“I did, sir,” Cruz said. “The doctor wants to identify the snake.”
“And I want my orders followed,” Coffman said. “Turn off those lights! You’re exposing us to a mortar attack.”
Inside a few seconds, every white light was turned off.
“I estimated the risk of mortars as low, Colonel,” Cruz said.
“That was my call to make,” Coffman said, “not yours, Captain.”
Before he could say anything else, Lasswell spoke up.
“Colonel,” Lasswell said, “Commander Zarest’s really worried about Corporal Jacobs.”
Coffman was about to reprimand her, then thought better of it, conscious that several troops were listening. One was holding the mangled snakehead.
“Everyone back to work,” he said. “Give that damn thing to the doctor.”
Cruz trotted over to where Zarest was attending to Corporal Jacobs.
“It’s a saw-tooth viper,” Zarest said. “That’s what I was afraid of. Jacobs is vomiting, explosive diarrhea, constant seepage from the punctures. No coagulation.”
Shortly later, a CH-53 thundered in, its sixteen thousand pounds of thrust hurling brush and dirt into the air. Jacobs was carried on board, and the chopper quickly left. Lasswell walked over to where Cruz was talking with Zarest.
“We got him out in forty-five minutes,” Lasswell said. “That’s good, right?”
“I don’t know,” Zarest said. “We put a liter of saline into him, but he’s bleeding internally. That can cause brain hemorrhage.”
As Zarest walked away, Lasswell turned to Cruz.
“I should call his parents,” she said. “He’s a good kid, quiet, strong. He’s been accepted at Ohio State.”
When Cruz didn’t reply, Lasswell raised a hand, distracted and uncertain.
“You’ve been through this,” she said. “Any pointers?”
“Don’t call his parents,” he said. “You can’t answer medical questions. Your job now is to stamp out bullshit rumors about great white sharks and ten-foot snakes. Keep your people focused.”
“A viper,” she said. “We fly halfway around the world to blow up terrorists, and we’re attacked by a snake.”
“Lots of vipers here,” Cruz said. “Cobras too. Afghanistan’s a paradise. It grows on you.”
7
Do Your Job, Captain
At five in the morning, construction stopped and the Marines assumed a defensive position called “stand-to,” a nineteenth-century British precaution against surprise attacks at sunup. Cruz walked over to the east side of the perimeter, where Staff Sergeant Sullivan was sitting in a fighting hole alongside a radio operator.
“The engineers scooped out one for you, sir,” Sullivan said, pointing several yards away. “Catch up to you later.”
As the razor edge of the sun appeared, Cruz sat on the edge of his hole and aligned his photomap with the contours of the tree lines and fields. The flat countryside was broken only by a few gentle inclines and small hummocks. From a distance, the mud walls of the compounds seemed white, clean, and sparkling. Fed by the snowmelts from the faraway Himalayas, the Helmand River provided nutrient-rich water for the poppy fields. Purple, burgundy, and white poppies swayed in the slight breeze.
Myrtle stands of spring corn contrasted with the darker hues of the tree lines, and the tussocks of fescue where sheep had grazed were as smooth and spongy as putting greens. Cruz had read that people played golf because green is the most soothing color. Maybe a resort lay in Helmand’s future. But to Cruz, the pastoral setting pulsed with a hostility that clung to the land like the morning mist. With a grunt’s eye for terrain, he viewed the landscapes as angles and planes for bullets. Wanting to apprise the fields of fire from each sentry position, he beckoned to Sullivan.
“Let’s walk the lines, Staff Sergeant,” he said. “The op order calls for twelve four-man fighting bunkers. They all set in?”
“Yes, sir,” Sullivan said. “I also have a two-man sniper team and a few engineers.”
“A static defense,” Cruz said, “behind the concertina?”
“Beyond the wire,” Sullivan said, “it’s up to the Afghan army to provide security.”
The bunkers were chest-deep craters clawed out by the backhoes. They walked from one to the next, with Cruz talking to each Marine. He had shaped and fought alongside hundreds like them. Seventy-five percent of the Marine Corps turned over every four years. Cruz had gone through the entire cycle, from his own recruit training to the battlefields and then back to the recruit depot to train new Marines. Without knowing one name, he knew every member of the platoon, how they thought, and what they feared. He knew how they would respond before they did.
What he didn’t know was how to get through to Sullivan. The platoon sergeant had an easy, too-friendly manner with his troops. At each bunker, he joked about the living quarters for the grunts compared to the tents for the cannon-cockers. He introduced Cruz in the same polite, patronizing way.
“Devil dogs, say hello to Captain Cruz. He’s filling in for a week or so.”
Most of the platoon was friendly, some nervous, and all alert. They reminded Cruz of young Labrador retrievers, energetic and desirous to please. The exception was Sergeant Matt McGowan. When Sullivan and Cruz approached the leader of the 2nd Squad, he was hacking away at the undergrowth. He had taken off his helmet and armor, and sweat from his bald-shaved head was pouring down his thin face. He was working a plug of tobacco tucked into his cheek, with the brown spittle dripping down his chin. He scarcely acknowledged Cruz.
“Hey, sir,” he said in an offhanded way before turning back to Sullivan.
“This ain’t sound, Staff Sergeant,” he said, gesturing at the scrub brush. “I can’t tie in my left and right lateral limits. Huge fucking gaps.”
He showed them his notebook, with a crude sketch of his fields of fire.
“We got radar,” Sullivan said. “You don’t have to see everything. Now put your battle rattle back on.”
McGowan squirted brown saliva through a gap in his front teeth.
“I told you this’d be unsat,” he said in a heavy Texas accent. “We’ve been here five hours and already evac’d one brother. Whole fucking land’s a snake pit.”
“McGowan,” Sullivan said, “STFU, not another word.”
Sullivan glanced at his watch.
“We’re due at the staff meeting, sir.”
As they walked back, Sullivan vented.
“McGowan’s a fucking know-it-all,” he muttered. “Always mouthing off. Two NJPs.”
“Prior push?”
“Yes, sir. He was at Shorab when it was overrun. Got the Silver Star and a bust in rank. Knows his stuff. Doesn’t know his place.”
“He has a point about the lines,” Cruz said.
“My platoon’s solid, sir,” Sullivan said. “Me and Lieutenant Reynolds trained these devil dogs hard. No new joins in my platoon.”
Except me, Cruz thought. I’m the short-timer, the temporary help.
They reached a large tent staked down inside a chest-high dirt revetment. The canvas sides were rolled up, letting in a humid breeze. In one corner, four operators were monitoring a bank of laptop computers, radios, and video feeds displayed on three flat screens. Sullivan and Cruz pulled up folding chairs next to Lasswell and several NCOs. Colonel Coffman was sitting at the head of the table, the thick op order in front of him.
Back at Pendleton, each morning Coffman got up at five, jogged for an hour, showered, put on his pressed uniform, and kissed his wife (no children) goodbye. His first meeting began promptly at 0730, and he remained in his office until 1900 (7:00 p.m.). His staff considered him exacting, fair, and humorless. He didn’t seem to need affection, relaxation, or friendship. A disciplined man, he expected the same in others.
“Open for business, Captain?” he asked brusquely. “Guns up?”
“Cocked and standing by to receive fire missions, sir,” Lasswell said.
“Perimeter in shape?” Coffman said, looking at Cruz.
The dozers had pushed up a berm around the square perimeter, with the dozen bunkers spaced evenly apart. Inside the perimeter, separate berms had been scooped out for the four guns, plus an ammo pit. The artillery crews slept in tents inside their berms. A revetment also enclosed the tent holding the ops center. The security platoon had its own tent near the ops center, used to hold meetings and stow gear. For the duration of the mission, the platoon would eat, sleep, and keep watch in the twelve bunkers along the perimeter, just inside the ring of barbed wire.
“We’ve set in, sir,” Cruz said. “But, um, we’re stretched thin. I need more Marines.”
Coffman tapped the op order. It was his personal Pelmanism; he could recall every detail filed under every appendix. He had left nothing to chance, yet here was a superannuated captain criticizing that thorough planning.
“Captain, I told General Killian I could do this job with three hundred and fifty Marines,” Coffman said. “The general told the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who told the Secretary of Defense, who told the president. My command does not include extra Marines.”
To drive home his point, Coffman turned to Sullivan.
“How many rehearsals did you run, Staff Sergeant?”
“Six, sir,” Sullivan said.
“And the Red Team, how many times did they get through your defenses?”
“Not once, sir. That LADAR is awesome.”
Coffman looked at Cruz.
“Four laser detection and ranging devices, Captain,” Coffman said. “Plus, million-dollar drones, a pair of electronic telescopes on fifty-foot hydraulic lifts for twenty-four-hour surveillance, and ELINT. Now, given all that high tech, can you execute with the fifty-four Marines in your platoon? Or are you too concerned about snakes?”
Cruz saw it in a flash. First the ass-chewing about the flashlights and now this lecture. Coffman had pegged him as a spy for General Killian. He had opened up his mouth without thinking. A bad fitness report would doom him. He backed off.
“I’ll ensure the perimeter is secure, sir.”
Having put Cruz in his place, Coffman changed his tone.
“Of course you will,” he said amiably. “Here at Firebase Bastion, we pack one hell of a punch. Do your part, Captain, and everything will be fine.”
As Coffman moved on to the next subject, Cruz sat ramrod straight, hoping no one noticed his flushed face.
8
Added Mission
Secretary of Defense Mike Towns had driven over to the West Wing with Admiral Michaels, a gesture symbolizing the closeness between the Secretary and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Two meetings with POTUS inside two days was unusual. Now both sat in the Oval Office, neither smiling at the Director of Central Intelligence sitting next to them.
“This popped up,” DCI James Webster whispered apologetically. “Too sensitive to send through channels.”
Both Towns and Michaels were wary of Webster, a tall, thin man in his seventies with a wizened face and a shy manner. A denizen of Washington, the DCI had served in three administrations, and his agency had consistently disagreed with the Pentagon’s annual optimistic assessment of Afghanistan.
POTUS was sitting behind his massive desk built from the oak timbers of the nineteenth-century English Arctic explorer, HMS Resolute. On the wall to his left hung the gilded portrait of President Andrew Jackson, his flinty eyes turned toward the Resolute desk. One populist autocrat, Towns thought, approving of another. Dinard rested his forearms on the buffed desktop and nodded at Webster.
“OK, Yoda,” he said, “you’re on.”
Webster held up a photo of Zar, holding two dripping heads. A blue halo encircled the face of the Persian, hovering in the background.
“This video was posted on the internet an hour ago, sir,” Webster said. “The ghoul is named Zar Mohammad. Quite rabid.”
“He looks like a cannibal,” Dinard said. “You going to zap him?”
“We’ll drone him eventually, sir. Right now, we’re interested in the one circled in blue. He’s an Iranian smuggler, linked to the Republican Guard.”
The president was paying attention. He liked solving puzzles. Much as he loathed The Times, each Sunday he labored over the Times crossword.
“What’s he doing in Afghanistan?” he said. “Real estate speculation?”
Webster waited until the wry smiles and Armsted’s sycophantic chuckle had faded.
“You’re close, Mr. President,” he said. “Your sanctions have crimped the Republican Guard. They’re looking for other sources.”
Webster pointed to a map of the Middle East, using a laser pointer to trace a route.
“Most of the world’s heroin,” he said, “moves from Afghanistan south into Pakistan, then west through Iran up into Europe. Opium and heroin account for half of Afghanistan’s gross domestic product, about three billion dollars a year.”
POTUS held up his hand and pointed at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Michaels.
“Admiral, that’s why it’s stupid to stay in Afghanistan,” Dinard said. “They’re selling poison, and our soldiers put up with it.”
Accustomed to Dinard’s hectoring, Michaels appeared unfazed.
“Interdicting the poppy trade wasn’t part of our strategy, sir,” Michaels said. “Our goal was to win over the farmers, not antagonize them.”
“You didn’t succeed, did you?” Dinard said.
As the admiral flushed red, Dinard turned back to the Director of Central Intelligence.
“DCI, hurry it up. What’s your point?”
“Iran is back in the heroin trade, Mr. President,” he said. “A losing competitor came to us and identified the Iranian buyer. Intercepts place him close to that Marine firebase. If we capture him with heroin, we can show him on every TV network.”
“I get it!” Dinard said. “Thousands of Americans dying from opioids, and Iran is involved. What do you think, Security Advisor?”
Armsted nodded vigorously.
“That’s why I brought this to you, sir. It’s time sensitive.”
POTUS looked back at Webster.
“What do you want, Yoda?”
“Sir, I’d like to send a team to that firebase,” the DCI said. “If they locate where the buyer is, we can execute a raid to capture him.”
“Professor, how’s this strike you?”
At the Pentagon, Towns encouraged initiative, provided it was nestled inside a sensible plan. Ad hoc impulsiveness irritated him. Even though he was accustomed to the president’s whimsies, this one seemed too fuzzy. He tried to refuse without appearing negative or narrow-minded.
“The Republican Guard caused the deaths of hundreds of our troops in Iraq, sir,” he said. “They’re terrorists. But this is too sudden. The Marines arrived yesterday and today we’re changing their mission?”
“No, Mike,” Webster said. “I’m adding only a recon.”
Towns and Admiral Michaels exchanged a glance.
“Two separate ops,” Michaels said, “with two reporting chains?”
“Admiral, I agree that won’t work,” Webster said. “My team will only snoop. To make it easy, I’ll send in only a few operatives from my Special Activities Group.”
“Even if they’ve served in the military,” Towns said, “you’re still adding a second mission on one small base.”
There was silence for a few seconds as POTUS drummed his fingers.
“I like it!” he said. “The doofus before me dithered. I don’t. There’s a big payoff if I connect Iran to the drug trade. DCI, send in your team.”
9
A Temporary Setback
Colonel Avi Balroop lived in a three-bedroom condo in the senior officers’ enclave barricaded behind the concrete walls enclosing Pakistan’s heavily-guarded airfield in Quetta. Only nine miles east of the Afghan border, the polyglot city of Quetta provided the space and tolerance for one million Pashtun, Baloch, and Punjabi trib
esmen to live in hovels, middle-class suburbs, and palaces while indulging in baccarat, treason, horse racing, subversion, polo, assassination, cricket, smuggling, camel auctions, and bomb making.
When Balroop heard his cell phone ringing before dawn, he didn’t pick up. One minute later, the phone rang again six times and no more. He dressed in jogging clothes and trotted at an easy pace along a path through patches of shrubbery. In the gray light, his vague shadow blended into the bushes. He stopped to retrieve a hidden cell phone and dialed a number.
“Yes?”
“The coyotes are back.”
“Coyotes? You’re sure?”
“Yes, yes! They howled all night. No other sound like that.”
Balroop ran back to his house, showered, apologized to his wife for skipping breakfast, and rushed to ISI headquarters inside the airport. The Inter-Services Intelligence was under constant attack from enemies, external and internal. His division operated from a one-story building marked by a cluster of antennas encased behind concrete barriers next to the flight tower. The long runways and expansive tarmacs made impossible any covert approach.
For over half a century, ISI had concocted plots, subversion, and terrorist raids against India, Pakistan’s strong enemy to the east. Afghanistan to the west was, in ISI’s view, a rebellious collection of illiterate tribes. To prevent India from gaining a foothold there, the ISI sheltered the Taliban inside Pakistan. Once America gave up on Afghanistan, Pakistan would help the Taliban take over the government. This simple plan required only a few decades of patience, combined with an instinct to deceive all foreigners.
Sitting in his modest office, Balroop was not surprised when his general walked in without knocking. Gesturing furiously with his cigarette, the general immediately got to the point.
“Colonel, you’re the action officer for Helmand. You did advise the Taliban not to increase the military pressure?”
“Yes, sir, but they disagreed. They wanted a clear victory to show they’re going to take every city, including Kabul.”
“Instead they drew the Americans back in. The Taliban have no brains!”
The Last Platoon Page 5