THREE SUICIDE BOMBERS WERE DEAD. The fourth was wandering aimlessly inside the artillery compound. He had broken his goggles, and his bodyguard was leading him by the hand. Utterly lost, they had agreed to blow themselves up as soon as they stumbled upon an infidel, any infidel. With his head down, the bodyguard walked straight into Stovell.
Jolted by pure terror, both men jumped back, with Stovell stumbling into Lasswell. The bodyguard recovered first, dropping the bomber’s hand and swinging up his AK. Stovell shoved hard with his left hand, sending Lasswell sprawling out of harm’s way. Only then did he raise his pistol. But he had lost three seconds. He saw the muzzle of the AK flash brightly and he felt a hammer hit him in the throat. The pain shocked his nerve system and he stood stock still, paralyzed.
Eagan took one step forward, firing as he advanced. His first bullet caught the shooter in the shoulder. With his second step, Eagan had closed the short distance. He shoved the pistol barrel against the Taliban’s face and squeezed the trigger. Pistol extended, he swung to his left. Before the suicide bomber could react, Eagan shot him in the cheek. As the man staggered back, Eagan placed the muzzle against the man’s temple and blew out his neural circuitry. The gunfight had lasted six seconds.
Stovell was down on one knee. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t work. The pistol slipped from his hand and he slowly pitched forward. Lasswell rushed over and rolled him onto his back. Blood was pumping out the right side of his neck. She was trying to stanch it with her hand when Eagan pushed her aside and grasped Stovell by his vest. He hugged him, squeezing his forearms against Stovell’s neck, as if that could dam the gushing. Stovell’s head lolled forward as the blood spurts lessened and his heart fluttered to a stop.
On either side of them, the two Marines were in semicrouches, M27s leveled, peering outboard into the dirt-filled void. Eagan stood and flipped the body onto his back in a fireman’s carry, the blood from the cavernous wound splashing across his face. His ruck tore open and Tinker Toys spilled out, whipped away by the wind.
Lasswell screamed into his ear.
“Let him go! We got to check the gun pits!”
Eagan dully nodded and unslung the body. Lasswell took a compass reading and they moved off, leaving Stovell behind.
AT THE OPS CENTER, the NCOs were trying to restore a sense of order. Coffman, still woozy, pretended to assume the role of senior officer and brushed aside several offers of medical aid. His nose bled whenever he moved his head too rapidly, and he had a remorseless headache throbbing in rhythm with his pulse. Golstern kept calling, apologetically explaining that Kabul and Washington were demanding updates every minute. Coffman kept replying that the battle was continuing, while adding no details
He hadn’t said or done anything that affected the outcome. He knew Wolf Six was heavily engaged somewhere. Yet he vaguely recalled he had told Cruz to stand down. After all, his carelessness had caused the whole mess. With the wind howling and the hard dirt pelting him, Coffman wandered about in a semidaze, ignored by the others.
Battery-powered lanterns provided light, and a paper drawing of the perimeter was spread on the ground, heavily anchored at all four corners against the wind ripping through the shattered tent. Coffman had the sense not to challenge or distract Richards, who was coordinating updates from the bunkers along the perimeter. As radio reports came in, the numbers and rough locations of the scattered units were filled in.
Several feet away, Gunny Maxwell received a call from Lasswell. He walked over and put his hand on Richards’s shoulder.
“There was a fight at Gun Pit One. Stovell’s KIA. Eagan is staying with Captain Lasswell. Sorry, bro.”
Richards nodded and pushed the news out of his consciousness. He squinted at the diagram of the perimeter. With a Magic Marker, he drew a large X at Gun Pit One. Similar Xs showed the locations of the other fights—Binns near Bunker Two, Cruz at Bunker Five, McGowan at Bunker Seven.
Coffman wobbled up and looked down at the Xs.
“Four contacts, Colonel, all to the east,” Richards said. “Cruz has plugged the break at Bunker Five. Don’t know how many muj are inside the wire.”
Coffman tried to focus. He squinted toward Barnes, who was standing behind Ahmed and Tic. They were listening to intercepts of ICOM and cell phones.
“Barnes,” Coffman barked, “what’s your take?”
“Heavy ICOM traffic from the farmers,” Barnes said. “They’re evacuating wounded from the wire. Our 320s have them piss scared. Sounds like the attack has stalled out.”
Coffman was slowly regaining his senses.
“Could be a deception to throw us off guard,” he said. “You’re sure the farmers are working with the Taliban?”
Tic and Ahmed exchanged a glance.
“We’re sure, sir,” Ahmed said. “We’re not picking up any attack orders. They’re definitely confused out there.”
Less than half an hour had passed since Coffman had been knocked off his feet. The wind had dropped to thirty knots but was still whipping up a thick blanket of dust. Did he dare hope it was over?
Cruz came in, looked around, and headed over to talk to Barnes. Coffman didn’t recognize him. He looked like a bear that had been rooting in a garbage pit, his red, blinking eyes the only human feature. In a slurred voice, he assured Barnes that no more muj could get through the cut.
“I’m out of men,” Cruz said. “I need at least five Marines standing by as QRF. If called, I’ll lead them out.”
Coffman listened with a splitting head and a stomach on the verge of vomiting. He wanted to do something to show he was in command. He pushed forward between Barnes and Cruz.
“Holding the line isn’t enough,” he said. “We have to flush out the bastards inside the wire. I want killer teams spread out across the base, now!”
Barnes didn’t reply, leaving it up to Cruz.
“I can’t see my hand in front of my face out there, sir,” Cruz said. “If you send out combat patrols, they’ll shoot each other. We hold our positions, stay flat, and let the muj come to us. Once the storm passes, we finish off any stragglers, not now.”
“I agree, sir,” Barnes said.
Coffman didn’t let go. He wanted Kabul and Washington to know he was on top of things, that he hadn’t choked or lost his nerve. He had to do something. Take charge!
“You agree?” he said. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. I’m giving an order.”
Unnoticed, Richards had gotten to his feet. He spoke in a low growl, his frustration and sense of loss over Stovell spilling out.
“You want to blunder around blind, Colonel?” he said. “OK, I’ll go with you. One dumbass colonel and one dumbass paramilitary operative. And after we shoot Lance Corporal Shit-For-Luck, we’ll be famous. Hoorah for us. You ready? Let’s go.”
Coffman was too shocked to react. He’d underestimated Richards. The man was challenging him in front of his staff in the middle of a battle.
Barnes quickly intervened.
“I don’t have the people to send out, sir,” he said. “It’ll take a while to get any search organized.”
Coffman had the dim sense to accept the exit.
“Well, inform me when you’re organized, Major,” he said.
In the pre-dawn hours, no Marines were sent out to wander around blindly.
56
Control the Narrative
As the ops center was sorting out the confusion of battle, Towns and Michaels were entering the Oval Office. POTUS, flanked by Armsted, was watching the 6:00 p.m. news; Diane Baxter was looking at her notes; and Dick Deo, the White House lawyer, was sitting unobtrusively next to the grandfather clock.
“Nothing on the news yet,” Dinard said. “What’ve you got, Admiral?”
“Sir, it’s three in the morning at the firebase,” Michaels said. “Communications are spotty, but the base seems to be holding.”
“Shit, it isn’t over?” Dinard said. “You’re telling me they can still be overrun?”
/>
“No way of knowing, sir. It’s a fast-moving storm, so conditions should improve by daybreak over there, about three hours from now.”
“I want them given all help, you understand?” Dinard said loudly. “Don’t hold anything back! Make sure they get everything, everything.”
Deo dutifully scribbled a legal note for the record.
“General Gretman has Rangers on strip alert at Kandahar, sir,” Michaels said. “As soon as the dust lifts, they launch.”
“Admiral, what do we know about casualties?” Diane Baxter said.
“Preliminary reports indicate several fatalities,” Michaels said, “with others critically wounded.”
The lawyer spoke up in a soft voice.
“Admiral, can you copy me on your execute order about sending help?” Deo said.
Caught off guard, Towns glared at Deo.
“That order,” he said, “went from me as SecDef to the Chairman an hour ago. That’s the proper chain of command.”
After glancing at POTUS, the lawyer replied in a neutral tone.
“I’m not suggesting anything irregular, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “My job is to dot the i’s, to provide a legal audit trail, so to speak. Our political adversaries are sure to accuse us of not helping the task force.”
“And I can assure you,” Towns said, “that we’re doing all we can.”
Dinard wearily gestured for them all to leave.
TOWNS AND MICHAELS RETURNED to the National Military Command Center inside the Pentagon, where televideo linked them to General Gretman in Kabul, CENTCOM General Laird in Tampa, and his Marine deputy, Killian. There were no video images from Firebase Bastion, where it was 4:00 a.m. on a black, dust-clogged morning. Golstern, four kilometers away from the firebase, was relaying voice information to the NMCC. Over the next two hours, the generals learned that the perimeter at Bastion was secure and the wind had decreased. By 6:00 a.m., visibility on the base had improved to thirty feet, allowing a slow search by small hunter-killer teams.
“Sorry the info flow is so choppy, sir,” Gretman said.
Towns looked at the video screen where a parabolic map showed which parts of Helmand were visible from which satellite feeds. He gestured around the room, where dozens of officers were tending to the phones, computers, and weather reports.
“I was thinking what historians might write about this,” he said. “All these generals, satellites, and computers focused on garbled radio reports from an exhausted Special Forces captain in a bunker seven thousand miles away…”
“If we go home, the watch officers here will breathe a sigh of relief,” Michaels said jokingly.
“Yes, and the press will kill us,” Towns said. “We have to stay, but let’s not pester that captain.”
AT BASTION, THE FIGHTING HAD CEASED. No Taliban outside the wire was shooting randomly into the thick haze. Richards had drawn a detailed sketch of where the Marine groups were hunkered down. Via radio, a roster of all personnel was tallied. Having stabilized the wounded and relieved their pain with ketamine and morphine, Commander Zarest was fretfully waiting for tacevac. After a sweep, the firebase and the landing zone were declared secure at 0700.
Coffman had retreated to his wrecked office. He popped six aspirin for his splitting headache. After ordering a heavy canvas draped over the entrance, he called in Barnes.
“What’s the latest on casualties?”
“Nine angels, sir. Twenty-seven wounded, two critic. Birds are inbound.”
Coffman glanced down at his checklist, straining to concentrate. Unconsciously he nipped at the crust from his bloody nose, loosing a stream of red.
“Sir, maybe you should go over to med…”
Coffman dismissively waved his hand.
“The doctor’s busy enough,” he said. “What about the terrorists? Severe losses, I expect?”
“Five bodies found on base, sir.”
“Five? That all? Impossible.”
“Some blew themselves to bits, sir,” Barnes said carefully. “Those outside the wire, well, the farmers are body snatchers. They clean everything up.”
“Bull shit! We fired thousands of rounds! We killed dozens!”
“The dust will prevent overhead video for a couple of days, sir. The muj will be buried by then.”
As Coffman continued to glare, Barnes hastened to calm him down.
“The one killed at Bunker Five was wearing a rubber suit and carrying wire cutters. Looks Chinese, no beard.”
Coffman scribbled a note. Maybe he could use that. He reached down and picked up an American flag folded inside a plastic sheaf.
“Rig a pole and run up this flag. Scatter those bodies near it, close enough for photos.”
An exhausted Barnes was slow on the uptake.
“Sir, there’s a reg prohibiting pictures of enemy dead.”
“We’re not taking pictures, Major,” Coffman said. “The press is. I want the reporters to see Bastion in our hands. It’s our home, our turf. When terrorists attack us here, they’re fucking with America, and they die. That’s the photo I want—our flag and their dead.”
In the background, the throb of incoming choppers could be heard.
“Got it, sir,” Barnes said. “We’ve spliced the cables for the PRC-132. Comms are back up. I’ll tell Captain Golstern we’ll handle it from here.”
The steady thump-thump of rotor blades was increasing. Coffman was unconsciously drumming his fingers in beat with the chopper noise. He stopped, stared into space, picked up his notebook, and began to write quickly.
“Excuse me, sir, maybe I wasn’t clear,” Barnes said. “We can connect you by voice to Kabul.”
A pulse of anger drove through Coffman’s head.
“This battle isn’t over, Major. The winner is the one who controls the narrative. I’ll release a message only after our wounded arrive safely in Kandahar. We hold off talking from Bastion until that’s done.”
Outside, there was no real daybreak. The blackness ebbed into a deep, sultry orange. In feats of magnificent flying with zero visibility and no sense of depth, two Army 47s and two Marine CH-53s touched down in massive billows of dust. The wounded and dead were swiftly carried on board and the choppers took off for Kandahar.
WHEN THE CHOPPERS TOUCHED DOWN forty minutes later at the sprawling airfield, a long row of ambulances and military vehicles was waiting. Several hundred American and Afghan servicemen and civilians had gathered, standing respectfully on both sides of the line of vehicles. The CH-53 carrying the dead, wrapped in black body bags and blankets, was shielded from view when it landed a hundred meters distant. The other helicopters touched down near the ambulances. First to be unloaded were the stretchers holding the severely wounded, intravenous bags on poles fluttering like banners. The mass of onlookers stood silently. The only sounds were the camera shutters on hundreds of cell phones clicking and clicking.
Next came two-dozen walking wounded, gently helped down the ramps. Some wobbled, others limped, and a few hobbled, leaning on torn strips of boards in place of crutches. All were coated with dust, their features scarcely human, their uniforms caked with layers of grime. They weren’t badly injured, but they looked like the dazed survivors of a death march. Their appearance shocked the sympathetic crowd. Gradually the clicking stopped and the clapping began. As it swelled, BBC and Sky News TV crews swept their cameras back and forth, capturing the faltering steps of the filthy, exhausted Marines.
PRESIDENT DINARD WAS IMPATIENT with the written word. Briefing papers bored him. They didn’t capture what he considered to be the essence of decision-making, sizing up the other players. Newspapers too he threw aside. They were full of gossip about how unfit he was for the Oval Office, or any other office. In Dinard’s opinion, the followers of those papers were lemmings, as mindless as the fake news they consumed.
He preferred television. It was up-to-date, quick, and relevant. He could see the event or interview and decide for himself its importance. When he saw t
he Marines at Kandahar on the 10:00 p.m. news, he spilled his Diet Coke as he lunged for the phone. Within minutes, Armsted had hastened upstairs to the living quarters. His face sherbet red, Dinard was standing in front of two sixty-five-inch TVs, clicking back and forth. His next click practically broke the remote.
“A disaster! Those soldiers look like they were just freed from Auschwitz!”
Armsted watched the scenes, the shambling Marines, the grimy uniforms, the stretchers and ambulances, the crowd, some clapping, others with hands clasped to mouths in disbelief.
“Give me a minute to calm down,” Dinard said. “What’s the Pentagon doing?”
“Rangers are set to fly in,” Armsted said, “as soon as the weather clears.”
“No, goddamn it, no! The military’s going the wrong way! We’re finished there. Get them out, now. O-U-T!”
Armsted had anticipated the anger. This needed calibration.
“Admiral Michaels is sure to object,” he said. “It’ll look like we ran away.”
“He’s my military adviser, not my boss. He’ll do as he’s told. You do agree, don’t you?”
“I agree Michaels will go along,” Armsted said. “Generals don’t resign. Your real problem is Towns.”
Dinard frowned.
“What’re you driving at? You came back with a good deal.”
“He’s going to be pissed we didn’t consult him about that. Plus, this fight throws a wrench into the gears. He might resign on principle.”
Dinard looked puzzled.
“What principle? He has a cushy job and the press loves him. I increased his defense budget, for God’s sake. What more does he want?”
“He sent them into Helmand, and you’re pulling them out.”
“He and Michaels sprang that on me. They would’ve leaked to the press that I was weak if I’d told them no. Well, turnabout’s fair play. I make the hard decisions, not Towns.”
Armsted didn’t back off. He knew when to stand against Dinard’s impulsiveness.
“You don’t want anyone quitting,” he said. “Senator Grayson will leap on that. You need consensus in the cabinet.”
The Last Platoon Page 28
