Joe deliberately blanked his mind to the warm thoughts of the woman he had just been with, knowing that if he allowed one second of distraction to interfere with the next twenty-four hours either he or some members of his squad could be dead. It took an enormous effort to push his thoughts of Katie from his mind, but by focusing on the planning and logistics and what might be waiting for Echo squad out on the flat, dusty terrain of Helmand Province, he succeeded.
He turned sharply out onto the hard, dusty road and strode along it for some time. It was dark but there was enough glow from lights in the tents, from headlights of vehicles passing him and from various buildings to allow him to see. He also had his flashlight, the rubber handle of which he had slid under two pieces of Velcro attached to his shoulder. Due to its position, the red beam angled down to just in front of his feet and lit up the puffs of dust stirred up by his boots, which swirled and shimmered in the intermittent light.
He felt uneasy that night and couldn’t place his finger on why. It was stifling hot with a searing wind gusting forcefully every now and again, and he could feel particles of sand stinging his face. As he gazed up at the sky, he noticed that the night’s blackness was tinged with yellow and the moon was wreathed in yellow clouds. He had the feeling that bad weather was on the way, and knowing his luck, it would materialize while he was out on patrol.
Dismissing the weather, Joe began to assess each piece of his equipment individually. His bergen, although weighing some fifty pounds fully loaded, rested easy at his back. Items in and on the pack that might have made a noise, were taped down. If he were to take a jump, nothing would move. His body armor fitted like a glove and was worn and flexible in places to allow him to move freely, and he barely felt the weight. His boots, companions on many desert patrols, fit well and were comfortably worn in all the right places. His helmet with the night vision mounted plate and radio headset in its mesh and canvas sling connected to his Personal Role Radio in its pouch attached to his armor, rested snug on his head. He held his M4 carbine by the middle of its stock, liking the feel of the cold, oily metal against his skin, allowing the thought that it was like holding a good woman. That prompted a picture of Katie to pop into his mind again. “Nope,” he berated himself. “Don’t go there.”
He went back to the mental checklist of his equipment. Ammunition magazines, MREs—enough for twenty-four hours—first-aid kit, bladders of water, mess kit, compass, night vision goggles, poncho, sleeping bag and pad. The list went on and on but eventually he was satisfied that he had everything that he should have. If he didn’t, then it was going to be tough shit.
He finally saw the motor pool two hundred meters ahead. Aside from the airfield, the motor pool was the biggest section on the base. Situated adjacent to the fuel dump it consisted of containers for the offices and rows and rows of regimentally aligned Jackal Armored Vehicles, Viking all-terrain vehicles, Foxhound vehicles, Bulldog APCs, together with general run-of-the-mill ambulances and ME35s and 4-tonner trucks.
As his long pace ate up the meters, Joe calculated what the end state of this recon patrol might be. His squad consisted of fifteen good men, all seasoned and experienced veterans, trustworthy, reliable and skilled, able to carry out their tasks without supervision. He was optimistic that they would reach the end of the operation safely.
Joe’s thoughts wavered a little as he heard the loud roar of aircraft engines. Glancing up and in the direction of the airfield, he saw a Harrier jump jet lift up from one of the runways, hover for a few brief minutes, turn with the aid of canted down thrusters and take off into the night sky. He watched its red and white blinking landing and warning lights disappear into the blackness and a fresh waft of aviation fuel and exhaust came drifting to him on the quiet night air.
As he reached the motor pool, used as the pre-staging area for the patrol, he heard loud voices and raucous laughter. He could see his men leaning casually against vehicles or seated on the dusty ground, supported by their oversized bergens. They all appeared to be in good spirits, unperturbed at the fact that they would be leaving the relatively safe confines of the base to go out into the pitch-black desert. They were all well aware that any one of them could be shot or blown up that night. But that was what a Marine was all about. All of them were career marines, professional and skilled. A marine would continue to do everything ‘by the book’, no matter how hostile the situation, even when he was tired or believed contact with the enemy was unlikely. A veteran marine would never waste time trying to figure things out but would operate on instinct and training.
As Joe glanced back over his shoulder to see if it was safe to cross the road, he heard one of the marines, obviously on the lookout for his approach, shout out, “Old man approaching,” and Joe grinned to himself.
Immediately all conversation ceased and the squad straightened up from their seemingly apathetic positions or jumped to their feet.
Joe stopped, facing them. Sergeant Louis Eastman detached himself from the group and came to stand by his side.
“Headcount, Sergeant?” Joe asked, turning his attention to his assistant patrol leader.
“All present, Staff Sergeant,” Sergeant Eastman answered. “Even Corporal Lewis has made the effort. All weapons tested and checked. All call signs and frequencies double-checked and tested. This lot are fed and watered. It’s confirmed that no other friendlies will be out there tonight, just us jerks.”
“Outstanding,” Joe replied and turned to face front. “Okay, ladies, listen up. There is no abort order so the mission is a go for tonight. Our transport will be along in about ten to take us outside the wire and to our drop-off point. We offload and do our recce as we’ve always done, quickly, no fucking around, with eyes on for everyone, no exceptions. Is that understood?”
There were grunted replies of “Yes, Staff Sergeant” and “Fucking A, Staff Sergeant.”
“Excellent,” Joe responded, satisfied.
“Is this going to be another Charlie Foxtrot, umm… clusterfuck?” a deep voice asked from the back of the group. A few chuckles broke out at the remark.
“Can that shit, Stoswoski… But roger that,” Joe answered, and this caused further outbursts of humor from the marines.
“Okay, okay,” Joe announced, “that’s enough. Let’s have an equipment check.”
The men picked up their bergens, shrugged into webbing, then each jumped into the air just once. Observing from which direction the slight rattles and clinks of equipment came, Joe withdrew a role of masking tape from one of his many Velcroed utility pouches and he and Sergeant Eastman walked among the squad, taping down errant pieces of equipment and uniform to prevent anything from making a noise and giving the patrol away. Having finished this task, Joe and Sergeant Eastman went back to the front of the group.
“We have five minutes. If anyone wants a last-minute smoke, get over to the other side of the road. Otherwise, stand easy.”
Four of the squad meandered away from the motor pool to cross the road, and in the darkness, Joe could see the small flare of lighters and matches and the resultant red sparks of lit cigarettes. The rest of the men took last-minute drinks of water and reorganized some pieces of equipment, talking in low voices. Once outside the base and in the desert, conversation would be at a minimum.
Sergeant Eastman spoke quietly to Joe. “You think there will be any surprises?” he asked.
Joe shrugged. “You never know,” he answered. “Intel says that the group of hostiles spotted was small so we can handle them if the situation arises. There is one thing making me uneasy though, and that’s this weather.” He glanced up at the sky. “I think we may be in for something nasty. Have we had a weather report?”
Sergeant Eastman nodded. “Weather report was updated about twenty minutes ago. No sign of any bad weather on the way, although I guess that could change,” he answered.
“Okay, but I suggest we request weather updates every thirty minutes, just in case it does,” Joe advised. “I just don�
��t like this hot wind, the rise in temperature and the color of that sky. It doesn’t look right to me.”
The men who had crossed the road to smoke began to wander back to the rest of their squad, and at that point, they all heard the sound of a truck engine from the rear of the motor pool.
“Okay,” Joe shouted, “form up and get ready to move out.”
The men moved quickly, obeying the order without their usual quibbling and jokes, moving into two lines, ready to board the ME35 when it arrived.
Joe fastened his night vision goggles to the plate at the front of his helmet then shoved them back out of the way of his eyes. He would not use them until he and his men were out in the desert in the dark. He finally pulled on his combat gloves.
“Here it comes,” he yelled out just as a truck pulled out from behind a row of vehicles and drove slowly toward them. It pulled up and waited for its passengers, engine rumbling quietly.
“Right. Move it, Marines. Get that tailgate lowered and get on board. Let’s load it, ladies,” Joe shouted.
Somebody unfastened the tailgate and the men hoisted themselves up into the interior of the vehicle, seating themselves on the plank seating lining the inside once they were inside. Joe and Sergeant Eastman were the last ones to board and as they climbed inside the driver came around to raise the tailgate and lock it into place.
It was dark and oppressive inside the canvas-covered interior, so Joe turned on his flashlight. Everybody sat uncomfortably on the benches, leaning forward slightly as their bergens were so large and cumbersome that they prevented the marines from sitting upright against the sides. All had their weapons lying flat across their knees, barrels pointing toward the opening in the canvas at the back.
The truck’s engine rumbled louder, then they were on the move. They would be driven through a security checkpoint then down a two hundred meter concrete and barbed wire-lined road leading to another checkpoint, then outside the wire into the desert.
Except for the rumbling growl of the engine, all was silent inside the truck. Most of the men sat relaxed, heads bent, contemplating whatever thoughts occupied them preceding a patrol—family back home, girls back on the base, what they would be missing while on patrol, mortality. Joe himself glanced back out of the opening in the canvas at the diminishing lights of the airfield.
He always hated this part, deliberately and recklessly leaving what was the only safe protected haven in this part of the desert. The base was a place that had become his home over the last four months. There was something else he was leaving behind. Katie. He gritted his teeth. What the fuck am I doing? Starting a relationship with a young woman, out here, on a tour that was only to last another six weeks, going against everything that he believed he should do. Then what? She was British. He was American. They would split up, go their separate ways. It would be gut wrenching, probably for Katie as well if he had received the message from her correctly. This was a balls to the wall situation and one that he could well afford to do without. It was affecting his concentration. She had got under his skin and he couldn’t get her out. But do I want to? His feelings for her had developed quick and hard, something that was completely out of character for him. This wasn’t a wham-bam-thank you-ma’am situation. She was not that type of woman.
Just then, Sergeant Eastman leaned toward him from his position on the bench opposite. The loud noise of the truck’s engine almost drowned out his voice but it was loud enough that Joe could hear it perfectly well. “Something on your mind, Joe?” was the question directed at him.
Joe glanced up at his friend then back out at the quickly receding base. He had known Louis Eastman for many years. They had been in many conflicts together and had experienced situations where they had had to protect each other’s backs and get out of some sticky incidents. He trusted the other man one hundred percent but was unwilling to talk to him about Katie.
Louis Eastman continued, “Joe, if you can’t focus tonight then we’re going to be in a whole world of shit. Whatever the problem is, fucking get it off your chest and out of your head.”
Joe glanced at the deeply shadowed face of his friend, only inches from his own.
Louis suddenly straightened and sat back on the bench as far as he could. Then he leaned forward again.
“Christ, Joe! Don’t tell me it’s a girl?”
Joe nodded. “Yep,” he answered.
“Oh, you fucking dickwad,” Louis exclaimed in a whisper. “You know the rules, pal, and in this type of an asshole of a job, you can’t frigging afford to have your head up your ass. Have you slept with her yet?”
Joe shook his head, “Nope. Not yet.”
“Well, do yourself a favor. Do the tango in the sheets then get rid of her. If you don’t get this fucking sorted out, you’ll end up in a body bag. For Christ’s sake, buddy…”
Joe inclined his head at his friend’s blunt advice. “Yeah, I know, but it’s not that easy,” he stated.
“Well, make it easy,” Sergeant Eastman demanded. “For your own sake, buddy, sort it out. Trust me. These sorts of relationships don’t go fucking anywhere. It just causes a load of headache.”
Before Joe could answer, the truck started to slow then stopped at the first checkpoint, engine rumbling quietly. There were voices from outside the truck then the gears hissed and grated and they moved off again.
“It ain’t that easy, pal,” Joe repeated again, glancing down at his gloved hands. “It goes way deeper than that.”
Sergeant Eastman regarded his friend intently, sympathy etched into the shadows of his face, lit red by the dim beam of Joe’s flashlight.
“It wasn’t that broad who was out at the firefight the other night—the medic? I noticed that you were having some kind of argument with her.”
Joe hesitated then nodded again. “That’s her.”
“Well, you’ve got good fucking taste. I’ll say that for you.” Louis Eastman paused. “Good luck to you, but do me a favor. Put her on the back burner until we get through this. Huh, buddy?”
“Yeah, roger that,” Joe responded.
He tensed as the truck stopped briefly at the second checkpoint, then they were waved on out into the desert. A few more minutes and they would be at their drop-off point.
Joe stood up. “Okay, Marines, let’s move it,” he ordered quietly. “Move off the road and get into formation as soon as you offload. Night vision goggles on, flank security teams out to five meters. Let’s go.”
The truck began to slow down again then ground to a halt. The driver, a British corporal, jumped out, lowered the tailgate and Sergeant Eastman jumped down, landing lightly enough not to cause any telltale dust clouds. Joe waited while each of the men leaped out of the truck then he followed, landing easily on the hard ground. He turned to the driver and slapped him on the arm.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Good luck, pal,” the corporal said and hurriedly went around to the driver’s side of the truck and climbed in. He maneuvered the vehicle until it was facing the way that it had come then drove back to the base.
Chapter Fourteen
Left alone and isolated in the dark, hostile desert, Echo squad immediately moved away from the road and got into its patrol formation, which resembled an arrow with the point man up front, the navigator and cover man three meters behind him, then in two lines, each man three meters distant from the man in front, four pacemen, two element men, Sergeant Eastman carrying a machine gun and tail-end Charlie. There were two two-man security flank teams out to the left and right, five meters distant. To make it easy for the marines to follow each other, two reflectorized pieces of material, known as cat’s eyes, were fixed to the back of all combat helmets. This also gave the added reassurance to other patrols, if met, that they were all friendlies and on the same side. Night vision goggles in place, tension and silence had replaced the earlier good humor.
All weapons were now held in the ready position to enable each member of the squad to bring theirs up quic
kly and accurately. The first line of the patrol held their weapons near their right shoulder with the barrel pointing toward their left foot and the second line held them so that the buttstock was in or near the right armpit with the weapon pointing off to the right of the right foot.
Joe took up position just to the left of the point man, the butt of his M4 resting on his right upper thigh, barrel pointed upward, gloved finger relaxed and resting along the trigger safety guard. He slid his own night vision goggles into place and instantly the blackness dissolved to green. Checking to make sure his radio headset microphone was in place, he glanced out to his left and right to see if the squad’s flank security teams were in position, checked back along the formation to make sure that each member of the patrol was paying attention then raising his right hand, gestured to the men to move out. Immediately the patrol moved off, boots thudding softly on the hard, dusty ground, each member of the squad following in the footprints of the man in front.
The surrounding desert was dark and silent. The terrain was bleak and barren with low rock promontories, shallow crevices, wabis—dry river beds—and shale banks. The hard ground was cracked in places and the arid dryness had caused the terrain to rear upward in some areas in sharp, jagged formations and crumble downward into deep crevices in others. Vegetation was sparse with nothing but thorny shrubs and bushes eking out a poor existence in the shielded crevices and crannies of rocks. The temperature had risen and the hot gusting wind had strengthened, creating man-high whirlwinds of sand and dust. The stars and moon were hidden and the air smelled of scorched dry earth and the copper dry smell of sand.
For the Love of a Marine Page 15
