The Last Platoon

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

  “It is death that will keep you,” Tic said. “Remember those swabs I stuck in your mouths? I infected you with the virus. When the fever comes, your lungs will fill with yellow crud and you will slowly suffocate. It takes about a day.”

  Both mullahs mumbled incoherent prayers. Tic shone his flashlight on the two needles he was holding.

  “This vaccine will save you,” he said. “Tell the truth, or die here, with your bodies buried under a ton of earth, unclaimed forever.”

  When the Persian didn’t respond, Tic shrugged and left. Once outside, he huddled with Richards and Stovell.

  “By tomorrow afternoon,” Richards said, “we have to fly the Iranian out.”

  “He’ll break before then,” Tic said, “and give up his network. He’s not a true salif.”

  Richards turned to the sentry standing a few feet away.

  “Thanks for standing guard,” Richards said. “You can bar that door for the night.”

  “You’re not coming back,” the sentry said, “with food or a shit bucket?”

  “Not until morning,” Richards said. “If they start screaming, ignore them.”

  INSIDE THE PLATOON TENT, Sullivan, cheeks flushed with excitement, was conducting the after-action debrief. He looked up when Cruz walked in.

  “OK if the men crap out here when I’m finished, sir?” Sullivan said.

  Everyone was worn down, and most had lost between five and ten pounds during the week. If they dispersed now to their bunkers, they’d spend the next few hours sharing their adventure with those who hadn’t been there. When it was their turn to stand watch, they’d be exhausted.

  “Affirmative, Staff Sergeant,” Cruz said. “Four hours’ rack time. Bravo Zulu, devil dogs!”

  Grins all around. Cruz paused, then shifted gears.

  “Let’s focus on our next task,” he said. “Tonight’s storm will be heavy. The GPS might malfunction. I want the squad leaders to memorize the compass heading and number of steps to each bunker. What’s the password tonight, Staff Sergeant?”

  “Semper, sir.”

  Cruz raised his right arm like a conductor before an orchestra and cocked his left hand to his ear.

  “Fidelis!” the Marines shouted in unison.

  After glancing at his watch, Cruz gestured at Denton, who was sitting in the rear. Once they were outside, Cruz took out his lensatic compass.

  “Sergeant, while it’s still light,” he said, “let’s walk the lines.”

  “Think it’ll get bad, sir?”

  “Back in ’03, I was a snuffy turret gunner on the march up to Baghdad,” Cruz said. “A dust storm hit us, and I felt like I was locked in a closet with no light. Let’s be ready.”

  With compass in hand and Denton hobbling beside him, Cruz set out to inspect the perimeter. He stopped first at Bunker Five on the east side, nearest the ops center. He was amused to see the sentry crouched behind the neck-high parapet, staring fixedly through his binoculars.

  “Anything to report, Delgado?” he said lightly.

  The surprised teenager looked up, then flushed.

  “The workers are leaving the fields early, sir. Maybe we’re going to get hit.”

  In the distance, a few workers were climbing onto a rusty tractor. The wind was pushing the incandescent poppy plants sideways. In the thinning light, the bulbs looked like strings of Christmas lights, dancing and jiggling.

  “I wouldn’t leap to that conclusion,” Cruz said. “Wind’s too high to lance poppy, so the workers are going home. How long you been on watch?”

  “Since zero six, sir, when the patrol left. Guess I wasn’t good enough to be selected.”

  Jealous and hurt, he had blurted out his frustration. Then, realizing how it sounded, he rushed on.

  “The private didn’t mean that, sir,” he said.

  “Delgado, this isn’t the recruit depot,” Cruz said. “I’m not going to chew on you. Look, the patrol was chosen by rotation. If there’s another patrol, you’re next up. Every Marine does his part.”

  Delgado brightened.

  “Cool, sir. Is it true we’re getting the CAR?”

  “What, you think the Taliban are selective? You’ve all been shot at. You all get the Combat Action Ribbon and can spin bullshit combat stories for the rest of your lives.”

  “We’re wrapping up soon, sir?”

  “Only a few more clicks to Lash. Stay alert.”

  Cruz rapped a pleased Delgado on his helmet and moved on. He took his time getting to the next bunker, sixty meters away. Denton was using two rough crutches, putting little weight on his left leg.

  “McGowan was right about you, Sergeant,” Cruz said. “You are a horse. But remember, they shoot crippled horses.”

  Denton laughed.

  “Your sympathy is appreciated, Honorable Captain, sir.”

  Cruz smiled. The NCOs had come around, except for Binns.

  Recording each compass heading and the number of steps, they walked from post to post, spending ten to fifteen minutes in each bunker. When they reached the west side, Cruz stopped at the gate leading to Ibril’s position on the far side of the wire. After a few minutes Ibril walked up, his face blank. In the fading light, the wind was blowing flecks of dirt and straw.

  “Tonight will be bad,” Cruz said, brushing at his face.

  “Dussmen stay inside in bad weather,” Ibril said. “My soldiers stay awake.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow.”

  Ibril’s eyes widened. The face-off was behind them.

  “Shukran,” Ibril said.

  Cruz headed toward the next post.

  “Ibril’s squared away,” Denton said.

  “I’m not passing out roses,” Cruz said. “He’ll probably keep a few sentries up, but don’t count on them. You’re in charge of this sector.”

  It was early evening when Cruz returned to the squad tent. Sullivan had roused the sleeping Marines and sent them back to their bunkers. Cruz poked through a stack of MRE leftovers, settling on beef enchilada with refried beans. He kneaded and mashed the package to mix the meal. Once it was heated, he walked over to the ops center. Lasswell and Gunny Maxwell were holding their nightly ops chat with Golstern. As he listened, Cruz poked a plastic fork into the soggy mess.

  “Hey, Matt,” Lasswell said over the radio, “RT’s joined us, smelling ripe.”

  “Solid hit today, brother!” Golstern said. “That dust storm coming in? The askars call it a hamoun, one big mother.”

  “I’ve been caught in one,” Cruz said. “It’s a bitch.”

  “We’re staying open for business,” Lasswell said. “Colonel Coffman wants to wrap up this op.”

  “He told me to light a fire under Ishaq,” Golstern said. “You’ll fill your quota tonight. Stay safe.”

  After Golstern signed off, Cruz turned to Lasswell.

  “Quota?”

  “Ishaq has his people call in a fire mission every two or three hours,” Lasswell said. “We’ve killed all the Tangos in this district three times over. Pure theater on Ishaq’s part.”

  “You won’t be pulling lanyards tonight,” Cruz said. “I don’t trust radar in this storm. Can you give me thirty of your people to help man the lines?”

  Lasswell looked at her ops chief.

  “The captain has a point,” Maxwell said. “We’re expecting winds of seventy miles an hour. Our radar has a sixteen kilohertz pulse. It’ll signal that every bush is attacking us. Thirty troops? We can accommodate that.”

  “That’s a tough call,” Lasswell said. “I’m in, but we have to brief Major Barnes.”

  They walked over to the intel section where Barnes and Ahmed were editing the overhead video of the raid on the mosque. Barnes was bubbling.

  “The colonel’s sending this video to Washington,” Barnes said. “SecDef will watch it, maybe even the White House. Seven enemy KIA, not one friendly cas, two high value prisoners, and a hundred million in heroin burned. Damn, we’re good! What’ve you got?”

>   After Cruz stated his request, Barnes looked at Lasswell, who deferred to her ops chief.

  “I’ll stand down two guns, sir,” Maxwell said. “Their crews can catch up on sleep in the morning. We’ll have all guns back on line by afternoon.”

  Barnes’s good cheer sagged as he looked at Cruz.

  “Do you really, really have to ask for this?” he said.

  “My people are dragging,” he said. “Our posts are spread far apart.”

  Barnes shook his head. “You lost that argument when we first arrived. But if you insist, let’s ask the colonel.”

  The meeting was short. Coffman looked perplexed.

  “Major, why didn’t you inform me the Taliban are likely to attack?” he said.

  “We have no indications of that, sir,” Barnes said.

  “When did the Taliban last assault an American position?”

  “Uh, I think that was in 2012, sir.”

  Coffman widened his eyes for theatrical effect.

  “That’s ancient history, Major, not actionable intelligence,” he said. “I ordered Colonel Ishaq to get his ass in gear. I’m not giving him the excuse that I took two of my guns off the line.”

  Barnes hastened to make amends.

  “Understood, sir,” he said.

  Coffman rose and looked in turn at each of his subordinates.

  “Major, provide a list of all the precautions we’ve taken,” he said. “Captain Cruz, can you spare me a few minutes?”

  After the others left, Coffman sighed for dramatic effect, fingers tapping the desk, and spoke in a paternal tone.

  “Captain, your job is to stand guard,” he said. “The cannoneers’ job is to support a final push by Ishaq. I’ll give you an extra generator for the radar. That should do it.”

  Cruz felt his face reddening. Time and again, he had backed down from Coffman.

  “I’ve been through a hamoun, sir,” Cruz said. “That’s why I’m asking for more men.”

  “In that previous storm, how many casualties did you take?”

  “None, sir. There was no attack. Everyone was hunkered down.”

  Instead of yelling, Coffman wearily shook his head.

  “Precisely my point,” he said. “The storm will drive everyone to shelter. We’ll be picking sand out of our ears for a week. There’s no evidence of a pending attack. Hell, you tore them up at that mosque! You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cruz said, “but…”

  Coffman waved his hand to cut him off.

  “Good, we agree on the basic assumption,” he said. “There’s no ev-i-dence. You did well today. Let’s leave it at that.”

  51

  The Storm Gathers

  When Cruz entered the platoon tent after dark, the air felt clammy. The tent sides were usually rolled up a few feet to allow air to circulate. With wind gusts now buffeting the tent, the sides were pegged down and Cruz found it hard to breathe. Sullivan was sitting with his back against a tent pole, staring at a laptop computer. Blue dots numbered Bunkers One through Twelve were shining brightly in a clockwise square.

  “Solid reads and good comms with all bunkers, sir,” Sullivan said.

  Binns was responsible for Bunkers One through Four to the north, and McGowan for Bunkers Five through Eight to the east. To the west, Denton had Bunkers Nine through Twelve.

  “We’ll stand the normal watch in the ops center,” Cruz said. “Staff Sergeant, you’re first up. I’ll monitor from here.”

  Sullivan nodded and headed for the center. Through the NCO channels, he’d heard about friction with the colonel. It made sense for the captain to stay out of Coffman’s sight.

  Richards and Stovell were studying the blue bunker dots on the laptop.

  “Pressure’s dropping,” Stovell said. “It’ll be sixty knots after midnight. Debris is sure to distort the GPS signals.”

  Cruz looked at Doyle sitting off to one side with Eagan, Ashford, and two other Marines.

  “Sergeant Doyle,” he said, “you’re in charge of the snipers as the Quick Reaction Force. If I call you out, follow your damn compass.”

  Cruz’s tone was sharp, fatigue having worn down his body and Coffman having soured his mood. Doyle gave him a surprised look.

  “Fresh intel, skipper?”

  Cruz shook his head.

  “Negative. The muj are quiet.”

  BY 10:00 P.M., FORTY TALIBAN HAD GATHERED in the lee of the trees in Nantush’s pomegranate orchard, their backs to the wind pelting them with pebbles and twigs. Most had wrapped kufiyas around their faces and were wearing boots or Skechers instead of sandals. All had covered the receivers of their weapons. Some were adjusting skiing or welder’s goggles and, to Quat’s amusement, one old man was wearing sunglasses to protect his eyes.

  The three Vietnamese had slipped into thin body-length black swimsuits, complete with hoods and swimming goggles. Each carried a vest containing an ICOM, wire cutters, heavy gloves, and cyalume sticks. Quat watched as Zar doled out pills to his fighters, who received them like a religious sacrament. In his eyes, they were Mongols, the ignorant descendants of Genghis Khan. He didn’t care how these bearded illiterates found their courage.

  He was paid to guide them through the wire. After that, what happened was up to these bearded believers who seemed willing to die. Zar had issued no orders for withdrawal, and farmers were lining up wheelbarrows for the fallen. Quat was glad he wouldn’t be joining them in the assault wave. They’d need more than pills to protect them from the beefy Marines.

  Zar was solemn as he inspected the four suicide bombers. Each had a bodyguard, and all were dressed in Afghan Army uniforms. The bodyguards, equally committed to martyrdom, provided a second set of eyes and sense of direction in the storm. The pack of each bomber contained three kilos of C-4, enough to obliterate a small house. He patted their shoulders, murmuring encouragement.

  Next he unfurled his black battle flag, the symbol of total war. In the dark, none could see the color of the flag, but the flapping of the cloth stirred the mujahideen. Satisfied all was ready, he gestured at Hamullah to leave. The three-fingered old man grinned and headed north with a PKM machine gun and an RPG crew. Zar led his thirty fighters in single file west through the orchard to their jumping-off point at the edge of the foliage.

  By midnight, all the pieces for the assault were in place. To reach the firebase, they had to get through both coiled and straight strands of barbed wire strung across sixty meters of open ground where the americanis had hacked down all undergrowth. Having rehearsed the movement, Quat calculated his team could slither forward, snipping one strand of wire after another, at a rate of one meter per minute. He had doubled that estimate and told Zar to be ready to assault at two in the morning.

  The sharp wind was blowing westerly toward the firebase, whipping Quat’s back with broken branches. He grabbed Zar by the elbow and held up two fingers. Zar tapped his watch in agreement. The three sappers lay down on their stomachs and wiggled out from the bushes. Quat had snaked forward less than five meters before he grinned. The screaming wind was blasting past his ears. His face wasn’t eight inches off the ground and still the dust was so thick he could barely read the luminous needle on the lensatic compass he was holding in front of his nose. Perfect cover! One meter a minute.

  Day 7

  APRIL 12

  52

  Broken Arrow

  Quat knew the Afghans lacked tactical patience. Once he gave the signal, they would rush forward wildly, yelling, “Allahu Akbar,” too frenzied to think. He was compensating for that by opening a wide gap in the wire all the way up to the bunkers, following the path he had watched the Marines use. It had three zigzags, meaning more wire to cut than if he took a straight path. But it was clear of mines, acoustic sensors, and trip flares.

  When he reached the first coil, his companion snipped the wire, pushed it two feet to the right, and tied it back. Quat pulled the other strand the same distance to the left, cinched
it off, and anchored it with a short bamboo stake. He dug a shallow hole with his knife and took a cyalume stick from his pack. After snapping it to ignite the chemical, he placed it in the hole. Good. One wire breached, leaving a four-foot opening. Two dozen to go.

  After ninety minutes, the three sappers had cleared a lane from the tree line across the sixty meters of open space leading to Bunker Five. Once near the bunker, they cut the final coils of wire and peeled back a five-foot section. Satisfied they had opened a path through all the barriers, Quat gestured to his two assistants to go back and bring up the four suicide bombers and their bodyguards. Only after hearing the suicide explosions would Zar lead the assault wave of his holy warriors.

  Squatting alone inside the wire in the raging wind, Quat felt a pang of anxiety. Had he measured correctly in the blackness? If so, Bunker Five lay close by to his right, several meters north. On his hands and knees, he crawled in that direction. In the wind and dust, he couldn’t hear or see, but in less than a minute he felt the steep upward slope of the bunker’s revetment. Relieved, he clawed at the dirt, scooped out a hole, snapped a cyalume, and placed it in upright. A final touch. Now even a doped-up zombie could see where to hurl his body and disintegrate the Marines. That done, Quat crawled back the ten meters to the cut in the wire. His companions had returned with the four suicide teams. They all lay down to wait for the diversion.

  ZAR HAD CONFIDENCE IN THREE-FINGERED HABULLAH. Yes, he panted and pawed for his daily Captagon pill from Lebanon, costing much more than the tomato pills from Africa. Zar supported his five-dollar-a-day habit because the old man was steady. He hadn’t backed down from the Asian, and he knew where to cross the canals. Zar wasn’t surprised when the call came promptly at 2:00 a.m.

  “The water is cold,” Habullah radioed. “Allahu Akbar.”

  When he finished his brief radio message, Habullah did as instructed and left his ICOM on. The Americani would focus their radio direction finding toward Habullah, adding to the diversion. The old man and his four mujahideen were lying in an irrigation ditch four hundred meters to the north, facing the Marine bunkers farthest from the ops center. Habullah leaned over and tapped the PKM machine gunner on the shoulder.