by Clay Martin
“As I’ll ever be. Let’s go.” He answered, and out the door we went.
Holding my compass directly in front of my face, it was still difficult to keep the tritium dots on the North seeking arrow and our azimuth in focus. The sand felt like it was going to swallow us whole. Even on the best of days, dead reckoning navigation is not the easiest task in the world. It is an article of faith that you set your dials correctly, and your equipment is working. Fortunately, I had miles of experience at just that, as does any Special Forces soldier. Land navigation is a big gate to pass in every SOF selection in the free world, with good reason. Telling man to follow two tiny glowing vials across alligator infested swamps, by himself, in a foreign place separates the men from the boys fast. It is almost like you learned a magic trick the first time you bump into a tent in the pitch black, miles from where you started. Then some scruffy guy in camouflage checks your roster number off a list, gives you a new set of coordinates, and off you go again. Wash, rinse, repeat. Then the sun comes up and you start doing it at a run.
The first thing I bumped into in the haboob was a truck. Knee first, so that was helpful. I staggered for a minute absorbing the shock of bouncing off a solid object, then looked close at obstacle. I found a taillight with my left hand, confirmed it was red with my flashlight, and drove our first stake. Paul leaned in close and snap linked the rope onto it. Situated, I walked behind the truck and continued our azimuth.
What felt like hours later, I hit the concrete wall of the T barriers. I drove another stake, and Paul repeated his process. I had a moment of self-doubt, deciding to go left or right. We had intentionally aimed for well right of the spill kit, so it wouldn’t be a question. But that was a lot easier thought in the safety of a building, not out here in a nightmare tornado of grit. We turned left, and slowed to a snail’s pace. I had to stay close to the wall to ensure we didn’t go past it, feeling along with my foot. It would be a one in a thousand chance for us both to step over it, but bad luck was the only kind I was sure of. Agonizingly slow, we continued mission. Twice I stubbed my toe on what I was certain was it, but closer inspection twice turned up random COP trash that had blown over or been tossed here haphazardly. A spare tire from somebodies fitness regimen gave me hope that rapidly turned into unbridled rage. It was pointless, but I was well past my happy place on this mission. A few steps later, Paul tugged me to a stop. I turned around to see what the holdup was, and all he could do to communicate was gesture to his wall side hand. Finally, I bent to investigate. We were at the end of our line.
I pushed him back two steps and drove in another stake. Regardless of what happened next, we would need tension in the line to get back home. While I was swinging the hammer at an object I could barely see, I thought about the possible options. My claustrophobia was kicking in badly, and I was ready to be anywhere but here. If we went back for more line, I wasn’t sure either of us were going to be able to come back out. I felt like I had a pound of dust in my lungs already. I also didn’t think Ranger had the time for us to make an extension with whatever we had laying around, stumble back out here, and hopefully complete the job. As Paul was tying an end of the line bowline to the stake, I reached for the carabiner holding us together. Decision made. Paul grabbed my hand to keep me from cutting free, and I slapped it away. There is a time to talk things out, and a time to act. This was a time to act. I was committing the cardinal sin of dangerous environments, I was heading on alone. Paul would have come with me, but I couldn’t see any sense in risking us both. Before he had time to follow, I stepped off into the darkness.
The wind was blowing so hard I wasn’t sure I still had contact with the wall. My thick gloves didn’t help that, and I ended up leaning with my elbow against it to be sure. Drag step with the left. Plant the right. Drag step with the left. On and on it went. Your situation might not have actually changed, but it feels a lot different being alone. Even in a place where you can’t talk anyway. Your mind is quick to play tricks on you, make you think you see things. I almost bolted when the sand in front of my headlamp turned into a bear, catching myself before I lost the lifeline of the concrete. Drag left, keep moving. Just when I was really starting to think this was a bad idea, I fell left, knocking the wind out of me it was so surprising. Momentarily disoriented, I very nearly panicked as I realized I had lost my tactile way to feel back to Paul. I stopped myself from moving. Think this through dude, think this through. I stretched my arms and legs in different directions, feeling something solid on my left. Keeping a hand on it, I stood up again. I backed up one step, and felt only air. Feeling back forward, the answer finally dawned on me. I had reached the corner of the barriers. And didn’t my head land on something soft? I knelt down on my hands and knees, and there it was. I found it by accident, the spill kit we were here for. My noggin was good for something after all!
I felt back around the corner with my foot, and dragged the spill kit around with me. I didn’t want to gamble getting disoriented again walking it. Sure I was back on track, I scooped the kit up, leaned against the wall, and took off. What seemed an eternity later, I tripped over Paul, fortunately not impaling myself on the last stake. I should have been more careful, but the thought of being lost out here was getting to me. Paul grabbed me by the shirt to make sure I was with it, and I gestured to the kit in my other hand. Just like coach taught us, I didn’t drop the ball in the contact. Paul held up the safety line I had detached earlier, and the put it back on my belt. Peas in a pod again. Keeping a hand on the rope, Paul led us back toward the Ops Center.
We fell through the door like rescued shipwreck survivors, Jim slamming it shut behind us again. I tossed the spill kit to whoever was closest, unable to see clearly. In just the short time we were out, my goggle lenses were toast. Too scratched up to ever be serviceable again, I was glad we had spares. As Frank and Scott set up the spill kit, Willie and Jim helped us strip out of the taped on clothes we had worn. There were congratulations all around and a big uproar, but I was too tired to care at the moment. My lips were cracked and bleeding, I noticed as I poured myself three fingers of Jameson. But nothing that wouldn’t heal. I was going to need a minute after that experience though. We hadn’t almost died, but we certainly could have. And for me, that usually means a few minutes of quiet reflection before I am ready to talk.
Paul went to check on Ranger, then joined me at the table, pouring himself a fresh one as well.
“That was ballsy. Stupid, but ballsy. So thank you.” He said, holding up his glass.
I clinked mine against it. ”Anytime dude, anytime.”
I drained my glass, and headed back to bed. There was nothing else I could do in the present situation, and I felt like I had just gone 10 rounds with the Champ. It was time for some well-earned sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
When I woke up, weak sunlight was illuminating the room again. I went to the closest window to survey the situation. The storm was still out in force, but I could at least see our line of trucks out front. Visibility improved to 20 feet, so we had that going for us. Frank was still up with his patient, or up again, I headed over to see which. Ranger’s fever had broken after a dip in the ice bath, but they had cycled him back in several times over the last few hours. He was back on the table, stable at around 100 degrees, and sleeping. I reached for one of the half melted bottles of ice cold water in the tub, and then thought better of drinking something covered in Rangers sweaty funk. I settled for a warm one from across the room.
The next three days passed uneventfully, at least in our little corner of the world. Ranger steadily improved, though Frank kept him on fluids and he slept most of the time. When visibility improved to 50 feet, we went to check our guys in the towers. Never expecting a storm to last that long, we had failed to make them take 5 gallon buckets for bathroom duty. Scott stepped in the same solution any Private in any Army would have come up with, which gave me a good laugh. We let half come down and get some re
al sleep, getting back to something resembling normal. Communications were still down across the board, but that was to be expected. Enough clouds in the sky would jam SATCOM, much less a mile high wall of flying dirt.
The fourth day, we woke up to blue skies and twittering song birds, so it seemed at the time. Ranger still looked like a bag of smashed dog turds, but he was eating real food and talking. My guys went out to survey the damage to the COP while Paul and Jim started trying to reach their higher headquarters. We found some predictable gear strewn about, nothing major, and a sand dune where our front gate should be, which was hilarious at the time. Scott and Willie went to restart the generators, while I went to tell Paul he was stuck with us until we got the Bobcat back up and running.
When I saw the look on Paul’s face, the levity of the current dilemma evaporated. He looked worried, and guys like Paul don’t get worried. I half wondered if he had been fired, maybe he forgot to tell the bosses he was riding out the storm with us. It didn’t seem likely, but something was up. Jim was pulling a full sized satcom antenna out of the back of the Suburban, a step up from the covert X-wing they usually ran on the roof.
“What’s up dude, you look like you saw a ghost. Usually you Japs have more color in your faces.” So most of the levity was gone, not all of it. I’m pretty sure Paul is actually half Vietnamese, so I make sure never to use that one.
“I can’t get anyone up on comms. Cell phones are still down, SATCOM is nothing, I don’t get it,” he responded sullenly.
“Relax, maybe your HQ got its antenna blown off. Or they are still in the storm. You never exactly told me where that is located, so we can’t rule it out.” This explained the big boy antenna coming out. Loss of comms is a serious issue.
“You misunderstood. I can’t get anyone. Guard freq included.” That was disconcerting. The Guard freq wasn’t just country wide, it was also monitored in Qatar. Even if the whole country was under a brown out, if you could see the sky, you could get someone on Guard.
“Try mine. While your Jarhead continues to wrestle that antenna into submission.” It was possible his radio had chosen this particular moment to break internally, but unlikely. Then, there are all sorts of weak links in modern communications equipment. After I let him use mine, we could start the painstaking process of chasing wires for shorts and swapping antennas on his until something worked.
I went to the roof and slapped our antenna back up in under a minute, the practiced hands of a radio guy that always seemed to have other radio guys for team Sergeants. Worst thing that can happen on an SF team, the team Sergeant held your Military Occupational Specialty. Because that means not only can he do his job, he can also do your job better than you. And you better catch up quick.
Back in the Ops Cen, the Guard freq gave me nothing but dead air. Paul gave me a knowing look. He started to speak, but I held up my hand. Not yet. I was getting a little sweaty in the palms, but I wasn’t ready to concede defeat. I swapped connections to my spare cables roof side, repeating the process on my radio back on the ground. And still got nothing. No static. No broken and unreadable. Not even another radio breaking squelch. Not good.
“I have a very bad feeling about this. I don’t know exactly what, but something is very wrong.” He was getting agitated, I could tell.
“It’s just a malfunction somewhere,” I said, trying to convince us both. “Sun spots or something. It will shake out.”
“My safe house is less than two hours from here. And none of my comms are working, none of them. We are the only superpower on the planet, we don’t lose worldwide communications. We just don’t.”
He had a very good point there. It was extremely unlikely to lose all forms of communication in perfect weather. I wasn’t sold fully, but I was starting to get a bad feeling too. “Well, if we can’t talk to anyone, what do you suggest?”
“I need to get on the road, see what is going on. We are at a USDA study facility North of here. Foolproof cover, huh? Ranger is in no condition to travel; can he stay with you while I sort this out?”
“Sure, easy day. I’ll see you in a few hours I expect, and you’re going to owe me a bottle when this is all some knucklehead at the NSA spilling his coffee in the mainframe.”
Scott reprioritized to get the Bobcat running first, dug out our access to the main road, and we watched Paul and Jim tear out in a cloud of dust. Life at the COP went on. We got our generators back up, and took some well-deserved showers. But the communications issue was nagging me. While the rest of the guys cleaned our guns and got the trucks reloaded, I went to my HF antenna farm and started trying random stations. I was still getting coordinated time each minute out of WWVH in Hawaii, but nothing else. I decided to hook my phone up to my best receiving antenna one more time, before I made Frank get his mess out of my Ops Cen. My phone chirped with a text.
Prairie Fire. Headed back to your pos.
Oh fuck! Prairie Fire is an ancient Vietnam code phrase for a team about to be over run. It cuts the radio chatter to nothing, and all resources are diverted to that emergency. Paul knew I was a MACV/SOG history nerd, and that was a way of penetrating right through any doubt I might have about whatever situation we were in. It might mean he personally was in contact, or it might mean the Mongolian Horde was running across the border. We were close enough to Iran to throw spit balls, if they were moving across with armor, we didn’t even have enough fire power to rate speed bump. I ran back towards the Op Cen as fast as I could. Booting in the door, I yelled” Prairie Fire” at the top of my lungs. Frank got it immediately, the others caught on when he bolted out the door with an M240 in his hands.
We had drilled for emergencies like this, but in lieu of a cool code word, we just said battle stations. It worked better across the language barrier, plus we didn’t have to worry about radio intercept. Scott high tailed it to find Bazan, yelling” Battle Stations” the whole way. Ranger looked at us like we were crazy, had a flash of recognition, and scooped up one of the other machine guns. I pointed to the back of one of our trucks and jumped in the driver’s seat, twisting the ignition while he scrambled in. I was the first one rolling, so I drove to the embankment near the front gate.
Early in our stay, we had taken the time to build ramparts for the trucks. A little trial and error with the Bobcat and Hesco baskets had netted us spots to park the vehicles, exposing just the gunner and his chicken plate above the wall. No idea who ran the gas station before us, but it just made sense as a way to get all of our machine guns into a potential fight. Frank would be doing the same at the rear gate, while two more went up on the side walls. The Kurds would block the front and rear gates with our last two trucks, putting all of our firepower outboard in a hurry. Eyes peeled for the dust on the horizon that would signal an approaching armored column, I reached for my radio and realized I left it in the Ops Cen. I guess I was a little rusty at this whole combat thing. I got out of the driver’s seat, and crawled up next to Ranger.
“Alright high speed, here is the thing. Paul sent me a text on that cool VT app you guys gave us, all it said was Prairie Fire, and headed back to your pos. Prairie Fire is an SF term that means something super not good is happening, like you are troops in contact and in danger of getting wiped out. That’s all the detail I have. Also, I left my personal radio in the hooch, like an idiot. I need to go get it so I can talk to the other positions. Don’t draw attention to us, but melt anyone coming up the road towards us if they don’t look American. And I do mean anyone.” I give a very good impromptu mission briefing, it’s one of my best traits.
He pulled a spare ammo can up next to him.” Got it. I’ll be right here with the pig.”
I fast walked back towards the Ops Center, thankful for once to live on a small compound. Jundies were still running pell mell about the place, grabbing kit and moving to assigned positions. Bazan was barking orders in Arabic and Kurdish, while Scott was barking orders in English,
broken Arabic, and Spanish. Fun fact about rednecks, they think all foreigners speak Spanish. True story, I have seen it play out from Greece to Tokyo. Even the ones that know better will slip in some Spanish when they are under pressure. I motioned Scott to come with me. We weren’t taking rocket fire yet, so the emergency wasn’t that dire. Grabbing my radio off the rack, I told him in detail what I knew. Which wasn’t much. After I checked in with Frank and Willie verbally, I asked Scott to play Sergeant Major with the Kurds. Make sure they didn’t have their helmets on backwards, that sort of thing. It’s not that I didn’t trust Bazan. It’s that I didn’t actually trust anyone I hadn’t directly been under fire with. I didn’t have any of those present, but Scott and I had at least been in the same group. Therefore I knew by proxy at least a few guys that had been in contact with him, and that was as close as I was getting at the moment. But I couldn’t do everything myself, it was good enough. Scott didn’t even blink, he just headed off to the task. Mark of a true professional, I was happy he was on the team. And not for the last time.
I made my way back to the front gate, sitting on the turret next to Ranger. I handed him a water as I checked in again with all the stations. No one had anything to report. Ten minutes later, the adrenaline dump of an emergency deployment was starting to wear off. Traffic was nonexistent on the road in front of me, which was a little odd. It was a paved two lane road, which are pretty rare in Eastern Iraq. Usually we had some farmer or other traveler in sight at all hours of the day. After a storm like this, it should be a parade of people going to check animals or buy supplies from the local village. Nothing was moving. Nada.