The Last Platoon

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

  The third mission struck a poppy field recently harvested and empty of workers. The previous afternoon, five Talibs had ambled across, casually carrying over their shoulders their AKs by their barrels. It was a gesture of scorn toward the askars who dared not leave the highway. In the morning, Eagle Claw Three had glassed the field and seen nothing. But he didn’t want to be left out when the 155s began firing. On his tablet, he selected as the target: ENEMY ON THE MOVE. After all, he had seen Taliban on the move sixteen hours earlier. After four shells exploded in a neat line along the far edge of the field, Eagle Claw Three tapped the menu on the screen: TARGET DESTROYED. Estimate of damage: UNK.

  A few sheep had wandered from their herd grazing on the far side of the field. An eight-year-old boy and his little sister, switches in hand, had slipped through the undergrowth to drive them back. Too small to be seen above the poppy stalks, they were in the field when the first shell exploded, ripping apart the girl. The boy, farther away, was tossed against a tree and when he tried to stand, his knees buckled and he fell on his face, bleeding from his nose and ears.

  LASSWELL AND CRUZ HAD REMAINED on top of the berm to watch the fire missions.

  “I just heard from the doc,” she said. “Corporal Jacobs suffered no brain damage from that viper bite, thank God.”

  She pointed toward Captain Golstern, who was sauntering over to them, munching on a fruit bar. His dust-caked cammies were frayed, and his beard hadn’t been combed in days.

  “I think our Special Forces amigo,” Lasswell said, “has had his ticket punched too many times.”

  “Commenting on my superior military appearance?” Golstern said affably.

  “We’re standing downwind,” Cruz said. “How long you been with the brigade?”

  “Three months, one to go.”

  “Many TICs?” Cruz asked.

  “Nothing serious. The usual rope-a-dope. IEDs, snipers. There’s never heavy shit when you draw Ishaq. His brigade avoids meat grinder work. My team calls him Slick.”

  “What’s your rate of advance down the highway?” Cruz said.

  Golstern looked embarrassed.

  “Five hundred meters a day. The askars stop every car at a distance. They don’t want to risk being hit by a suicide bomber. We crawl along, then halt at noon to let the dozers push up a barrier for the night.”

  “Better pick up the pace,” Lasswell said. “We’re supposed to be out of here inside a week.”

  Golstern hesitated, and then decided to speak bluntly.

  “Kabul’s working up a full-court press to extend your stay,” he said.

  “Neva hoppon, mon,” Lasswell drawled. “President not crazee.”

  Two tubes barked, and they watched the red arcs speed downrange.

  “Bro, I don’t mean to be a pain,” Cruz said, “but that Afghan platoon you’re dropping off? I’m parking them outside my lines. I’m not having a green on blue. Losing one Marine that way on my last tour was enough.”

  Golstern held up his hands in mock surrender.

  “No dispute here,” Golstern said. “The platoon leader’s solid, but he doesn’t know who might be an assassin.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “Time for me to join the herd and collect Ishaq.”

  Together they walked back to the operations tent. Coffman and Ishaq were standing off to one side, letting the watch officer handle things. Major Barnes hurried over to Golstern.

  “Your team,” he said, “has reported a civilian cas.”

  Golstern picked up a mic.

  “What’s going on, Brian?”

  “A tractor pulled up,” Noonan said over the speakerphone, “with two kids. One’s totally mashed. From the pieces, we think it’s a girl. The other’s a boy, about ten, faint pulse, clammy skin, smashed-in face. He’s projectile vomiting. I’d guess his skull’s fractured. The farmer’s screaming that our arty did it. I need a priority medevac Cat C.”

  Golstern held the mic up and looked down at the dirt, inviting a response from the Marines. Frowning deeply, Coffman strode forward.

  “Those children may have tripped an IED,” he said.

  Colonel Ishaq stayed in the background and shrugged. Maybe, maybe not. Not getting any support, Coffman took a different tack.

  “Who’s responsible for each fire mission, Captain Lasswell?”

  The Marines had gone over this repeatedly. Coffman was establishing the public record.

  “A qualified Afghan, sir,” she said. “We’re strictly in support.”

  Coffman looked at Golstern.

  “Same applies to me, sir,” he said. “My team monitors the fire net. So does the ops center in Kabul. We don’t interfere unless something’s definitely wrong.”

  “Did anyone detect anything wrong with those fire missions?” Coffman asked loudly.

  When no one answered, Coffman turned to Ishaq.

  “Colonel, I can’t request a bird all the way from Kandahar,” he said. “This isn’t our responsibility. We don’t pick targets.”

  Ishaq shook his head.

  “My Humvees cannot get through the Taliban,” he said. “His family can try to drive the boy to the hospital. An unfortunate situation, beyond our control.”

  Off to one side, Golstern whispered to Cruz.

  That’s how Slick operates,” he said. “Everything slides off him.”

  17

  Tajiks Die in Helmand

  Ishaq beckoned to one of the Afghans who had followed him into the ops center. A thin soldier stepped forward, eyes slack with fatigue, a full black mustache drooping down his tired face.

  “Colonel,” Ishaq said, “this is Lieutenant Ibril. His platoon is staying with you.”

  Coffman did not return the man’s salute, instead gesturing toward Cruz.

  “The captain,” Coffman said brusquely, “will show you where to set in.”

  Ibril nodded blankly and followed Cruz out of the tent. Ibril’s askars were waiting outside the perimeter gate. Without a word, they picked up their packs and fell in behind the two officers.

  “Been in Helmand long?” Cruz asked.

  “Eleven months,” Ibril said.

  “Long time in a shitty place,” Cruz said.

  Ibril glanced back at his haggard soldiers. Some looked too young to shave; others had thin mustaches, or had grown short, scruffy beards. Only a few wore helmets, and most hadn’t bothered to wipe the grime from their faces. Many had the Mongol features common among northern tribes.

  “We’re Tajiks,” Ibril said. “I started with fifty. Now I have thirty. A few more leave every day.”

  He seemed indifferent to the desertion. This guy’s beat, Cruz thought.

  “You’re five hundred miles from home,” Cruz said. “How they manage that?”

  Ibril shrugged.

  “They dress as civilians and pay for rides. They don’t speak good Pashto. The Alikozai betray them. Foolish boys. Tajiks die in Helmand.”

  In single file they walked to the west side of the base. About seventy meters beyond the wire, scrub growth marked the edge of an irrigation ditch.

  “Set up on the far side of the ditch,” Cruz said. “We’ll meet once a day. The ops center will coordinate your patrols. Captain Golstern is sending you his terp, Mohamed.”

  “Mohamed the terp,” Ibril said in a mocking tone. “He is your spy?”

  “He’s qualified to call for fire,” Cruz said tightly. “You’re not. You want to leave the wire without artillery support?”

  Ibril nodded slightly, accepting the offer.

  “He can join us,” he said. “We leave wire once a day, OK?”

  It wasn’t possible for one patrol to protect all sides of the perimeter. But Cruz could see Ibril was burned out, beyond caring about the opinions of the American advisers who came and went with the seasons.

  “All right, take the west side tomorrow,” Cruz said. “Anything you need?”

  Ibril thought for a moment…a good night’s sleep, the back p
ay owed his troops, replacements, hope.

  “Water,” he said, “batteries, NVGs.”

  “No night-vision goggles. The other stuff, fine.”

  Cruz looked back at the double strands of concertina surrounding the Marine perimeter.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ll give you ten coils of wire to place around your pos. See that panel?”

  He pointed to a flat, square olive-colored panel staked chest-high.

  “That’s laser radar. Any movement near our lines after dark gets popped. Tell your askars, anyone crossing that ditch dies. I’ll send over MREs and three hundred in cash.”

  Ibril brightened a bit.

  “I’ll buy melons and goats,” he said.

  It took an hour to work out the lateral limits for their sectors, deconfliction procedures, radio frequencies, call signs, and patrol routes. When they were finished, Cruz thought about telling Ibril not to smoke too much tshar, the local hashish. He decided against it. No sense looking naive.

  18

  Planting Death

  The afternoon shadows were falling when two dusty pickups sped through the open gate of Nantush’s compound, scattering chickens, children, goats, and cows. Zar leaped out, carrying his prayer rug with its elaborate crimson stitching. Workers were clustered at the well, washing off the opium tar that blackened their hands and soiled their tunics. They hastily grabbed their shabby rugs and knelt behind Zar for the maghrib, or sunset prayer. As they finished, Ala slid into the front rank, proudly clutching his AK. When a worker patted him on the shoulder, he grinned shyly and bobbed his head, hoping Zar would notice.

  “Is it true?” Zar said.

  “Yes, I saw the kafir fall,” Ala said. “Right over there, across the canal.”

  Zar frowned. A few hours earlier, he had seen an aircraft drop straight out of the sky and take off the same way, too fast for any RPG to hit. So an americani had been hit. The boy was telling the truth.

  “Allahu Akbar!” Zar shouted. “A good start.”

  From the backs of the pickups, men were unloading plastic yellow jugs. Zar turned to Nantush.

  “I must hurry,” Zar said. “I have ten farms to visit. After dark, plant these mines near the footbridges and along the canals.”

  Nantush had a glum, confused look on his face.

  “Don’t worry,” Zar said. “Guides will take the workers safely to the fields.”

  He turned to the workers.

  “In Kabul,” he shouted, “they scrape off their fingernails to make twenty dollars in a month. You earn that in a day. If the americani stay, you will have nothing. We Alikozai rule Helmand. With Allah’s blessings, we will drive out the kafirs!”

  An approving murmur swept through the crowd. Amidst shouts of “Allahu Akbar,” Zar climbed into one of the pickups and drove away. As the workers stored the jugs, Nantush, his face contorted with anger, took Ala aside.

  “See what you started.”

  “The mujahideen fight for Allah,” Ala said. “To be a martyr, a shaheed—”

  Nantush slapped Ala across the face, stunning him into silence.

  “Never say that! A shaheed is a nobody. He blows himself up because his family needs money. You are dawlat. You have wealth and will inherit twelve jeribs. I have built the largest farm in the district. You will not throw that away.”

  “The Taliban praise me,” Ala muttered.

  “They are day laborers with no land,” Nantush said, raising his finger for emphasis. “They fill you with stories of jihad because they have nothing else. If you die, your mother will cry forever.”

  “Zar flew to Mecca. He is hajj, and Alikozai like us.”

  “Yes, and he owns fifteen jeribs, a refrigerator, and a TV. When he visits Pakistan, he watches cricket and drinks liquor.”

  Ala looked down, scuffing at the dirt.

  “Go help with the mines,” Nantush said. “Make sure none are hidden inside our walls. And do not touch the wires!”

  AT THE FIREBASE ONE KILOMETER TO THE WEST, a UAV operator had noticed the two pickups and zoomed in on Nantush’s compound. On the wide screen, Barnes counted the jugs being unloaded.

  “That could be a resupply of tractor fuel,” he said. “Corporal Fuentes, when does tilling for the next season begin?”

  “June, sir.”

  “So what do you suppose,” Barnes said, “is in those pretty yellow jugs?”

  “Send a patrol to find out?” Fuentes suggested.

  “And have the good colonel kick my ass?”

  Fuentes and the other computer operators laughed.

  “Take a still shot of those jugs,” Barnes said. “We’ll show it at tonight’s update.”

  19

  Barter or Blackmail

  The security platoon ate, slept, and kept watch in four-man teams inside the dozen bunkers ringing the perimeter. They used their large tent near the ops center only for meetings and storing gear. The CIA team had pitched a smaller tent alongside. In late afternoon, Richards walked into the platoon tent, where Cruz was checking the duty roster.

  “Skipper,” Richards said, “can you show me around the perimeter?”

  Cruz guessed Richards was pushing fifty, and he talked with casual authority. His diffident tone was not an act. Richards was a modest leader, open to collaboration. Calm and unfazed in close combat, he had risen rapidly inside the close-knit Special Activities branch of the CIA. Once they were alone, he got to the point.

  “We have an ELINT vector on our target,” he said. “We have to get outside the wire. Using resection, we might pin down where he is.”

  “ANA’s handling the patrols,” Cruz said.

  “I saw the route posting,” Richards said. “The Afghans are going west tomorrow.”

  He gestured at the tree lines dense with green conifers and heavy undergrowth.

  “Your east flank is open,” he said.

  Cruz sidestepped a direct response.

  “You were at the meeting,” he said. “Once more ANA arrive, they’ll fill in.”

  Richards appraised him.

  “That will take a day or two,” Richards said. “In the meantime, you’re exposed.”

  Cruz stopped walking as anger surged through him.

  “You a colonel on attached duty, sir? An Omega?”

  Richards smiled and shook his head.

  “I was a sergeant in Force Recon,” he said. “I shifted over to the company a long time ago.”

  “The CIA doesn’t tell a Marine how to do his job,” Cruz said. “I know what has to be done.”

  Richards smiled tolerantly.

  “But you can’t do your job, can you?” he said. “Coffman shut you down in that meeting. He seems to be allergic to you. You need an ally, a friend inside the royal court.”

  “That won’t work,” Cruz said. “The XO isn’t on my wave length.”

  Richards laughed.

  “An apt phrase,” he said. “What if I told you we’ve monitored two calls in the last half hour? One was a snuffy blabbering about that snake bite.”

  Cruz had worked enough spec ops to admire the wizardry of the agency.

  “You know I’m not cleared for that stuff,” Cruz said. “Why are you breaking opsec?”

  “Only a hypothetical,” Richards said. “But what if the other call was to Pendleton, an officer keeping his boss back home informed?”

  “If you mean Major Barnes,” Cruz said, “what a weasel.”

  Richards looked amused.

  “No, he’s looking after his career,” he said. “Hell, inside the Beltway, he’d be promoted. He broke an admin regulation. Other units allow cell phones, Snapchat, whatever. Troops even do homework with their kids over Skype.”

  “Where are you taking this?”

  “Intercepts of our target point east,” Richards said. “My team has to get out that way. So do you. Suppose we help Barnes avoid trouble? Then he helps us. Does that sound sensible?”

  “Sounds like blackmail,” Cruz said. �
�Turn him in.”

  “Then I’d also have to name the snuffy who called his wife,” Richards said. “That makes me a rat and my team will get zero cooperation. My way is better.”

  “Barnes broke the rules,” Cruz said.

  Richards seemed surprised.

  “You have what, sixteen years in the Corps? You’ve dealt with lots of shit off the books. What’s really bothering you about listening to my workaround?”

  Cruz knew he was temporizing, not wanting to risk blowback from Coffman if Richards’s plan went awry.

  “Nothing,” he said. “All right, I’ll listen. What do you have in mind?”

  “A solution that helps us both,” Richards said. “Don’t look it as blackmail. Call it barter. Barnes will get the credit, and we get on with our jobs.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Cruz walked into the ops center and beckoned to Barnes. Once they were outside, Cruz steered him away from the tent.

  “Something bothering you, Captain?” Barnes said. “And by the way, good work today bringing in that wounded Marine.”

  Cruz ignored the patronizing tone.

  “Major, the CIA team’s been testing their spook gear,” he said. “Richards asked me if cell phones were permitted on base.”

  Barnes stiffened, the color draining from his cheeks.

  “Of course they’re not. You know that.”

  Cruz hurried on.

  “Some idiot’s been talking to his girlfriend. I’ve bumped into this before, when I was training recruits. Millennials feel too damn entitled.”

  “Has Richards identified the user?” Barnes said.

  “No,” Cruz said, “and he doesn’t want to blow relations with the troops by being a snitch. I think there’s a simple fix.”

  “Really?” Barnes said. “What’s your suggestion?”