Coffman straightened his spine, projecting the decisive, intelligent commander, aggressive but not impulsive. This could work!
“All right,” he said. “Major Barnes, you’re mission commander. Include Mr. Richards in your planning.”
Barnes’s mouth dropped open.
“Sir,” he said, “I’m not an 03. I mean, I’m happy to assist. But Captain Cruz is—”
“I’m not going to repeat myself,” Coffman snapped.
Coffman beckoned to Barnes to accompany him to his office. Once they were out of earshot, the colonel whirled around.
“Major, don’t ever contradict me in front of others,” he said. “You’re in charge of this recon, not Cruz, not after Binns’s testimony. He can tag along as your subordinate. I don’t want to hear his voice on the command net.”
THE PERSIAN HAD RETIRED to his comfortable bedroom in the guesthouse. As he sipped black tea heaped with sugar, he went over the sums. He had reluctantly given $200,000 each to Tulus and Zar to buy more poppy tomorrow at double the standard price. That was a minor irritant. Altogether, he had purchased sixteen thousand kilos of opium. Once boiled down into heroin and shipped, the Republican Guard would collect at least thirty million and he would receive a million dollars for his deal making.
He turned out his reading light and lay back on the soft mattress. The incessant murmurings of the two sentries on the compound wall annoyed him. But as a guest, he didn’t want to shout at them through the open window. He rolled over and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, pungent odor of hashish. He smiled slightly. Scattered elsewhere dozens of mujahideen were preparing for battle, while he remained safely behind.
44
Mowing the Grass
Before planning the mission, Richards and Cruz walked over to the platoon tent to brief Sullivan. When they pushed through the double flap, Cruz was surprised to see the platoon sergeant sitting with the other sergeants.
“Kind of an NCO meeting, sir,” Sullivan said.
The Marines looked uneasy, none smiling. Cruz sensed the divide. They were the platoon and he was the outsider.
“Anything to share?” he said.
Sullivan looked at the dirt for a few seconds before replying.
“The men are beat, sir,” Sullivan said. “They patrol all day, stand watch all night, the 155s bang them out of their sleep, the families are upset, no internet, no cell phones.”
Cruz looked around the tent.
“I know everyone’s tired,” he said. “Grunts are always run ragged. And yes, your families are worried, but we have a mission.”
He opened his hand, inviting comment. Binns got to his feet and looked levelly at him.
“Every time we leave the wire, we lose someone, sir,” he said. “We’re not getting anywhere. I mean, it’s like all we’re doing is mowing the grass.”
There it was, doubt breaking into the open, surly but not unreasonable.
“The Commandant hasn’t consulted me lately, Sergeant,” Cruz said. “But you’re right. A cop arresting criminals doesn’t stop crime. He’s doing his job, mowing the grass in the States. We mow it overseas, wherever we’re told to go. Why? Because we volunteered for this job.”
Binns remained standing, not satisfied with the answer.
“A few years ago, I watched a flick about a Danish platoon stationed here in Helmand,” Cruz went on. “They had lost a soldier and morale had dropped. So the platoon commander excused those who didn’t want to join the next patrol.”
“No one’s asking to be excused, sir,” Binns said. “It’s just that—”
Cruz raised a hand and cut him off.
“I’m not finished,” he said. “Know what had gone wrong? That platoon commander had assumed all the responsibility. That’s not happening here. It isn’t the colonel’s mission, or my mission. It’s our mission, all of us, together. You’re sergeants. If you bitch, that rubs off on your men. Lamont’s gone. Beal’s gone. Compton’s gone. If you’re worried about leaving the wire, your fire teams will sense that. You have to be all in, or you’re not leading your squads. Are we clear?”
Cruz paused, knowing he hadn’t won Binns over. The tension lingered like the moisture on the tent flaps. Ashford glanced uneasily around and then made a show of rustling through his notebook.
“Lima Charlie, sir,” he said with a slow grin. “But I got a heavy question for Mr. Richards here.”
When Richards stepped forward, everyone brightened, happy to be distracted.
“Some of us saw Eagan giving sticks to some kids,” Ashford said. “I asked him what tracking device he was setting in. He said I wasn’t cleared to know.”
Richards smiled.
“Those sticks were Tinker Toys,” he said. “He brings some on every deployment. Fun for any kid in any country.”
For a moment, no one had anything to say.
“Eagan?” Ashford said. “The snuff man? That’s crazy shit.”
“You’re free to tell him that,” Richards said.
“I ain’t suicidal,” Ashford said.
Laughter rippled through the tent.
“You all admire Eagan,” Cruz said. “He’s the professional. But don’t sell yourselves short. When you get back home from here, you’ll be the ones who went through fire.”
McGowan nodded, thumping a fist into the dirt.
“Sergeant,” Cruz barked, “belay the theatrics.”
The squad leader looked up, grinning through tobacco-stained teeth.
“No, sir,” he said. “I was just wondering if you’re older than Eagan.”
A few grunts hooted and others applauded. McGowan took a mock bow. Cruz kept a neutral expression.
“Let’s move on,” he said. “Sergeant Denton, how’s your knee?”
Denton had fashioned a crutch to hobble about, staying out of the sight of Commander Zarest. The pain was tolerable, except when he tripped.
“I’m fine, sir,” he said. “I’ll take care of the lines.”
“Good. Sergeant McGowan, Wolf Two’s up tomorrow.”
“Semper Gumby, sir,” McGowan said. “Time to get some back.”
The meeting ended, with Sullivan hanging back.
“What’s bothering you, Staff Sergeant?” Cruz said.
“McGowan doesn’t think before he acts,” Sullivan said. “Binns is wicked smart, a 134 GCT score. I’m putting him in for the officer program.”
“Staff Sergeant, if I tell McGowan to take the hill,” Cruz said, “he charges. Binns would ask, ‘Should I take the hill?’ Sometimes being smart isn’t the right answer. McGowan is my choice.”
WHEN THEY WALKED INTO THE OPS CENTER, Barnes made no effort to hide his relief at seeing Cruz. Knowing he was out of his depth, he had been stalling.
“We have to launch first thing in the morning,” he said. “The front will start hitting in the afternoon.”
Cruz joined the others in front of the colored photomap of Q5F that filled the ninety-inch flat screen. The Helmand River ran through the one-kilometer-square sector at an angle from north to south. A canal sliced southeast from the river. The mosque was at the tip of the land between the river and the canal. A thick jumble of poplars and undergrowth lay to the east, with a wide windrow to the west formed by the river’s flotsam.
“Without choppers,” Cruz said, “the only way in is from the south.”
On an adjoining screen, thermal video from Big Bird showed two sentries at the mosque and two others at the guesthouse, fifty meters to the east.
“Encouraging,” Stovell said. “Someone worth guarding is still there.”
Cruz decided they would approach with two columns, one focused on the mosque and the other on the guesthouse. Each could act as a base of fire for the other, while the sniper team would hang back, with clear fields of fire down the center. The mortars would be on call.
Cruz looked toward Sullivan. He should stay behind. But he looked so eager that Cruz decided to include him.
“Once w
e’re on the objective,” Cruz said, “you take one team while I move with the other.”
An elated Sullivan raised a clenched fist.
“We split into two breaching teams?” McGowan asked.
“No!” Barnes said. “The colonel authorized a recon. If we hit anything heavy, we back off.”
“The sergeant meant that we may have to enter,” Cruz said mildly, “through a wall. Safer that way.”
“Well, OK,” Barnes said. “But remember, this is a highly sensitive mission.”
McGowan looked sideways at Doyle, rolled his eyes, and placed his index finger and thumb close together to indicate a tiny space—a normal, routine patrol. Then he spread his hands wide apart and silently pantomimed the words White House!
After sorting out the details, they took a coffee break. Richards pulled Barnes and Cruz aside.
“Our target may squirt to the mosque,” Richards said. “That’s off limits to Americans. We need some ANA, without telling them where we’re going.”
Barnes began to object.
“You told the colonel it was only the guesthouse…”
When both Richards and Cruz glared at him, Barnes stopped talking.
“I’ll call Golstern,” Cruz said. “He’ll arrange for us to bump into one of Ibril’s patrols.”
Day 6
APRIL 11
45
We Help You, You Help Us
At four in the morning, the muezzin’s ululating call awoke the Persian inside the hujra. He knelt on his prayer rug and, not fully awake, ritually performed his ablutions. When he did not hear the usual belching, farting, and braying of Zar’s men, he remembered most had left during the night. Gratefully he crawled back into his comfortable bed and slept soundly until seven. After washing, he sat down at the aromatic cedar table covered with a clean white cotton sheaf and leisurely ate his soft-boiled egg, served with melon and yogurt. The local mullah was a thoughtful host, and the Persian appreciated his civilized gestures. The air was warm, and a steady breeze carried in the calls of birds in the thickets.
The Persian idly tapped his porcelain spoon and thought about the coming day. He expected a last-minute influx of poppy. He would stash it rather than risk lighting fires to refine it. Besides, the caves were already bulging with heroin. Fortunately, the Vietnamese seemed quite professional. Once the base was breached and the Americans badly hurt, they would pull out.
IN THE PREDAWN GLOOM, the patrol left the wire. Few of the men had gotten much sleep after rumor spread that the president had personally ordered this ultrasecret raid. A “recon” with Rolling Thunder and Eagan in the lead? No, there’d be a gunfight. Maybe Osama bin Laden hadn’t been killed in Pakistan and they were going after him? Or a kidnapped USO troupe, with some hot babes? After the rescue, they’d be invited to a ceremony in the Rose Garden, wearing their blues.
With Wolfe at point, the twenty-two-man column wended its way northwest. Near the front, Cruz was watching on his tablet the slow northerly path of Lieutenant Ibril’s patrol, about six hundred meters to the west. Gradually, Cruz steered toward the ANA. Around seven, with the sun blazing behind a veil of wispy clouds, the patrols were within waving distance of each other. Cruz radioed to Barnes, who was near the rear of the column.
“Eagle Five, we’re in position for Eagle Six to make his call,” he said.
The Marines took a knee and Wolfe, Cruz, and Tic walked toward the ANA patrol. Ibril beckoned to the interpreter Mohamed and they came forward. Cruz thought Ibril looked burnt out. His face seemed too small for his sagging skin, and his eyes drooped as he passively awaited an order from yet another americani.
BACK AT THE OPS CENTER, on cue Coffman called Colonel Ishaq and Golstern, telling them Big Bird had eyes on four Taliban at the mosque. Since both the ANA and Marine patrols were close by, Coffman recommended they push forward jointly. Ishaq paused before answering and glared at Golstern.
“Q5F is my sector,” he said.
“The Marines do everything to support you,” Golstern said. “It will look bad if you don’t help them.”
Ishaq knew he couldn’t directly refuse. A complaint from Coffman would rocket straight to Kabul.
“I cannot respond blindly,” he said. “This decision is up to my patrol leader.”
Ishaq called Ibril on a cell phone and spoke in a fast, clipped Tajik dialect.
STANDING NEAR CRUZ, Ibril listened to Ishaq’s instructions. Then he held the phone away from him as if it were a live grenade and shook his head, making no effort to conceal his anger. Gesturing at Mohamed not to accompany him, Ibril rejoined his men at the edge of the field.
“What’s that about?” Cruz said.
“Ishaq was chewing on him,” Mohamed said, “telling Ibril to say no. That’s all I got. They use Bukhori to shut me out. The askars bitch that I’m an americani. Fuck yes! For three years, I’m an SF terp. Fuck those Tajiks.”
“What’d you pick up, Tic?” Cruz said.
“I don’t do Bukhori either,” Tic said. “That colonel sounded real pissed. I’m guessing Ibril tells us to shove it.”
Ibril and his askars were shouting back and forth, gesturing from the Marines to the far tree lines. Some were pointing in the air, a reference to Big Bird watching them. After several minutes, Ibril walked back to Cruz and looked vaguely around, not certain what to say.
“Mosque is bad, very bad,” Ibril said. “If we help you, you help us?”
Cruz glanced at Tic and Mohamed. Both shrugged blankly.
“Of course,” Cruz replied. “We work together.”
That seemed to satisfy Ibril, although both knew they were talking past each other. He waved at his six askars to come forward. The two groups moved on parallel paths toward Q5F, less than a kilometer to the north. They had barely started when the local ICOM and cell phone nets lit up. Cruz switched to the task force net.
“We’re monitoring all kinds of warnings,” Ahmed radioed, “that you’re headed to the mosque. I judge contact imminent.”
ZAR WAS FIVE KILOMETERS TO THE SOUTH, buying poppy from a farmer delighted at the price, when the watchers called. Their cover phrases were alarming, “goats in the flower beds” and “many foreign herders.” The infidels were approaching the mosque in large numbers.
Zar was caught out of position. Calling over the ICOMs for reinforcements would be suicidal. He knew the Americans had tuned in their direction finders and were watching overhead, eager to call an air strike on any armed convoy headed toward the mosque. And now was not the time to seek guidance from Emir Sadr. The Taliban shura had a firm rule: when under pressure, do not call blindly and risk electronic intercept. Wait for instructions.
46
The Smell of Vinegar
The mosque was a large single-story concrete building, stubby and square, without a cupola or prayer turret. It sat on a slightly elevated patch of bare ground that sloped on the west side down to a gravel wash next to the river. To the east was the two-story guesthouse fronted by a trellis of grape vines.
The Marine and ANA columns were four hundred meters southeast of the mosque when the first shots cracked by. Inside a minute, the shooting increased to ragged volleys, too wild to be dangerous. Bat, bat, bat. Silence. Bat, bat, bat. So erratic were the aim points that the Marines heard only a few pops as bullets broke the sound barrier several meters over their heads. Over the task force net, Ahmed reported that Big Bird had picked up two men running from the guesthouse into the mosque.
Tic was paying no attention to the shooting, absorbed in listening to the headset attached to the pack on his shoulders.
“Yes, our target’s there!” he yelled. “He’s panicked, screaming for help over his cell!”
When the Marines were still two fields away from the mosque, the snaps of the bullets came closer. The Marines flopped down and advanced by bounds, each four-man fire team running forward while the others provided a base of fire. With the suppressors on their M27s and protective ear cups in their helmets,
the Marines could talk to each other without screaming and could concentrate their fire.
Next to the guesthouse were two smaller dwellings for the help. A wooden sentry shack sat atop the compound wall in front of the house, a white Taliban flag fluttering in the steady breeze. Chunks of the wall had torn loose, and there was no gate. On the river side, the wall was badly crumbled. After years of peace, there had been no reason to maintain it.
A guard in the shack had propped the barrel of his AK against the window shelf and was peering out, firing ragged bursts. From seven hundred meters away, Eagan shot him in the head. Two Taliban lugged a PKM out of the mosque and lay down behind it. They got off ten rounds before the laser dots of five M27s converged on them. Small wisps of dust puffed from their gray shalwar kameez as a dozen 6.5mm bullets tore into them. Two mangy dogs, loosed of their chains and big as wolves, tore snarling across the field. Bursts of bullets shattered their knobby forelegs and tore through their stout chests, and they tumbled for a few feet before quivering in death.
In less than a minute, the Marines and askars had reached the ditches outside the guesthouse. Tic yelled in Pashto for anyone inside the hiraj to come out. When there was no response, an engineer crawled up to a wall, slapped on a two-pound C-4 gummy charge, popped the fuse, and sprinted back to the ditch. After the explosion blew out part of the wall in a large billow of gray dust, four Marines rushed inside. Others quickly followed. Two servants cowering in a back room were herded outside. Inside two minutes, the guesthouse was secure. The Persian was not there.
Frightened voices of women and children were coming from two smaller abodes. After Tic shouted a few commands, a throng of women and children flocked into the courtyard. Clinging to each other, they obeyed Tic’s order to stay out of the way. A hasty search found no one hiding inside the buildings. While Barnes stayed with McGowan to set up a defensive perimeter, the agency team ran across the courtyard to join Cruz outside the mosque.
The Last Platoon Page 22
