The Last Platoon

by A Novel of the Afghanistan War (retail) (epub)

  “Our target’s probably hiding in the mosque,” Richards said. “I don’t want a corpse. No shooting if you can avoid it!”

  Shouts were coming faintly from the mosque.

  “Guy inside claims he’s a mullah,” Mohamed said. “Local dialect. He says no Taliban inside.”

  “Tell everyone to come out,” Cruz said, “through the front door.”

  Crouching in the ditch, Ibril and Tic were yelling at each other, almost on the verge of blows.

  “Ibril wants to assault with his askars,” Tic said. “He’s gone crazy.”

  Cruz slid along the ditch until he was upslope a few feet above Ibril. Putting down his M27, he pointed an accusing finger at the lieutenant and his excited askars.

  “Tic, tell him if his men fire one shot,” he shouted, “I’ll disarm them and file charges. Tell him not to fuck with me.”

  Face contorted with anger, Cruz’s voice had risen an octave. Reacting instinctively, McGowan and several Marines had shifted around so that their weapons, muzzles down, faced toward the askars.

  “OK!” Ibril yelled, “OK! OK!”

  The front door opened and a plump mullah dressed in black nervously stepped out, followed by three other men. In response to Tic’s shouts, they stripped off their clothes at a safe distance. Satisfied they had no hidden explosives, the Marines beckoned them to advance to the ditch. After redressing, they were flex-cuffed, blindfolded, and separated. When Barnes rushed up, a frustrated Ibril kept pointing at the mosque, insisting he be allowed to enter.

  “All right, Lieutenant,” Barnes said. “You go in first.”

  Ibril and his askars rushed forward, their tactics sound but hurried. A Marine search team followed at a cautious pace. The long rectangular room was cluttered with cots, blankets, cushions, faded prayer rugs, lanterns, candles, dirty clothing, small washing bowls, chipped enamel cups, tea kettles, loose cartridges, discarded sandals, and pages ripped from magazines.

  “Damn, they trashed their quarters,” McGowan said. “These muj have a piss-poor platoon sergeant.”

  “Guess you don’t have to be neat to pray,” Wolfe said.

  McGowan kicked at a small cardboard box with small red apples printed on the cover. Tic picked up the box and plucked out a pill.

  “Uppers, tramadol,” he said. “In Africa, they feed them to the cattle so they’ll plow the fields. After a Tango pops two of these, he’ll walk through fire.”

  “How do you put down a dude that fucked up?” McGowan said.

  “Two to the head,” Tic said.

  Watching the dial on what looked like a handheld calculator, Stovell had zeroed in on a pile of junk.

  “Stingray’s locked on,” he said.

  He kicked aside a few blankets, rummaged through a crumpled carton, and plucked out a cell phone. Tic poked a bit farther and drew out a crumpled, dirty notebook. After thumbing through a dozen pages, he grinned.

  “It’s an account book,” he said. “Listen to this: Mullah Nastah, 12,000 rupees. Nantush, 16,000. Verben, 20,000. He’s the district chief. Terbol, 7,000. He collects the water tax.”

  Stovell took the notebook.

  “What we have here,” he said, “is the midrash of Helmand.”

  McGowan jumped back.

  “A rash? Drop that thing!”

  Stovell smiled.

  “The paper’s not infected, Sergeant,” he said. “The people are. This is their holy book of greed. These are payments to government officials, mullahs, farmers, middlemen, the whole community. They all share from the poppy.”

  He held up the captured cell phone.

  “I’ll check this out,” he said.

  The askars were tapping at the walls, looking for hiding places.

  “Stinks in here,” McGowan said. “They cook with vinegar?”

  “That’s raw heroin,” Richards said.

  He sniffed and poked around, trying to locate the source of the smell. He looked down and stamped his feet.

  “Stomping out bugs?” McGowan said.

  Richards pointed at the floor.

  “Look at those boards,” he said. “Cedar joists all tied in, solid, no give to them.”

  The terp Mohamed was jerking loose rugs, sending kettles and cups clanging. When he uncovered a trap door, the Marines and askars backed away, wary that shooters were lurking in the cellar beneath them. Once all were outside, Richards pointed at the bosky terrain, the thick scrubs and tough poplars entangled in green leaves.

  “If they’re hiding below,” he said, “they’re certain to have an escape hatch.”

  Cruz turned to the waiting Marines.

  “McGowan, search all the way to the river,” he said. “Take Tic and a few askars with you.”

  A dozen Marines formed a skirmish line, the stiffening east wind blotting out their sounds as they broke through the brush. Within minutes, McGowan radioed back.

  “Wolf Six, we’ve found a sink hole,” he said, “so deep we can’t see the bottom.”

  “That’s a karez,” Mohamed said. “Wells dug by the farmers. Taliban use them all the time.”

  Five more minutes passed before Cruz heard the pop-pop-pop of an M4, followed by McGowan’s husky voice.

  “Wolf Six, an askar lit up a guy breaking cover. There’s a road back here!”

  Leaving Sullivan to cover the mosque, Cruz and Richards moved north through the undergrowth. They found McGowan crouched on a steep slope under a tangle of low-hanging branches. Directly beneath him, two askars and a Marine were peering into the black mouth of a tunnel wide enough to accommodate a small truck. Several feet away a body lay facedown. Ibril was squatting next to the opening, shouting for anyone inside to surrender. There was silence from the tunnel, no shooting and no voices.

  Cruz looked at McGowan.

  “Who’s your best fire team for this job?” he said.

  McGowan considered.

  “I’ll call up Brannon.”

  47

  One Hundred Million Dollars

  In the courtyard, Tic and Stovell were questioning the three prisoners from the mosque. The plump mullah rattled off the names of his two wives and five children. With no hesitation, he added the names of the district chief and the mirab who settled water disputes. And no, he did not know the name of any Taliban.

  The second captive was wearing a soiled kameez and tattered flip-flops. He had a shriveled left arm and limped heavily. His scarred face was twisted into a perpetual sneer, and he tangled his words. He seemed bewildered by simple questions, insisting he cleaned the mosque and made tea for the mullah and his guests. And no Taliban or dussmen ever visited the mosque. They were not welcome.

  The third captive wore a clean gray shalwar, Asolo hiking boots, and a black cotton turban. His beard was neatly trimmed, and in his breast pocket Tic found a pair of wraparound Oakleys.

  “You speak with a Persian accent,” Tic said in Pashto.

  “I am Pashtun,” the Persian replied, “from Farah Province. We trade with Iranians every day.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Mullah al-Aqeeda is my father’s third cousin. I am hoping to export his corn and melons.”

  Tic laughed lightly and nodded at Stovell.

  The Persian didn’t care if his story sounded absurd. The americani could only hold him for a day. Once turned over to the Afghan National Police, he would be released. Losing the heroin was not his fault. That idiot Zar would take the blame. For now, all he had to do was remain vague and not admit anything. He lowered his face, signaling that he wouldn’t answer any more questions. There was a tug on his beard and as his mouth dropped open, he felt a dab of cotton brush against his inner cheek.

  Placing the cotton tip in a zip bag, Stovell picked up his backpack and moved away. Opening his portable DNA kit, he compared the swab with a sample lifted from a teacup in Zabol months earlier. It was a match.

  He smiled at Tic as he sent the confirmation code to Langley.

  CRUZ WAS WAITING ALON
GSIDE MCGOWAN when Corporal Ted Brannon slid down the slope to join them. Brannon, who had played center on his high school basketball team, seemed too tall for the job. He could stumble and trip a wire in there, Cruz thought.

  “You’ve practiced this, Corporal,” he said. “If you sense something’s wrong, back out. I’m good with whatever you decide. This is your show.”

  Cruz felt like a coach giving instructions before sending his star player into the game.

  “Good to go, sir,” Brannon said gravely.

  He crawled over to his team, and they adjusted their night-vision goggles and tested the Sidewinder flashlights secured on the rails of their M27s. At Cruz’s signal, they fired a few bursts down the tunnel and ducked back. There was no return fire. After waiting a minute, they fired three more bursts. Again, no return fire.

  The team slipped into the tunnel, two Marines hugging each wall. After flipping down their infrared two-tubed goggles, they duck-walked forward. The tunnel was as high as a man, with timbers shoring up the sides. The greenish beams of their IR lights bounced off barrels, wheelbarrows, and sacks at the far end of the passage. Alerted by a tinny scraping sound, the team stopped and their four lights gradually centered on a man squatting next to the dirt wall, an AK propped against his knees. He looked like a wax dummy in a carnival fun house. For perhaps a second, the scene was frozen. Then a dozen rounds slammed into him, pounding chunks of his flesh into the dirt wall.

  From deeper in the tunnel, an AK fired, the red flashes dazzling and the sound cascading down the shaft. Again the IR lights converged. The panicky shooter was running away, his back to the Marines. The first round hit the back of his thigh, shoving him forward and he sprawled face-first into the damp dirt. In an instant, the Marines were on top of him, hurling aside his AK, roughly flex-cuffing him before moving past.

  Another fifteen seconds and their lights were bouncing off an open wooden door at the end of the chamber.

  “Three, you good?” McGowan said over his handheld.

  “We’re secure,” Brannon replied. “Got a big room here.”

  “OK, we’re coming in.”

  Eight Marines were soon in the room, green IR beams dancing in all directions. Overhead, heavy timbers laid horizontally supported the floorboards of the mosque. Upstairs, enthusiastic askars had run back into the building. They opened the trap door and climbed down. Poking around, one found a light switch. In the harsh glare of several bare hundred-watt bulbs, the size of the lab was impressive. Several dozen fifty-gallon barrels of precursor chemicals, including acetic anhydride from Pakistan, were stacked along one wall. Next to them were large aluminum tubs and long-handled shovels for mixing the chemicals with the bulging sacks of opium pitch heaped against the opposite wall. At the end of the room nearest the tunnel sat an industrial-strength stove, vented by twin tin chimneys, for heating a few vats. A quarter of the cave was taken up by hundreds of wrapped plastic bags looking like small loafs of uncut black bread.

  HM3 Bushnell was tending to the wounded Taliban, whose right leg had ballooned up like a boiled sausage. The man was whimpering, looking at his gargantuan leg with wide, disbelieving eyes. Doc glanced at Cruz and shook his head.

  “Artery’s been cut,” he said. “Only thing holding the blood in is his skin.”

  McGowan grabbed Brannon by his web gear.

  “I don’t want blood spilling all over the place,” McGowan said. “Move him outside.”

  “Why my team? We did the clearing!”

  “Yeh, the kills are yours,” McGowan said. “Now clean this up.”

  As the dying man was dragged out, Stovell was taking photos of the heroin stash.

  “This shit looks like it came out of my ass,” McGowan says. “And it stinks. I’ve seen the flicks. Good heroin is white and soft like flour.”

  Stovell laughed, picked up a plastic bag, and tossed it in his hand.

  “Sergeant, heroin turns white when it’s cut with strychnine,” Stovell said. “You’re looking at pure HCL heroin. This bag sells for two hundred K on the streets in Europe.”

  Barnes had climbed down the ladder and was eagerly looking around.

  “Can I tell Eagle Six,” Barnes said, “mission accomplished?”

  Richards looked at Stovell, who shook his head. The Marines had no need to know.

  “Report that you took down a top-level heroin lab,” Richards said. “Don’t mention my team. After you call in, I have a favor to ask.”

  Minutes later, the cave was empty except for the CIA team and the Iranian mullah. They turned off the lights, placed the Persian alone in front of the heroin stash, removed his blindfold, and took several pictures as he blinked at the camera flashes.

  “Perfect,” Stovell said. “The president will love it. Catnip for the press.”

  They walked out of the tunnel and joined Cruz, who was tracking several blue dots on his tablet.

  “I have teams looking for other caves,” he said.

  A few rifle shots followed by high-pitched babbling in Tajik came from a thick tangle of bush off to the west. The command group moved in that direction, with Tic shouting at the askars not to shoot them. After ten minutes of breaking through brush, they reached an askar standing next to another karez. A man in a torn shalwar was lying on his side, his wrists flex cuffed behind his back.

  “They captured this Tango,” Tic said. “Ibril’s gone down that hole with a couple of his guys.”

  “That’s stupid,” Cruz said. “He doesn’t have the right gear or training. He’ll get his ass killed.”

  Tic started to reply, then thought better of it. Instead, he knelt at the cave entrance and shouted loudly in Pashto. Ibril yelled back and slowly climbed up a sturdy wooden ladder, followed by three askars.

  “Much down there,” Ibril said.

  Cruz, followed by Stovell and Barnes, climbed down. The small cave was well ventilated, with a solid roof and a backup generator. Used solely for storage, the stacked shelves held over a thousand one-kilo bags of heroin.

  “Gentlemen, you’ve found the Amazon warehouse of Helmand Province,” Stovell said. “You’ve busted one hundred million dollars of black tar heroin.”

  Barnes grinned, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “That’s a Bravo Zulu!” he said. “The colonel won’t believe this!”

  They climbed back up the ladder, and Barnes rushed off to call Coffman.

  “Blast it,” Cruz said.

  The Marines placed ten pounds of C-4 inside, set the fuse for five minutes, and backed off. The explosion collapsed the cave, grinding the heroin into the dirt.

  It was approaching noon. They had been on the objective for an hour, and the wind was increasing.

  “Major Barnes,” Cruz said, “we should move out before the Tangos swarm in. I’ll send Ibril back to his sector.”

  “OK,” Barnes said, “but I have to ask permission to destroy the mosque.”

  “If you do,” Richards said, “the colonel has to ask Kabul. We’ll be stuck here all afternoon.”

  Barnes hesitated. The speed and success of the operation had delighted him. This was likely to be the only field operation in his career, and he was grateful for their expertise. He waited for a suggestion.

  “Mosques are Afghan business,” Cruz said.

  He looked over at Ibril, who was chatting with his askars.

  “Lieutenant Ibril,” he shouted, “we destroy mosque?”

  Ibril frowned and flapped his hand. It was none of his business what the americanis did.

  “What’s bothering him?” Cruz said. “A few minutes ago, we couldn’t hold him back.”

  “You asked him in front of others,” Tic said. “If he burns their mosque, the Pashtuns will track down his family.”

  “My bad,” Cruz said.

  “Ibril’s not good or bad,” Tic said. “He’s Tajik.”

  “I can’t call an air strike on the mosque,” Barnes said, “not with women and kids here.”

  “We can bu
rn it,” Stovell said. “Opium melts like wax. They’ll salvage some, not much.”

  For the past hour, Barnes had been on the net with Eagle Six, who had nitpicked every move. With his self-confidence surging, he now made his own command decision.

  “Do it,” Barnes said. “I’ll tell the colonel later. Light it and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Each squad was carrying two TH3 incendiary grenades with eight hundred grams of thermite filler that burned for forty seconds. McGowan climbed down into the cavern beneath the mosque, smashed open several barrels of the precursor chemicals, and wedged in two grenades. He removed the safety latches, straightened the cotter pins, and pulled. As the grenades popped in white fizzling flashes, he climbed back up the ladder. Within seconds, the iron oxide reached four thousand degrees Fahrenheit and the melting began.

  On the cedar floor above, the Marines had heaped rugs and other combustibles into piles. Once they heard the pops from the cellar, they set off their own incendiaries. As the trash flared up, they strolled outside. McGowan had seized an inscribed white Taliban flag that he whipped back and forth, celebrating the bonfire.

  “Burn, you mother!” McGowan yelled playfully. “Burn!”

  “Stop!” Tic shouted. “Give me the flag.”

  McGowan stood back, dropping the flag into the dirt.

  “What’s your problem, bro?” he said.

  “The flag say Muhammad is the messenger of Allah,” Tic said. “What you do is shahada.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if it’s whahada,” McGowan said. “I’m bringing this rag home.”

  “No!” Tic said. “That will cause big trouble.”

  McGowan glanced at Cruz.

  “Tic has a point,” Cruz said. “Leave it.”

  “An enemy flag is sacred?” McGowan said. “This is one messed-up war, sir.”

  “Your strategic insight is duly noted, Sergeant,” Cruz said. “Now get into formation. We’re OTM. Ibril takes the Talib prisoner. The two mullahs come with us.”

  AS THEY WALKED AWAY from the compound, thick gray smoke was pouring from the mosque. The servant with the stunted left arm and scarred face was standing in the courtyard, waving his cane for the women and children to hurl buckets of water at the flames. Once the Marines were beyond the wall, he ducked around the corner of the guesthouse, took out his ICOM, and called Zar.