He dozed until he heard the whine of a car engine. A tan Hilux was jouncing up the tractor path to his compound. As the pickup braked to a stop, Nantush stumbled forward. He tried to hide his shock when he saw the blood smeared over Zar’s shirt and face.
“Salam alekim,” Zar said more in command than in greeting, “all are blessed who worship Allah.”
“Allahu Akbar,” Nantush stammered. “Zar Mohammad is always welcome at my farm.”
Standing a head taller than Nantush, Zar gazed around benevolently, despite looking like a butcher who had hacked to pieces a panicky goat.
“If I am welcome,” he said, “why did you turn aside my guest yesterday? He traveled far to buy your crop.”
Nantush fidgeted and bowed toward the plump young man wearing soft leather boots and carrying an iPad.
“Yesterday,” Nantush stammered, “we were negotiating…”
“Then continue,” Zar said.
Without a word, the Persian brushed by Nantush, strode into the field, plucked a lanced poppy and squinted at the sap, like a jeweler pricing a diamond. He adjusted his iPad, took a close-up photo of the bud, and snapped pictures of the surrounding fields. He walked back, nodding his approval.
“You’ll have a good harvest, Nantush,” he said, speaking Pashto with an Iranian accent. “Let’s settle on eighty dollars a pound for your poppy. Or do you prefer rupees?”
“The Baloch pays in dollars,” Nantush said.
Zar, his beard matted with blood, bent his head toward Nantush.
“The Baloch is not coming this year,” Zar said. “The Persian is now the buyer.”
The workers had straggled in, some carrying AKs, others unarmed. Their tunics and hands were stained an ugly brown from the opium sap. Including family members of all ages, dozens now formed an outer circle to listen to the haggling. To Zar’s satisfaction, several were whispering on their cell phones. News of the beheadings and of this poppy sale would flash across the district. He ignored the onlookers, rolling his prayer beads as though he were a feudal lord visiting a serf.
The Persian finished tapping his iPad.
“Nantush, you have twenty jeribs?” the Persian said. “I’ll offer sixteen thousand for your harvest. That’s more than the Baloch ever paid.”
Nantush stroked his beard, playing for time. The Baloch from Pakistan had remained during the bad times when the Marines patrolled the Green Zone. Now this Persian had arrived, offering a higher price.
When Nantush did not reply, The Persian tried a different approach.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll give you seven thousand now for half, before you harvest the poppy. I’m taking all the risk. If a haroum ruins your crop, I get no poppy and you keep my money.”
It was a shrewd offer, appealing to every farmer’s instinct to hedge against bad weather. Nantush hesitated. What if this Persian didn’t come back next year? Then the Baloch would refuse to buy his crop.
“Perhaps if we held a jirga…” Nantush said.
That broke it for Zar. No stupid farmer would embarrass him in front of his own fighters.
“A jirga?” he roared. “You don’t need other farmers to decide for you. You are a malik! Others follow you. Sell half or all of your harvest now! Make up your mind! One or the other.”
Nantush stumbled back.
“Half, half,” he stuttered.
The Persian opened a camel-skin valise and pulled out wrapped packets of hundred-dollar bills. With a salesman’s smile, he handed Nantush the money.
“May Allah bless your crop,” he said. “Soon you will be rich.”
A murmur of awe at the size of the cash bundle rippled through the crowd. For a moment, Nantush felt proud. Like his father and the generations before him, he had toiled without complaint throughout his life. None of them, though, had the wealth now visited upon him. Perhaps this Persian, who smelled faintly of perfume, was bringing good fortune.
“Your price is fair, honorable preacher,” Nantush said.
This display of deference ignited the anger in Zar. He, not the dainty foreigner, had arranged this. He deserved the credit. He held out his hand.
“Pay the usher,” he said. “We Taliban protect you.”
Nantush’s good humor drained away.
“How much?”
“Seven percent,” he said. “One thousand dollars.”
Nantush blinked, but he dared not speak. One thousand was 13 percent, twice the usher. Zar could barely add. Perhaps the Persian would correct the error. A few seconds of silence passed.
“Now!” Zar shouted.
Nantush gave him one thousand dollars. Without a word, Zar walked to his pickup, threw the money in the back seat, and got behind the wheel. The Persian hopped into the passenger seat and they drove away.
“That didn’t go well,” the Persian said. “I was hoping to buy Nantush’s whole harvest. Instead, you overcharged him.”
Zar slammed on the brakes and raised his fist.
“Persian, don’t tell me how to deal with my people!” Zar yelled. “This is my province, not yours.”
The frightened Persian blurted out the shahadah to appease him.
“There is no God but Allah,” he stammered, “and Muhammad is his messenger.”
Zar banged his fist against the steering wheel, still wanting to strike him.
“For your community is a single community,” the Persian hurried on, “and I am your Lord, so worship me.”
For a moment, Zar was again the goat herder’s skinny son, barefoot in turd-strewn dust, listening awestruck as a plump mullah quoted the Qur’an. He shook his head and resumed driving. It was unfair of Allah that this Persian, afraid of sword and blood, should be so quick with sums and words.
5
Welcome on Board
The runway apron was bright under the lights of the tractors trundling the artillery tubes toward the KC-130s. Even from a distance, Colonel Hal Coffman knew that the stocky Marine approaching him was Cruz. He was carrying a worn ruck over his right shoulder, and his rumpled cammies were faded. Typical Killian pick, Coffman mused. A field jock. Like Cruz, Coffman had been a sergeant prior to becoming an officer. Unlike Cruz, Coffman saw himself as a future general. He knew how to handle the enlisted men, how to direct a staff, how to entertain with flair, and how to look ahead.
“Welcome on board, Captain,” Coffman said, returning Cruz’s salute. “I believe in being direct. I told General Killian I didn’t want someone new joining us at the last minute. Strangers don’t fight well together. I’m sure you agree.”
Cruz knew he was being tested.
“Agreed, sir, but we’re all Marines.”
“Exactly the sentiment of the old man. He said you knew the area.”
“I did years ago, sir.”
“That’s what I mean. That was past history. Anyway, I lost the argument and here you are. Don’t take it personally. Your platoon sergeant knows the routine. Let him run things while you snap in. I look forward to telling General Killian you did a fine job.”
There it is, Cruz thought. I play by his rules and come out looking good.
In Cruz’s eyes, bird colonels in their midforties fell into three categories. A few—especially those commanding infantry regiments or air squadrons—were the front-runners to make brigadier general. They tended to be fretful but self-confident. Most of the others were hard working and relaxed, comfortable in a career nearing its end, appreciative of a well-deserved pension after decades of service that entailed moving their families a dozen times. Lastly, there were a few still nakedly ambitious, smart or driven enough to snare important staff jobs, hoping to distinguish themselves. That included Coffman.
“Aye-aye, sir,” Cruz said.
“Good! Use my cabin to get up to speed. The XO will see to it.”
Cruz had intended to meet with the security platoon but knew not to object. Coffman beckoned to a slight major with a round face and tortoiseshell glasses.
“I’m M
ajor Barnes,” he said in a neutral tone.
He guided Cruz to the lead aircraft. They walked up the ramp, skirting past the lashed-down cargo. Like the troops in sixty other countries, they were flying in a Hercules C-130, designed eighty years ago and still the workhorse of armies around the globe. A large metal box filled the forward end of the bay. When they entered, Cruz took in the small conference table, the neat bunk, the computer desk, the reading lights, and the small couch. Only generals rated such a command cubicle.
“The colonel has clout,” Cruz said.
Barnes nodded and held out an iPad.
“Here’s the op order.”
Cruz tapped the screen a few times, noting that the document ran for 250 pages.
“War and Peace is shorter than this. We invading Pakistan?”
Barnes kept a straight face.
“We’re on a short time leash,” he said. “Colonel Coffman takes this command very seriously. He’s General Killian’s chief of staff, something to keep in mind.”
With a half smile, Barnes left and Cruz sat down to study the op order. The mission was simple. The Marines would provide artillery support to a thousand-man brigade of the Afghan National Army. The ANA in turn would break the Taliban’s grip on the highway leading to Lashkar Gah, the capital of Helmand. Every detail was covered in depth—personnel, operations, communications, logistics, etc. Cruz’s job was to guard the perimeter of the small artillery base. He was taking notes when Coffman opened the door.
“It’s take-off time,” he said. “You read in?”
“Yes, sir,” Cruz said. “The op order’s very thorough.”
“It better be. The SecDef’s watching this one,” Coffman said. “Grab a seat out there and buckle up.”
Cruz walked out into the cavernous bay where a hundred Marines were jammed into the narrow web seats, their bulging packs lashed in the center of the bay. A small Marine with the twin bars of captain rank gestured to the seat next to her. After he cinched in, she extended her hand.
“Jean Lasswell,” she said. “I’m the battery commander.”
She had wide-set eyes and an open, confident manner. With her firm handshake and thin, almost emaciated cheeks, Cruz assumed she was a runner and could probably smoke him.
“Diego Cruz, security platoon.”
“Ah, General Killian’s draft pick has arrived,” she said. “We all feel more secure with Rolling Thunder on deck. RT himself.”
She said it with a clear smile and the right amount of light sarcasm.
“Let’s bury that RT bullshit,” Cruz said.
Lasswell grinned and shook her head.
“You can’t hide from Google. That story about you pursuing the Taliban for two days without a break? After that, the troops called you Rolling Thunder.”
To show she meant no offense, she rolled out the r, rrrrrr.
“That was years ago,” Cruz said. “What’s this about SecDef being in the loop?”
“The colonel worked for him,” Lasswell said. “He likes to remind people of that.”
“The old boys’ club at work.”
Lasswell laughed.
“It goes deeper. An Army general in Kabul controls us. But the word is he’s letting General Killian stay in touch with the good Colonel Coffman.”
Cruz looked quizzically at her.
“Coffman’s a cannon cocker?”
“Nope, he’s admin,” she said. “Whip smart. He snagged this task force kind of as an award. I’m jacked he selected me.”
“I don’t feel those warm vibes,” Cruz said.
Lasswell gave Cruz a halfway nod and gestured toward Coffman’s cabin.
“The colonel refers to us as his hand-picked team,” she said. “He didn’t pick you.”
“Good to be loved,” Cruz said.
“This is my first combat deployment,” she said. “Same for my Marines. What counts with us is that you’ve been there.”
The engines were coughing and spinning up. She unwrapped her earplugs.
“Going to be a long, noisy trip,” she said.
Day 2
APRIL 7
6
First to Fall
Following two refueling stops, the task force landed after dark at Kandahar Airport in southern Afghanistan. Everyone set about assigned tasks, with Cruz the outsider looking on. One Marine bustled up and saluted hastily.
“Staff Sergeant Sullivan, sir,” he said. “I’m shitload busy right now. OK if I put off briefing you until we’re on the objective?”
In his battle rattle, helmet tucked low and the tarmac lights throwing long shadows, Sullivan looked imposing. With his jaw thrust forward and no warmth in his tone, he seemed to be giving an order.
“Go to it, Staff Sergeant.”
At two in the morning, the first wave of helicopters touched down on a field seven miles from the provincial capital. After the grunts secured the perimeter, a CH-53, its massive three engines thumping, lowered a small dozer slung beneath its fuselage. Another dozer and two backhoes followed. Next to land were the artillery tubes. Each was thirty feet long, its nine-thousand-pound bulk evenly distributed between the chassis and the barrel, enabling a dozen Marines to roll it into position.
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, the pulsing throbs of engines pushed Nantush awake. He propped up on one elbow, thinking this was a pelting rainstorm. But no, the noise was pounding straight down on the roof. Helicopters—a raid! The devils in black dropping from ropes, the blinding lights…
Sharia was sitting up beside him, clinging to his hand. The children, the children! Pulling on his man dress, Nantush ran barefoot down the corridor, banging on door after door, pushing the servants and groggy children downstairs. The throb receded and settled into a deep, steady drum out in the fields to the west. While Sharia herded the women and children into the living room, Nantush yelled at his sons and workers to stay inside the compound walls and, above all, to not shoot at the helicopters!
For the next hour, the men paced around the courtyard and peered out at the blackness, listening to the sounds of the dozers. Nantush climbed to the roof and peered out at the dust and the clamor. He realized this wasn’t a raid. The americanis were digging in and tearing up his land. Why were they here? What if they burned his fields? The agitated workers were shaking their AKs in the air, vowing jihad! and jabbering on their cell phones. Nantush rushed down the outside stairway.
“If anyone shoots from my compound,” he yelled, “he will never again work in this district!”
A KILOMETER TO THE WEST, the Marines were systematically clearing an acre of poppy and undergrowth. While scooping out a bunker, a dozer clawed up a dry patch of bush, raising a great billow of dirt. Operators and diggers stopped their labors and closed their eyes until the dirt settled. The calm was pierced by a loud, startled “AHH!” followed by a terrified “ARRGH!” and an agonizing “YIEE!,” shrill and pitiful.
“Help me! Help! Help!”
Marines grabbed their weapons and crouched low, waiting for whatever predator to leap out of the blackness. Beams of flashlights with red filters stabbed and bobbed through the dust like the clashing red swords of unseen warriors. Squad leaders were yelling back and forth.
“What the fuck? Who’s screaming?”
“Who’s been hit? If you need help, sound off!”
Supported by two comrades, a husky Marine hobbled out of the dust cloud.
“Jacobs’s been bitten. Corpsman up! Get the doc!”
For a few seconds, Jacobs stood bewildered in the glare of a dozen flashlights. Then he sat down, pawing at his leg and whimpering in fear. He started to tremble and fell on his back. Two corpsmen snapped together a fold-up litter, lifted him onto it, and cut open his right trouser. The task force doctor, Navy Commander Herbert Zarest, rushed up and wiped the blood from Jacobs’s calf. Deep sets of dual puncture wounds showed how swiftly the snake had struck, again and again.
“Get that compression bandage around his leg,” Zarest said
. “Prop it up! Call a priority medevac.”
Captain Lasswell was hovering near the wounded Marine.
“Was the snake killed?” Zarest asked.
“No, sir,” Lasswell said.
“Damn, I need to call in the correct serum.”
Cruz turned to Lasswell.
“How about showing me,” he said, “where the snake was.”
They walked over to where a half-dozen Marines were standing well back from a tangle of brush. Cruz took a machete and stepped forward.
“Shine some white light over here,” he said.
“We’re in blackout condition,” a voice said.
“Not now we’re not,” Cruz said.
A Marine clicked off the red filter on his flashlight. With the bright light behind him, Cruz whacked at a thick bush and drew back a few feet. No movement or hiss. He waded deeper into the thicket and whacked again. Lasswell watched for a moment, then put on a pair of leather gloves and joined him. Soon two Marines joined her, with others shining more lights.
“Keep a circle,” Cruz yelled. “When that snake bolts, pound it! Pound it and pound it! Don’t let it coil!”
He flailed at some loose branches and again warily stepped back. This time a snake twisted and slithered past Cruz, its long eel-like body looping rapidly back and forth. He struck down, slicing off its tail. The snake never turned or slowed down. The Marine holding the light behind Cruz leaped back.
“Stay on it!” Cruz yelled. “Crush it!”
The Marine ran after the snake, the beam of the flashlight bobbing wildly, catching, losing, then again shining on the writhing in the dirt. A Marine with a shovel ran forward and swung the flat of the blade down again and again. Cruz rushed up, knelt down, and sliced off its head.
“Good work,” he said.
A dozen white lights illuminated the scene. From behind the group, Coffman’s voice rang out, sharp with anger.
“What the hell? Who authorized this idiocy?”
The Last Platoon Page 4
