Comfort and Affliction

by Michael Frosolono

  “I suspect General LeMay sends the same message from the wild blue yonder. Better you wrap up this engagement and get back to where we can evacuate you.”

  Eric said, “I figure we’ll need to kill a bunch of ragheads and Pakis before we can leave the fort.”

  “Terminate your prisoner with extreme prejudice, if he becomes a burden.”

  “I prefer to present him alive and ready to talk with you.”

  “He’s better dead than jeopardizing your team.”

  “Right now, he’s sleeping the sleep of the unjust.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “If things deteriorate, I’ll cut off his head and stick it on a pole outside the fort.”

  “I didn’t hear what you said.”

  Eric laughed. “We’re public?”

  “No way. The technical wizards set me up with a private encoded line between you and me.”

  Howard shouted to end the conversation, “Here they come.”

  “Signing off,” Eric said.

  “Listening,” Buckshot responded. “Kill them all.”

  “Hooah.” Eric turned on the microphone for the comm net and spoke to his team, “Sergeant Kirkwood, get off the roof and take up a position inside the fort. Okay, men. Let’s take out the ones in the rear first so we don’t scare off the rest of them from the killing ground.”

  Brockman, looking through his powerful spotter scope, said, “Major, the ragheads have a mortar.”

  “Where?” Eric asked.

  “At the rear, right where the road curves to the right, under the overhang. See the three men trying to get the mortar in position for a clear sightline to us?”

  “Got it,” Eric said, looking through the scope on the Barrett. He replaced the magazine on the Barrett with another magazine containing shells with an armor-piercing tungsten core along with explosive and incendiary components. Eric almost unconsciously made an appropriate correction to the scope for the increasing force of the wind blowing from west to east across the killing ground. He fired once.

  Brockman said, “A quarter-meter to the right, but you got their attention.”

  “Over-corrected for the wind.” Eric made a slight adjustment. His next round blew the head off a Pakistani trying to get the mortar operative.

  “Right on target, sir.”

  Two rapid shots knocked the first man’s two companions backwards.

  “You aimed for central body masses instead of the heads?”

  “No need to be fancy.” Eric’s next shot destroyed the barrel of the mortar.

  “Good shooting, sir. Looks like a box of shells right behind what’s left of the mortar.”

  Eric located the box and fired. The round caused shells in the box to explode, releasing a powerful blast to the rear of the on-rushing enemy. Eric and his men began to fire at the men in the rear of the attackers, whose leading elements came close enough to the fort for the Americans to hear the Allahu Akbar or God is Great war cries over the din of the battle. Eric put aside the Barrett in favor of his AK-74M. He and the rest of the team, except for Morse and Smith, shifted their fire to the men at the front of the hard-charging enemy force. Flechettes blasted from the Gus halted the advance.

  “Claymores?” Howard yelled.

  “No, not yet,” Eric said. He wanted to keep the Claymores in reserve. “Sergeant Pearson, let loose with the 240.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Pearson called back. Within seconds, projectiles erupted from the machine gun in lethal bursts across the enemy ranks. The surviving attackers retreated in disarray.

  “Don’t let up; keep firing,” Eric said, “until they go behind the curve.” The Americans followed Eric’s command and did not stop shooting until the last of the enemy disappeared from view.

  “Anybody hurt?” Eric asked once the firing stopped.

  No American reported an injury.

  Eric and Brockman continued to look through their scopes at the bend in the road. “Give me a body count. Sergeant Brockman and I will knock down any raghead foolish enough to come back onto the road.”

  After five minutes, the consensus report suggested at least thirty-five enemy bodies lay strewn about the road. “The ragheads lost a good portion of their force,” Kleinerman said.

  “They can get more,” Eric said. “We aren’t through with the killing.”

  The enemy began another attack with a barrage of Chinese-manufactured rocket-propelled grenades. “Incoming,” Brockman shouted. He stayed at his position, spotting for Eric. The grenades detonated against the thick walls of the fort without finding targets at the open firing positions. Other men soon took the places of the four grenadiers that Eric shot.

  “Whack-A-Mole,” Eric said. He knew the walls of the fort could not withstand a prolonged barrage. A second volley of RPGs arched up into the air with the intent of impacting on the roof. The enemy charged under cover of the barrage. All of the grenades except two fell short of the fort or went beyond it. Two explosions on the roof filled the inside of the fort with shrapnel and debris, eliciting terrified screams from the mules. The Americans opened fire on the advancing enemy as Eric called over the comm net, “Everybody alpha sierra?”

  The reply came from Kleinerman. “Looks like the ragheads killed Morse and Smith with the RPGs that landed on the roof, Major. Pearson looks dazed but he’ll be okay when his head clears.” Throughout Kleinerman’s report, all of the remaining Americans except Pearson continued to fire on the enemy.

  “Damnation,” Eric said. “Sergeant Pearson, can you still operate the 240?” Within seconds the 240 began firing, again taking a toll on the advancing enemy. Another barrage of RPGs impacted on the walls and around the fort. Eric and Brockman used the Barrett to kill enemy fighters who launched RPGs at the Americans.

  Howard called out, “I’m triggering the Claymores. The ragheads are getting too close.”

  “Do it,” Eric said.

  Seven hundred steel balls from each of the Claymores planted on the sides of the road macerated the enemy. “Don’t fire the frontal Claymores,” Eric commanded. The enemy began retreating to safety beyond the curve of the road. The Americans fired again and did not let up until the last enemy fighter disappeared beyond the curve. Eric and Brockman kept their attention on the road at the curve in order to kill any enemy foolish enough to show himself.

  Brockman said, “Colonel Bingham for you, sir.”

  Eric spoke into second microphone. “Apocalypse Six.”

  “Buckshot here. You holding on?”

  “So far. We’ve lost two good men.”

  “Too bad. The raghead’s alive?”

  “Sergeant Dawson, is Haqqani still out of commission?” Eric asked.

  “He slept through everything, sir.”

  “Keep him under.”

  Buckshot informed Eric, “We’re picking up a lot of cell phone chatter calling all the mujahedeen in the area to come to the aid of their brothers.”

  “Any word about more Pakis moving into our killing zone?”

  “You need to get away from the fort as soon as possible.”

  “Any indication the bad weather will abate soon?” Eric asked.

  “We may get a break; there’s some clearing beginning at lower altitudes.”

  “Even if the weather miraculously clears here, the fort would be a hot landing zone.”

  “Figures, unless the Air Force can suppress the enemy,” Buckshot said.

  “Neither the Air Force’s fast movers nor our gunships will be able to get here until the weather clears.”

  “I concur. There may be another alternative.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The satellite maps show a level clearing about ten klicks down the mountain. You must have passed it.” Buckshot said.

  “We did. It’s big enough for a Chinook to land.”

  “We’ve got a couple of CH-47Fs standing by to evacuate you, if your team can get to the clearing and if the weather clears.”

 
; “Sounds like our best chance.”

  “A rapid reaction force will launch soon to take up a blocking position at the bottom of the mountain and prevent any ragheads from attacking you from that direction. You’ll have to deal with the ones presently in front of you.”

  A plan began to form in Eric’s mind. “If the weather doesn’t clear, we’ll fight our way to the RRF.”

  “I’ll find a padre to pray for a break in the weather.”

  “General Patton always was your idol,” Eric said, thinking about the story of how Patton had ordered a chaplain to prepare a prayer for divine help in clearing the bad weather at the Battle of the Bulge.

  “As was Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox, yours. Keep killing ragheads. Listening, over and out.”

  “Understood.” Eric spoke over the team’s comm net. “We gotta move out, men. Colonel Bingham says the ragheads have issued a call for all of their brethren to come to the aid of the guys in front of us.”

  “What’s the plan, sir?” Kleinerman asked.

  Eric dispensed with any military formality. He told the medical corpsman, “Brad, if necessary, give Haqqani more sedative to keep him out of action. Tie him across one of the mules. Put our men’s bodies on mules; we’re not leaving anybody behind. The rest of you guys load up the other mules with the ammunition and weapons you can’t carry. And pack up the Barrett; we can’t let the ragheads have it. I want the Gus.”

  “I’m bringing it to you, sir,” Sergeant Smith replied.

  “Along with a dozen high explosive shells. Pack up the rest.” The plan had crystalized in Eric’s mind. “I want everybody ready to fire RPGs at the overhang above the curve in the road. I’ll use the Gus; Tom can load for me.”

  “You want to start an avalanche, Major?” Howard asked.

  “If we’re lucky, clearing an avalanche will keep the ragheads occupied for a while before they can come after us.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Dawson said.

  Howard said, “Everybody watch the blowback from these weapons. We want to kill the ragheads in front of us, not ourselves.”

  “Affirmative,” Eric said. “Here’s the rest of the plan. If we can trigger an avalanche, take the Gus with you guys. I want all of you to leave the fort. We need to get to the clearing we passed about ten klicks down the road. Colonel Bingham thinks the weather will clear enough for a Chinook to evacuate us. Maybe we’ll even have air cover. Tom and Brad will lead the way with Haqqani and our fallen warriors. The rest of you stop about three hundred meters away from the fort to give me cover. I’ll stay here with the 240 as a rear guard. Once I stop the ragheads, I’ll hightail it out of the fort and join you. We’ll repeat the scenario until we get to the clearing.”

  “Major,” Dawson said, “with all due respect, your plan sucks.”

  “Well, it probably does, hopefully more for the ragheads than for us.”

  “You’ll need a lot of ammo for the 240,” Howard said.

  “Leave me a full box at each stage.” Eric first considered using the Gus loaded with flechette-containing rounds rather than the 240. He decided on the machine gun because, at best, he would be able to fire only two or three rounds per minute from the Gus when operating the weapon by himself.

  “We don’t like the plan, Major,” Howard said, speaking for the rest of team.

  “I’m pulling rank, Wes. When you guys are ready, we’ll see if we can trigger the avalanche.”

  A chorus of less than enthusiastic Hooahs came through the comm net.

  Once the team completed the preparations for the evacuation, they launched a barrage of shells at the overhang. To Eric’s great relief, the overhang disintegrated and a small avalanche blocked the road. “Great job, men,” he said. “Now, fuse the RPGs for air bursts as best you can at three-hundred and twenty-five meters. Maybe we can stall the ragheads from clearing away the debris on the road.” After more rounds burst in the air behind the blockage, Eric commanded, “You guys get out of the fort. Leave now.”

  “When are you coming, Major?” Brockman asked.

  “I’ll wait here until the ragheads clear the blockage. Then I’ll slow them down with the 240.”

  “You could leave now with us.”

  “No. If I don’t fire at the ragheads until they get close to the fort, maybe I can kill enough of them to end this thing.”

  Howard laughed. “You intend to blast the ragheads with the Claymores?”

  “Might be a pretty sight to see. Give me the triggering switches.” Eric saluted the men. “Go, go, go. I’ll join up with you.” Eric took a deep breath. “Tom, you and Brad—don’t stop on the road; head as fast as you can to the clearing with the mules. We want our intelligence people to drain Haqqani’s brain.”

  “What if we meet more ragheads coming up the road?” Sergeant Dawson asked.

  “Not likely. Colonel Bingham’s sending an RRF to take up a position at the base of the mountain. They’ll block any ragheads from messing with us from that direction.”

  “Let’s move out,” Brockman, the ranking enlisted man, ordered. “Hit the road.” The team followed the order, leaving Eric in place with the fully loaded 240 and a box of the belted ammunition. Within a few minutes, he saw movement at the blockage. The enemy took almost an hour to clear the road before their leading elements cautiously moved down the road. Eric resisted the urge to fire.

  Khalil pushed through the men, who reluctantly left the cover the curve still provided. He urged them forward with wild gestures. More and more enemy poured onto the road and ran toward the fort, firing their weapons in its general direction. They’re falling for the trap, Eric thought.

  Khalil allowed the bulk of his force to get in front of him. Like I told you, Eric envisioned talking with the Pakistani colonel, you’re not a warrior. The enemy continued to advance to within twenty-five meters of the fort. Eric put the 240 in the firing slit and triggered the remaining Claymores in front of the onrushing mujahedeen. Screams of agony filled the air after the steel balls from the Claymores tore into the enemy force. Eric opened fire. The unwounded and walking-wounded mujahedeen reversed their course and ran pell-mell away from the fort. Eric emptied the belt of ammunition at the retreating enemy and barreled out of the fort.

  Brockman’s voice came through the comm net. “Great job, Major. We’re in position to cover you.”

  When Eric reached the team, he ordered, “All right, go another three-hundred meters.” He could tell the men were reluctant to leave him behind again. “You guys have more RPGs?” The team gave thumbs-up signals. “If any ragheads come after us, I’ll cut loose on them with the 240. When I give you the signal on the comm net, fire a volley of airbursts over their heads to cover me. We’ll keep going until we kill all the ragheads or we get to the clearing.”

  Kleinerman said, “Tom has a half-dozen more Claymores. He’ll undoubtedly place them in positions to prevent any surviving ragheads from reaching the clearing.”

  “Unless the ragheads get a lot of reinforcements, we may be able to kill enough of them to stop this idiocy,” Eric said with more hope than conviction. “Move out.” The fifth verse from one of his favorite hymns, For All the Saints, filled his head.

  The team successively repeated the withdrawal maneuver, each time dealing with decreasing numbers of mujahedeen who evidenced great reluctance to move forward. “Major,” Howard’s voice came through the comm net, “we’re at the clearing. We can hear aircraft above us. We got you covered, come on.”

  Eric began what he hoped would be his last withdrawal until the team embarked on the helicopter. An F-16 loaded with rockets and bombs made a shallow dive above the road. Eric heard the burp of its machine guns. Way to go! Eric said to himself with great relief. He ran toward the clearing where a big helicopter waited with its rear door open and rotors spinning. The team had already pulled the packs from the mules and ran the animals away from the landing zone. Eric didn’t see Haqqani or any American bodies in the clearing. Good, they’re on the ’
copter. The team threw the weapon-containing packs through the rear door and took up positions to cover Eric’s retreat over the final one-hundred meters to the clearing.

  A sixth sense, born of long combat awareness, made Eric turn around in time to see Khalil raise an RPG to his shoulder. Eric and Khalil fired their weapons simultaneously. The RPG, impacting on boulders near Eric, blasted him into blackness.

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuesday, 24 June

  In keeping with his training and habit, Eric Jameson arrived a few minutes early for his appointment with Bishop Jacob Lyon at the Simpsonwood United Methodist Church campus near Norcross, Georgia. The bishop of the North Georgia United Methodist Conference and his staff occupied a large suite of offices at Simpsonwood. The nameplate on the receptionist’s desk identified her as Ms. Scarlett Smith.

  “Ms. Smith,” Eric said when she looked up from her computer screen, “Eric Jameson to see Bishop Lyon.”

  “Good morning, Reverend Jameson. You have a better sense of time than most of our clergy.”

  “I can wait, if the bishop isn’t ready to see me.”

  “I’ll tell him and Reverend Wright you’re here.”

  Ms. Smith left her desk, knocked on the door behind her, and went into the bishop’s office. A sign above the office door read, The Lyon’s Den. Eric wondered if he were about to contend with lions, theological or otherwise. The presence of Reverend Paul Wright, the superintendent for the Athens-Elberton District, further puzzled Eric.

  Ms. Smith came out of the inner office and escorted him in, offering coffee.

  The bishop and district superintendent rose to greet Eric, who, with his erect posture and six feet and three inches of height, stood at least a head taller than the other two men. His muscular body, at two hundred twenty pounds, contrasted sharply with those of the flabby bishop and district superintendent. Neither, however, appeared awed.

  The bishop motioned to one of three chairs in front of the large oak desk. “Please have a seat, Reverend Jameson, and we’ll tell you why we need to see you.” Ms. Smith arrived with Eric’s coffee and left the office, closing the door behind her.