The Last Platoon

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

  “You and I are dividing responsibilities. The wounded Marine, he with you long?”

  “Tad? Yeah, about a year. This was his first deployment. Never bitched. Expert qual on the range. Thinks the Vikings are a lock for the Super Bowl.”

  “Married?”

  “Nah, he’s twenty, not old enough to drink.”

  Cruz revised his opinion. Sullivan was ambitious, thin-skinned, and lacked tactical sense. But he cared about his men.

  “Write his parents.”

  “Sir? We don’t have access to email.”

  “Mail the letter when you get back. His family will hang on to it forever.”

  “My spelling stinks.”

  “It’s not what you write. It’s that you cared enough to try. Now here’s how we’ll operate. You take care of admin, police the lines, and stay close to the troops. I look after the tactics and stuff outside the wire.”

  Sullivan was shaken.

  “You’re putting me on the shelf?”

  “The platoon is yours, long-term.”

  “The op plan has the ANA running the patrols.”

  “Fine. If the Afghan soldiers carry the load, it’ll be a short, dull week for us. Now let’s get to the debrief.”

  When they walked into the platoon tent, the men were sitting in the dirt in a semicircle. A glum Sullivan took a knee, while Cruz remained standing. He looked at the earnest young faces, waiting to be told what to do and willing to do it.

  “Devil dogs, your brother’s been evaced,” Cruz said. “He’s on his way home.”

  Cruz extended his hand, palm open.

  “See my fingers? You can break them like twigs.”

  He clenched his fingers into a fist and cocked his arm as though to throw a punch.

  “Want to try now?”

  The Marines laughed and shook their heads.

  “We fight as a fist, together,” Cruz said. “Now, let’s start the debrief and sort out what we did right and where we can do better. I expect everyone to speak up.”

  Cruz paused, letting the platoon absorb the fact that he had taken command.

  14

  Not an Eight-Thousand-Mile Screwdriver

  Coffman remained in the med tent for half an hour, lightly touching Tadcomb’s arm and talking occasionally in a low voice to Commander Zarest. In his detached way, Coffman did care for the troops. While in college, he had seen the film Full Metal Jacket. He had admired the demanding drill instructor, but the senior officers in the movie had appeared weak to him. Instead of becoming a lawyer, Coffman decided he would lead Marines.

  He wanted to be an infantry officer but during training tore a rotator cuff and ended up in administration. He knew Helmand was his moment to shine. He had chosen Barnes so that the staff back at headquarters would hear firsthand about the mission. He had selected Lasswell because her female presence guaranteed favorable media coverage.

  It was midafternoon when he walked through the ops center back into his tiny office. He slept in the dirt without an air mattress, surrounded by a wooden footlocker crammed with files, two folding chairs, and a collapsible table holding a computer. A washbasin was tied to the rear flap of the tent, while a double flap of canvas separated the front entrance from the ops center. Before he clicked on the secure video link, he made sure the camera angle captured his spartan style. He was quickly patched through to General Killian.

  “Coffman here, sir. Sorry it took a few minutes to call back. I was with a wounded devil dog.”

  In World War I, the Germans had called them “Höllenhunde,” or devil dogs, and the nickname had stuck.

  Killian wasted no time with preliminaries.

  “I read the message,” Killian said. “Your Marine OK?”

  “He’s stable, General. His patrol was pushing back a sniper.”

  “Good. Don’t let those pricks get close. Is Cruz on top of it?”

  There it was again. The old warhorse trotting out his favorite pony.

  “I’m sure Cruz will be fine,” Coffman said, “once he gets his feet under him.”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it,” Killian said. “If he’s not doing his job, relieve him and turn in a report when you get back.”

  Killian’s tone was abrupt, even testy. Coffman knew he’d pushed too far. Any report would show Cruz had gone to the aid of the patrol. Coffman changed the subject.

  “We’re all adapting, sir. We have a full plate, yet I’ve received a sitrep that a spook team is inbound.”

  “That’s why I called,” Killian said. “The agency wants to track a drug buyer operating near your base.”

  “Sir? I don’t have the manpower to support—”

  “Hal, you’re not the first to feel overburdened,” Killian said. “Both times I deployed to Helmand, Spec Ops sent me dozens of BOLOs and choppered in whenever they felt like it.”

  Intel shops routinely posted BOLOs (Be On Lookout), mug shots of wild-eyed, thickly bearded terrorists or descriptions of battered cars allegedly packed with explosives.

  “Sir, this sitrep is vague as smoke,” Coffman said. “The command in Kabul provided no instructions.”

  “Don’t be a pain in the ass,” Killian said. “These spooks carry heavy clout.”

  “So, uh, the SecDef is in on this?”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t call you personally,” Killian said.

  Months earlier, after reading SecDef Towns’s glowing fitrep of Coffman, Killian had selected him as his chief of staff. But Coffman’s clumsy display of ambition bothered him.

  “You’ll help them,” Killian continued, “as long as it doesn’t interfere with your mission. Got that?”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Coffman said. “And, uh, this sniper attack? It won’t happen again. I’m bringing in Afghan soldiers to conduct the local patrols. Do you think that’s sensible?”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Let me spell it out, Hal,” Killian said. “I’m not in your direct chain of command over there. I’ll keep you clued in, but General Gretman in Kabul is your operational boss. I’m not an eight-thousand-mile screwdriver. Good night, Hal.”

  Catching the general’s arm’s-length tone, Coffman modified his response.

  “I’ll adjust to the situation,” he said. “Good night, sir.”

  As Coffman hung up, he caught a reflection on the screen of his office. It looked austere and expeditionary. Too bad Killian hadn’t noticed.

  15

  Unusual Spooks

  Half an hour later, a V-22 Osprey came in from the north. When the thirty-thousand-pound aircraft was over the landing zone, the four engines pivoted vertically and the craft dropped straight down, hurling dust and pebbles at gale speed. As Tadcomb was placed on board, four men hopped out. Coffman had remained in his office. When the sounds of the departing aircraft faded away, he called out to Barnes in the ops center.

  “Send in their team chief, Major,” he said.

  A few minutes later, there was a soft rap on a tent pole and a tall, solid man with no insignia walked in.

  “Hi,” he said, “I’m John Richards.”

  Dressed in standard-issue cammies, Richards had bland features. He projected an ambiguous presence, an agreeable man but not memorable. A casual acquaintance might assume he was an unassuming fortyish middle manager, satisfied with his position in life.

  Coffman was determined to keep this formal and short. After shaking hands, he gestured for Richards to sit in a folding metal chair.

  “Mr. Richards, it’s a tight fit on this base,” Coffman said. “But I’ll try to support you.”

  “That’s appreciated, Colonel,” Richards said. “We’re just three Americans plus a terp. We’ve brought our own gear, except for chow and water.”

  When they walked out to the ops center, only one other civilian was there, squinting at the screen streaming video from a UAV eight thousand feet above.

  “Oh hi, Colonel,” he said, casually extending his hand. “Stovell here. I’m impressed wi
th your downlink. Five hundred mps, I’d estimate.”

  Coffman refused to shake hands, offended by the offhanded assumption of equality. Stovell shrugged. He was wearing a custom-made khaki shooting jacket with zippered pockets and cartridge loops, the name patch discreetly stitched in small type. Despite a trim cut that revealed no rotund girth, his face seemed slightly doughy. A stern personal trainer made Stovell sweat daily to hold down the weight brought on by his nightly $200 bottle of wine. Coffman stood motionless for several seconds before making the recognition.

  “Stovell Industries,” Coffman said. “Of course! You’ve designed some of our best simulations.”

  “You’re confusing me with my skilled engineers,” Stovell said. “My programming days are far behind me.”

  Venture capitalist J. Busby Stovell was a maze of contradictions, alternately seeking and hiding from publicity. In the ’90s, while serving as a Marine corporal, Stovell was involved in an epic firefight in Serbia. His clever use of the internet had saved his recon team, and the press had raved about his digital genius. After his tour, backed by Silicon Valley, he wrote code designing quirky holograms, bringing virtual reality into every home, offering all shapes and voices. A two-year-old could wave his hand and a cuddly puppy would do a somersault. Stovell created entertaining alternate worlds in a bubble. He secured a copyright for the source code and generously shared profits with anyone who added an imaginative app. As his corporation expanded, he developed artificial intelligence products for the military. Stovell was the digital age successor to Bill Gates. His psychiatrist chided him for affecting three personas—inquisitive geek, brilliant chief executive, and quixotic patriot.

  Coffman tried to make up for his gaffe in not shaking hands. There was always a consulting job to be considered after retirement.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said affably. “I must say, you’re unusual, even for spooks. Welcome to Firebase Bastion.”

  Assuming Coffman had loosened up, Richards put forward his request in a casual manner, “OK if we accompany your next patrol?”

  Coffman frowned.

  “I have none planned,” he said. “My staff, however, will assist you here on base.”

  “Actually, Colonel, we have to get outside the base,” Richards said, “to triangulate on our target.”

  “That’s not possible,” Coffman said. “The ANA is expected to provide local security and your small team obviously can’t go out with the Afghans. The risk is too high.”

  “Maybe you can lend us a squad for a few hours each day?”

  “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” Coffman said. “I’ve been assured that your presence won’t interfere with my mission. We running skintight. I didn’t deploy with an extra squad. In fact, I didn’t bring one extra Marine.”

  Having established his rules, Coffman closed on an avuncular note.

  “The ANA colonel is due here now,” he said. “You’re welcome to sit in on our coordination brief.”

  16

  We Don’t Pick Targets

  It was midafternoon when the small Afghan convoy led by an up-armored Humvee turned off the main road and headed to the base. It took the six vehicles another ten minutes to bounce across the irrigation ditches and park outside the revetment. A few dozen Afghan soldiers hopped out of Toyota pickups and sought the thin shade of nearby scrub bushes. After a sentry peeled back a strand of concertina wire, a handful of Afghans and Americans in battle rattle walked into the command tent.

  A slender Afghan colonel with a trim black mustache strode up to Coffman and bowed before extending his hand. Like many senior Afghans who had dealt with Americans for two decades, he spoke fluent English.

  “Colonel Ishaq, sir,” he said formally. “I apologize for being late. After your drones left, we took harassing fire that slowed us down.”

  “No harm done,” Coffman said. “Sorry I had to pull back the drones, but I needed eyes to cover our medevac. Now you can take over the local security.”

  Ishaq nodded without enthusiasm.

  “We’ve been fighting very hard,” Ishaq said. “Many losses. But I have brought a platoon, very experienced, for you.”

  When Coffman didn’t immediately reply, Cruz spoke up.

  “One platoon won’t hack it, sir. In Sangin, we deployed three platoons to—”

  Coffman tapped the table.

  “No war stories, Captain. I decide how to protect my task force.”

  Cruz retreated into silence.

  “Perhaps we can divide the perimeter,” Ishaq said.

  Coffman’s face tightened. These slipshod Afghans were disrupting a month of solid planning.

  “We protect our own perimeter, Colonel,” Coffman said. “The fields are your responsibility.”

  “Of course,” Ishaq said. “Every day, my askars will patrol the dangerous sector to the west, away from the road.”

  “And to the east?” Coffman said.

  Ishaq spread his hands.

  “My askars can alternate their routes,” he said, “one day to the west and the next to the east. That’s all I can spare. Kabul calls every day, demanding I get to Lashkar.”

  Coffman dropped his diplomat’s tone.

  “Without my artillery,” he said, “you won’t get there. You’re to provide all local security.”

  Ishaq resented being reprimanded publicly but knew he had no choice.

  “I can send more,” he said, “in a day or two. I cannot tell you how much your artillery means to my soldiers. My adviser said you will destroy every target.”

  Ishaq’s flattery mollified Coffman, who gestured to proceed. Ishaq beckoned toward a short, burly American with a full brown beard. He stepped forward and nodded respectfully at Coffman.

  “Captain Matt Golstern, sir. I have the SF team with the brigade.”

  “Special Forces do fine work, Captain,” Coffman said. “How about a quick review to ensure we’re all on the same page?”

  Golstern walked over to a large computer screen showing a photomap and pointed at Route 11, leading to Lashkar Gah.

  “We have three Afghan Joint Fires Observers,” he said. “Each JFO has digital binos and a computer tablet. When he identifies a target, he transmits the data. Your artillery then fires, killing the bad guys, and Colonel Ishaq’s askars move down the highway.”

  He held up a palm-size tablet connected to his handheld radio.

  “We have requests on call right now.”

  Coffman looked over at the fire direction cell monitoring a bank of computers. The ops chief, headphones in his ears, nodded.

  “Good,” Coffman said. “Gentlemen, let’s witness our inauguration.”

  The officers walked outside and climbed a revetment overlooking the four gun pits. Attached to each artillery tube was a touch-screen computer. Supported by a digital radio, the crew chief plugged in the firing data sent from the ops center. The loader inserted a bronze-green shell containing a GPS chip, twenty-five pounds of TNT, and seventy pounds of high-fragmentation steel. Each shell could hit a pinpoint target fifteen miles away.

  The first lanyard was pulled. BAM! The howitzer bucked in its carriage, sending up a billow of dust. In quick succession the other three guns fired. BAM, BAM, BAM. At ten thousand feet, the rockets kicked in and the shells rolled across the sky in a display of vermillion red that looked like the Greek gods were bowling. The crews whooped with delight.

  Several feet behind Coffman, Lasswell shook her head, smiled, and spoke in a soft voice to Cruz and Golstern.

  “I never cease,” she said, “to admire the blood lust lurking in the breast of every Marine.”

  Coffman glanced back at the junior officers.

  “Remind me,” he said, “how many shells on hand, Captain?”

  “Eight hundred, sir,” Lasswell said.

  “Excellent. We’re not taking any home with us.”

  EARLIER THAT DAY BACK AT THE ANA POSITION, the senior Afghan Joint Fires Observer—call sign Eagle Claw One—had cl
imbed into the turret of his Humvee and focused his binoculars on a stand of scrub pines. He aligned the laser reticle on the trunk of a tall tree, clicked a button, and read the range: 760 meters. He waited several seconds and repeated the procedure. 767 meters. Close enough. Two sightings were required for the computer to confirm the GPS coordinates of a target. On a tablet attached to his digital radio, he tapped in the fire request form labeled in both English and Arabic.

  The day before, someone had shot at the ANA convoy from those pine trees. Eagle Claw One had no idea whether the shooter was still out there. He entered the coordinates of the trees, marking them as an “enemy position.” How many shells should he request? Umm, why not four in an open sheaf? That would spray shrapnel across two hundred meters. Might get lucky and hit a Taliban. After completing the form, he hit Send and adjusted his binoculars to watch.

  Two miles away, Specialist Brian Noonan had the comm watch for the twelve-man Special Forces team. When Eagle Claw One’s request popped up on his computer, he had forwarded it without written comment to the task force ops center where Coffman was presiding. Now, three hours later, the ops center was asking if the mission was still valid. Noonan queried Eagle Claw One, who replied yes. Noonan had his doubts. The T-man hadn’t moved in three hours? But there was no harm in lobbing a few shells to raise morale among the weary Afghan soldiers.

  Eagle Claw One and Noonan were both looking at their screens when the words SHOT OUT popped up. Forty seconds later, the screen read SPLASH. Eagle Claw One, his binoculars locked on the pine trees, heard a whoosh. The shell exploded within ten meters of the grid coordinates, releasing thousands of chunks of molten shrapnel. Eagle Claw One heard a deep, low CRUUM. In rapid succession, three more shells exploded, sending up columns of dirt and smoke. He adjusted his binoculars. As the smoke cleared, no animal or man staggered out from the pines. He looked down at his tablet, tapped the menu, and chose: TARGET DESTROYED. Estimate of Damage: UNK. Unknown.

  Next, it was Eagle Claw Two’s turn. His target was a shed with a rusty tin roof inside an abandoned compound. Yesterday, he had seen a tan Toyota creep out, only to duck back inside when the noise of a drone became distinct. He watched as three 155mm shells were fired. The shed buckled under their combined impact, and the tin roof collapsed. The shrapnel ripped apart the engine and chassis of the Toyota being prepared for use by a suicide bomber. Eagle Claw Two had no way of knowing that. Estimate of damage: UNK.