by Eric Blehm
“Looking for JD.”
“I’ll help,” said Casper, and together they searched in silence.
Knife 03 and Knife 04 had been tearing across southern Afghanistan for half an hour when two F-14s arrived 2,000 feet overhead and one of the pilots radioed Hadley.
“Knife Zero Three, this is Pearl Four One. We have top cover and are here for the duration.”
“It sure is good to have you up there,” Hadley said. He proceeded to brief the combat escort pilots on the proposed route. “This is a rescue mission; engage enemy threats only with the intent to protect the helicopters.”
“Roger,” said Pearl 41, “we copy that—let’s go get our boys.”
Moments later, Hadley came back over the radio. “Highway One coming up.”
Highway One was a major road used by the Taliban to travel between Kabul and Herat via Kandahar. Scanning ahead from the higher altitude, Pearl 41 reported no vehicles. Lucky timing, thought Gregg as he and Fronk dropped to ten feet above the desert floor, adjusted their flight path, and crossed over the highway between two dunes, showering the road with sand. Once they were on the other side of the highway, Diekman leaned forward over his machine gun to see if he could spot the jets. “Good to have some top cover!” he yelled over the engines to Charlie, sitting behind him to the left.
Charlie grinned. “Top cover doesn’t make you guys any less crazy to be flying here in the middle of the day,” he shouted back. “How many missions have you flown across the border?”
“Including this one?”
“Yeah.”
“One.”
“First mission, broad daylight.” The spook shook his head. “You guys are freakin’ nuts. God bless America.”
One hour out from Shawali Kowt, the Delta controller contacted Hadley and reported two Americans killed, one expectant, eight critically wounded. Those on the rescue mission continued to believe these casualties were the result of a battle.
At twenty-five minutes out, the Delta controller radioed again to ask how many wounded the two helicopters could carry. The flight engineers on both aircraft calculated their cargo load capacity, fuel weight, and distance to Camp Rhino. Knife 04 reported they could carry fourteen, while Hadley’s Pave Low could take eighteen if they dumped some fuel.
“Three-two,” Hadley said. “We can accommodate thirty-two wounded.”
“Roger. You’re going to need all the room you’ve got.”
Hadley glanced back at the PJs, the surprise apparent on their faces. This is going to be a lot worse than we thought.
Two minutes before reaching the coordinates for LZ Jamie, Knife 03 released a portion of its fuel in a misty cloud, creating a rainbow that hung in the air. In the helicopter behind, Knife 04’s pilot, Captain Fronk, glanced over at his copilot, First Lieutenant Alexander.
“What the fuck are they thinking?” said Alexander.
Fronk shrugged. It was a professional difference of opinion. Considering the unknowns ahead, Fronk and Alexander felt more comfortable with every drop of fuel their tanks could hold.
One minute out from the LZ Jamie, Hadley called Charlie to the front of the helicopter. They could see no friendly forces marking a landing zone. The spook peered over the shoulders of the pilot and copilot and beyond the instrument panels at the terrain rushing toward them: He recognized the cluster of buildings a mile ahead as Shawali Kowt. A quarter of a mile beyond that was the Arghandab River, with the bridge to the west. His eyes widened and he yelled out something. Hadley pushed his radio mic up close to Charlie’s mouth so both helicopters could hear what he was saying.
“You’re too far south! Don’t go over by that bridge!”
“Why?!” Hadley shouted.
“Because that’s where the enemy is!”
Just then, Gregg noticed men walking on a road across the river, some carrying RPGs. Knife 03 was already above the river when he banked the helicopter hard to the right, dropped in altitude, and skimmed the tops of the orchard trees. In Knife 04, Fronk had seen a man holding an orange panel, designating friendly forces, and broke formation before the river. In a more relaxed turn, he landed three hundred yards west of the dirt road leading from Shawali Kowt to Damana, a mile and a half north of the CCP. Moments later, Knife 03 landed two hundred yards to the east of the road, opposite Knife 04. Within seconds, both were engulfed by dust.
Amerine felt something like joy pierce his numbness when he heard the sound of helicopters and looked up to see two Pave Lows rip over the rooftops of Shawali Kowt, bank down beyond the bridge, and head back toward Damana.
Amerine glanced over at Casper. Their time was up.
“We’ll keep looking,” Casper said as they jogged back toward the CCP. Amerine knew he would forever regret giving up the search for JD, but that sentiment would have to wait—along with the sorrow, disgust, and rage he’d suppressed all morning. Right now, he had to bring the rest of his men home.
In the three and a half hours since the bomb had dropped, three more Afghans had died from their injuries. Of the nineteen wounded Americans, only Cody Prosser had not regained consciousness and was still considered expectant.
Amerine approached Bolduc, who was writing on a notepad beside the CCP, to ask about the plan to move the men to the helicopters.
Pausing with his pencil on the paper, Bolduc said, “Fox is working with Hamid to get trucks from the town to take you and your guys, along with my wounded, out of here.”
“I can stay,” said Amerine. “My leg isn’t bad.”
“No, I’m going to evac you with your men.”
Nodding, Amerine walked to where Mike, Mag, Ronnie, and Alex were still holding on.
“You going with them?” asked Mr. Big, who was labeling tags for the wounded.
“Yeah,” said Amerine. “It’s the headquarters’ show now.”
“Here,” said Mr. Big, wiring a tan card to Amerine’s collar.
Amerine looked down and read CASUALTY on the tag, the details of his injuries already filled in. “So, what club is this?” he asked.
Mr. Big just shook his head.
Vehicles driven by both guerrillas and locals from Shawali Kowt lined up alongside the casualties. His leg now swollen from the shrapnel, Amerine hobbled over to stand by Dan’s body as he counted his men being placed in trucks. Then he noticed Karzai for the first time since his entourage had ushered him away after the bomb hit, moving among the wounded with three tribal leaders, a small square bandage on his cheek.
When Karzai saw Amerine, he bowed his head slightly and came over. “I’m sorry about your men,” he said. He looked down at the bivy sack. “I was told about Dan and JD. This is…?”
“This is Dan.”
“And JD?”
“We haven’t been able to find anything,” said Amerine. “Did you hear about Bari Gul?”
“Yes,” said Karzai. “Some of his men will take his remains to Deh Rawood shortly.”
“Bashir?”
“I don’t believe he survived. Nobody has seen him.”
“And you. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” said Karzai, continuing to look around at the wounded. “And you?”
“I’m fine.”
The men stood together in the first awkward silence Amerine had shared with Karzai since meeting him in Pakistan a month earlier. Finally, Karzai, who still believed it had been Amerine and ODA 574 who had called in the bomb, looked him in the eye and asked, “How did this happen, Jason?”
Shaking his head, Amerine made the decision not to tell Karzai the details. He had to ensure that Fox and his staff remained close to Karzai as they finished the journey to Kandahar and on to Kabul. The final sacrifice of Amerine and his team would be allowing Karzai to believe that it was ODA 574 who had caused the devastation and the deaths of so many.
“It was an accident,” said Amerine.
“Tragic,” said Karzai. The two surveyed the casualties. At last Karzai sighed. “I must check the men,” he said.
Voices shouted out commands: Bolduc and Fox were directing the loading of the wounded Americans, followed by the most critically wounded Afghans, onto the trucks.
Captain Bovee walked over to Amerine. “Time to go,” he said.
“We need to get Dan out,” said Amerine.
“I’ve got him. I’ll bring him on the next truck. There isn’t room on this one.”
Amerine moved along the row of vehicles, wincing at the growing pain in his leg as he again accounted for every member of ODA 574: eight men, including Dan. Wes had been evacuated the day before, and as for JD…he didn’t want to think about it. He had reported JD as “MIA presumed KIA” to Bolduc. The headquarters would resume the search later and, if necessary, a forensic team would be deployed to find something of the man that Amerine had failed to bring home.
From the back of the crowded pickup he’d climbed into, Amerine was watching Bovee and Leopold carry Dan’s body to the next truck when Mr. Big came running over from the medical clinic holding a plastic bag. Stopping beside Dan, he hurried to remove what looked like a folded sheet. With both hands, he shook out a new American flag, its colors a vivid contrast to the drab military uniforms and desert sand.
Mr. Big wrapped the four-by-six-foot flag around Dan’s body, using safety pins to attach it to the bivy sack. Then he saluted Dan, which was the final vision Amerine wanted of this place. He faced forward, and the convoy started to roll out. But when his truck neared the berm, Amerine was compelled to take one last look.
His first glimpse of Shawali Kowt had been from this road during one of the best days of his life. Forty-eight hours later, his parting view was on the worst day of his life. Amerine’s gaze drifted to the Alamo—the whale—whose head bore its newest scar, an ashen crater barely discernable from all the wounds of its previous wars.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Worth Dying For
* * *
Back at home a young wife waits
Her Green Beret has met his fate
He has died for those oppressed
Leaving her his last request.
—Barry Sadler, “Ballad of the Green Berets”
* * *
The moment the rescue helicopters had touched down, Hadley on Knife 03 told Gregg over his radio headset, “You are now the air mission commander. I’m going to shift to doctor.”
He followed two PJs carrying aid bags and casualty litters down the ramp, veered to the right into the brownout, and hurried to the road. As the dust cleared, Hadley saw Doc Frank and two PJs from Knife 04 approaching from the other side of the road.
The two groups converged and looked south, toward Shawali Kowt.
“Where the hell are the wounded?” asked Gavin Burns, the lead PJ from Knife 04.
At the helicopters, the pilots had powered down the engines to an idle and remained sitting at the controls. The gunners of each Pave Low also stayed behind their weapons, monitoring three armed Afghans who appeared atop the dunes to the southeast. “I’ve got three guys with guns two hundred yards out,” Diekman announced over the radio. Then he saw a familiar silhouette crest a ridge fifty yards from the armed men. “Looks like there’s a Pinzgauer joining us.”
“Delta Force,” came a dramatic whisper over Diekman’s radio. “We’re saved.” Another voice chuckled.
Delta’s presence was reassuring, but the gunners remained alert. The three Afghans didn’t appear hostile, but if Delta was here, Diekman assumed, so too were the bad guys.
In the direction of Shawali Kowt, dust began to rise on the horizon, then a couple of trucks came into view from behind some dunes a half mile away.
“Here come the wounded!” announced the tail gunner on Knife 04 over the radio. Hearing this, Diekman realized that Delta was providing cover for the medevac convoy.
Hadley, Doc Frank, and the PJs jogged south on the road to meet the vehicles. As they got closer, they saw blown-out windows, dented sides, scoured paint. One minivan’s metal roof had been peeled back like an opened sardine can; another truck’s door was ripped off at the hinges.
“Holy shit,” said Hadley as he and Doc Frank got to the first of the seven vehicles, each carrying two to three Americans. Quickly, they decided to re-triage the patients because they weren’t certain they understood the priority system assigned by the medics back in Shawali Kowt, none of whom had arrived in the first vehicles. Hadley and Doc Frank had decided in advance that the wounded requiring “immediate” care would go to Knife 04, Doc Frank’s helicopter; “urgent” patients would be divided between both helicopters; and “routine” would go to Knife 03, Hadley’s helicopter.
“When you’ve got your fourteen patients,” Hadley said to Frank, “go. Fly as a single-ship mission. Get all the criticals out of here.”
PJs passed the two men, running down the row of parked vehicles to check vitals and responsiveness. Stopping at the third in line, Gavin Burns leaned over the tailgate of a truck to check on the man lying in its bed.
“What’s your name?” Burns asked, bringing his head close to a face that was deep inside a zipped-up sleeping bag. He heard a muffled groan and realized he recognized the man. Jesus, thought Burns. It was Alex Yoshimoto, his good friend from 23rd Special Tactics Squadron, based in Hurlburt Field, Florida. Unzipping the bag, he discovered a large blood-soaked bandage intended for a chest wound but being used on Alex’s shoulder. More field dressings covered his torso.
“Alex, it’s me, Gavin. Gavin Burns. Do you know where you’re at, buddy?”
Alex responded with a slight nod and some mumbling.
For an instant, Burns experienced an emotional surge akin to adrenaline, an overwhelming desire to remain by his friend’s side, but then he looked down the line of vehicles.
“Hang tight—we’ll get you out of here,” Burns told Alex before moving on to another truck, which held Mike, wrapped in blankets and unconscious. He did not respond to verbal or painful stimuli—such as a pinch—his skin was cool to the touch, and the oxygen level in his blood was dangerously low. A quick glance at Mike’s wounds reminded Burns of photos he’d seen of great white shark attacks.
This guy is circling the drain, he thought.
When his truck reached the triage area, Amerine staggered out, shouldered his go-to-hell pack, and, holding his carbine at the ready, stepped aside to watch the newly arrived rescue medics work, their clean uniforms in stark contrast to their surroundings. A few hundred yards off each side of the road, the spinning rotors of the two Pave Lows were a blur. Men were running up from the helicopters, carrying casualty litters. He glanced back at the truck behind his, assuring himself that Dan was still there, then hobbled toward the front of the vehicles.
Noticing Amerine, Hadley walked briskly over, pulling the captain into a brief hug.
“It sure is good to see you,” said Amerine. “Thanks for coming to get us.”
“It’s what we do.” Hadley skimmed Amerine’s casualty card and pointed at Knife 03. “You’ll be with me, on that Pave Low.”
“I’ll wait here—I need to make sure my guys get on. And Dan,” he said, motioning toward Dan’s body.
“I’m really sorry. He’s with us, too. Make sure he gets over to my helo. You feeling all right? Dizzy or anything?”
“I’m fine.”
Nobody here is fine, Hadley thought. “What hit you guys?” he asked. “This couldn’t have been a mortar attack.”
“Friendly fire,” said Amerine. “Our own bomb.”
“Christ.”
The Pinzgauer to the east opened up with a long burst of fire as some PJs and two uninjured headquarters staff began carrying the first vehicle’s patients toward Knife 04 three hundred yards away. Hadley ran toward them, shouting, “Go
back—get in the fucking vehicles, and drive to the back of the helos!”
“Is it safe to drive near the tail rotors, sir?” yelled a PJ.
“Safer than getting shot at!” As far as Hadley was concerned, this was a hot LZ.
“Sir, we’ve got a slew of Afghan casualties coming up the road in trucks,” shouted another PJ. “They’re with a bunch of armed men, RPGs and shit. What’s the call?”
Hadley grabbed Charlie, who was walking by with a litter, and asked, “Any of those guys coming our way bad guys?”
Setting the litter down, Charlie sprinted down the road with the PJ for a closer look and quickly returned. “I recognize them; they’re Karzai’s men.”
“Are we loading the Afghans?” the PJ asked.
Shit, thought Hadley. Nobody had given him any guidance about that.
In fact, Fox had received permission from Colonel Mulholland to medevac Karzai’s men, but nobody had told Hadley and he didn’t have clearance to take anyone but Americans on board. “Yeah,” Hadley decided on the spot. “We’ll take everybody we can carry. Get through the Americans and then triage the Afghans.”
It took almost twenty minutes to re-triage the nineteen wounded Americans and the most critically wounded Afghans and to transport them and Dan to their respective helicopters.
On Knife 04, the critical patients—Alex, Mike, Mag, and Ronnie, along with four headquarters personnel including Reed and Fathi—were placed in eight of the nine hanging litters, stacked like bunk beds along the sides of the Pave Low’s cargo hold. Six walking wounded, including Brent and Victor, sat down between the side gunners on the deck toward the front of the aircraft. Price and Leopold flanked Cody Prosser, who was put on a litter in the center front of the hold.
“How close are you to liftoff?” Fronk radioed Gregg in Knife 03. Although they had been given the go-ahead to fly a single-ship mission, none of the pilots liked the idea. It was far safer, especially over bad-guy country, to fly tandem.
“We’re going to be a while,” said Gregg. “We’re loading Afghans. They keep on coming.”