Ingle turned to Iman with a smile on his face. “Hey, Staff Sergeant,” he called out. Iman did not respond. The wounded man simply sat next to Rasa and stared at an infinite distance. Iman’s arms were draped around Rasa’s body as if he were making a desperate effort to save her from the blasts. “Staff Sergeant?” Ingle questioned as he poked at Iman’s foot.
Iman looked up at Ingle. The staff sergeant was still alive. Ingle was once again amazed and gave his praises. “We need to pull back, Staff Sergeant. Maybe if we pop smoke, the pilots can call in an extract,” Ingle coached the dying staff sergeant. Iman just nodded. He could not gather enough air to verbalize any orders, but he agreed vehemently with Ingle’s thoughts for extract.
Ingle took charge in the staff sergeant’s stead. He stood up and out of the hole. Barking and pointing, Ingle pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and threw it out from them. Then he gathered his men and conducted a quick head count. Billows of green powder burned into the air from the grenade canister’s open end.
The sergeant continued to look skyward. He knew the pilots would conduct a flyby to complete a Battle Damage Assessment. In doing so, they would see green smoke and make the call to headquarters. The Force Recon team was still alive and in need of a ride home.
True to protocol, the pilots looped back around to confirm the damages done. Ingle was right in his assumption. The flyby gave the ground-based Marines a second opportunity to communicate with someone beyond the fighting hole. The lead pilot passed and reported the smoke signal back to Command. The follow-on pilot rocked his wings to let the ground troops know the message was received and relayed.
The Marines were elated. Every ounce of relief they previously reserved came out of them with victorious cheers and bellowed hollers. Each of the men smiled uncontrollably at the thought of leaving hell behind them.
“Don’t get too happy, boys. We’re still in it,” Ingle barked at the Marines for celebrating before getting onto an extract helicopter. “Let’s get down the hill and establish an LZ. And let’s not forget that we have other camps in zone that may or may not come looking for a fight. We need to move most ricky-tick, and we are still very much in the fight.” The sergeant’s leadership burned a path for the rest of his team to follow.
The team would have no trouble completing their new objective. The bottom of the hill was an open clearing. Widespread desert that seemed too narrow in the darkness of night patrols was vast in the daylight. The open area provided plenty of accessible space for a helicopter to land. Very little work would have to be completed in establishing a safe landing zone. The team might find an area where a bush had to be hacked down, but they would be readily available for pickup by the time the extraction bird arrived.
Iman struggled to his feet. He coughed a thick wad of blood that hung from his lower lip as he stood to leave. Ingle watched as Iman fought to lift Rasa’s limp body from the hole. “Staff Sergeant…” Ingle stopped himself before making the claim that Rasa could not come with them. “Let me…let me help you with her,” he corrected his line of thinking before speaking.
Iman lifted Rasa as high as he could to Ingle. The sergeant dragged the dead woman and her suitor out of the earth. Then Ingle stood amazed as Iman gathered enough strength to lift Rasa. She was light in her small frame and would have been easy to carry under normal circumstances. However, her lifeless body hung in dead weight over Iman’s forearms.
“Let me carry her, Staff Sergeant,” Ingle requested. Iman was too exhausted, too out of breath, and too near death to argue. He shook his head, unable to answer aloud for his lack of air.
“Them,” Iman rasped and nodded to the Marines. Ingle understood the order. Iman wanted to make sure that the team had a leader in position to carry out the helicopter extraction. Ingle knew how to set up an effective landing zone. The capable and experienced sergeant was the head warrior of the herd. Iman was in no condition to lead, so he put Ingle in full charge.
Able-bodied Marines ran down the hill and established forward positions. They stayed alert to any enemy that might be found in the open desert. The rest of the Marines, wounded in the helicopter crash, limped together in exodus down the slope. Their primary objective was complete. Their new objective was to descend the hill without breaking any ankles over loose rocks and steep grades.
They finally had time for pain. Sitting in place through the night did not help their search for comfort. They simply ached their way down the hill as quickly as they could. Each man remembered a basic training cliché. Pain is your best friend because if you feel pain, it means you are still alive.
Iman was the last of the troop. He silently begged his legs for every step until gravity gave him some assistance. He fought to stay upright as he walked with Rasa in his arms. This is my sacrifice. He coaxed himself to keep moving. This is my love.
His gaze was once again distant. The physical exertion of clearing the hill nearly destroyed what remained of his spirit. Yet he was resolved to take Rasa from that place.
Broken and weary, Iman stumbled and struggled to the foot of the hill. He looked around at dispersed Marines ready to continue in combat. Each man pointed outward from a tactical circle. Their weapons were aimed at invisible foes. They had succeeded in destroying Jericho, but they were still deep in Afghanistan, deep in enemy-held lands.
Iman arrived just in time to hear several men yell out, “Inbound! Bird inbound!” He looked up and saw that a CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter was sent to pull the team out of the field. The corners of his mouth turned upward with half of a relieved grin.
“Pop smoke,” Ingle ordered to the flanks. The Marines did as ordered and sent brilliant pillars of orange and purple into the sky. They signaled the designated area for the pilot to land. The team waited while two Cobra gunship escorts cleared the area. Then the dual-propeller Sea Knight finally set down.
Sand kicked into the air around the Marines under chopping twin helicopter blades. Each man lowered his head and tried to look away from the dirt being thrown about by whirling machine-made winds. The reality remained that Marines were not allowed comfort, not even in the relief of being pulled from a combat zone.
The helicopter landed and immediately lowered its rear ramp to freshly tilled topsoil. Every man smiled at the sight. An open hatch was the most inviting thing the Marines had seen in a very long time. Lightly injured Marines helped the wounded. The wounded continued on, trying not to die.
Iman made sure that all Marines, junior to his rank, were loaded onto the extract bird before he considered walking on. He was exhausted from his loaded travel down the hill and wanted nothing more than to sit down. He was spent.
The last Marine boarded the helicopter, so Iman decided his time had come to join them. He was so tired that he did not have the energy to resist when a lance corporal raised his hand at the aircraft entrance. The junior Marine screamed over the noise of the helicopter, “She can’t come with us, Staff Sergeant.”
Iman just stared back at him. He would have killed the man with his eyes if he was able. A new string of blood dribbled from Iman’s lower lip. Iman was about to fall to his knees if he was not granted immediate access to a seat. Then Sergeant Ingle intervened.
Ingle placed his open palm to the middle of the lance corporal’s chest and shoved the younger man rearward. “She’s coming with us. Now get out of the way.” Ingle was inaudible under the propellers, but his message was clear.
The lance corporal looked to his crew chief and was answered with a nod. Iman was allowed passage. He moved to the first open seat and plopped into place. Rasa remained rested in his arms. He hunched over to hug her as the helicopter lifted into the sky. He did his best to protect her from harsh and sandy winds swirling into the back hatch.
The helicopter climbed. Air temperatures became even colder as the machine ascended. The staff sergeant wrapped his arms tightly around Rasa to keep her warm against the unforgiving winter. He slumped over her and kissed her forehead. Then Iman finally r
ested.
RED
Yes, sir,” Special Agent McKenzee spoke into a satellite phone headset at the edge of the command center communications tent. He was attempting to answer all the questions being posed by the secretary of defense. However, the agent did not hold his usual air of confidence. He didn’t have all the answers to questions posed, but he tried to appease the Secretary nonetheless. “Yes, sir,” he repeated through the static-filled telephone.
A Marine standing next to the agent waited patiently. He was only privy to McKenzee’s half of the conversation and had no idea that the secretary of defense was on the other end of the line. “Yes, sir,” McKenzee repeated. From the Marine’s perspective, it appeared that McKenzee was being lectured or reprehended by whomever. Yet McKenzee was calm. The agent didn’t stir or seem uneasy to the call. “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know as soon as I know. The last report I had was that the bomb run was effective…” McKenzee paused again. “Yes, sir. I’ll go talk to them right now. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”
McKenzee’s answers became completely redundant. The eavesdropping Marine discerned that McKenzee simply wanted off the phone. The agent needed more information before presenting any conclusions. The civilian commander had pertinent matters to accomplish before sending a report to higher-echelon parties. However, the person on the other end of the call was important enough to keep McKenzee stirring.
Time spent without communication between the Force Recon team and Command left a great deal of unanswered questions for the Central Intelligence Agency. Special Agent McKenzee was chomping at the bit to debrief Iman and Hasim. He was eager to gain as much information as possible from the men he sent on an impossible endeavor.
“Sir…” McKenzee faked a broken signal. “I can’t…you’re… breaking…” Then he handed the headset back to the communications Marine. The agent slid his flattened hand across his neck signaling the Marine to disconnect the call. A shared chuckle ended the line.
The Marine did as he was ordered. He hung up without proper verbal termination of the call and looked back to the agent for further guidance. McKenzee grinned at the smooth-faced kid handling the long-distance communications network. “Congratulations, Marine,” McKenzee said, smiling boldly. “You might be the first lance corporal to ever hang up on the secretary of defense and get away with it.”
McKenzee slapped the Marine hard on the back. He chuckled to the sight of the kid in uniform. The Marine’s eyes widened with concern just before he questioned if the agent was being serious. McKenzee kept smiling and walked away having not answered the kid’s question. He left the young Jarhead grinning confusedly with concern.
The front flap of the communications tent whipped open to a light breeze. The air was thick with a humid and sandy haze. Winds were stirring up a sandstorm but had not gained enough momentum to create an atmosphere of complete misery for Marines on the ground.
Suddenly, the Division Command Center’s landing zone came to life. Inbound helicopter blades chopped into the sky just above the gritty earth. Logistics Marines attempted to shield their eyes from dirt and tiny shards of rocks as they surrounded the open area. Downward pressure from the propellers pitched sand and stone into a dust-filled hatred that stung the skin of every man on site. Yet it was nothing new for the Marines, who had to load and shuttle cargo or troops aboard several helicopters per day.
Logistics Marines were responsible for the allocation of everything from bullets, to Band-Aids, to toilet paper. Field Marines loved and hated the men in charge of usable assets, contingent upon the lapse of time between necessity and delivery. Logistics Marines were good friends to have in garrison. They were close loved ones in the field. However, close-knit friendships were not needed when bribes and favors could be exchanged. That was the general rule of thumb when Marines dealt with one another. Every relationship, from one Marine to the next, was based on mutual benefit beyond brotherhood.
McKenzee, having never been a Marine, did not understand the politics within the Corps. Nor did he care to understand. He simply went to the logistics team and explained what he needed for mission success. It was no secret who he was or who shared the agent’s interests in any given situation. McKenzee used heavy-handed influence around camp to make his stay more comfortable. He flaunted his status without being brazen. Yet he was not overly arrogant in presence. The agent was nothing more than disconnected from the reality Marines had to endure day to day. He illustrated such disconnected direction with the first helicopter he ordered for the Force Recon team along with two gunship escorts.
The Logistics Marine on duty tried to push back that using a Super Stallion for a single team drop-off was a misallocation of available resources. McKenzee nearly had the Marine busted down in rank on the spot. The younger man may have been accurate in his assessment, but he overreached his bounds by arguing with the CIA agent about any aspect of any mission. Logistics might have been a crucial aspect to mission success, but it was McKenzee’s mission to direct. He was not going to be stopped by the under-use of a major aerial asset.
The agent would later regret the selected aircraft. As soon as news came through camp that the bird was down in the field, McKenzee’s heart sank into nothingness. He felt like years of assessment and working his way to the right hand of the secretary of defense were brought down with a single shot. He felt the loss of his operatives and the Marines who supported them. He felt every bit of glory fade from the potential of mission accomplishment. Those feelings ate at his heart for an eternity until the laser designator signal showed on the net.
A little more than a day later, McKenzee stepped away from the communications tent once again. The buzz of the radios and the rumble of voices in the static-filled canvas room were quickly drowned out. The agent watched as a gray Sea Knight helicopter set down in the camp’s wide-open landing zone. Then he smiled.
McKenzee could not wait to speak with Hasim and Iman. He wanted the details of their mission laid out before him. He wanted a tale of glory. He wanted the Marines to give the intimates of every shot fired, every enemy killed, and every hero-legend brought to life.
Slowly, the rear ramp of the helicopter opened. Sunlight gleamed off the gray bird. The black propellers still spun too fast to be seen. No one outside of the helicopter was able to view who sat on the inside of the hull.
McKenzee shielded his eyes from the brightness of the desert’s day. Word around camp quickly spread that the helicopter was inbound with dead and wounded. The special agent placed his right hand over his brow and veiled his eyes from the harsh sun. He tried to peek into the back of the helicopter as it landed but was unsuccessful. His attempt to recover a sight of Iman or Hasim from the aircraft’s black pit was made in vain.
“Who’s wounded?” a nearby Marine asked toward the open helicopter as he came face-to-face with the enlisted crew chief. Those tasked to offload the bird were to tend to the wounded first. Doc Troy was expected to point out the most critical as priority. The Marines that were hurt, but would survive without doubt, took a proverbial backseat to those with life-threatening wounds. The Marine asked questions at the back of the helicopter, trying to establish a better means of early triage. He and the corpsmen on site attempted to minimize casualties once the Marines reentered base. The crew chief answered in a low voice, “Everybody.”
All of base camp watched as the Force Recon team landed. Everyone watched as injured Marines filed out of the back of the helicopter. Most of them limped, or held their arms, or grabbed at their sides. They were alive, but looked as if they were on the verge of dying. They were victorious, but sulked in defeat. Each man had a broken bone or some very visible laceration announcing their ailments in brilliant red turned filthy brown.
McKenzee watched attentively. Not able to recognize specific faces among the living, he counted the Marines coming off the back of the helicopter. Then he added the dead that had been recovered from the initial crash site. The special agent’s body count was still sh
ort.
Reality set in hard. McKenzee didn’t see Iman or Hasim anywhere in the group of Marines leaving the back of the helicopter. They were not among the men receiving immediate medical attention. They were ultimately unaccounted for in his view, absent from the team, and removed from the war.
The company man became perturbed enough to step away from his tent at the edge of the landing zone. He ran out to the open area. The helicopter engine whined and whirred as its propellers slowed. The blades chopped thick thuds against thicker desert air. McKenzee approached the Sea Knight and could see clearly into the bird for the first time. His heart sank. Once again, he felt the pounding sadness, the reality of war. He tried not to allow his emotions to show at the powerful sight.
Sergeant Ingle, the most senior living man on the team, sat across from Iman at the back of the helicopter’s cargo space. Ingle simply stared at the staff sergeant with complete amazement. He was flabbergasted, at a loss for words, and awestruck with grief and respect.
Ingle looked up at McKenzee as the civilian agent approached. There were tears in both of their eyes. Neither man could find words appropriate enough for the moment. The victory was Pyrrhic. The loss was agonizing.
“He’s gone, sir,” Ingle advised. The sergeant didn’t take his eyes off Iman. He stared, dumbfounded by one man’s willingness to die for another. Then he corrected himself, “They’re gone, sir.” Ingle simply sat and stared at two dead bodies twisted into living love.
Iman had his arms wrapped around Rasa. His left arm cradled her fallen shoulders. His right arm wrapped loosely over her chest. His fingers barely remained interlaced. The staff sergeant’s ability to hold Rasa tight faded when his breath did the same. Despite the loose grip, he held her with a closeness that might not ever be matched.
Rasa’s legs draped over Iman’s right thigh. Her hair was brushed back, out of her face, as if Iman had been talking to her on their way back. She looked peaceful and safe in his embrace. Yet the man’s previously tight hold had softened in death. He died holding onto Rasa, his love. He died for her.
Operation Jericho Page 19