Nefarious

by Steven F Freeman

  His injured leg felt like it was on fire, a bolt of pain shooting through the limb with every heartbeat. He squinted his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing and heart rate. Even as he did so, Alton noticed the chaos around him slackening. It appeared that all of the wounded had been brought in for treatment.

  The bright sunlight on the side of Alton’s face suddenly dimmed. Sensing a presence, he turned to face an athletic young lieutenant with a bright smile and the remnants of hastily-removed grime still smeared on her face. It was the same officer who had helped the wounded man, the officer at whom he had snapped.

  The dazzling Kabul sun poured into the room from the window behind her, bathing her in an ethereal glow.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked with a concerned look.

  Alton nodded shamefully. “Yes. I’m sorry about my comment earlier. I know I look like a mess, but I’m fine.”

  “That’s why Dr. Dunwoody told you to sit down here—because you’re in such good shape?” she asked with an arched eyebrow and half a grin.

  “You saw that, huh?” Busted.

  “Yes,” she replied. Her lips widened into a kind-hearted smile. “I also saw what you did for that girl. You carried her in, despite your injury.” Seeing Alton’s surprised expression, she continued, “I’ve seen you around here on crutches and a cane. I know you’re wounded.”

  Alton waved his hands self-deprecatingly. In truth, he hadn’t noticed her before, his inner hollowness rendering him oblivious to those around him.

  “And I saw you pull that medic back together so he could do his job,” she added. “Before you intervened, I thought he was going to crack.”

  Uncomfortable with the praise, Alton turned the conversation. “How about you? You lugged that big guy in. He must weigh at least fifty pounds more than you.”

  The lieutenant laughed gently and looked at the floor. “We won’t argue over whose actions were most meritorious. We both did what we had to do, right?”

  She looked back up at Alton and smiled warmly. “I’m Lieutenant Wilson, by the way—Quartermasters.”

  “Captain Blackwell—Signal.” They shook hands, his stained with blood, hers blackened with soot from the bazaar’s charred remains.

  Across the room, a private shouted, “Lieutenant Wilson, the CO wants you to report to the supply room asap to help disburse medical supplies.”

  The lieutenant acknowledged the message and turned back to Alton. “Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, even if the circumstances were a little…unusual.”

  Hours later, after being reassigned to a wheelchair, Alton picked up a dinner tray at the mess hall. Balancing the tray in his lap, he slowly wheeled back to his room. As he picked over ham and green peas, he opened his laptop and began an e-mail message he would later send to his youngest sister. Dear Ruth - How are you? Sorry I haven’t written in so long…

  At 1900 hours, General Mooreland called a roundtable of the commanders of each C2 company. Both Alton and Captain Graham represented Signal at the meeting.

  “I’d like for each of you to assess your company’s reactions to today’s emergency,” said the general. “What went right, and what didn’t? I’d also like your action plans to address the deficiencies you’ve identified. I’d like your reports e-mailed to me by fourteen-hundred hours tomorrow. We’ll convene again in two days to discuss our improvement plan as a battalion.”

  He looked around the attentive faces. “Are there any questions before we break?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Alton. He shifted his weight in the wheelchair. “Sir, could this have been a probing attack, one intended to assess our defensive protocols?”

  The general nodded. “Why aren’t you in infantry, Blackwell? That’s exactly what I was wondering. If I were trying to assess the strength and nature of our camp’s defenses, this attack is precisely the kind of stunt I’d pull.

  “That reminds me…I’d like one additional piece of information on your reports. Think about your emergency protocols. What weaknesses might the enemy try to exploit, and how might you counteract those threats? Think about it from our enemy’s point of view.”

  A chorus of “yes, sirs” resonated from the group, after which General Mooreland declared, “dismissed.”

  As Alton wheeled himself away, Graham leaned over. “Taking ass-kissing to a whole new level, aren’t you, Blackwell?”

  Alton stopped and turned his wheelchair to face the man. “If by ‘ass-kissing’ you mean doing all I can to help this camp avoid revealing a fatal weakness to our enemies, then yes.”

  From the time of his injury, Alton had felt dead inside, incapable of rousing himself to any strong emotion besides despair. The strength of his anger at Graham’s faulty priorities surprised Alton. A slumbering part of himself had awakened, and he held out a feeble hope that other, higher emotions would eventually respond in kind.

  Graham snorted but struggled to contradict Alton’s reply. As Graham searched for a retort, Alton slowly wheeled himself away. He shook his head. That man is going to get someone killed.

  CHAPTER 11

  US Central Command, Army Section, Afghanistan

  Colonel Drake neared the end of his twelve-hour shift at the US Central Command’s Army section.

  “Colonel, you have a call on the secure line, priority alpha,” announced Airman Charles.

  The colonel nodded. “I’ll take it in the secure room.” He swiped his security card through the room’s magnetic reader, releasing the electronic lock. After reactivating the lock behind him, he took the call in the insulated quarters.

  “Colonel Drake here.”

  “Colonel, this is Red Snake,” replied his contact. “We have a priority mission.”

  “Excellent, sir.” Anything was better than sitting around waiting for the terrorists to strike.

  “We’ve located the HQ and training compound of Ben Ali, Al-Qaeda’s chemical weapons expert. It’s in a town you’re familiar with: Erazi.”

  Drake did indeed know Erazi, a small town southeast of Kandahar. “Yes, sir. I have coalition ground troops within ten klicks of the town right now, conducting a seek-and-destroy mission for the poppies used to make heroin.”

  “I’m aware of that, Colonel. That’s why I’m calling you. Ben Ali is holed up in a training compound on the outskirts of Erazi. A drone strike is scheduled for nineteen-oh-five hours tomorrow, at the commencement of the Muslim Maghrib call to prayer. Because of the prayer, we know he’ll be a stationary target when the attack begins. I need you to pull back all coalition ground troops in the area at fifteen-hundred hours. We’ll be pounding the shit out of that compound, and we don’t want our boys anywhere near that site when the drones hit.”

  “Sir,” interjected Drake, trying to moderate his growing frustration, “permission to speak freely.”

  “By all means. We’re on the same team.”

  “Sir, surely the locals have picked up on our pattern by now. If we pull back troops suddenly, don’t we run the risk of tipping our hand to Ben Ali? And by pulling out four hours early, wouldn’t we be giving him plenty of time to clear out before we strike?”

  The phone was silent for a minute. “Colonel, I appreciate your concern. Have you received intelligence indicating the locals are responding to our troop withdrawals in this fashion?”

  “No, sir,” Drake admitted, stroking his thick mustache. “I’m extrapolating—thinking what conclusions I’d draw if I were an Al-Qaeda leader.”

  The other end of the phone was quiet for a minute. “Your concern has merit. Wait until seventeen-hundred hours to pull the troops back, but not a minute later. That drone strike is going to be one hell of a firecracker. You wouldn’t want to be in the area when that thing blows.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Drake. “Sir, you’ll recall I’ve previously recommended the use of ground troops. Do I have permission to move in with infantry after the strike to mop up and—if we’re lucky—confirm the Ben Ali kill?”

 
“Negative, Colonel. Our orders from the Pentagon haven’t changed. We’re to engage the enemy with ground troops only when absolutely necessary. This isn’t one of those cases.”

  Drake acknowledged mechanically. Most of his attention was consumed by a mounting frustration over the chain-of-command’s lack of will to move decisively against the terrorists. How can we expect to win with one hand tied behind our balls? Am I the only officer in this theater thinking big?

  As his frustration mounted, a new approach to the battle began to form in Colonel Drake’s mind.

  “Also,” continued Red Snake, “we’ll be clearing the airspace near Erazi by fourteen-thirty hours tomorrow. I’ll be taking care of that through other channels. We don’t want any of our fly boys to be in that neighborhood when the drones come through. Well, any questions, Colonel?”

  “No, sir,” replied the colonel in better spirits.

  Colonel Drake emerged from the isolated room and strode briskly to the desk of Lieutenant Colonel Finley, his second-in-command.

  “Have the company commanders report to the briefing room in thirty minutes,” he ordered.

  Red Snake had denied his request to send in ground troops after the strike. He hadn’t said anything about launching a preemptive ground attack before the drone strike. Wasn’t Patton famous for his unorthodox interpretation of orders with which he didn’t agree? The colonel smiled. The coalition forces could finally put these bastards back on their heels instead of waiting for them to sucker-punch friendly troops with another IED. And if his next promotion came a little faster as a result of a successful battle, that wouldn’t be such a bad outcome, either.

  CHAPTER 12

  Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan

  The day after the bazaar bombing, Alton remembered a somber errand he needed to run. During his lunch break, he gently tapped on Colonel Parks’ door and wheeled himself into the colonel’s office.

  After exchanging a greeting, Alton broached the purpose of his visit. “Colonel Parks, in yesterday’s emergency, I re-tore the muscle in my injured leg—”

  “Yes,” interrupted the colonel. “I heard about the help you provided yesterday. Nice work.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He sighed. “Sir, Dr. Dunwoody lowered her prognosis for my eventual recovery. It’s looking even less likely I’ll be able to return to field work.”

  “I see. And…?”

  “I just wanted to confirm…If I don’t pass the physical to return to the field, you’ll process my medical discharge, correct?”

  “If that’s still what you want to do.”

  “It is, sir. Thank you.”

  A current of thoughts coursed through Alton’s mind as he wheeled himself away from the meeting. The injury had diverted the plan he had so carefully constructed for his life. While he still wasn’t sure what his new plan would be, he now knew C2 wouldn’t be part of it. The Command & Control unit contained too many sad reminders of the professional success Alton might have experienced had he remained whole. He knew he would miss the friendships, but if C2 was his only possible assignment, the Army would no longer represent the end goal of his aspirations.

  CHAPTER 13

  US Central Command, Army Section, Afghanistan

  Colonel Drake briefed the company commanders of the coalition ground troops under his command. He pointed to a map of the Erazi training compound, which was displayed on a large monitor mounted on the briefing room’s front wall. “We’ll begin with two-man vanguard sweeps here, here, and here,” he explained, pointing to dots forming a vertical line along the western edge of the compound. “Once they’ve radioed back onsite intelligence, we’ll mass our attack on the most poorly-defended spot at fifteen-thirty-nine hours, just as their Asr prayer time begins. We’ll also launch two diversionary attacks simultaneously so the enemy can’t concentrate his defenses in one spot.”

  Heads nodded around the room. One officer spoke up. “Sir, will we soften up with artillery prior to the ground attack?”

  “No,” replied Drake. “It would be tactically sound but would give our primary target—Ben Ali—time to flee. Same goes for armor—tanks would be spotted miles away, and Ben Ali would be long gone. We’ll have to use a nimble, lightning-fast strike. It’s the only way we’ll catch Ben Ali and wipe out his ground troops.

  “We don’t have a definite count of enemy forces in the region, but we believe them to be substantial. To avoid a counterattack, we need to be out of the compound within sixty minutes.” Colonel Drake withheld the information about the eventual drones. No point in setting his troops’ nerves on edge too much when they’d be long gone by then anyway. The colonel covered additional details of the assault for another twenty minutes, then dismissed the group.

  As the last two officers exited the Colonel’s briefing, they continued to work out the logistics of the strike during the drive back to their barracks. They soon became consumed in the details of their conversation, failing to notice the local driver’s curious eyes peering at them in the rearview mirror as they traveled through the night.

  The next morning, Colonel Drake oversaw the operation from his office at US Central Command. He closed and locked the door. At this stage, the fewer people who know about the attack, the better. Because this was an unauthorized mission, he didn’t want General Clarke, his commanding officer, asking questions during the heat of the battle. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

  Although he coordinated the assault through his company commanders, Colonel Drake kept the radio open to hear the battle as it unfolded. Through crackling static, Drake could hear the advance units reporting back. “The northern and southern portions of the compound’s wall are well-defended,” reported a scout, “but the central section has only three guards.”

  Colonel Drake interjected, “Captains, marshal Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie Companies to strike the central section of the wall. Squads one and two of Delta Company will launch a divisionary attack on the northern wall section, while squads three and four will attack the southern section. All attacks will commence at fifteen-thirty-nine hours as planned.” He had considered moving the attack to begin earlier in the day, providing more time before the drone strike. However, Red Snake’s concept of striking at the beginning of the terrorists’ call to prayer had resonated with Colonel Drake, and he had adapted the idea to his own use.

  The commanders acknowledged his orders. Did he perceive some concern in their voices? Drake shook his head. He was letting the stress of battle get to him. His subordinates would voice their concerns if they had any.

  Drake listened intently as the attack progressed.

  “Commence on my mark,” called a sergeant to his counterparts. “Ready…fire!”

  The radio went silent for the space of two minutes as the soldiers focused on launching the attack.

  “What’s happening?” demanded Colonel Drake.

  “Light resistance, as expected,” crackled a voice over the radio. “We’ve advanced to within fifty meters of the wall. Wait…dammit!” The transmission ended.

  “What’s happening?” shouted the colonel. “Report!”

  The radio clicked on and off several times without a vocal transmission. Finally, a shaky voice shouted a reply. “Flanking forces emerged from the bombed-out houses behind us. Wait…they’re deploying in a line behind us. We’re completely cut off.”

  “It’s a trap!” shouted Captain Fox, one of the company commanders. “They were waiting for us. That must be why they under-deployed their troops on the middle section of the wall. They were hoping to draw us in.”

  Colonel Drake’s mind spun wildly. Under normal circumstances, he would call in air and armor support to punch through the enemy lines. Since he technically wasn’t authorized to conduct this mission, those options were unavailable. He needed a moment to think.

  Finally, he issued new orders. “Delta Company, your squads are in good strategic positions, north and south of the two battle lines. Move in and attack the nearest
flank of the enemy line. Mass your troops to overrun their positions. Once the enemy line has been sufficiently reduced, Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie Companies will retreat through the first gap that forms.”

  He waited tense minutes for the battle plan to unfold, listening to the cross-chatter of the troops on the battlefield. “Watch your flank…those guys are moving around to get a bead on you. Mother…” The transmission ceased.

  New voices cut in. “We need a medic. Bravo Company, can you send one?”

  “Roger—sending one now.”

  After fifteen agonizing minutes, Captain Fox broke in. “Colonel Drake, we’re pinned down. The enemy has run its battle line around the entire western side of the compound. We’re completely outflanked. I estimate we’re outnumbered three-to-one, not counting the forces inside the compound. A frontal attack on their battle line would be suicide. We’d be mowed down. Can you call for reinforcements and air support, sir?”

  The colonel’s mind whirled, desperate to craft a plan to save his men and his own hide. “Captain, try to punch your way out if you see an opening. Ground reinforcements aren’t available. Air support will come in at around nineteen-hundred hours and will strike the compound itself. It’s the only way to guarantee we’re striking the enemy and not you.

  “However, the air strike will be…powerful. Since your troops are so close to the compound, they could be in danger. With that in mind, seek to escape prior to the strike if possible.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  As the battle progressed, the colonel continued to listen with increasing panic. Several hours passed, yet every tactic attempted by his men was countered by the terrorists’ superior numbers.

  As the time for the drone strike neared, Colonel Drake radioed his commanders. “Men, the airstrike will occur at nineteen-oh-five hours. Have your troops dig foxholes and use the dirt to create berms between your position and the compound. That should provide defilade from the airstrike blasts. Report back with your status after the strike.” The men acknowledged his orders and set about executing them.