Baptism of Fire

by Todd Mcleod

  They thought they had the Americans beat, and it was the last thing they expected. He kept on firing, taking out the machine-gun nest as well as the line of attackers. When he took his hand off the trigger his uniform was on fire, and he had to jump out of the flaming vehicle and rip off his pants and jacket before he cooked.

  The air support arrived too late, which didn’t surprise him. A pair of A-10 Warthogs screamed in from the east at one hundred meters above the ground. After two passes and a flashy ‘loop the loop’, they roared away.

  Another half hour elapsed before a medevac helicopter turned up, with a gunship flying escort. The Apache stayed in the sky, watching warily while the Blackhawk landed and they carried the dead and wounded into the fuselage. Dan Jones, his legs bare, and wearing only his shorts and a T-shirt, boarded last when he knew the rest of his men were inside, and they flew back to their firebase. Afterward, they awarded him a medal, a Silver Star. They also promoted him from Sergeant to Master Sergeant, and there was even talk of a field commission. Although that's all it was, just talk.

  He took two weeks recovering from the Burns, but his mind never recovered, at least that was Eddie Hawkins's opinion. When they first signed him to the Humvee, he found the Master Sergeant was taciturn and morose. Although when they went out on patrol, he changed, and he was once again the calm, confident vehicle commander. Provided you didn't look too hard.

  He climbed into the front of the Humvee. “We’re moving off in one hour, make sure you're ready, we could be driving into a hot stone. Eddie, you're locked and loaded? Ready for this?”

  “I'm okay, Sarge. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.

  What about you, Corporal Taylor?”

  Al Taylor looked up from his radio. “I’m fine, no sweat.”

  Eddie happened to look down that moment, and he saw his face, and he was anything but fine. He was another man who'd had a hard war. They were heading into the rough country around Tora Bora, where Osama bin Laden had made his there, although by that time he was long dead. But it didn't stop other insurgents from basing themselves in the tangle of caves and tunnels that made it a preferred hiding place for anyone staying keeping clear of the regular patrols in the sky that threatened to uncover them. Drones, highflying reconnaissance and intelligence gathering aircraft, as well as low-level ground attack for fighters, screaming in from nowhere and ripping apart any inserted unlucky enough to be standing out in the open.

  Corporal Al Taylor had been doing the same job is now, handling communications, and they'd left the Humvee's at the bottom of the slope and started up to investigate the multitude of tunnel openings cave openings that were like rabbit warren's. His platoon leader, a Second cat the tenant on his first outing, took point, advancing into the first cave, and Taylor obeyed the order to wait outside. The rest of the men went inside, and he waited outside, covering the rear and expecting any time for them to come back, and for the officer to ask him to call in the state of the cave. In the event there were hostiles inside, the orders were clear. They were to back off and pull out. If it was trap, they’d send in a stronger force to handle them. The other vehicles, part of a four-vehicle convoy, were following the same orders. The men going into the cave while one man waited outside to cover them and report on the radio.

  He was still waiting, clutching his M4 rifle. Searching for threats and finding none, when the shooting started. He waited, and waited some more, because his orders were clear. To hold his position and cover them when they came out. No one came out, and he never forgave himself. Either he should have gone in, or he should have called it in for reinforcements. He’d done neither.

  Like the Master Sergeant he hid his emotions well. Eddie was puzzled, his hobby was capturing images, and he’d learned to read people, to capture their expressions and understand what lay inside their heads. He’d learned that was the secret of a great picture. And behind Corporal Al Taylor’s expression was guilt. Pure, undiluted guilt.

  Taylor had never told them his secret, and never would. The truth was, Al Taylor was a mess. He'd been made up to Acting Sergeant and he was looking forward to a career in the Army, maybe even a commission. Afterward maybe he would go into politics. It never happened. Everything ended when his platoon leader was sick and they gave him a vital task.

  “Acting Sergeant Taylor, we want you to bring in in a family who’ve come to us seeking protection. The father is away, translating for Army Intelligence, and he’s worried the enemy have put out a contract on his wife. His three kids as well, and his mother and father. Three adults and three children, and I want you to escort them in. You’ll meet them on the road leading from Mazari Sharif. Take a spare vehicle and bring them back safe. Is that clear?”

  “Yessir.” He started to turn away, and he was smiling. It sounded simple, and despite his three stripes, he was no vet. What worried him was meeting the Taliban in a pitched battle, and seeing his unit wiped out, his career ended. He’d yet to see a pitched battle between enemies, and he wasn’t sure how he’d deal with it. It was stupid, he knew that. If he did everything right, no one would get killed. Except the enemy, and that was his job. Still, the uncertainty lingered.

  They drove out of Bagram heading south on the road to Mazari Sharif. The journey went without incident, a truck to carry the family, and a Humvee leading and two more in the rear. More than enough capacity for his twenty-man platoon and the family he was due to pick up.

  Chapter Three

  It was too easy. They were nearing the outskirts of the city, and ahead of them he saw the line of Afghans walking toward them. He watched them through binoculars, and at first he was doubtful they were the family he was to pick up, but a second glance convinced him. They hadn’t said how old the children were, although he was surprised they looked older than he'd imagined. Six people, who else could it be? Wearing a variety of dirty, dusty robes, anonymous, so no one would give them a second glance.

  He glanced at his driver. “Those are our people, pull up next to them and we’ll take them on board.”

  The Corporal, who'd been in Afghanistan for two years, shot him a skeptical glance. “Are you sure, Sergeant Taylor? They could be anybody. Even hostiles.”

  “Sure I'm sure, just do as I say, Corporal. Hold it, maybe we’d better drive past and swing around before we pick them up. If there is any trouble, will be pointing the right way to go back stop”

  They passed the Afghans, dusty and dirty as they trudged along the road, and he took no notice of the assault rifles three of the men carried. Most Afghans carried assault rifles, it was like an American and his credit cards. They never went anywhere without them. They drove past in a swirl of dust which obscured the six walkers. His driver turned the Humvee around, and the truck and the other two Humvees did the same. They crawled back to where the six Afghans were waiting for them, and all hell broke loose. All six have rifles, and they hit them with everything they had, firing on full auto. A torment of bullets tore into the American vehicles.

  “Get out of here, hit the gas, driver.”

  The man was already gunning the engine and they raced away from the ambush. When they were out of sight, several klicks away, he ordered them to halt, climbed out and walked back to the truck. “Did we take any casualties?”

  The Corporal stared at him, and his expression was pure loathing. “Three dead.”

  He didn't bother to add Sarge, he was that contemptuous, and Taylor didn't bother to correct him. He'd been wrong, stupid, a total greenhorn. He spoke to the men in the two Humvees in the rear, and they had four wounded, one of them seriously. He was looking at one of the wounded when blood came pumping out of a severed femoral artery. Another soldier was trying to apply a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding.

  “How is he?”

  The man looked up with an expression of pure scorn. “Maybe he’ll live. Or maybe not.”

  He nodded and started to walk away when someone murmured, “No thanks to you.”

&n
bsp; He got back to his jeep, climbed in and demanded the microphone. He pressed the transmit button and gave his callsign. “This is Delta 26, we’ve taken casualties approximately ten klicks north of Mazari Sharif. Request urgent medevac. Three dead and four wounded, one serious.”

  The guy the other end sounded almost bored. “Copy that, Delta 26. We’ll see what we can do.”

  Everything that had happened, the destruction of his command, tore through his brain in a fraction of a second, and he lost it. “Listen to me, soldier. You get me a medevac chopper on the double. Or when I get back I'll stuff the barrel of my rifle down your throat and pull the trigger. Do you hear me, Mister?”

  The man sounded shaken hearing an NCO threatened him on the radio, where anyone could overhear. “Yes, Sarge, I'll get it done right away.”

  “You make damn sure you do.”

  Before he signed off he spat out a string of curses and threats, just to reinforce the order. Knowing it would ensure quick action, and probably ensure the end of his career. He signed off and flung the microphone into the back of the vehicle.

  “They're sending a medevac chopper. We’ll stay here until it comes, I don't want the jolting to make things any worse for the wounded.”

  His corporal nodded, but he didn't bother with a reply.

  Taylor climbed out the vehicle and walked a few hundred meters into a field of colorful, dancing poppies. They seemed to be mocking him, Afghanistan’s main cash crop. Awaiting cultivation and transportation to countries like the United States where they’d cause more death and more misery. As if there wasn’t enough death and misery here, they exported it all over the world.

  He sat down amidst the stalks, out of sight of the road, and his emotions rode over him. His eyes filled with tears, and he shook with grief, sick of what he'd done with his carelessness and stupidity. He heard the approaching noise of the helicopter and started back. The medics rushed the wounded into the cabin and found space to return the three bodies of those men who’d died. When they arrived back at Bagram he went to his CO to tell him he’d failed. He wasn’t a sergeant, didn’t deserve the job, and they should send him back for basic training.

  The following day, they told him he was once again a private soldier, although they needed him to stay in Afghanistan. Not running around some training area with raw recruits. He stayed on, signed up for another tour, and soon he became a Corporal, despite his objections. He wanted nothing more than to do his job, and to do it right. He also wanted something else. To atone for what he'd done. He still got scared about screwing up. Although he’d found a way to cope with his fear. Now he understood a simple truth, he was going to die here in Afghanistan. It was no more or no less and he deserved.

  * * *

  Taylor listened intently to his headset and turned to look at Sergeant Dan. “They want us to advance to the foot of the slope. The drone operator has reported the area clear of enemy activity.”

  Jones nodded and glanced at Winston. “You heard? Pedal to the metal, I don’t want to make us a sitting target.”

  He grinned and rolled his eyes. “The last thing on my mind, Sarge.”

  He started the engine, rammed his foot to the floor and Eddie clung to the machine gun mount to stop himself being thrown out. The Humvee bucked and pitched as it crossed the rough ground, and he could hear PFC Bellows laughing to himself as he drove forward. It was like being on a fairground ride, and it crossed his mind he was wasted in the Army. He’d have made a great stunt driver, or even a racing driver. He was one of those rare people who seemed to have an affinity with his machine. What was that thing in Star Trek the Original Series, the Vulcan mind meld? Mr. Spock was pretty impressive. The way he used the mind meld to read people’s minds. That was a trick he could use. Which reminded him of another of Mr. Spock’s special skills. The nerve pinch. If only I could do that!

  He’d known Winston Bellows for a few weeks and knew little of his past. Maybe it was just as well, for he’d have discovered the guy had been something of a gangbanger. He had a dark secret, he was responsible for the deaths of his friends. On that occasion the vehicle wasn’t a Humvee, it was a beat-up Chevrolet. V8 engine, tuned and bored out to improve the acceleration and top speed. Someone, not Bellows, had painted the bodywork matte black. Very sexy, and if it impressed the girls during the day, at night it helped them hide from the cops during a pursuit. Turn off the lights and wait in a side street. Give it a few minutes, and the cruiser would go roaring past, siren wailing and lights flashing.

  They never did anything bad, not really bad. Sure, a bit of underage drinking, a bit of weed. A couple of the guys were into the stronger stuff, like coke and crack. He wasn’t into any of it, his thing was cars. The feel of being in control of the massive power beneath the hood. A touch of the gas pedal, a flick of the steering wheel, and the two-ton beast would respond like a thoroughbred. He knew he was good. Car for car he could outrun anyone, and he frequently did. On that last night they’d all been drinking. Drinking too much, and he was spinning the Chevy around the neighborhood like he was driving a dodgem in the fairground. Giving them the ride of their lives, taking corners on two wheels and stamping his foot down on the pedal so the hood would go up as the powerful acceleration thrust the heavy car toward the next intersection.

  He rounded the corner in a squeal of tires and smoke from burning rubber, the front pitched up and down, rear and fishtail, and it took all of his skill to keep control. On that night he was out of luck. They were waiting for him, a cruiser from the local precinct. He’d just got the car running straight and level when the lights flashed red and blue behind them, the siren wailed, and he laughed. This was what he lived for, the thrill of the chase. Showing them he was the best, and his buddy sitting in the shotgun seat gave him the half-empty bottle of vodka.

  “Take a swig from that, man. Put some fire in your belly and show ‘em what you can do.”

  “Damn right.”

  He took a long pull from the bottle, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. The Chevy was coming up on another intersection and he knew he’d have a choice. Turn left or right or drive straight ahead. He glanced behind and had a suspicion the cruiser behind may have some heavy poke under the hood. It might, just might, be enough to outrun him on the straight. That meant a left or right, and he chuckled to himself, he’d throw a left. Why do anything right?

  Several yards before the intersection he jammed his foot on the brake, stamp down on the gas pedal and brought the rear end swinging round for a hard turn, simultaneously pulling on the parking brake to lock the rear wheels to push it harder into the skid. This time, his luck ran out. Physics was what defeated him. The speed and weight of the heavy vehicle, the sharp angle of the turn, the varying road conditions, turning from firm to slippery, and the vehicle rolled. Not once, for he was moving at almost ninety miles an hour. They flipped over six times before they smashed into a parked truck.

  By some freak of coincidence, the collision threw him forward and his body smashed through the windshield. The rest of them weren’t so lucky. The car caught fire, and when the cops found him lying in a nearby front yard, all he could see was his three pals dying inside the burning wreck.

  For some reason the judge took pity on him, and it was a miracle they never worked out he’d been drinking. If they had he’d have gone down for hard time. After that he never went out, driving his parents crazy. Often he refused to get out of bed, refused to eat, refused to even watch TV. His computer monitor remained blank, for he had no interest in playing games. Night after night he replayed that terrible time when he saw them burning. Trying to work out how he could turn things around. He loved to drive, lived for it, for the feel of a steering wheel in his hands and a powerful engine beneath the hood. What could he do where he could follow his passion, and yet maybe make amends for the terrible thing he’d done.

  One month after the crash he signed up for the Army. He told them his overriding passion was driving, and he wanted to be the best.
When they asked him about it he said because he wanted to use his skill to save lives. The men in his vehicle would depend on him, and he vowed to be that good he’d get them out of trouble almost before they got into it. They were dubious at first, but they checked him out and took him to the vehicle testing grounds backspace. Once in the driving seat of a Humvee it was love at first sight, and when they saw he could almost make the vehicle talk, his career was set.

  He never took it for granted. He always loved the power and speed, but now he spent time learning how to understand the enemy, the ground they’d be fighting across, and how he could keep the men in his vehicle safe. He still drove fast and hard, but this time, he had another reason. He’d do whatever it took to keep his buddies alive. He couldn’t allow it to happen again. Not ever.

  Chapter Four

  From his vantage point in the cupola, Eddie watched the ground ahead as they neared the foot of the slope. There was still no sign of hostiles, and he began to think they may escape without getting involved in an all-out firefight. He heard Al Taylor’s voice on the radio.

  “Message coming in from Company, Sarge. They sent in another drone, they say they picked up signs of a heavy enemy presence and they want to be sure.”

  Shit, it’s not going to be so easy. What the hell does heavy enemy presence mean. A lot of mean Taliban warriors, all robes and dirty turbans. Blackened and broken teeth and carrying AK-47 assault rifles if they were lucky, and RPG-7 rocket launchers if they weren’t.

  Sergeant Dan sounded calm, as if a horde of bearded lunatics up on the hill went anything to worry about. “Understood. We’ll hold here and wait for the rest of them to come up. Driver, find us a place to hunker down, I want something solid between us and the enemy. A narrow defile, a pile of rocks, a small hill, anything. We could be here for a while.”