“Yes, sir,” he said. “I wanted to see why simple patrols were going wrong. The corporal was in the sniper team, not the group I was with.”
“We’ll sort that out later,” he said. “How’s the agency team working out?”
Thrown slightly off stride, Coffman chose a noncommittal answer.
“No hiccups, sir. They pitch in occasionally.”
“They may be onto something big,” Killian said. “Now, what about your mission?”
Coffman was ready with his second talking point.
“We’re pumping out a dozen fire missions a day, sir. The cannoneers are outstanding, putting a hundred shells a day downrange. We’re giving solid support.”
Killian was out of patience with the glib responses.
“That’s not how it’s playing,” he said. “The task force is under a microscope in Kabul and Washington. It’s results that count, Colonel. You’re behind schedule, with another KIA.”
The harsh rebuke hit Coffman like a hammer. He felt his hands trembling. Blood seemed to be rushing from his body. His face paled.
“Sir, I didn’t mean…”
Killian saw the tremor. The last thing he needed was a commander afraid to make decisions. He softened his tone.
“The Chairman will calm Gretman down,” he said. “I’m flying to Pendleton to meet with the families. Your job is to finish strong. The Talibs are tough bastards. Not every command works out the way we hoped. Good night, Hal.”
Coffman turned off the televideo, the dim screen reflecting his sinking chances for promotion.
42
A Daring Enemy Plan
On his ICOM, Zar had listened to Tic’s taunts and the shrill responses from the frightened farmers. Throughout the late afternoon and evening, he had ridden at a fast clip, jouncing along the hard-packed paths next to the canals, crossing at foot bridges and occasionally dismounting to pull the bike through shallow ditches or tug it up muddy banks. Before full dark, he had visited dozens of compounds, urging the farmers to collect more poppy sap tomorrow, before the weather changed.
Satisfied, he called Emir Sadr in Quetta. They kept the conversation brief to hide among the thousands of intercepts the americanis collected daily between Afghanistan and Pakistan.
“That new pack of coyotes,” Zar said, “continues to yip. I will kill them all.”
“I sent you an esteemed coyote hunter,” Sadr said. “Let him lead you.”
Zar bristled at the reference to Quat but did not reply.
“May Allah guide you,” Sadr concluded, “as you collect your sheep and bring them to market.”
Zar hung up and pitched the burner phone into the canal. He resented Sadr’s orders to buy more poppy and to ship more heroin packets. That sniffling Persian must have complained to the shura.
Long after dark, he arrived at the mosque and turned off the headlight. He could barely see the building. Usually the stars lit the ground like a million tiny flashlight beams. Now a cover of skittering clouds was blocking out all light. Yet the wind was faint, barely stirring. Good. It would be another day before the storm hit.
Inside the prayer hall, Tulus, the Persian, and a few others were sitting cross-legged on rich, wide carpets, their backs propped against thick pillows. Quat and another Vietnamese were squatting near Tulus, sipping tea. Zar slipped off his boots and sat down opposite the Persian. As he had promised his wife, he spoke quietly and politely.
“Salaam alaikum,” he said. “Did the shipment go well today?”
“As you directed,” the Persian said. “Three thousand kilos in one truck and one car, with three bike escorts.”
His unhappiness at risking so much in so few vehicles was plain.
“Then why is Emir Sadr,” Zar said, “upset with me?”
For once, the Persian didn’t wince. Numbers were his forte and Zar’s weakness.
“I called Tehran,” he said, “with my weekly tally. Tehran may have called your shura in Quetta. We’re short of our quota, and this storm will sweep away the poppies not yet harvested.”
“I have ordered the farmers to harvest all they can tomorrow!” Zar shouted.
His response to any problem was to take action. The Persian had to grant him that.
“You are Allah’s true servant,” the Persian said. “But some are hoarding, hoping for the price to rise.”
“How many do you suspect?”
“I have about twenty on my list.”
“Tulus and I will visit ten each. If we offer double the price, how much will we get?”
The Persian quickly calculated.
“Double? After we process their poppy,” he said, “we’d net two million in American dollars. But next year, everyone will demand that price.”
Zar snorted.
“No, next year I’ll take twice as many farmers from the Baloch,” he said. “Bring the money to distribute.”
As the Persian reluctantly got to his feet, he tried again.
“This will hurt our long-term bargaining,” he said morosely. “We’re undercutting ourselves. Tehran will be upset.”
Zar dismissed him. Tehran was the Persian’s problem. Zar was confident he could buy the poppy and still put aside $20,000 for his own family. His wife would be happy and, with the ongoing battle against the invaders, no one would track the exact accounts. Besides, this was Persian money. The Taliban shura wouldn’t care.
Zar felt momentarily pleased with himself. Then he saw Quat glowering at him.
“Tulus, why is the Asian angry?” Zar said. “Did you make him walk back to the mosque this afternoon?”
Tulus hesitated. Because Zar exploded so suddenly, it was best to choose with care each word.
“The shooting today,” Tulus said, “has upset him.”
“An invader was killed!” Zar said. “Mustafa and the two other mujahideen gave their souls to God. They have entered paradise. Why is he afraid? He escaped unharmed.”
Instead of translating, Tulus gestured at Quat to speak.
“When tiger in jungle,” Quat said, shaking his finger, “do not…”
Unable to think of an English word, Quat mockingly slapped his own cheek.
“The infidels are like a tiger,” Tulus translated. “Too strong to attack in small numbers.”
“I saw that slap,” Zar snapped. “He thinks he is smarter than me. He was paid to attack, yet he sits here.”
After Tulus translated, Quat pointed at a television in the corner.
“Weather,” he said. “Wait.”
“No!” Zar said. “I want to know his plan now! Call in my mujahideen. Together we will judge what the shura paid so much money for.”
Within a few minutes, a dozen bearded fighters in shalwar kameez had clustered behind Zar. Tulus gestured at Quat to explain. The Vietnamese waved his hand in front of his face as if brushing aside the air. He blinked his eyes, pretending he could not see.
“When wind comes,” Quat said, “we attack.”
On a rug, he placed a white cardboard map of Firebase Bastion, with the fields from Nantush’s compound seven hundred meters west to the barbed wire laid out in exact proportion. Quat had drawn two lines of dots, one leading toward the wire. The other trail led northeast, ending in a series of perpendicular dots that showed where the mujahideen would launch a diversionary attack. Two larger dots represented where the PKMs would be laid, with tiny slashes indicating where aiming stakes would be driven into the ground to prevent the guns from pivoting and hitting the assault force. Zar did not have to ask a single question.
On a separate cardboard, Quat had drawn a scale model of the firebase. The bottom edge of the drawing showed the assault force at the line of departure. In front of the force were circled the numbers 1 through 3. Quat pointed and held up three fingers; he was sapper number 3. With a bamboo pointer, he tapped at the drawing of the barbed wire, slowly wiggling the pointer to pantomime the sappers working their way through the strands of wire. He held up six fingers once, th
en a second time. He finished by pushing down the palms of his hands, gesturing for silence.
“He says to get through the barbed wire will take one hour, maybe two,” Tulus said. “During that time, our mujahideen must not shoot, even if the infidels open fire.”
“Two hours to crawl thirty meters,” a swarthy mujahideen scoffed. “A turtle moves faster.”
As the other fighters laughed, Tulus translated the remark. Quat nodded pleasantly.
“Please ask,” he said, “how many times has thick-beard man crawled under barbed wire?”
When Tulus translated the sarcasm, the insulted fighter scowled.
“Allahu Akbar!” he shouted.
Zar drew a deep breath, rapped for silence, and pointed at Quat to continue. The diagram showed the position of the sentry posts along the perimeter. Quat tapped two adjoining bunkers and clapped his hands, indicating explosions. BLAM! He pointed at Zar and his fighters and pantomimed, Now all of you rush in!
Amongst a chorus of appreciative murmurs, Zar nodded approval and spoke to his men.
“Good,” he said. “Now go back to your homes. Tomorrow we visit many compounds. No farmer is permitted to store away his poppy. We buy everything.”
After most of the fighters left, Quat remained behind. He held up one finger, indicating he wasn’t finished. He held his fists in front of his stomach, elbows akimbo, as if balancing a heavy wheelbarrow. Then he tapped the diagram, pointing to Nantush’s compound. Organize the farmers to carry back the fallen. There will be many. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Tulus seized the opening to aid his uncle. Looking at Zar, he spoke offhandedly, as if delivering a message already agreed upon.
“Nantush will organize the women and his workers,” Tulus said. “In return, I agreed to give him two more kilos of heroin.”
“Two?” Zar shouted. “That wasn’t necessary. Nantush deserved only one! Jihad is the sacred duty of all Muslims. ‘O Prophet! Strive hard against the infidels.’”
Not for the first time, Tulus thought that Zar was a man with a sharp knife and a small brain.
43
The Game Changes
During the stand-to at twilight, most of Cruz’s platoon deployed along the perimeter. Following that, the platoon secured the landing zone for the V-22. Beal’s body was respectfully carried on board and the plane departed.
The agency team had remained in their small tent, where Stovell had unpacked a compact gas chromatograph. He was examining the powder Tic had pinched that morning from Nantush’s kilo bag of heroin.
“This has the same properties,” Stovell said, “as the capsule we took from the suicide bomber. Tic, did the guy talking from the mosque have a Pakistani accent?”
“No,” Tic said. “He was Pashtun. He called the farmer his uncle. What’re you driving at?”
“I’m trying to get a fix on who brought that suicide kid from Pakistan.”
“We got multiple cuts of Talibs talking to their shura in Quetta,” Tic said. “All ordinary stuff.”
“Dispatching a suicide bomber that fast is not ordinary,” Stovell said.
“Let’s not get sidetracked,” Richards said. “Our job is locating the Iranian buyer.”
“Eight kilos of opium are boiled to produce one kilo of heroin,” Stovell said. “Where do you think that happens? The Marines slugged it out in that sector for years. Now Afghan soldiers don’t patrol there because some commander is on the take. Conclusion? That mosque is the lab.”
“So what?” Richards said.
“So that’s the logical headquarters for the Iranian,” Stovell said. “Overhead video shows guards outside the guesthouse.”
“Too speculative,” Richards said. “I need more to request a raid.”
Tic had listened to the back and forth.
“You’re missing something,” Tic said. “The haroum will bring an end to the harvest season. The Iranian will close shop and leave. Why don’t we check the mosque out ourselves?”
“Because if he’s there,” Richards said, “we might end up killing him. Not a good idea.”
“Actually, Tic’s idea has merit,” Stovell said. “The Iranian doesn’t know we’re looking for him. He’s a businessman, not a fighter. He’ll pass himself off as another mullah.”
Where Tic was intuitive, Stovell was logical. Richards hesitated. He looked at Eagan, who was shaking his head.
“We need Cruz to cover us,” he said, “and that’s not happening.”
Stovell looked surprised.
“Cruz is solid,” he said. “I trust him.”
“Your year in a cemetery,” Eagan said, “is showing again.”
“Seminary,” Stovell said.
“Same difference,” Eagan said. “You’re inclined to trust. Cruz’s gungy, but the colonel hates him. That’s rubbed off on others. I watched Binns. He’s a sullen asshole. I don’t want us out there with reluctant grunts, while Cruz is left in the rear.”
“Coffman’s a bumptious suck-up,” Stovell said. “He reacts to what helps him. We might not find the Iranian, but a move into Q5F could throw the Talibs off their game. That helps Coffman.”
“Wasn’t he sniffing around about a job?” Richards said.
“He wasn’t not subtle about it,” Stovell said.
“OK, Stovell, we ask for a meeting and you troll this,” Richards said. “If he doesn’t bite, we drop it.”
“You’ll check with Kabul?” Tic said.
The question amused Richards.
“At the right time,” he said.
BY EARLY EVENING AT THE MOSQUE, Quat and Tulus had gone over the assault plan for a fourth time with the seven mujahideen Zar had selected. Each would lead five others through the wire tomorrow night. Zar considered and rejected holding a fifth walk-through. They were too tired to pay attention.
“Go home,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon, gather your men and weapons. But don’t start for Nantush’s farm until after dark.”
Over the next half hour, they left by ones and twos. Zar chose a guide to lead the Vietnamese to Nantush’s compound, where they would sleep outside in the bamboo thickets. After posting a few guards, Zar was the only one to take the underground exit from the lab, pushing his bike through the tunnel and up the path hidden by poplars and undergrowth.
WHEN THE AGENCY TEAM ENTERED THE OPS CENTER, Coffman had gathered his staff at the folding table. Sitting at the end of the table, Cruz kept his eyes locked on his coffee cup. Still smarting from his talk with Killian, Coffman looked churlish. He’d agreed to meet only because he wanted Stovell’s goodwill.
“Colonel,” Richards said, “thanks for meeting with us. Bottom line: Q5F is probably the location for the Taliban who’re attacking you. Power emissions from the mosque indicate four or five internet connections, way too many for a local mullah. Stovell thinks our target may be hiding there.”
Stovell laid out the evidence in a few crisp sentences.
“The mosque is definitely a heroin lab,” he concluded. “In the past three days, calls were placed to Quetta, Tehran, and Zabol, the hometown of our target.”
“That’s not much,” Coffman said.
“We extracted the IMEI number from the cell phone of a farmer buying heroin,” Stovell said. “The network’s primitive, but the recipient was inside Q5F.”
“I give it a seventy percent chance our quarry is there,” Richards said. “That’s not high enough to launch a raid. Still, we gave it a good try. I’ll recommend a letter of commendation for your task force.”
Coffman rose to the bait. The White House wanted this target. A letter of commendation? No, his task force merited more.
“This goes much higher than Kabul,” he said.
“It does,” Richards said slowly, encouraged that Coffman had snapped out of his funk.
“How important is this lab?”
“It provides,” Stovell said, “at least ten percent of the Taliban budget.”
“And it’s the command post for the attack
s on my base?”
“Yes. But once this haroum moves through,” Richards said, “our target will leave. Regardless, I’ll put in a good word for your task force. You tried your best.”
Coffman’s mind was racing, calculating risks versus opportunities.
“Major Barnes,” he said, “how many Taliban at that mosque?”
“In the past hour, sir, a meeting broke up,” Barnes said. “About two dozen males drove off in different directions.”
Barnes glanced toward Sergeant Ahmed.
“At most five to ten are still there, sir,” Ahmed said.
Coffman weighed the odds.
“IEDs?” he said.
“We have a video track of the main route in,” Barnes said. “It’s safe, used by the locals every day.”
Coffman, still hesitant, turned back to Richards.
“You’re not sure your target is there,” Coffman said. “And if he is, he may leave. That’s too many maybes.”
Richards gestured at Stovell to weigh in.
“Colonel, in both our lines of work, we never have complete information,” he said. “That’s why we promote people who take initiative. I believe General Marshall wrote, ‘When reports are uncertain, never hesitate to attack.’”
Coffman wavered, unwilling to antagonize Stovell.
“Yes, I remember that quote,” Coffman lied. “Of course I prize initiative. An attack, however, is beyond the scope of my mission.”
“We’re proposing only a recon,” Stovell said, “to reduce our uncertainty. It has the added benefit of throwing the Talibs off balance.”
Coffman’s excitement grew. If the target was captured, it increased his dimmed chances of making general. If he was passed over, Stovell would remember he had helped. And regardless, he was acting to protect his Marines.
“A recon has merit,” he said. “But mosques are out of bounds to Americans. I’ll run this by General Gretman.”
Stovell quickly leaped in.
“I think you misunderstood,” Stovell said. “Our objective is the guesthouse. Of course, if any recon is too much…”
The Last Platoon Page 21
