Khost

by Vincent Hobbes

  “They see anyone?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Ramirez’s last transmission was they were going in. They were going in that damn cave.”

  “What next?”

  “We didn’t hear from them again.”

  “General Kline, in your opinion, what do you think happened?” Reynolds asked.

  “I believe they were all slaughtered,” Kline said, finishing his drink, his face holding a look of sorrow.

  “All but one, you mean.” Reynolds said, referring to York.

  “Then I’m sure his information is in your files.”

  “I’d still like to hear it from your perspective,” Reynolds encouraged.

  “Well, I’ll give you the quick version. Sergeant York has been here awhile. Sure, he’s a wild Delta boy, but a good soldier. Top notch in my book, even if his hair is long and he keeps a beard. Been good over the months giving the younger boys advice. The man’s thirty-three I believe, served in Task Force 121 in Iraq. Pulled Saddam out of that hole. Took out his sons, too. He transferred here a few years back. Joined Task Force 88 for a bit, then transferred to my base, serving under McClain.”

  “Is he aware of what happened?”

  “If you can call it that,” Kline responded.

  “Explain.”

  “Colonel Reynolds, our only true INTEL comes from this Sergeant York. His testimony is . . . it’s madness. He rambles like a crazy man. I’m afraid we can’t trust his testimony,” Kline reported.

  “Which is?”

  “Well, Sergeant York tells an interesting story. He came back, picked a fight with the MPs, started talking bat-shit crazy. Wasn’t long after and some CIA boys had him taken away. Like I said, his testimony can’t be trusted. That’s what happens when you allow a few to do what they want. They lose discipline. They do crazy things, though I’ve never seen that type of crazy.”

  Colonel Reynolds eyed the General, thinking for a moment. Finally, he asked, “General, you don’t like Delta much, do you?”

  “Like I said, I prefer following procedure. Protocol. They reject that, often times to piss me off.”

  “But they’ve been helpful, right?”

  “Shit, sure have. We’ve had a lot of attacks on our convoys lately. They’ve eased that burden, I’ll give them credit for that. Doesn’t matter though, does it? They’re no longer my problem, they’re yours.”

  “Tell me about McClain. Was he a good CO?”

  “They respected him, did what he wanted. Their success rate was impressive.”

  “What did he think of York?”

  “York wouldn’t have been on his team if McClain didn’t trust him.”

  “And what of when York returned? You said he acted crazy . . . what did McClain think?”

  “I’m not sure McClain believed him or not, but he supported York. They’re all like brothers, and McClain wanted to go in.”

  “Of course he did. What about an aerial strike? More surveillance? Why didn’t you send the rest of your Delta team in?”

  “Again, orders. I was told to hold.”

  “But you didn’t persist?”

  “No. I couldn’t afford losing more. Just didn’t figure it would cause such pandemonium.”

  “When you lose a team of Delta, that tends to happen,” Reynolds remarked. “Who gave the stand-down orders?”

  “I’m guessing the same people that sent you. My superior, General Taius, called and informed me. I could tell it wasn’t his decision, though. Perhaps it came from the top. From the President?” Kline asked, hinting, hoping for an answer.

  “This situation is more important than the President.”

  “Well, either way, this is causing me to age. The bureaucracy is killing my men. Middle management, civilians . . . it’s been a mess. All with questions, none with answers. And so you don’t think I don’t care, I requested to get our men back. I would have gone with the strike, even had helos on standby.”

  “How did this happen, General? How did a team like them get taken out?” Reynolds asked.

  “In my opinion, I guess an ambush. That, or overwhelming numbers, which I find impossible.”

  “But Sergeant York, he describes something different, doesn’t he?”

  “He does.”

  “Tell me, how do you think he escaped?”

  “I’ll say this, York isn’t the sort of man to retreat without his friends. He would have died there. Claims he wished he would have. According to him, they let him go,” Kline answered.

  “The Taliban?”

  “He calls them monsters,” Kline said, shaking his head.

  “And you don’t believe him, do you?”

  “Believe him? Hell no. I don’t believe a word from that man’s mouth, good soldier or not. He’s crazy. Something happened to him out there. Something fucked him up in the head, did a number on him for sure. I do feel sorry for him, but the last thing I’ll do is plan a mission based on his information.”

  “What do you think will happen to York?”

  “They’ll discharge him, but only after they feel he can be let go. Shit, they might detain him awhile. Poor bastard needs therapy.”

  “Doesn’t make much sense. He served many tours, has a clean record, no reports of post traumatic stress.”

  “And that’s the strange thing. He’s the gung-ho, go getter type. Never showed signs of combat fatigue. Like I said, a good soldier. But then again, seeing your friends killed can mess with your head. Isn’t the first time I’ve seen it,” Kline said.

  “I’m sure he’s no stranger to death, though. What we’re trying to figure out is why. Why did Sergeant York snap? And more importantly, is there any truth to his story,” Reynolds said.

  “How can there be?” Kline asked, confused.

  “Langley has their theory. They’ve taken other pictures, from other satellites. Something is there, General. Something killed your men.”

  “And I’m guessing when you say something, you don’t mean Taliban,” Kline said.

  “Exactly.”

  “And I suppose it’s above my pay-grade to know what,” Kline added.

  “Far above, General Kline.”

  “So, Colonel, have you seen the interviews of York? You must have.”

  “Yes. I’d consider them more interrogations than anything,” Reynolds said.

  “Either way, you’ve heard his story. I don’t need to repeat it. Either he’s on drugs or insane. That should be obvious,” Kline said.

  “Perhaps,” Reynolds said.

  “You believe him? He claims there are monsters down there. Fucking monsters. I’ve heard a lot of strange stories, but monsters?”

  “Has his story changed?” Reynolds asked, ignoring the General.

  “Not at all. We gave him sodium pentothal, we’ve interrogated him many times. Hundreds of hours, dozens of interviewers. Still, he keeps to the same story.”

  “Then why don’t you believe him, General Kline?”

  “Why? Same reason I don’t believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. Sorry, Colonel, but I don’t believe in monsters. I believe Sergeant York is delusional, Colonel,” Kline said firmly.

  “How’d you find York?” Reynolds asked. “How’d he get back?”

  42

  Lieutenant Kimzey, United States Marine Corps, sat in the passenger seat of the Humvee. Next to him, a corporal by the name of Johnson drove his team. Inside were six men. They ran patrol outside the base, to their discontent close by, with little to no action.

  One Marine atop out a hole in the roof, manning the fifty caliber machine gun.

  Another Humvee followed close behind.

  These dozen Marines ran the patrol route. They drove the rugged roads outside the forward operating base on the northern perimeter, the more heavily populated area. They had encountered some resistance over the weeks, had returned fire multiple times, but for the most part, times were boring. As the Army General cut their patrols down, made them routine, the Taliban grew smart, and r
emained far away.

  This day was like any other. Tensions were hot, though the Marines didn’t know why. There was talk, rumors—but then again, there were always rumors.

  Something about a missing Delta team.

  If true, it would make sense. The heightened security, the tense looks on the officers’ faces.

  But these Marines knew nothing of the truth, and in a way it didn’t matter. Their job was to conduct roaming patrols, look for gatherings of insurgents, and engage if fired upon. Otherwise, they were to report locations of the offenders and observe.

  Getting outside the base was always a relief. There, on the outskirts of their protected home away from home, these Marines could at least feel like Marines. And though there’d been numerous attacks on the base as of late, they were always sporadic, and the Marine patrol often too late.

  This bothered the men, most of whom were still teenagers and itched for combat.

  But politics of senior officials always complicated things, especially when a three star Army General was in charge of Marines.

  The day was warmer than usual. The transport had already circled the base twice, and heading around for one last lap before returning for lunch.

  No action, no gunfights today.

  Then, they saw him.

  “Corporal, look there,” pointed Lieutenant Kimzey.

  In the distance was a lone man. He was about two hundred meters away, walking across a vacant expanse of desert. He moved sporadically, appearing injured.

  “See any more?” the Lieutenant asked the machine gunner up top who had the best view.

  “No sir, only one.”

  “Taliban all alone, eh?”

  “Hard to tell, sir.”

  “All right, let’s roll up. Fucker probably trying to set up an IED,” the Lieutenant said.

  “It’s outside our perimeter, sir,” the driver warned.

  “Fuck it. Move in fast.”

  They neared, the second Humvee flanking to its left.

  Strangely, the man continued walking right toward them. It was as if he didn’t notice the approaching menace.

  A few moments passed and the Marines were now close. Thirty meters, twenty meters.

  “Stop,” the Lieutenant commanded.

  In an instant, four Marines from each vehicle jumped out, pointing their M-16s at the man. The two mounted .50 calibers did the same.

  Strangely, the man kept walking, coming dangerously close. He was ragged, beat to shit. His skin was tan, and for a moment, they mistook him for an Afghani. The man’s hair was long, to his shoulders, and it was obvious he hadn’t washed it in quite some time. The man sported a light colored, unkempt beard.

  He wore fatigues—desert cammo pants and shirt. The Marines noticed they were torn, one of his sleeves completely gone.

  The man was a bloody mess. His face, his hair, blood even trickled down his arm. His knees were both scratched, the man walking with a limp.

  But the most tense part was that this man was armed.

  “Hold it right the fuck there!” Lieutenant Kimzey shouted, pointing his rifle.

  “Stop! Don’t move!” shouted his nearby Sergeant, who repeated the command in Arabic, as well.

  Sergeant York finally stopped. An odd look was upon his face, though. Something strange in his eyes, something weird. He seemed unaware. It was as if he didn’t even notice the rifles pointed his way, the itchy trigger fingers of ten Marines. It was as if he held no fear, no understanding of the situation.

  “Don’t you fucking move, raghead,” the Sergeant barked. “You keep that finger off the trigger or I’ll smoke you.”

  York tilted his head, looking at the Sergeant, yet in some way looking through him as if he didn’t exist. A blank stare, cold eyes—seemingly terrified.

  “You speak English?” Lieutenant Kimzey asked.

  “Fuck you!” York spat.

  “Now you listen, fucker—drop that rifle and drop it right now. Do it slow, or I’ll put three in ya,” Kimzey warned.

  The thought appealed to York. He took his time, debating whether to die or go along a bit more. Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, he tilted his head and said, “It’s unloaded. Don’t have any rounds left. Used ’em up.” He then laughed, his sinister tone causing the Marines to feel uncomfortable.

  “I said drop it!” the Sergeant commanded.

  “I say come and take it,” York replied.

  “This is your last chance,” Lieutenant Kimzey chimed in. He was older, wiser than his gung ho Sergeant, and he took a few more moments to study the man.

  He was no Taliban, no Al-Qaida. This man was Caucasian, his dialect, his language—he was American.

  York sighed, looking at Lieutenant Kimzey now, a strange chuckle following. “I suppose it ain’t fair. I’ll put it down. My pistol and knife, too.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” the Lieutenant said. “Nice and easy now.”

  York obeyed. First, he slowly gestured, ensuring the Marines his hand would remain away from the trigger of his rifle. He undid the strap that held it to his chest, and slowly lowered it to the ground.

  “That’s not an AK,” a Corporal observed as he viewed it. “Looks like an M4. EoTech sights, Lieutenant.”

  “I see that. Think he’s Delta, though let’s be sure.” Then, looking back to York, he commanded, “Now the pistol. Again, nice and slow.”

  York obeyed again, carefully, holding out not one, but two pistols with two fingers, gently holding the butts and lowering them down. “Knife too?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  York undid his belt, tossing the eight inch blade to the ground. He then reached into his pocket, pulling out another, this one smaller, and tossing it aside.

  “Good. Just keep it nice and easy,” the Lieutenant said, still examining the man. “Got anything else? We’re gonna pat ya down, so just be honest. Don’t want any surprises.”

  York grinned again, reaching inside his shirt, causing the Marines to tense up. He withdrew yet another pistol, this one a .38 hammerless revolver, also tossing it aside. Then, he leaned down nice and slow, taking out yet another knife from his boot, casting it away. “Think that’s it,” York said.

  “You sure?” Lieutenant Kimzey asked, his eyes wide.

  “Pretty sure,” York answered.

  “All right then, I want you to keep your hands where we can see them and slowly take ten steps back.”

  York obeyed.

  The Lieutenant motioned to his Sergeant, who moved forward with two other Marines. They gathered the weapons quickly, pulling back as fast as possible. They took a few moments, checking and clearing the weapons. The man hadn’t lied, all weapons were empty. They placed them on the hood of one of the Humvees, then took stance again, pointing their rifles toward York.

  “He wasn’t shitting us. No bullets,” the Sergeant reported.

  “All right,” the Lieutenant said calmly. He looked ahead to the stranger, the man who didn’t belong here. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sergeant C. York.”

  *

  “So the Marines took him into custody after?” Reynolds asked Kline.

  “Not without some trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Well, York did a number on your Marines, Colonel. He was out of ammo, thank God. A ragged mess, injured and bloody. But damn, that guy put up a fight.”

  “How bad?”

  “Put a few in the infirmary, but nothing serious.”

  “Who started the fight, General?”

  “The Marines say York did. I believe them. And even if they had, I wouldn’t hold it against them. Sergeant York got mouthy, and when they tried to handcuff him, a fight broke out. He’s lucky the Lieutenant in charge is a cool cat, or he’d be dead. He put a beat-down on a few, fucked them up bad. The fight was on. Twelve against one.”

  “But they finally subdued him,” Reynolds guessed.

  “Yes, luckily. They used pepper spray and even bashed
him with their rifle butts. I guess they felt sorry for him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because they could have killed him. Guess they were being cautious, but still, we’re in a war, and you don’t fight Marines. Besides, York worked them over pretty well. Figured they’d do more damage. Took them awhile, and even after calling for backup, it took them a few more minutes to cuff him. Then, they brought York back,” Kline informed.

  “What next?”

  “He created quite a scene. By this point, the commotion he was causing, word was out. When Delta goes missing, it tends to create a stir. Especially when MPs are dragging one in handcuffs.”

  “I’d imagine so.”

  “They put him in the Delta operations center. Figured his own boys could chill him out. Remember, there were twenty-five, McClain included, and they were anxious. Wanted to talk to him. Wanted to know what happened to their men. After a bit, McClain calmed York down some.”

  “That’s good. Probably comforting seeing your own men.”

  “It took awhile, though. He still fought the MPs, even when they brought him to his men. Cussing, screaming—shit, he was shouting about monsters the entire time. Kept saying they’re all dead. Once the MPs left, he even got into it with his own. Delta had to throw him another beating, hold him down, explain where he was. I don’t think he meant any harm by it, though. I just think he’d long since lost it. But finally, they calmed him even more. Their brothers had fallen, and they’re a tight unit. They stick together, and soon enough, McClain had him under control.”

  “Then why was he locked away? My report says he’s in custody.”

  “Colonel, he broke an officer’s nose.”

  “Bullshit,” Reynolds exclaimed. “What’s the real reason?”

  Kline sighed, before saying, “He kept on and on about the cave, the monsters. They made the mistake and brought him to the mess hall to eat. Guy hadn’t eaten in awhile, and it seemed like a good idea. Problem is, lots of others were there too. They could hear his screams, hear his mumbles.”