operation Desert Rose

By Jo Lyn Cornelsen

http://www.OperationDesertRose.com

Operation Desert Rose is a beautiful story. I cant even tell you how many times I literally laughed out loud enjoying their triumphs and Im a little embarrassed to admit....I actually cried several times. This truly touched me. So many little things in the story brought back memories, and its a tale so many can relate to whether they were in the military or not. I think it is something that can appeal to the masses and its very uplifting at the same time. Its inspirational, spiritual, romantic, and sexy without being gaudy, lude, cheesy, or preachy. Buy this book - its a definite yes! ~ Shelby Austin, Former SSG US Army

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426982958

Jo Lyn Cornelsen

J.L. Cornelsen, a DOD Civilian Dependent in Germany 1984-1993, witnessed firsthand the challenges and trials of America's peace-time troops facing war-time deployment in 1990. The story honors our soldiers and their families, whose lives are forever changed because they put themselves on the line for the rest of us

Book preview

Contents

PROLOGUE

INVASION ~ KUWAIT CITY

SPECIAL OPS ~ NORTHERN IRAQ

CHAPTER ONE

WIESBADEN, GERMANY

CHAPTER TWO

FRANKFURT TENT CITY

CHAPTER THREE

DHARAN

CHAPTER FOUR

ARABIAN SANDS

CHAPTER FIVE

KUWAIT CITY

CHAPTER SIX

BLACK HAWK

CHAPTER SEVEN

HOMECOMING

CHAPTER EIGHT

FRANKFURT

CHAPTER NINE

ROSE GARDEN

CHAPTER TEN

RESOLUTION

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DESERT ROSE

EPILOGUE

BONES IN THE DESERT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

INVASION ~ KUWAIT CITY

The swarthy, pock faced Iraqi officer grunted in satisfaction at the luxurious furnishings of his newly captured headquarters. The intricate lines of the multihued carpet drew his gaze around the room, and he noted the carefully tended greenery, the latticed screen, the delicate table flanked by white and gold upholstered chairs. Heavily sweet incense smoldered in a brass pot. His eyes followed the design of the carpet back to the huge mahogany desk. The grotesque scene upon it, created by his own hand, pleased him. He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring at the smell of fresh blood mingled with the scent of jasmine. Now he, Halid the orphan, once kicked and scourged in the streets of Baghdad, would be the one issuing orders from behind this magnificent desk.

Liquid red dripped silently onto the tightly packed wool fibers. The body on the desk laid still, the mouth slack, silent. The lip had curled in disdain moments ago. Halid plucked the khanjar from the dead man’s hand. The fool had mocked him, refused to honor his authority, and had drawn the curved dagger from the drawer. It had been the man’s fatal mistake, as it was so easily turned against him.

Halid’s lips stretched wide, exposing tobacco stained teeth. He had been conscripted into the army as a young boy; regular meals, clothes on his back and sturdy boots bought his loyalty. He enjoyed interrogating political prisoners. Most were weak. Bravado turned to begging when they were dangled from hooks in the ceiling. A little flogging or a missed meal or two, and the demanded answers would come. Sons told the political secrets of their fathers. Brothers sold out their own brothers.

Absently, Halid wiped the blade on his victim’s robe, aroused by his memories. Killing filled him with a feeling of power, of invincibility. He had enjoyed today’s invasion, crossing the border at dawn in the cool morning light before the fiery sun burst over the horizon. The tiny country still slept, and his men had moved in upon its leaders with quick precision. They had immobilized Kuwait’s paltry armed forces in one swift move, and he and others like him had strategically gained control of politically important households, inviting their captives to pledge allegiance to their new president and to acknowledge that their state was rightfully a province of the mother country.

In this early morning take-over of the monarchy, Halid had led his troops in vengeance through the streets of the decadent city. His soldiers were a mixed lot, some young recruits still learning the ways of men and of war. Most were like him, hardened soldiers; battle seasoned and thirsty for blood. The end of the Iran/Iraq war had brought them nothing but inactivity and months of repetitive drills, flat dull duty for men used to the thrill of combat. This morning’s work had been child’s play, the tiny country totally unprepared to meet his country’s invading forces. Halid was not surprised at their weakness, but he had been disappointed at how few fought back. He had instructed his men to kill some of the cowards in the streets as warning to those he had spared.

He grinned with malicious satisfaction at the wax-like body on the desk. Politics and money had not saved this man. In his arrogance, this politically powerful man had not been cooperative, so Halid had dealt with him accordingly. He lifted the captured prize, the tribal ceremonial weapon, admiring the workmanship. An old and valuable piece, the scabbard was encrusted with glittering jewels. It was fitting that it should be his. He could use it with the skill and precision of an ancient warrior. Strapping the belt around his waist, he tugged the khanjar to a place of comfort and practiced drawing and sheathing the weapon repeatedly.

The dead man’s lax tongue protruded from the open mouth, dripping bloody saliva onto the glass desktop. Suddenly, Halid’s head covering seemed heavy. His heart pounded.

Remaining in the proximity of his dead victim brought back the memory of his father lying lifeless on a thin mattress in a shack, untended, uncared for, mourned by none but a small boy who, for days had hopelessly begged the man to wake up. Only when the stench of death grew intolerable did others take notice. When sand was thrown upon his father’s unresisting face, the memory carved itself like stone inside him. Halid retained a morbid fascination with death, but once it was over, when nature began to claim her own, his courage faltered, as it was doing now. He tightened his grip on the dagger, struggling to cover his memory of fear with fierceness.

A scuffling in the corridor drew Halid’s attention. His men had rounded up the man’s family and servants and brought them to the room entrance. He turned, welcoming the distraction, blocking their view of their silent patriarch. These pampered rich nobles were now his prisoners. He studied them as they huddled in the spacious corridor, noting the family likeness. They had obviously been pulled from their beds, their hair mussed, feet bare. The three mature women and two young girls were no threat, weak subservient creatures at best.

Anticipation mingled with mild fear as his stare was returned with defiance. The young men had not missed the import of their father’s weapon strapped around Halid’s waist. Would they play the martyrs and attack? He glanced at his soldiers behind the prisoners and caressed the khanjar. If circumstances warranted, he would happily use it again. With the weapon safely in his hands and his men’s support, the prisoners were helpless. A familiar rush of adrenalin filled his limbs with strength at the prospect of another easy kill. His voice grated harshly.

You are being liberated from oppression through the benevolence of the army of your rightful president, the leader of your mother country. He stepped back, allowing them a view of the room with its grotesque scene of death. His eyes glittered in challenge.

At the bloody sight of their father, the young men called out and rushed forward, but were instantly blocked by soldiers brandishing weapons in their faces. The women screamed, clinging together. Their wild shrieks and eerie wails of mourning echoed in the enclosed space. Silence! He shocked them still with his near hysterical, piercing command. They stared at their captor. Fear rose in their throats. Halid drew up to his full height. He is quite dead, I assure you. Your passion is commendable, but useless, as he is past feeling.

The brothers poised, tense and rebellious, ready to take on the fight. The women huddled, eyes downcast, seeking comfort from each other. The two young girls were slender and light, little more than children. Halid guessed one to be his victim’s youngest child. The other was more a mystery. She was not of this family, he decided, but her features appeared familiar. Surely she was a guest in this house. Time stretched. Halid pondered. Political ambitions stirred in the recess of his mind.

He motioned toward the corpse, his carefully polite words starkly contradicting the obvious violence of his actions. I regret that this man misunderstood our presence. However, there is much you might do to help yourselves. You may leave peacefully as my guests for the mother country, or you can fight a losing battle with my soldiers here. He paused while the prisoners stared in surprise.

The brothers weighed their chances for revenge. Could they capture a weapon and avenge their father? Their mother could see what they were planning, and she began to sway back and forth, wailing, mourning their deaths.

Halid’s eyes gleamed. Of course, if you choose to fight, then to the victor goes the spoils. He advanced upon the women. They shrank from him, repelled by the foul odor of his unwashed body and the evil intent in his eyes. His blood spattered hand touched the face of one proud beauty as he slowly drew his fingers across her cheek. She refused to meet his eyes. That angered him, and he grabbed her chin roughly and forced her face upward. He was Halid, a respected officer in the Iraqi army, and he deserved respect and subservience.

The young men fought the soldiers’ hold, straining to protect her. The soldiers responded to a slight indication of their leader’s head, as well trained dogs will follow their master’s non-verbal commands. One by one, they made a game of striking their captives, a single slug to the jaw, a pummeling of fists to the abdomen, a series of well placed kicks, blood drawn with a flick of a knife, combat boots grinding upon bare feet until the young men sagged, eyes dull with pain, gasping for breath.

Halid held the young woman still through the fracas, his grip tight and punishing on her chin. With his other hand he pressured the fine bones of her throat, and then moved downward, cruelly mauling her softness. When she whimpered in fear and pain, he shook her jaw as if she were a beast held captive in a harness, and squeezed harder. He continued this punishing until the violent sport with the young men was finished. Still, the woman refused to meet his eyes. In anger, he pushed her away and she dropped to the floor, bereft of dignity. Halid sucked air, gathering his longing back into its hard cold shell, and bolstered his self pride through a pretense of disdain.

Go! he repeated. Gather what you wish. You leave within the hour. He signaled his men, and they brandished their weapons and ushered the prisoners away. The young girl’s face caught his eye as she turned. Clarity began to bud. Yes! That profile, in miniature, a perfect feminine version of… yes, it must be! A brilliant impression burst forth within his brain, crystallizing into a clear picture for his own future.

Stop! He ordered, motioning to the girl child, the guest of his prisoners. You, stay!

The girl froze in her tracks. Having witnessed this man’s cruelty to her friend’s sister, she feared that the young woman may now be discarded by her family as damaged goods. She had no wish to follow suit. She eyed him covertly, averting her direct gaze, mentally gearing to run if she had to. She was not mature, but nonetheless, she would not let him touch her as he had done the other woman.

Halid grinned, leering at the girl. If he was right, if she was related to whom he suspected, this one could bring him all he had ever dreamed of. By the instant stroke of such good fortune, his life would be changed. No longer must he smile when being kicked aside by higher ranking men. No longer would the decent women be sequestered away from him, guarded jealously by their husbands and fathers.

One hand went up to his face in a self-conscious gesture. He fingered the pock marks on his cheek and rubbed the uneven bridge of his crooked, bulbous nose. Haunting memories of a scourged, loveless childhood flickered in the recesses of his mind. He had known nothing but hate and neglect. To survive -- he had emulated his persecutors, learning to dominate others through brutal, cruel acts.

The girl’s small face seemed to dance before his eyes, tantalizing him as a ticket into the coveted social circles of the highest Arab governments. The president would be most grateful for this unexpected opportunity to pressure such an esteemed family. Suddenly he was filled with distain for his own men. Soon, very soon, he would no longer be forced to suffer the companionship of these vermin from the ghettos of Baghdad. He would surround himself with polite aides, and buy himself decent wives.

Your name, he commanded, advancing on the terrified girl child.

She shuddered, glimpsing evil and greed in his expression.

Tell me your name! his voice thundered in the corridor.

Aiesha, she whispered.

To what house do you belong? He demanded, holding the khanjar loosely in his hand, ready to sling it her way.

Aiesha eyed his hand on the weapon. In running, there would be no escape. She would be skewered like a goat by the weapon in his hand. This repulsive man took pleasure in cruelty. Should she speak, or hold her tongue? Would her father’s name protect or destroy her? Wide eyed, she hesitated, and he raised the khanjar as if to strike. Her heart pounding, she whispered the word her captor wanted, hoping he would respect her lineage, and let her live.

When the girl named her household, a sense of imminent power rushed through Halid, its force surfacing in his expression as his thoughts progressed. There was more he could gain here than the gratitude of his president. Silently, he thanked his destiny. Ali Baba himself could never imagine the wealth that fate would bestow upon Halid. And just in case the president was not successful…but no, he must not think of that. Such thoughts were traitorous in the extreme, and he had no desire to join those colleagues whom the president had disposed of at the mere suspicion of dissention.

Halid’s bushy brows rose, wrinkling his forehead as he plotted his next step. He would check her papers to be sure, but this girl would not go with the others. She would be his ticket to power, luxury and the adulation of the esteemed president himself. He barked orders at the rest of his men, and the girl was ushered out of his sight. He turned back to the desk, watching as the body was pulled from the chair and dragged out of the room. They would let the man lay in the street for a day as a warning to the residents of the city. Halid would not be disobeyed.

SPECIAL OPS ~ NORTHERN IRAQ

Special Operations Captain Mark Gunter, standing on the ledge, slid one hand into his pocket to activate the emergency locator transmitter, alerting the rescue team that they were nearing their destination. Poised on the rock face, they were fifty feet below the ridge of the plateau where the helicopter was to pick them up. This would be the easier part of the climb. Mark looked up at the two other men. They had taken up the slack in the rope, so he reached for the next hold and moved up, intent on reaching the top at the same time the chopper arrived. Within moments the sound of the rotors was audible, though muffled by the irregular contours of the mountain terrain. The aircraft was coming in as planned, on track for a quick exit.

Sergeant Conner Watkins was in the lead, a lean and agile climber, expert at searching out the best routes on what appeared to be flat rock, driving pitons into crevices for safety holds. The path he had outlined led up and off to the left, then back to a point directly above the ledge.

This mission had not been difficult for the two Americans. Tanned by the Arabian sun, hardened and weathered by years of special operations such as this, they both looked the part and were fluent enough in the language to blend in. Individually, they had their differences. Conner was a wild dare devil, Mark more calm and steady, but they worked together seamlessly, forging ahead and backing each other up as the occasion demanded.

Mark’s mind backtracked over the mission, noting the highlights he’d put in his report. This time, they had been inserted into northern Iraq to rescue a Kurdish patriarch, held as a political prisoner in his own house in a small village. The man was to escape the oppressive regime and tell the story of the plight of his people to the outside world.

Northern Iraq was a barren land, a Middle East Siberia. The Kurdish refugees were fleeing to the mountains in a vain attempt to escape the murderous intent of their country’s dictator, who appeared intent on exterminating their ethnic population. In this part of the world, lineage determined religion, which in large part, decided political power. Those favored by power lived protected lives. Those not so favored struggled to survive. What was left of the Kurdish population had retreated from civilization, hiding in mountain caves, banding together with few supplies, attempting wilderness survival.

Sadly, only humanitarian agencies and a few media reporters were paying attention. There was a limit to what any outsiders could do, unless backed by world leadership. Mark hoped for a resolution for the Kurds before the cold of winter set in.

The Middle East was a hotbed of local war and violent politics. Eastern and western cultures contrasted sharply, and lack of understanding on both sides created mountains of fear. No western nation wanted war, especially not with such a wild card as Iraq. Therefore, the world remained slow to admit that the persecution of the Kurds was a kind of holocaust. Some argued that the west had no right to interfere in Middle East affairs. Others would say that persons of every culture had the right to human dignity and freedom, and that the responsibility to promote freedom rested on those countries whose laws acknowledged individual rights of citizens.

Mark was no politician, but possessed a solid strength of spirit and a sense of fairness and compassion. A natural leader with global awareness, he quickly picked up on the purpose and focus of the missions to which his team was sent. Government policies were beyond his scope, but he could do this special ops job and get this one man to the outside so the story could be told.

Posing as Iraqi Army messengers, Mark and Conner had found the man’s home in his village and handed the government guards cash wages and forged orders for a two week leave. The soldiers readily left their posts. As expected, that part was easy.

There had been just one complication. Rather than one refugee, there were two. The Kurd insisted on bringing his son along, the only member of his immediate family who had not been killed by the regime. He said the boy would be cared for by relatives in the camp.

This wasn’t in their briefing or part of their orders. They wouldn’t be able to get the boy out of the country with his father, but Mark sympathized. If he had a son of his own, he would never leave him behind in enemy territory. Shrugging, Conner deferred to Mark’s judgment as commanding officer.

The man had an old rusted automobile and a five gallon stash of gasoline. He had insisted he could get them all to the mountains in just a few hours. The old car was a dubious method of transport at best, but would bring needed provisions closer to the mountains for the Kurds to retrieve under cover of darkness.

They’d packed food and supplies into the vehicle and headed out in the early morning darkness. The road was rough, a barely perceptible trail across an expanse of hard packed earthen sand, but the Kurd knew the land, and deftly maneuvered along the path toward the mountains. As they neared the foothills, the old motor sputtered and died, its fuel finally spent.

Concealment was impossible on the open desert. Indisputable evidence of their presence, the abandoned vehicle would identify their direction, inviting an enemy to follow their trail. Conner made a suggestion, and the man put the gear in neutral and cranked the steering wheel sharply to the right. Mark and Conner got out and pushed from behind, turning the front of the car in the opposite direction, back toward where they’d come from. It was a transparent ruse, but the best they could do.

Retrieving what provisions they could carry, they had finished their journey toward the mountain on foot, adopting a rhythmic, steady pace. The old man and the boy kept up easily.

Distance was deceptive in the desert, and it was an hour before they reached the beginnings of an upward slope. Mark led them into an arroyo in the foothills, instinctively following the easiest way up. The higher they climbed, the rockier the terrain became. Eventually, they stopped to rest near an overhang of rock that offered a small amount of shade, checking their back trail. Mark saw no evidence of government pursuit. Clearly, vacation pay was a universal motivator in both east and west cultures.

The car had provided fast transport, but he knew they were far from safety. In Special Ops, easy insertion generally meant a difficult exit, and though there was no apparent trackers, Mark knew they must remain vigilant. If it was important enough for them to be here, it was important enough for someone else to try to stop them.

The Kurd made a sudden movement, and Mark tensed, glimpsing a flash of steel and a puff of dust in the brush twenty feet from the overhang. The boy jumped up to run toward the disturbance, but a short word from his father stopped him instantly. He held back, deferring to his father, who walked calmly to the brush and retrieved his khanjar from the ground, wiping the blade before sheathing it. At his nod, the boy, grinning broadly, rushed to the site and picked up the headless body of a desert viper, holding it high up in the air to show Mark and Conner. There would be snake meat for supper that night.

Continuing up the trail for a few more hours, they had finally passed sentries and entered the refugees’ camp. The Kurd’s relatives happily took charge of the boy, and the men gathered around a fire, discussing the challenges they would face the next day.

The Kurd, like others of his clan, was tough and hard from a long life of survival. At home in the desert, he was no trained rock climber, so after a meal of fire-roasted viper, Mark and Conner gave a crash course in the climbing technique they would use come morning. They fit the pelvic web harness snugly around the Kurd’s lower body and snapped it securely to the nylon safety rope with a carabineer. Devising a way to fold the long ends of the man’s native robes up, they secured them into the web harness to free his arms and legs for movement. Luckily, the climbing shoes fit the man’s feet properly.

Unfamiliar with the tight restriction of the harness, the Kurd took a few awkward steps and then grinned, performing an exaggerated little dance for the group. The Kurds took turns with the harness, each of the men trying it out and laughing at its apparent absurdity.

Mark fully agreed with their sentiments. On the ground, the awkwardness of the rope harness had a way of making an adult feel like a baby in a diaper. But up on the mountain, that essential piece of equipment would provide exactly the leverage needed to center the body for a successful climb. Without the harness, a misplaced step or lost hand hold could mean a free fall to injury or death.

They’d familiarized the man with techniques he would need, demonstrating how to search for hand holds; how to balance on the face of a cliff; how use the toes to find the subtle contours in the rock that would hold his weight. Initially, the Kurd had expected to be pulled up the mountain with the rope, so they repeatedly explained that the rope was only there for safety in case of a fall. Each man must carry his own weight and make his own climb.

Late that night they had bedded down on the hard packed earth, wrapping their bodies in thin blankets to keep out the night chill. Kurd sentries kept watch.

Mark had awakened with the first rays of light from the eastern sky. The boy stood by, waiting for the signal to fetch his father. Downing a quick meal of hard bread and hot tea, Mark and Conner readied their gear. The Kurd made his goodbyes to the others. Happy, talking, even bragging, they looked to their leader as a one who could deliver them from evil. Mark looked on, hoping the man’s welcome by the western world would be as positive as this sendoff by his clan.

Eventually, the Kurd completed the circle and reached out to his young son. With simple ceremony, he entrusted the khanjar into his son’s care, admonishing him to respect the elders of the camp. Mark watched the youngster solemnly receive the gift. It was an oversized weapon for one so young, but the boy stood a little taller with the sheathed dagger in his hand.

The camp elders had escorted the three climbers on a short hike to their starting point. Strapping on their gear, they started up the cliff. Though awkward at first, it wasn’t long before the Kurd caught the rhythm of the climb, adopting the techniques Mark and Conner demonstrated. Now, the three were up on the mountain, alone in a separate world of rock and ropes and air.

Though a difficult climb for a novice; the Kurd was doing pretty well. In search of footholds, he sent loose rock down onto Mark only a couple times. Mark flattened his body against the rock, ducking his head to avoid the debris. Still, one sharp edged shard caught him on the right side of his face, opening a jagged surface wound. To stop the bleed, he pressed his cheek down to his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt wore the stain, but the bleeding stopped and he’d kept his four pronged perch on the rock.

Now, almost three hundred feet up the mountain, the goal was in sight. The ELT signal had reached their pick-up team. The chopper was on its way, and they would be out of there before the Northern Iraqi border guards took to the air for morning patrols. He covered another twenty feet, listening to the welcome music of the Black Hawk’s motor, merely an echo from above.

Conner’s pitons already outlined the easiest path for the other two to follow up the rock face. As they belayed up, Mark had pulled out the lower pitons when he reached them, placing them in the small pack strapped to his waist. These last few would be left in place to cut the climbing time.

Conner, nearly at the top, hammered in the last piton when the sound of a second motor pierced Mark’s consciousness, driving his adrenalin level skyward. The droning noise of an enemy patrol plane coming from the south blended with the whirring blades of the helicopter coming from above the hill from the north. There was no way to know if the enemy pilot had already seen them, but he knew they were helplessly spread eagled on the rock face, a perfect target for the machine guns mounted to the plane’s wings. All Mark could do was hold on and pray that the plane would pass them by.

It wasn’t to be that easy. The enemy pilot spotted the Huey when it topped the ridge of the cliff. Surprised by an American helicopter in Iraqi airspace, the Iraqi pilot pulled the trigger, randomly firing the guns on both wings as he lifted the nose of his plane and swerved east, away from the chopper.

Conner bought it on that first round. At the top of the cliff and directly in the line of fire between the two opposing aircraft, lethal slugs hit him in the back. His body arched up, arms flailing silently toward the sky before he plummeted out and down, soaring as though he meant to do a backward swan dive off the face of the cliff. Pitons that had been secure enough for routine climbing popped out of the rock with the force of his fall, serving only to slow his descent. He plunged down upon his stunned teammates in an instant.

With the rope jerking, the Kurd lost his tenuous hold and torpedoed down alongside Conner, bouncing and scraping on the rock as he slid, gravity and force bringing an avalanche of loose rock down with him. Mark reacted without thinking, securing his hold on the rope as he saw his teammates tumbling free fall. Dismayed but not surprised, he braced himself and dug in, ready to absorb the weight of their bodies. The Kurd fell past Mark, jerking to a sudden stop when one of the pitons held. His weight hit the rope at the same time Conner slammed down upon Mark. The Kurd dangled helplessly. Mark took the impact, grabbing hold of Conner with one arm while letting their doubled weight counter balance that of the Kurd. Using the momentum, Mark rappelled sloppily back down to the small ledge for better footing. He swung Conner across his body to leverage the two of them over to the ledge. As they descended, the rope slid through the piton and the dangling Kurd was pulled upward again. Battered and bruised, but secure in his harness, the man valiantly struggled to regain control. Mark knew the Kurd was okay when he felt the rope go slightly slack. Blessedly, the man had the presence of mind to search for hand holds.

Don’t move! Mark called up in the man’s native tongue, his voice barely audible with the roar of aircraft above them. The Kurd nodded, balancing the best he could, settling one foot into a crevice. Mark held on, waiting for the scene in the sky above them to play out and decide their fate.

Conner’s dead weight became heavier when Mark realized his teammate wasn’t breathing. Helplessly trapped on the ledge, there was nothing he could do - no CPR, no Emergency Triage – nothing. His climbing buddy was already gone.

The fighter plane had circled and was coming back around. This time, the enemy took his time, setting his gun sights on the chopper as he advanced. The Huey pilot was ready, waiting at the top of the mountain, lining up the cross hairs on the advancing target. As soon as the computer signaled, he locked in and fired, ejecting an air to air missile toward the heated engines of the plane while his gunners let loose from the sides of the Huey with their 50 caliber machine guns.

Fire burst forth from the Huey, popping holes in the Iraqi plane. The Iraqi’s control panel went blank, and when he saw the missile headed toward him, the man panicked, knowing that he was locked in as the target. He had radioed for backup as he circled, but now his aircraft was going down, and help would come too late for him. Should he die a martyr with his plane, or escape and live to fight another day? No time to hesitate - he hit the eject button to bail out and take his chances in the air. The canopy lifted and the Iraqi burst out the top just as the American missile plowed into the plane. Pulling the cord, he jetted upward, barely escaping the force and debris of the explosion.

The Huey crew let him go; turning their immediate attention to what was left of their rescue mission. They expected back up enemy fighters at any moment, so there was no time to land on the plateau and climb down to the stranded men. Taking the chopper too close could blast the men off the mountain with the force of the wind, so they did the next best thing and lowered a rope ladder to the climbers from their aircraft hovering above.

Mark grabbed for the swinging ladder and flipped it toward the Kurd. Following Mark’s coaching, the man caught hold. He managed to unlatch the carabineer from his web harness and hook himself to the ladder without letting go of the safety rope. Mark got ready for the release of the ballast of the Kurd’s weight by leaning harder into the rock. He and Conner were still latched to opposite ends of the safety rope, which was strung through a single piton in the rock wall above the Kurd. When the Kurd let go, Mark worked fast to draw up the slack for a useable safety backup. At a hand signal from Mark the rescue crew pulled the Kurd up. Once the man had been hauled into the belly of the machine, they lowered the ladder down again toward Mark.

When he caught the ladder this time, Mark disconnected Conner from the safety rope and latched him to the ladder. He gave the signal, let go of the ladder, and the air crew began to pull the dead soldier’s body up.

Conner’s limp body dangled loosely, red stains on the front and back of his shirt identifying where the bullets had plowed clean through him. Mark’s stomach twisted and his jaw tightened at the sight. Fleetingly, he questioned the purpose of the mission. Then, remembering the Kurdish refugees hiding in the mountain caves, hunted by their government because of their lineage, he pushed the disloyal thought away and focused on the task at hand. Conner had died as he had lived, giving his all, using his love of adventure and extraordinary skills to serve his country.

The safety rope was redundant without the team, so when he let go of Conner, Mark unsnapped his web harness and held to the one piton still within his reach, readying for the ladder’s last descent. He heard the ominous drone of incoming fighter planes simultaneously with the crewman’s shout from the chopper above. Searching for the source, he sighted two enemy planes coming in from the west. Unless the Huey moved out now, or positioned itself to return fire, they were all dead.

Instantly, Mark dove for the tail end of the ladder hanging below Conner. Catching the last rung he began climbing hand over hand, legs dangling without support. The momentum swung them out and away from the mountain, then back and into the rock face like a pendulum, slamming Mark into the cliff. He paused as his body absorbed the impact. Focused on the goal, he kept climbing, his feet finally making contact with the bottom rung. Up and over his teammate’s body, muscles straining, Mark fought time. The crewmen helped, hauling up the double loaded ladder as hard and fast as they could while the pilot inched the Huey away from the cliff, gently rotating the versatile machine, trying to make it the climb easier for Mark while lining up his weapons to meet the oncoming enemy. Holding