The Road Ahead

by Adrian Bonenberger

  Hadji Khan peered with perspicacity into the eyes of Mullah Abdullah. He had anticipated this outcome, and with a quick nod toward the back of the crowd, he signaled a young boy who then disappeared around the corner. Distant vehicle engines reverberated through the gathered assembly, causing nervous discombobulation. Hilux trucks rumbled through the streets, stirring up a thick dust cloud that drifted heavily over the crowd. Eight trucks came into view, each one topped with a large caliber machine gun and loaded with half a dozen or more men outfitted in white robes and checkered headscarves, brown chest rigs holding magazine clips, and AK-47s and RPGs. When the trucks had come to a stop, the men dismounted and stood silently and seriously.

  Hadji Khan once again addressed Mullah Abdullah and the others: “Honorable Mullah, your patience and hope that the Americans will leave us in peace and go back to their country is more than we can hope for. We have this opportunity to show our strength in waging jihad, defending our homes and our women, and, God willing, establishing an independent state of Waziristan, where strong and experienced leaders will be needed to protect our people. Seventy-five of my most loyal and well-trained men who fought under Haqqani have followed me for months in the mountains, preparing for battle. The young men of the tribe who join us will earn honor and glory and become mujahideen. Some will become martyrs, but we do not fear death like the Americans. Their weakness is their arrogance, which makes them think that they are invincible with their armor and their planes, and that they know the best way to win wars and build nations. When we begin to inflict losses on the infidels they will become afraid to leave their bases, word will spread to more of my former soldiers, and our numbers will grow. The Americans have just arrived here and do not know our land or our ways, and can be led easily to defeat.”

  Mateen once more beamed with pride listening to his leader, and became so eager for the upcoming campaign that he forgot about his excitement for his marriage, which had occupied his thoughts for most of the jirga. Despite feeling indignant at such an unexpected display of force and insolence, Mullah Abdullah’s considerable ambition had been aroused at the mention of an independent Waziristan and its need for leaders. Though he did not trust this upstart commander, he stood up again, looked Hadji Khan in the eyes, and gave a slow nod of consent.

  It had been a busy day on Forward Operating Base Murphy, which sat on the western edge of the Zirwa valley, enclosed by four dirt walls topped with concertina wire, and made up entirely of a central concrete building, some plywood barracks, and guard towers. Charlie Company of the 1-305th Airborne Infantry Battalion had taken control of this FOB two months ago from a company of the 12th Jungle Infantry Division. There had been very little significant enemy activity since the handover: just a few rocket attacks, all landing well outside the walls, and no roadside bombs or direct enemy contact. On this day, two of Charlie Company’s platoons patrolled local villages to the north and south, and the commander had gone on foot with the artillery officer and a rifle squad to the weekly shura meeting with village elders in the town center just half a kilometer outside the fort’s gate. Both platoon leaders reported the same pattern they had noticed in every village since they arrived: strong tea and unproductive conversation with a few old men, unkempt children waiting for American largesse from the soldiers, and a conspicuous lack of women. This particular patrol was also marked by an unusual absence of fighting-aged men in the villages. Captain McMullan, Charlie Company’s commander, had had a more interesting dialogue with an unexpected visitor—an influential tribal leader named Abdullah.

  Later that evening, Captain McMullan discussed the next day’s plans with the company officers and non-commissioned officers assembled in the Tactical Operations Center, which was little more than a low rectangular room with rough concrete walls, maps, and several computers: “Okay, guys, tomorrow’s patrol has been approved. Third Platoon, you’re escorting me to Kaysar Khel, a village about twenty clicks east across the wadi. We’ve never been that way, but the previous commander told me they suspected it was Taliban-friendly, though besides a minor firefight at the start of their deployment they never found evidence of weapon caches. Today, I had a good discussion with the local mullah who said they fully support the Afghan government and want to keep the Taliban out of the villages. He said that the people want a girls’ school and that Kaysar Khel was the place to do it. The last unit contracted one out that was burnt down, but the mullah assured me it won’t happen again as the people have all rejected the Taliban. Anyway, it’s a good chance for us to start using our project development funds. Everybody knows the deal with the counter-insurgency doctrine from those classes we did, and our lives will be easier over the next ten months if we get off to a good start winning some local hearts and minds. Any questions?”

  Third Platoon’s leader, Lieutenant Howard, the company’s youngest officer fresh out of training, raised his hand to open the question-and-answer session: “Yeah, sir. What is your assessment of the IED threat?”

  “Good question, Mike. The last unit reported a sharp drop in roadside bombs since last year and there hasn’t been one in this area for over six months. Obviously, tell your gunners and drivers to keep their eyes peeled, but this is what we’ve trained for, and we’re going to push on.”

  Lieutenant Tomsky, the company’s artillery officer, spoke up next: “Will we be supported by any fixed-wing or rotary-wing aircraft?”

  “There will be Apache helicopters on station for our movement to and from the village, so we should be covered, Dan. Anything else?”

  Sergeant First Class Hawke, Third Platoon’s senior enlisted man, chimed up somewhat curtly with a tone implying that he had better things to do at the moment: “What time did you say we’re rolling out tomorrow, sir?”

  “We’re leaving the gate no later than 0700, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The meeting thus concluded, the participants scattered their separate ways. Some lingered to discuss the plan while others chatted and joked. Lieutenant Howard addressed Sergeant First Class Hawke as they walked out of the building together: “Let’s make sure all of our heavy gunners do a full cleaning and inspection of their weapons tonight, Sergeant. Actually, that goes for the whole platoon. Nobody goes to bed before checking their weapons and their gear. Things could get interesting tomorrow on this new route.”

  “I got it, sir. Squad leaders have already taken care of it.”

  Lieutenant Howard felt unpleasantly redundant, but he was just doing what he was taught to do as a leader. He had only been in charge of the platoon for three months before deploying—just enough time to do the last full training rotation with the men. He was a muscular ex-rugby player from West Point who was excited to enter the fray so soon after finishing Ranger School and being assigned to the 1-305th; he mentally calculated having enough time to do a second deployment with this unit in a couple years, probably as an executive officer, the company’s second-in-command. As they approached the barracks, Lieutenant Howard attempted lighthearted conversation to ease the tension: “Look at all those stars, Sergeant. You ever seen so many that bright? Too many city lights where I’m from, I guess.”

  “We don’t have many city lights in Wyoming, and this ain’t my first rodeo, sir.”

  They entered the building and made preparations; after Lieutenant Howard made the rounds, he disappeared into his room, cranked up the air-conditioning, and turned on his Xbox for a stress-relieving game of Madden Football before racking out for the night.

  Lieutenant Tomsky, still hanging around listening to the discussion, accompanied Captain McMullan everywhere and considered it his job to know as much as, or even more, than the commander about intelligence, troop movements and locations, air support capabilities, and the general situation in their area of operations. Eventually, he lost interest in the conversation when it broke down into sophomoric jokes between various platoon leaders and senior NCOs, and he snuck off to his quarters in an adjacent hallway; it was
small enough to be a closet, but big enough for a bed and a shelf full of books. He privately considered himself an outsider within the Army ranks, especially after seeing firsthand during his first deployment the innumerable hypocrisies and inanities of Army leadership and bureaucracy, and the absurdities and abuses of war. Nevertheless, life on this deployment was not intolerable for Lieutenant Tomsky, and he planned to use as much of his limited private time as possible to work his way through the formidable bookshelf above him.

  Captain McMullan fired off a long series of emails and presentation slides, and then left the TOC after all the others. Before doing anything else, he knocked on the door to the first sergeant’s room. The first sergeant had deployed to Afghanistan twice, though one would be forgiven for thinking that he, too, had fought the Russians after listening to his stories and his braggadocio. In fact, for all his bluster, the first sergeant was a first-rate leader, but he had long harbored secret thoughts about retirement. He played a subtle combination of domineering his subordinates while licking the boots of his superiors, but he knew there was no way he could stand being promoted and serving as what he considered a glorified lapdog to some ambitious colonel. His aim was to take a job as a civilian contractor with a private company like DynCorp or KBR, where he could get paid six figures for pulling a security job much easier than his current one. This would likely keep him deployed even more in the future, but being in a war zone gave him more sense of purpose and vitality than anything he had ever done at home.

  “Hey, First Sergeant, you want to play Call of Duty?”

  “Let’s do this, sir. But I only got half an hour. Gotta Skype with Carol later. The internet is finally working faster than ever after I convinced Sergeant Hernandez it was in his best interest to raise the bandwidth in the command hallway.”

  “Nice work. Let’s get started then!”

  Captain McMullan feigned excitement about the bandwidth, but he would not be calling anyone on Skype. He had gone through a divorce after returning from his first deployment three years ago to discover his wife had been cheating on him. They had dated since high school and got married immediately after he graduated West Point, but the stress and loneliness of the deployment was too much for her. Captain McMullan suppressed his anger and pain, believing it made him weak, and instead threw himself headlong into his job. Leading a company of soldiers was more difficult and thankless than he could have imagined, however, and he gradually began to feel overwhelmed by things out of his control: soldiers’ disciplinary problems, senseless demands from his boss, responsibility to mentor the company’s junior officers, loneliness, and a sense of constantly failing in one of his many duties.

  For the next hour, anyway, all of these issues were blissfully far from his mind as he and the first sergeant battled for head-to-head supremacy in a violent virtual video game world, one not dissimilar from the real world but with neither the perturbation nor preoccupation that had muddied the waters of an otherwise orderly life.

  The next morning at 0600 Staff Sergeant Cooper, the company’s artillery sergeant, walked to the TOC to start his daily twelve-hour shift of monitoring company operations. It was a job no one wanted, which went to him only because the first sergeant hated him and did not let him go on patrols. Staff Sergeant Cooper, affable, gregarious, and clever, spent his days chatting up all comers, disparaging junior soldiers who happened to walk in for some reason, and teasing senior officers and NCOs for any shortcoming, real or perceived. Like his counterpart, Lieutenant Tomsky, his position left him with little accountability, and it was only bad luck that he had somehow earned the first sergeant’s disfavor after arriving to the company for reasons unknown and probably arbitrary.

  At 0735, the convoy left the gate for the patrol to Kaysar Khel. The first sergeant berated every NCO before leaving because of the tardiness of the departure, until it was finally discovered that the company armorer, who was also the gunner on the first sergeant’s vehicle, was fixing one of the heavy machine guns of Third Platoon that had not been properly checked the night before. After the convoy left and the ample dust that had been stirred up was quickly borne away by a stiff wind, quiet calm returned to the FOB.

  At 0830, Lieutenant Howard radioed back with the convoy’s current location and status: they had traveled only ten kilometers.

  At 0857, Captain McMullan called in another more urgent report: “Charlie TOC, this is Charlie Six, we have one vehicle incapacitated by an IED, and are currently taking enemy fire from two sides. Have Second Platoon get ready to roll out to our location, break . . . And send those Apaches down here, over.”

  “Roger that, Charlie Six, wilco, over.”

  The TOC bustled with activity. After passing the information up to the battalion headquarters, an update came immediately, which Staff Sergeant Cooper dutifully relayed to the convoy: “Charlie Six, this is Charlie TOC, over.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Apaches were just diverted to Khost province to support troops in enemy contact; they say at least thirty minutes before they can reach your location.”

  “Roger that, Charlie TOC . . . stand by for further updates.”

  Staff Sergeant Cooper waited on the other end, his heart pounding violently as he imagined what it must be like during a desert ambush. His last deployment was Iraq, where he was involved in plenty of firefights, but always in cities and urban environment. Out here it was different, and he could not imagine how enemy insurgents could openly attack on flat ground with no cover. The wait for the company commander’s response dragged on at least fifteen minutes. Outside, he heard the engines of Second Platoon’s vehicles rumbling as they raced east out of the FOB. Finally, the radio crackled again: “Charlie TOC, Charlie Six, we’ve suppressed the enemy and stopped taking fire. Estimated twenty enemy killed. We’re going to need a medevac helicopter, ASAP. Prepare to receive report, over.”

  “Send it.”

  “Our first vehicle, 2-6, hit the IED. We have five friendly KIA. In addition, we have four WIA that need immediate evacuation. Line 1: Grid WB 3261 0965. Line 2 . . .”

  Staff Sergeant Cooper took down the report while sending it simultaneously to battalion HQ, his hand shaking noticeably the whole time as he tried to speculate who was killed. Undoubtedly Lieutenant Howard was one because his vehicle hit the roadside bomb. If he remembered correctly, Specialist Jackson was the driver and radio operator, and Private First Class Rodriguez was the gunner. There must have been, Khaled, a local interpreter, but he could not guess the final ill-fated passenger. As for the wounded soldiers, he hypothesized that they must have been other gunners since the thick armor prevented small arms fire from penetrating inside the vehicles—this over-burdened the engines and axles, causing constant breakdowns, yet proved useful when caught unawares in an ambush kill zone.

  Forty-five minutes passed without significant updates. Lieutenant Tomsky directed the attack helicopters by radio, but there were no apparent enemy targets near the wadi so they unloaded Hellfire missiles on a suspicious grove of trees and left to refuel. The medevac bird then arrived and picked up the nine casualties, and, soon thereafter, the convoy was ready to clean up the site and return to the base.

  Eight hours later, an urgent signal intercept was forwarded directly from the CIA: they had monitored a phone call near Kaysar Khel in which the speaker mentioned an attack with many dead Americans; there was also a passing reference to five martyrs; finally, there was a request to send more brothers from Pakistan to help them continue jihad. The speaker was believed to be someone known as Hadji Khan, reportedly a senior leader in the Haqqani network. The information was passed down the chain of command until it eventually reached Captain McMullan, who was simultaneously informed by the higher-ups that a five-hundred-pound bomb would be dropped on the site of the phone call in the next ten minutes, and that Charlie Company would be responsible for conducting a damage assessment patrol at dawn.

  Hadji Khan sent his coterie back to their mountain hideouts to r
egroup and prepare for the next attack, while he himself decided to stay one final night at Gul Mohammed’s abode; a longer stay would be too dangerous now that he had spectacularly inaugurated a new fighting season against the Americans. Four of the cousins had gone with Hadji Khan to witness the successful ambush, with three deciding to join their uncle as mujahideen. After a lavish feast of goat and potato stew with flat bread and sugary pastries prepared and delivered by Farishta and Niazmina, Hadji Khan withdrew out of doors to bask alone in his success. Even Mateen was instructed to stay inside with the others.

  After twenty minutes, Hadji Khan perceived a drop in temperature and turned unhurriedly toward the house. Sand carried by the wind recalled his memory of the Arabian Desert, where he had made the hajj to Mecca eight years earlier. That long pilgrimage was sponsored by Jalaluddin Haqqani as an honor to Hadji Khan after his second successful campaign season. Though he rarely smiled these days, Hadji Khan felt himself fully content and in fulfillment of his destiny. His senses were reawakened by the faint but distinct buzz of an aircraft far overhead, by no means an unfamiliar sound, but one which sent ominous chills through Hadji Khan as he now started to run past the fig tree toward the door. Before reaching the house, however, he was thrown backward by an enormous earthshaking impact.