The Last Platoon

by A Novel of the Afghanistan War (retail) (epub)

  “No, nothing.”

  “Maybe the bullet ricocheted off his armor. Might not be too bad.”

  A few feet away, Denton was listening to his intra-squad radio. Other radios were squawking, a chaos of words and static. He pressed the button attached to his left lapel and yelled into his voice mic.

  “Everyone shut up! Wolf One-Three, you have eyes on the sniper?”

  On the other side of the marsh, Lance Corporal Ed Thomas was lying in thick foliage, the other nine Marines spread out around him. None could see through the undergrowth. A few Marines were shooting at nothing.

  “Negative,” Thomas said. “Can’t see shit. He’s on the other side of the canal, damn close. Want us to close on you? Over.”

  Denton looked at Sullivan, who shook his head. Denton pressed his talk button.

  “Wolf One-Three, hold where you are. Stay under cover.”

  BACK AT THE FIREBASE A KILOMETER AWAY, Cruz had watched the overhead video that showed the patrol splitting into two groups, both now hidden beneath the foliage. Sullivan’s voice came up on the net in the ops center.

  “Eagle Three, this is Wolf Five. Have one WIA critic. Sniper has us pinned down. Our pos is 962 355. Over.”

  Cruz looked at Coffman, who nodded. Cruz squeezed the push-to-talk button.

  “Wolf Five, this is Wolf Six. QRF on the way.”

  McGowan was waiting outside, his keyed up squad behind him.

  “This fucking country never changes, sir,” Mac said. “We’re good to go.”

  The point man held up his mine detector. Cruz shook his head.

  “No time for that. Follow the shaving cream.”

  The patrol set off briskly, half trotting and half walking at a quick shuffle. Cruz had inserted an earbud and was talking with Sullivan.

  “Bullet in his chest,” Sullivan said. “He’s breathing, but we’re pinned down.”

  “Call smoke,” Cruz said into his throat mic. “We’re ten mikes out.”

  The reaction squad held to a fast pace. Within a few minutes they reached Thomas and the other Marines on the bank.

  “There,” Thomas said, pointing across the mud flat. “Sergeant Sullivan’s stuck on the other side. The sniper has us zeroed in. We tried to get across twice, and he fired both times.”

  Through his earbud, Cruz heard Sullivan fumbling to call in a fire mission. The sniper could be anywhere in the dense green tangle of bushes and trees on the far side of the canal, not sixty meters away. A small drone was hovering a few feet above the canal, but the operators back at the ops center could not pick out the shooter.

  Cruz adjusted his binoculars with its laser range finder and centered the red reticle. He saw no one. He didn’t expect to. Usually it was like this, with no target visible. He spoke into his throat mic, contacting the fire direction center and not bothering with a lengthy format.

  “Badger Six, this is Wolf Six. Give me one Willie Peter. Sniper at 962 368. I’m giving you a quick polar. Target is one five zero meters from my pos, niner five magnetic.”

  Coffman interrupted, coming up on the net. “Wolf Six, this is Eagle Six Actual. Do you have PID?”

  The standing regulation was clear: do not shoot unless you have PID—positive identification of the enemy.

  “Eagle Six,” Cruz radioed. “Am requesting Willie Peter to conceal friendly movement.”

  Willie Peter—white phosphorous—was a chemical that burned, emitting a large billow of white smoke. Coffman did not reply, his silence signaling consent.

  The next transmission from the ops center was, “Wolf Six, shot out.” A few seconds later, Cruz heard the metallic thunk of the shell leaving the tube back at base. After a pause, the ops center radioed “Splash.” Cruz heard the slight sound of a newspaper being ripped, followed by a dull thump. He watched as white smoke swirled from the tree line.

  “Drop five zero and give me four Willie Pete.”

  Cruz waited fifteen seconds for the smoke to thicken on the other side of the canal. Then he led four Marines across the mud and flopped down next to Sullivan. Tadcomb was lying on his back, gulping air in rapid, shallow breaths. His lips were a faint blue. The entrance wound in his lower ribs was covered with a compression bandage. When he inhaled, air filled the chest cavity, preventing his lungs from expanding. As his heart strained to suck oxygen from his bloodstream, he was slowly strangling.

  “What the fuck,” Cruz said. “Why didn’t you stick him?”

  “I didn’t want to kill him,” Sullivan stammered.

  “He’s suffocating! Doc, get that needle into him.”

  Navy Corpsman Third Class Bushnell had slipped on latex gloves and unwrapped the nine-gauge needle catheter. With his left hand, he probed Tadcomb’s chest to locate the intercostal space between the second and third ribs. With his right hand, he pushed the needle in a full two inches, drawing a hiss as the trapped air shot out. Bushnell dropped his head to listen to Tadcomb’s breathing.

  “Got it!” he said. “That eased the pressure.”

  He plucked out the needle and slapped on an occlusive bandage, carefully sealing the adhesive edges so no air could seep in.

  Cruz showed no emotion, instead turning his attention to the far bank of the canal where the white smoke lay like a lazy fog. He was operating with no conscious thought. Suppressing the sniper was as automatic to him as a golfer selecting a club to hit out of the rough. He called again for mortars.

  “Badger Six, give me an open sheaf of HE on the coordinates where you dropped the smoke.”

  “Wolf Six, this is Badger Six. I assume you have PID.”

  There it was again, the ritualistic question about positive identification of an enemy demanding a ritualistic answer.

  “Affirmative,” Cruz replied.

  A husky Marine with a florid face rushed up and flopped down beside Cruz.

  “Sir, I’m the JTAC, Sergeant Doyle,” he blurted out. “I’m supposed to be doing this.”

  A Joint Terminal Attack Controller was qualified to call in mortars, artillery, and air. Cruz appraised Doyle’s determined expression.

  “Doyle, you got Killswitch on your tablet?”

  “That and more, sir. I’ll make the adjustments.”

  Within two minutes, both heard “shot out” from the ops center, followed twenty seconds later by “splash.”

  WHILE THE MORTAR SHELLS WERE STILL HAMMERING DOWN, four Marines carried Tadcomb, strapped to a foldable litter, across the mud flat. As they stumbled forward, they sank to their knees and hoisted the litter poles up to their shoulders. After everyone was across and deep inside the bush, Cruz stopped to regroup.

  “Gear check,” he said.

  Denton and McGowan inspected their squads, checking each man for his rifle, radio, and night-vision pouch.

  “We got Tadcomb’s M27,” Denton said. “We’re missing his handheld. My bad. I’ll go back.”

  Cruz tensed. Crossing the bog had cost one Marine. But he couldn’t let the Talibs recover an encrypted radio. He thought of going back himself and dismissed the idea. That would finish Denton in the eyes of his squad.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It was your bad, Sergeant. Take care of it.”

  With two other Marines, Denton slogged across the mire. A few minutes later, he came up on the platoon net.

  “Wolf Six, I found it.”

  As Denton was wading back, he lurched and twisted his leg. Limping badly, he hobbled up to Cruz and showed him the 152 handheld.

  “Good,” Cruz said. “You OK?”

  “No biggie, sir. Fucking mud.”

  Cruz arranged the two squads in a single file. Without saying a word, Sullivan hefted a litter pole onto his shoulder. They carried Tadcomb at a fast pace across two fields before his weight slowed them down. At the next irrigation creek, Cruz discarded Tadcomb’s armor and helmet in the waist-deep muddy waters.

  “Take the magazines,” he said. “Dump the rest. No sense lugging extra weight. No one’ll find them.”
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br />   WHEN THE FIRST SHELL HAD EXPLODED with a dull crump behind him, Ala had flopped to the ground and wiggled behind a stout tree trunk. As the shells burst nearer, he curled into a fetal position, placing one arm over his head. He never thought of crawling forward to take another shot. Instead, he feared the Americans would come looking for him. He lay there, rapidly repeating “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,” thinking only of running back to the compound after the shelling stopped. He had killed an americani. Yes! He had seen the kafir fall! Ala was scared and agog, anticipating the approval of his father and the envy of the workers. He was now a mujahideen, a true warrior of Islam.

  12

  Two Holy Warriors

  As he drove south, Zar heard the mortar explosions behind him. They sounded close to Nantush’s farmlands, but he paid them no attention. He stopped in Yaget, a cluster of storefronts on the outskirts of Lashkar Gah. Most were unpainted gray concrete shops, few larger than one room, offering bright scarves, long shovels, plastic toys, patched-up tires, and dozens of items with price points below five dollars.

  Zar parked in the rear of a shop with the rusted skeleton of a Nissan on the roof and a tractor with a broken axle blocking most of the driveway. Inside, a boy was holding a light behind a man hunched under the hood of a car. They both straightened when Zar entered. The man’s face was a patchwork of scars that drew his lips up in a perpetual sneer. The empty left sleeve of his greasy kameez was pinned to his tunic. He nudged the boy, who murmured a frightened “salam alekim” and left.

  Zar stood in the shadows, shaking his head as he looked at the junk strewn across the hard-packed dirt floor—deflated tractor tires, a twisted truck engine, dented car fenders, a torn mattress with its box springs sticking up like corn stalks. In a corner, a flat-screen Samsung TV was blaring. Zar squinted at the image of a seductive woman sipping wine.

  “Tulus,” he said, “you watch filth. Infidel pornography.”

  Tulus knew Zar’s wife watched the same channel. He wiped sweat from his face and batted away the accusation.

  “The kafirs call that soap, like washing hair,” he said. “It’s how I learn americani.”

  Whenever the crafty province chief met with American advisers, he had Tulus interpret, knowing the crippled mechanic would later report to the Taliban. Tulus turned off the TV and gestured toward a teapot. Zar shook his head.

  “Business seems slow,” Zar said in a bargaining mode.

  Tulus gestured vaguely with his right hand.

  “I do what I can alone,” he said, slurring each syllable. “Is the tunnel leaking again?”

  “No, your repairs were good,” Zar said. “I have another job for you. The americani are back. I don’t want them leaving their base.”

  “You think they would go to the mosque?”

  “Not if we sow mines to rip them apart.”

  Tulus glanced appraisingly at Zar and hobbled over to a rusted tractor engine decaying in the dirt. Using two small pneumatic jacks, he pumped up one end of the engine and scraped at the dirt with a hand pick to reveal a metal ring. He attached a short rope, and gestured to Zar to help. Together they slid back an iron plate and climbed down a wooden ladder. Handing a flashlight to Zar, Tulus tugged aside dusty tarps covering several sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer with Pakistani markings. Empty yellow plastic jugs were strewn in a damp corner.

  “I have enough diesel fuel and blasting caps,” Tulus said, “to mix ten jugs.”

  Zar reached down and picked up two short pieces of wood, taped together and held apart by a few slices of sponge. A thin electric wire was taped on the inside of each piece. He squeezed the pieces together until the two wires touched, then relaxed his grip and squinted at Tulus through the small gap between the two boards.

  “Of course you will set them in,” Zar said.

  Both men were experts at rigging improvised explosive devices, or IEDs. Dig a small hole for the jug and insert into the fertilizer a blasting cap attached to a wire glued to one piece of wood. Several feet away, bury a small battery with a wire attached to another piece of wood. Place the two pieces together, held apart by a few bits of sponge, and cover them with dirt. When a foot pressed the boards and wires together, a spark would leap from the battery to the blasting cap, setting off ten pounds of nitrate that ripped apart legs, testicles, and intestines.

  “I prepare the explosives,” Tulus said. “That’s all. Your men attach the batteries and bury them.”

  “The farmers know you,” Zar said. “You repair their tractors. My majid are brave but don’t have your experience. I need you to go with them.”

  Tulus’s abrupt laugh sounded like a cough.

  “And I needed my left arm. I won’t go out there, not after the last time.”

  Zar sharply snapped the boards together and Tulus stumbled back.

  “I’m your commander,” he said. “You will do…”

  Zar sucked in his breath and stopped. How many times had Abra laid her hand on his arm and softly entreated him to hold back. My husband, you frighten people. There’s no need to do that. They know your might. Do not chase them away.

  Zar regained control, stopped talking, and shone the flashlight around the small cave.

  “Ten isn’t enough.”

  “I can mix more for two thousand rupees each.”

  Zar looked at him sharply, then shrugged. He wasn’t paying with his own money.

  “Agreed. I’ll buy as many as you can build. Hire other workers.”

  Tulus’s eyes widened.

  “I’ll have twenty tomorrow,” he said. “More after that. Our mines will pen in the infidels. But something more will be needed to drive them out. Perhaps you should call the shura…”

  Zar slapped him across the face, the backhand blow unleashing more power than intended. Tulus staggered back, falling on his crippled shoulder. Zar sighed, lifting his arm as though exasperated by its strength. He reached down to help Tulus, who crabbed away, wiping the blood from his split lip.

  “It’s not my fault that I tapped you,” Zar said. “You must watch your tongue. We are both holy warriors. We are brothers.”

  Tulus, staring at the dirt in front of his bleeding face, refused to look up.

  “And brother,” he muttered, “we must both obey the shura.”

  Zar was puzzled. It seemed an odd thing for Tulus to say.

  “Indeed we do obey,” Zar said. “The shura guides us to victory.”

  13

  Cruz Takes Command

  It took the patrol less than thirty minutes to reach the base. Coffman was waiting at the wire. He ignored Cruz, fell in step with the four Marines carrying the litter and placed his hand softly on Tadcomb’s shoulder.

  “We got you, son,” he shouted. “I’m right here with you. You’ll be fine. Medevac’s inbound. You hang on tight!”

  To Cruz, it looked like the colonel was imitating what he’d seen in war films. Yet at the same time, he seemed genuinely concerned. Then it struck him that Coffman had never comforted a wounded, scared grunt. He didn’t know how to act. This was all new to him.

  When they reached the med tent, Commander Zarest pushed the Marines aside and examined Tadcomb.

  “What dose did you give him?”

  “Five milligrams, sir,” Bushnell said.

  “He’s stable,” Zarest said. “Good job with that needle. Now everyone out.”

  Once outside, Coffman wheeled on Sullivan.

  “Staff Sergeant,” he said. “WTF? What were you doing out there?”

  The dozen Marines within earshot exchanged glances. Sullivan grimaced.

  “Sir, I…”

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” Cruz broke in. “When I got there, the platoon sergeant had everyone under cover. That mud was like glue.”

  Coffman hesitated. He looked at the two Marines, both sopping wet from sweat, cammies caked with mud. He was aware of others watching them, and of his own clean uniform.

  “No more incidents like this,” he said, wavin
g a finger. “Get your shit together and clean up.”

  As Coffman walked back to the med tent, Cruz turned to the patrol.

  “Devil dogs, now you know what Helmand’s all about,” he said. “T-man gets off the first shots. It’s how you react once under fire that counts.”

  He picked out the pinkish face of Doyle, who was bobbing his head up and down, listening to some silent beat.

  “Good job adjusting mortars.”

  Doyle smiled widely, baring back his lips to show crooked and overgrown incisors.

  “Mad Dog bites again,” Sergeant McGowan said.

  Doyle growled to the delight of the grunts. Playing along, Cruz leaned forward for a closer look.

  “Yep, I agree,” he said. “Sergeant Doyle, those are the ugliest teeth I’ve ever seen.”

  “Grrr,” Doyle replied to general laughter.

  “All right,” Cruz said. “Assemble in the platoon tent for the debrief.”

  Sullivan lagged behind as the others moved off.

  “Thanks for the hus, skipper,” he said.

  “Hold fast for a few mikes,” Cruz said. “Not to second guess, but why didn’t you send a pos for the mortars to hit?”

  “My laser was just picking up trees,” Sullivan said.

  “That’s all you needed,” Cruz said.

  “Not the way I saw it, sir,” he said. “Rules of engagement are clear. I had no target.”

  Cruz let out a sigh. After years without combat, peacetime attitudes had crept in.

  “Look, Staff Sergeant,” he said. “In Nawa, your battalion took only a few casualties. Me? I had a platoon in Sangin. On my first patrol, the point man was veering toward a compound. I got a bad feeling, but I didn’t want to be pushy and I kept my mouth shut. A few seconds later, bam!, he’s a screaming double amp. That didn’t happen again on my watch.”

  “I don’t get where you’re going, sir,” Sullivan said. “Maybe I kinda made a mistake. No one’s perfect.”

  “There’s a learning curve in combat,” he said. “We’re here for only a few days. Not enough time to smooth things out.”

  “What’re you driving at, sir?”