THE FUSILLADE WAS AMATEURISH, a shoot-and-scoot tactic applied with bravado and without discipline or accuracy. Only a few dozen bullets and one rocket struck inside the firebase. Such trivial harassing fire did not merit a one-line entry in the daily log of a combat unit. Historians have determined that in battle, four thousand bullets are fired for every soldier hit. Thousands of lethal slivers of molten lead hit only leaves and dirt.
Corporal Thomas Compton was leaning over to pick up a ninety-pound 155mm shell when the PKM slug ricocheted off the firing breech and smashed into the right side of his neck. Compton lifted weights daily, so his thick muscles absorbed some of the bullet’s force. But the burning iron tip slashed deep enough to sever his carotid artery. He staggered drunkenly, clasping his left hand to his neck. His gun mates grabbed him, forcing him down and pulling his hand away. The blood spurted in their faces. They desperately pushed a sweaty towel against the wound while screaming at the top of their lungs, “Corpsman up! Corpsman!”
In seconds, compression bandages were torn open and shoved under the dripping towel. When Compton tried to rip at the wound, they pinned his powerful arms and hugged him. Commander Zarest was at his side in less than a minute, swiftly applying a ligature even while knowing the wound was too deep.
Coffman had rushed from his back office into the ops center when the shooting began.
“Where are they?” he yelled at the watch officer. “Who has a visual?”
The operator controlling the drone’s camera had zoomed in on the fields to the east. Clusters of harvesters—men, women, and children—were fleeing in all directions. No one was carrying a weapon. Out on the perimeter, none of the sentries had seen any muzzle flashes, but several had heard the enemy rounds snapping overhead. They focused their scopes on likely tree lines and radioed back each azimuth and distance. These wild-ass guesses were called “target locations” and circled in red on the photomap on the Common Operational Picture screen.
Less than five hectic minutes had passed when Major Barnes, his helmet and armored vest on, rushed through the door.
“We’ve lost a Marine, sir,” he whispered. “We have one angel.”
Coffman felt fear, anger, and helplessness. For the second day in a row, his command had lost a Marine. He knew this would hurt his career, and he was ashamed of that thought. Perhaps he should leave the ops center to pay his respects to the body. No, he’d do that later. Some young devil dog had been struck down, and the bastards who’d done it were laughing. Firebase Bastion wasn’t there just to help the Afghan army. They were Marines, and Marines fought back. In prior wars, in Vietnam or World War II, the artillery would be blasting away.
“Hit their firing points,” Coffman said. “Open sheaf, whatever you need. Friggin’ obliterate them!”
He was calculating even as he spoke. Those in the ops center would later joke about “friggin’,” a quaint phrase uttered by their bird colonel, an eagle proud of his perch and protective of his young. But Coffman’s order was vague. Someone had to spell out a real fire mission, specifying the target, grid coordinates, number of shells, etc.
Gunny Maxwell, the artillery ops chief, kept his head down, eyes on his screen. Out in the poppy fields, harvesters were scattering helter-skelter. He would enter the firing data, but damned if he’d be tagged as the one who had ordered it. Some of those women and kids would be scythed down. How many would die? One, five, ten? Captain Lasswell was off somewhere, probably with the KIA. He’d wait until the colonel ordered him to fire at a specific set of coordinates. This wasn’t going to be on him.
Cruz was standing in a corner, battle rattle on. Coffman pointed at him.
“What are you waiting for, Captain?”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Cruz said. “With your permission, I’ll take the QRF—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, they’ll be long gone,” Coffman snapped. “I want you to take them under mortar fire now!”
Cruz was caught off guard. The red circles on the map held no validity.
“We don’t have confirmed targets, sir.”
“That didn’t stop you from calling fire a few days ago,” Coffman said.
“I was evacuating a wounded, sir. Right now, we—”
Coffman cut him off.
“Right now, Captain,” he said sharply, “you’re in charge of security for this base!”
The firing had ceased minutes ago. Cruz assumed the shooters had moved off, as they always did.
“I’ll have the sentries confirm the coordinates, sir.”
“Damn it, stop giving me semantics, Captain. The enemy is escaping! Get on with it!”
Cruz felt there were two of him. The strong one—how he had always viewed himself—was holding his ground, not saying a word, refusing to move. Yet a vaporous wraith fragile as glass was walking toward the ops chief. Again he was rolling over for the colonel. What was he doing? This was wrong. But before he could give the order to fire, Gunny Maxwell shook his head.
“Kabul’s monitoring the net, Captain,” he said loudly. “Rules of engagement don’t permit terrain interdiction fires. Kabul requests your authenticating number.”
As he listened, Coffman knew the gunny had trapped him. A dozen Marines had heard him order Cruz to open fire. If Afghan officials reported civilian casualties, the investigation would lead right back to him. He reversed course.
“You’re right, Gunny,” he said. “Kabul will slow us down too long. Captain, after you cancel your fire mission, make sure you check the lines.”
ACROSS THE CANAL A KILOMETER TO THE EAST, Quat was studying the base through his binoculars. Notebook in hand, he walked over to where Tulus and Zar sat on their bikes. He held up his rough sketch.
“There,” he said. “Bring me there tonight.”
He was pointing at the Xs marking the very edge of the firebase.
ANGRY WITH HIMSELF, Cruz left the ops center. Outside, next to a sandbagged tent, he saw Lasswell, hands on hips, looking at the pink and orange colors of twilight. She nodded grimly and scuffed at the dirt.
“A few hours ago,” she said, “I was feeling on top of my game, on my way to business school, with a connection to Stovell Industries. Whoopee for me. Damn, how could I be that shallow?”
“Don’t take too much on yourself,” Cruz said. “We all volunteered.”
“Wow, that makes me feel better,” she said. “I talked with Corporal Compton’s wife at our predeployment party only a week ago. She’s pregnant.”
“Put that aside,” Cruz said. “Visit the gun pits, share a few stories about Compton or a short prayer. Keep them focused on the mission.”
“Great words. Well, what did I expect from RT? You might be Rolling Thunder, but most of us mortals care about dying. Has ‘the mission’ always been your God?”
Cruz didn’t reply. After a few seconds, Lasswell gave him a small smile.
“You give me advice like a brother,” she said, “and I snap at you. That’s my bad. Thanks for reminding me I’m the commander.”
Cruz did not reply as she walked away. His mind had gone elsewhere. Rolling Thunder? he thought. All I do is roll over for Coffman.
35
Temptation
At the mosque in Q5F, the mujahideen were eating dinner, white rice and fresh, warm flat bread dipped into a cucumber sauce. The Persian had come over from the guesthouse, carrying his tan camel-skin valise. Quat had demanded 150,000 americani dollars. The mujahideen crowded around the Persian as he doled out the packs of money. They had never seen anyone paid such large sums, let alone three skinny little Asians.
“What you do,” Tulus said, “with all this money?”
“Green cards to go to America,” Quat said. “My cousin say good shrimping in Baton Rouge. We get other half after attack.”
The Persian and the Taliban shura had agreed to this. Zar intensely disliked the arrogant Asian but was conscious of Emir Sadr’s warning: “Oh, you who believe! Obey God and obey the Messenger and those among you who
are in authority.” Quat carried the authority of the shura.
“You have man,” Quat said, “take me close to base?”
To guide the Asian, Zar had chosen Habullah. The old man had lost three fingers to a faulty blasting cap, but no one was better at sneaking through scant undergrowth, breaking cover for only a few seconds to set in an IED, then escaping. He had proven himself again only a few hours ago, shooting at the base and slipping away.
Quat handed Habullah a sheet of aluminum that looked like a flimsy rain poncho.
“Put this on,” he said. “Thermal no see.”
It was after sunset before Quat and Habullah, with the thin aluminum ponchos draped over them, left the mosque.
Zar drove back to his own compound. His wife, Abra, was watching a Pakistani soap. He grunted a greeting, walked into the bedroom, and flopped into bed. He was forty-two, getting old. Every morning he woke with a stiff back, listening to roosters and cows. So piercing was his pain that, in his predawn prayers, he had to lie on his stomach to touch his forehead toward Mecca.
As he dozed off, his mind wandered back to the Persian handing out stacks of dollars like mounds of fresh bread. He drowsily murmured his favorite verse from the Qu’ran: “Jihad is the duty of all true Muslims. Some prepare the food, while others plow the fields. Greatest are the mujahideen who slay the unbelievers. Allah will reward them.” Emir Sadr and the shura lived in air-conditioned houses in Quetta, sipping whiskey and watching cricket matches. What was his reward?
36
Heat
Less than three hours after Compton’s death, Senator Grayson called Towns at the Pentagon.
“Mr. Secretary,” Grayson said, “I’ve been informed of a second fatality at that base. What the hell’s going on?”
“Senator,” Towns said, “I don’t like to use the expression ‘bad luck,’ but that’s what we’ve run into. I’ve been assured there’s no pattern to this. The two tragic occurrences aren’t related to each other.”
“Mr. Secretary, that sounds hollow,” Grayson said. “Two in two days! How do you expect us to authorize your budget, when you won’t tell us what’s going on?”
“Senator, I’m not holding anything back,” Towns said. “I can provide a classified briefing for your committee.”
“No, that shields the White House from the public eye,” Grayson said. “I’m requesting a public briefing before my committee votes on your budget. The White House has been secretly negotiating with the Taliban. I want to know how your operation ties into that. The Senate hasn’t endorsed a secret war.”
“Our goal hasn’t changed,” Towns said. “We won’t let Afghanistan become a terrorist sanctuary.”
Grayson’s tone expressed his frustration.
“The Pentagon’s been saying that for twenty years,” he said. “I want to know what’s happening at that base right now.”
“Senator, I’ll get back to you,” Towns said. “But I won’t disclose details in public.”
AN HOUR LATER, Towns was sitting in the small Situation Room in the White House, together with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Director of the CIA, and the White House press secretary. A grim President Dinard walked in, followed by his National Security Advisor.
“The president has to fly to Houston,” Armsted said, “so let’s be brief. DCI, what’s the intel picture?”
Director of Central Intelligence Webster looked down at his notes.
“This morning,” he said in his squeaky voice, “the jihadist nets posted video of a boy blowing himself up near a Marine patrol, with the usual false claim of multiple American deaths. Plus, there’s increased chatter from the Taliban shura in Quetta. We conclude that the firebase will remain under pressure.”
Armsted gestured toward a televideo screen.
“General, what’s it look like from Kabul?” he said.
Army General Hal Gretman, commander of US Forces Afghanistan (USFORA), looked owlish behind his Army-issue eyeglasses. He chose his words carefully. By avoiding hard calls, he had advanced his career and gained the confidence of Afghan officials.
“Sir, President Bashir has authorized more soldiers to protect the firebase,” Gretman said. “Unfortunately, the press here in Kabul is showing the body of a boy allegedly killed by the Marines. Bashir is upset.”
“I don’t care about his feelings,” Dinard broke in. “What the hell’s happening down there?”
A second televideo screen showed Air Force General Bruce Laird, commander of the Central Command, located in Tampa. Laird’s ruddy complexion contrasted with the dark blue of his uniform.
“Mr. President, the Marine fatality was a random event, almost an accident,” Laird said. “I’ve ordered an investigation.”
The exasperated White House press secretary, Diane Baxter, was tapping her pen on the table. Dinard gestured for her to speak.
“Generals,” she said, “should we expect to hear more bad news?”
“I hope not,” Gretman said. “I have Afghan soldiers waiting on the pad at Kandahar.”
“Then get them moving!” Dinard said.
“Helmand’s eight hours in front of Washington time, sir,” Gretman said. “It’s a few more hours until it’s full dark down there. The helos have to fly a hundred miles over Taliban territory. We can’t do that in daylight.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Dinard said abruptly. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
He signaled for the televideo to be turned off.
“Those two generals wasted my time,” Dinard said. “One’s in Tampa and the other’s in Kabul. Professor, your chain of command is too long. When I’m building a hotel, I talk with the project manager. Why aren’t I talking to the colonel in charge on that damn base?”
“You’d upset him, sir,” Towns said, “throw him off stride.”
“Hell, the press praises you for going directly to the source. Why can’t I?”
Towns frequently plucked a report off his desk and walked into some windowless back office to talk to the author. It was good for morale, and he learned facts not written down. Before he could answer, the Chairman intervened.
“You can call the firebase commander, sir,” Admiral Michaels said. “But the conversation will be recorded, and it might leak out.”
“We definitely don’t want that!” the press secretary said. “That would be a total foul-up.”
Dinard gave her a tight smile. When no one else offered comment, he peered over their heads as though looking for the television cameras.
“You’re all doing the best you can,” he mused. “OK, carry on.”
As they were leaving, he gestured for the National Security Advisor to stay behind.
“Did you see how the military closed ranks?” Dinard said. “They don’t care that I’m fighting for my political life. How can they allow one death, and then another?”
“Maybe it’ll blow over,” Armsted said.
“How did I let them talk me into this?” Dinard said. “The Pentagon has no idea what real heat is.”
POTUS slouched in his chair, fingers beating on the desk. Then he leaned slightly to his right to look at the dark iron bust of Winston Churchill on a side table. He sat up straight and spoke to Winston.
“Grayson has the liberal vote,” he said. “Now he wants to peel off the independents by labeling me as pro-war. Me, of all people! I hate those stupid wars the goddamned establishment types started. I’m not going to put up with it!”
Having won over Churchill, he pivoted back to Armsted.
“That deal we talked about? Fly over there and sound them out. If they’re hard-assed, drop it.”
“State’s been doing the negotiating,” Armsted warned.
“I’ll handle State. You know how to deliver. Get going.”
Day 5
APRIL 10
37
Friction
As the White House meeting was ending, it was close to midnight at Firebase Bastion and the medevac bird was on final approach. To
render honors to Corporal Compton, fifty Marines were drawn up in ranks outside the ops center. Coffman had written out two paragraphs about duty, courage, and commitment. When the bird was inbound, he gestured Lasswell to stand beside him next to the flag-draped improvised coffin.
He had scarcely begun to read when the roar of the V-22 in vertical descent drowned his words out. Instead of a slow, orderly march to the LZ, the coffin bearers shuffled forward at a fast clip into the billowing dust. Whatever message Coffman had intended was never delivered.
His ceremony in shambles, he rendered a quixotic salute as the coffin was carried up the ramp. Minutes later, covered with grit and picking dirt out of his ears, he stormed back into his office. Hours earlier, he had called General Gretman in Kabul. In a level voice, the general had asked about security procedures. He had seemed satisfied, but distant. Now the phone call Coffman was dreading came from General Killian.
“Hal, I’ve read the sitreps and talked to Gretman,” Killian said without preamble. “You didn’t have a patrol out when the attack occurred?”
“No, sir,” Coffman said tersely. “We hadn’t been taking fire. The KIA was one chance in a thousand, a random shooting. I’m not trying to excuse it.”
From somewhere on the perimeter came the sound of a few bursts of an M240 machine gun. Shit! Coffman wondered if Killian heard that.
“The ANA on schedule?” Killian said.
“Their colonel’s slippery,” Coffman said. “He’s promised to pick up the pace. But we have a weather front coming, and he might use that as an excuse to hunker down.”
The Last Platoon Page 17
