Outlaw Platoon

by Sean Parnell

  I’d lost it right there in the middle of that patrol. It was bad enough he hadn’t taken training seriously, but to be so utterly careless in combat was flat inexcusable. After that, I’d made sure that either I or Greeson kept a hawk’s eye on him. That radio stunt could have gotten men killed.

  Because of my trust issues with him, I gave Waites our right flank. Given the ground, I gauged it to be the side least likely to be attacked.

  To cover the west, or rear, side of our perimeter, Brown’s machine gun and my vehicle had been stationed about thirty meters behind Baldwin’s. Greeson’s Humvee completed the perimeter, covering the goat trail on the north side just off from Sabatke’s rig.

  Five Humvees, three .50-caliber heavy machine guns, a Mark 19 grenade launcher, two M240 Bravo medium machine guns, and twenty-four men. That’s what we had to protect our hilltop redoubt.

  When I finished walking the line, I noticed that Waites was off to one side, observing the group of squad leaders Greeson had gathered in the center of the perimeter. I walked over to them just in time to hear Sabatke say, “You guys think you have it rough? If I cheated on Carla, she’d cut my balls off. Hell, she knows how to shoot!”

  “Isn’t she some sort of high priestess in your Wiccan cult?” asked Campbell.

  “Satanist, goddammit,” Sabatke growled. “And yes. That’s why when we’re at the mall together, I just keep my eyes down. Keep ’em down. Always down.”

  Greeson let out another Sling Blade laugh.

  Campbell noted, “Sabatke, you’ve got a badass wife in Carla. Remember how she chewed out Captain Waverly at one of the family readiness meetings? Made him look like a dog whose bone got swiped right outta his mouth.”

  Our overmatched company commander had not fared well during that exchange. Carla was the only woman I knew who could handle Sabo. They were a match made in Heaven. Or perhaps Hell.

  Baldwin’s smooth voice cut into the conversation. “You know—I—am—a—firm believer that everything that comes out of my mouth is the truth.”

  He paused, almost as if he were daring anyone to dispute this. None of us did. “But if my wife were to cheat on me—well, we had a long discussion about that . . .”

  Eyes widened all around the circle at the menace in his voice. Baldwin spoke only lovingly of his wife, even when it brought on teasing from the others.

  “I told Regina that it may not be six days, or six months—or six years—but one day her brakes would go out and she would die in a fiery car crash.” When he finished, he let out a dry laugh that sent chills through me.

  “Uh, Baldwin, didn’t you meet Regina at a church camp or somethin’?” I asked.

  “Yep. I was fifteen. She was thirteen.”

  “Is your God aware of your plan here, Baldwin?” Sabo asked.

  I remembered him at the hospital, his newborn daughter in Regina’s arms. He doted on her as only a man hopelessly in love can do.

  Greeson let out a long guffaw. “Nah, Baldwin, you got it all wrong.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Look, man, it’s all like Jell-O.”

  We stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Ya see, Baldwin, y’all can pull the Jell-O outta the fridge. Y’all can stick yer finger in it. When ya put it back in, nobody’d ever know.”

  “What’s your point?” Baldwin asked.

  “Look man, I been ’round. Seen all there is ta see. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that women’re the same. If my wife is cheatin’ on me, I’d never know. So there ain’t no point in worryin’ ’bout it.”

  “Did you just compare your wife to Jell-O?” asked Campbell.

  “Yep.”

  Baldwin shook his head. Waites looked lost in his own world, divorced from the flow of the conversation. Campbell said, “You must have an interesting relationship.”

  That prompted Greeson’s Sling Blade “Mmmmhmmmm.”

  Sighing, I said, “I’m glad I’m not married.”

  The conversation continued. As it did, I realized that there was a subtext here that was never broached. We’d seen enough marriages flame out while in country to know that infidelity was a serious issue. Joking about it made it endurable, especially since none of us could do anything about it while we were in the Hindu Kush. The ribald talk and crude comments were ways infantrymen dealt with emotional issues. It was how we coped. And through it, we bonded in ways we might not ever again.

  Campbell and Sabatke debated the point for a few more minutes, until Greeson finally said wearily, “You know, I can’t take any more of this.”

  Shaking his head, he walked off toward his truck, the rest of the NCOs watching him go.

  Sabatke departed next. Campbell took his leave, so did Waites, and then it was just Baldwin and I in the middle of our platoon’s perimeter. He put a hand on my shoulder. In a big-brother sort of way he said, “Hope you learned something here tonight, sir.”

  “Yeah, I did, Baldwin. I learned you’re all bat-shit crazy.”

  The laughter felt good. Damn good. But as it drained away, and we were left in silence, the night became suddenly oppressive. As I walked back to my truck, I could not shake a foreboding sense that everything was about to change.

  Eleven

  Morning on the Mountain

  June 10, 2006

  East of FOB Bermel

  All elements, this is Blackhawk three-six. We’ll be starting stand-to in fifteen mikes.”

  My four other truck commanders acknowledged. We’d spent the night waiting for Galang to make an appearance, but so far he’d been a no-show. My men dozed in shifts and took turns manning our heavy weapons. I’d slept in the front-right seat of my Humvee, still slathered in sweat from the hike up the hill. Now, with the morning chill upon us, I shivered in my filthy clothes.

  We made it a standard practice to wake everyone up an hour before dawn while out beyond the FOB like this. Experience had shown that the enemy loved to launch attacks at this time of the morning. Soon all twenty-four of my men were up and in position, waiting to see if the enemy would make a move.

  I opened my door and stepped out into the darkness. My mouth was like cotton. My eyes burned, every joint ached, and I felt a stiffness that only a week in a decent bed would solve.

  The thin air left us always short of breath. I could feel my body craving oxygen, especially after a night in a cramped Humvee. I inhaled as deeply as my lungs would allow. The fresh air was like a whiff of fine wine.

  I walked the line again, checking on my men. The sun crested the ridges to the east, and morning light spilled down into the valley below. I watched it creep toward us, waiting for its warmth to strike my weary body.

  I took a second look at the sunrise and stopped cold. Those two ridges on the other side of the valley were taller than our hilltop, a fact concealed by darkness last night when we had arrived. A feeling of dread shivered through me. If the enemy had put a machine gun up there, they’d be able to sweep our entire perimeter with plunging fire.

  Beyond the two ridges I could see the mountaintop we’d blasted with bombs and 105s on May 8. We’d found out a few days later that at least twenty of Galang’s men had died in our artillery barrages while trying to recover the bodies on the mountaintop. Ever since, we’d kept a close eye on the place, hoping to catch them returning to the cave entrance to dig it out and recover whatever supplies remained inside.

  The sunlight stretched up our slope and finally washed over our position. I reveled in it; the heat felt instantly refreshing.

  I started on my way again, then paused one more time. Those ridges bothered me. I hadn’t realized they were so high or so close. Between them and our position, the valley was narrow, perhaps less than a kilometer and a half wide. I couldn’t occupy those ridges, as I didn’t have the manpower. But we could plot some target reference points for the ar
tillery at Bermel, just in case we needed it. If we gave them the grid locations of those ridges, they could get on target in a matter of seconds should the shit hit the fan.

  I went back to my Humvee and discussed it with our forward observer. As we worked out the grid points on our map, Greeson started passing out MREs and making sure the men had plenty of ammunition. Each rifleman carried seven magazines for his M4. Technically, each mag could hold thirty rounds, but nobody loaded them full. We’d learned that to do so increased the likelihood of a jam. Instead, we made it a policy to carry twenty-eight in each magazine. That way the springs in them still had the tension needed to pop each bullet up into the chamber.

  One hundred and ninety six rounds per man. I couldn’t imagine blowing through all of that. We were solid there.

  The machine gunners carried about a thousand rounds each in hundred-bullet belts. A 240 going cyclic could burn through that in a matter of seconds, but my gunners chose their shots well and fired with controlled, short bursts. We should be good there too.

  “Hey, sir, the bad guys are talking.” I turned to see Yusef standing with one of our Prophet spooks, Sergeant Dixon.

  “What are they saying?” I asked.

  Yusef shrugged. “Lots of gibberish, really. But they did say, ‘Bring the wood to the place the Americans bombed a few weeks ago.’ ”

  Josiah Reuter, my forward observer, looked up and said, “Hey! That’s gotta be the cave site we hit on that mountain over there.” He pointed across to the east.

  “Right. Let’s get some fire on it.”

  This was going to be tricky. The FOB and our two 105mm artillery pieces were quite a way to the west. To hit the cave site would require a charge eight, rocket-assisted shell, a weapon so powerful that when used, it ran the risk of flipping the cannon onto its back. Last time we had pounded the mountaintop, we’d known for sure that the enemy was there, so taking the chance had been worth it. Now we were just guessing. I wasn’t sure Captain Dye would go for it.

  “Sir, we have smoke to the north,” I heard Brown report from the turret. I stepped away from my Humvee and could see it in the distance near one of the abandoned villages in the area.

  I reported the smoke to the FOB. A moment later, Captain Dye, came onto the radio. “Blackhawk three-six! That smoke is us.” His voice was strained and irritated, which puzzled me. How was I to know he was out there?

  I grabbed a Red Bull and thought about it for a few minutes. Captain Dye was in a bad mood. I needed his permission to use the charge eights and hit the cave site. Did I want to fight this fight and ask him? The request carried a significant tactical risk. If we flipped a gun, our fire support would be severely limited for quite a while.

  I thought about the many rocket attacks we’d already taken at FOB Bermel. Chances were that that’s what the enemy code meant. They were bringing wood (rockets) to the cave site to fire at our base.

  I finished the Red Bull. Okay. It was worth any grief Captain Dye would give me. If those guys were back on the mountaintop, they needed to die.

  I called Captain Dye and explained the situation. He listened, asked a few questions, then gave me the green light, adding “Make sure you observe this personally.”

  No grief. This man is not Captain Waverly at all. Thank God.

  “Roger, sir.”

  I turned to my FO. “Call it up, Reuter.”

  A few minutes later, the first 105mm artillery shell tore across the sky and exploded on the west slope of the mountain. More shells rained down. Our gunners at Bermel were dead on. Even better, they threw in a mix of ground and air bursts, creating a lethal artillery cocktail. I watched from the edge of our perimeter as the conflagration grew, wondering how anyone could survive such firepower.

  “Mission complete, sir,” Reuter reported.

  I turned and started to walk back to my Humvee. “Ha, ha! Reuter! How about that?” I asked with a smile.

  “Happiness is good indirect, sir,” he replied. It was a standard refrain our forward observer liked to use. He was right too. Indirect fire gave a platoon like ours an awesome amount of destructive power.

  I flicked a glance over my shoulder at the smoke-smothered mountaintop.

  Your play, assholes.

  I’d walked about halfway back to my rig and was just passing a thick pine tree when I called out to Reuter again, “Let’s see what those bastards are saying on their radios now!”

  But before he could respond, Reuter and everything in my view disappeared as though a curtain had just dropped before my eyes.

  Twelve

  The Zombie Apocalypse

  . . . Blackness.

  . . .

  Nothing.

  . . .

  Where am I?

  The morning scene in the Hindu Kush had vanished, replaced by an endless void.

  Sean?

  That voice . . .

  Sean, you need to get up.

  Grandpap?

  Sean, you have to wake up now.

  I struggled to see him. But he stayed cloaked in the velvet darkness. I was left only with the smooth comfort of his voice.

  Get up, Sean. You’ve got to get up. Get up for me.

  Something stung my face. I tried to look and see what had just hit me, but I could not penetrate the void.

  Am I dreaming?

  I tried to shake my head, but I couldn’t fire the right neurons. Instead, I floated, captive to whatever moment this was.

  Another sting on my face. At least I could feel something. I wanted to move my hand up to touch my cheek and defend against whatever kept hitting me. My hand refused to obey. I felt disembodied, as if somehow my conscious had been separated from my material form.

  Sean, get up!

  “Grandpap, where are you?” I tried to call out. I had no voice. I just drifted like a derelict ship, lost in time and space.

  Something stung my cheek again. This time, a pinpoint of light pierced the nothingness. It grew brighter, wider, until it spread across the blackness like wildfire. It consumed the void, leaving me blinded by blazing white light.

  Pain flared. It shifted my consciousness, returned me to my corporal state. My right leg burned. I still couldn’t see, but I could feel it.

  Shapes moved in the whiteness. For a moment, I thought I could see the sky through a milky film, but it lacked definition and color. A face moved over me, and I wanted to reach up to it but still could not make my limbs obey my brain.

  The face came into focus, and dimly I recognized Sergeant Tim Stalter, one of the team leaders from Campbell’s squad.

  His mouth moved. Why wasn’t he saying anything? I tried to read his lips, but couldn’t understand. He smacked my cheek with one gloved hand. That explained the stinging. But what the hell?

  A telephone buzzed in my ears now. The ringing was all I could hear. Disoriented, I tried to look around and I realized I was flat on my back, perhaps fifteen feet from where I last remembered standing. The tree I’d been passing looked as though a giant had snapped it in half.

  Then I saw Sabatke. His face was smeared with blood, his IBA stained crimson with it.

  In a sudden rush, my hearing came back. I went from nothing but the telephone to a hurricane of sounds in a heartbeat. The switch blitzed my nervous system. For an instant, I was helpless against the sensory overload, swamped by staccato bursts of fifty cals, explosions, and screams.

  “Sir! Sir! You okay?” Stalter shouted at me.

  Why wouldn’t I be?

  He smacked me again. “Sir, you got blown the fuck up!”

  My right leg felt afire. Looking down, I saw a piece of shrapnel sizzling on one pant leg. I
shook it off, and it snuffed out in the dirt.

  Behind Stalter’s head, I saw one of the trees that grew along the crest of our hilltop redoubt split apart, splintering in all directions. The top of another vanished in a halo of smoke. Burnt and torn branches tumbled down on my men. Nature was being murdered here.

  So are we.

  Something else burst overhead. Like a steel cyclone, shrapnel whooshed around us. Stalter covered me with his own body to protect me.

  I tried to sit up, but the world tilted sideways and I felt myself slipping back into the soft dirt. Stalter grabbed my IBA and pulled me to him. The world tilted the other way. The hilltop seemed to be rolling in thick ocean swells.

  “Sir, you okay?” Stalter asked again.

  Where was my grandpap?

  Then I remembered he had been dead for six months.

  Just then, one of our fifty-cals loosed a deafening volley. Weakly, I turned my head to see what was going on. Greeson lay on his stomach, a tree trunk serving as cover. His weapon was at his shoulder, and when he saw me looking at him, he shouted, “Sir, I’m fucking hit! We’re getting slammed!”

  The world spun; my head tipped. Stalter caught me from falling over again. My head lolled to the right. My view went sideways. In it I could see Baldwin’s rig. Campbell was in the turret, firing the Ma Deuce. That seemed odd.

  Then I saw Baldwin.

  Father of two.

  Regina, his teenage sweetheart, waiting in a base house at Fort Drum for his return.

  He lay near Campbell’s rig, blood spraying from a gaping leg wound.

  “Hang with me, Bennett!” I heard him cry out. Instead of stanching his own bleeding, he was working to save his team leader, Sergeant Garvin. A bullet had torn open his arm, and blood was spewing into the dirt beside them at an alarming rate. Baldwin pulled off his belt and started to fashion a tourniquet.