The Last Platoon

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

  He snipped the wire and carefully followed it through the damp dirt for several feet to the wooden pressure plate wrapped in plastic. He lay down flat and peered at the slight opening between the two thin boards. He looked up at Binns, who was standing nervously several feet away.

  “Carbon rods,” he said. “They don’t emit a metallic signature. We got lucky to find the battery.”

  He traced a wire from the boards to a nearby pile of leaves. Brushing them gently aside, he uncovered a dirty yellow plastic jug filled with blue ammonium nitrate. The wire led inside the open top of the jug.

  “A directional charge,” he yelled genially, “pointed toward the path.”

  Binns jumped back.

  “We’ll call the engineer detachment,” he said, “to blow it.”

  That automatic response worried Cruz; Binns wasn’t thinking.

  “We don’t have the time,” Cruz said. “We have to push.”

  Annoyed at being contradicted, Binns glared at Cruz.

  “I don’t want to wait around here,” Wolfe said. “Blasting caps are frisky mothers. Let’s get off this trail and cut through the field.”

  Binns had the sense not to argue further. He gestured at Lamont.

  “Lamont, we’ll be exposed out there. You fall back to the rear and keep eyes behind us.”

  As Wolfe swept toward the middle of the field, Ashford squirted a large X near the IED and followed in trace. Eagan moved up and fell in behind him. When Ashford looked at him, Eagan tapped his scope. Contact likely.

  HASSAN WAS WATCHING FROM A TREE LINE when the Marines discovered the IED. Now the infidels were walking across an open field, with no place to hide! He wagged his finger at Ajbar, who was eagerly clutching his PKM. Young Ibir had shoved a rocket into the nose of his RPG. Hassan flapped his hand for them to wait. He would take the first shot. He couldn’t see the americanis if he lay down flat, so he squatted on his haunches, squinted through the wavering iron sights of his AK, and squeezed off the first burst. Whack, whack, whack. The solid 7.62 rounds snapped out, quickly joined by Ajbar’s PKM, firing with the slow, heavy percussion of a sledgehammer. The Marines went flat so fast that Hassan wasn’t sure if he had hit one.

  WHEN THE ROUNDS CRACKED BY HIS EAR, Wolfe dove headfirst into the poppy plants. Ashford and Eagan did the same.

  “Get rounds downrange,” Eagan was yelling. “Eleven o’clock.”

  “I can’t see shit!” Ashford shouted.

  “Makes no difference,” Eagan yelled. “No friendlies out there. Shoot!”

  Wolfe and Ashford responded. Lying prone a few Marines farther down the line, Cruz jerked at Binns’s boot.

  “Move the pig up to Eagan,” he shouted.

  “I want to keep the machine gun here, sir,” Binns yelled back. “It’s my fucking squad!”

  “Eagan has the azimuth!” Cruz said.

  “All right, all right!” Binns yelled. “Curtis, gun up! And crawl, goddamn it, don’t stand!”

  “What’ll you make, Eagan?” Cruz yelled.

  Eagan had swung his rifle in the direction of the incoming rounds and read the compass heading on the scope.

  “Three ten magnetic,” he read. “Four hundred meters to that tree line!”

  Binns and Cruz were looking at the spot on their iPads, while Sergeant Mad Dog Doyle was talking with the mortar crew chief back at base.

  “Jimenez,” Binns shouted, “get your thumper up here!”

  A thickset Marine ran up with his Mark 320 grenade launcher. Pop! A 40mm shell the size of a baseball arced out over the field and four seconds later exploded among the trees. Pop. Pop. Pop. A few feet away, Mad Dog Doyle was calling in a fire mission.

  Hassan knew better than to stay where he was. His men were shooting blind and return rounds were cracking by, none yet close to their position. It was time to fall back before being fixed and pounded.

  BACK AT THE OPS CENTER, Coffman had grabbed the mic from the watch officer. He knew he should stay off the net and not distract the patrol leader. Thunk. The first shell had left a mortar tube. Coffman knew he had no role to play. Damn it! He had to know what was going on.

  “Wolf Six, this is Eagle Six actual. Sitrep, over.”

  Cruz had stayed out of the fight, letting Binns command his squad. The M240 machine gun was hammering out short, steady bursts, the sound reverberating off the ground. The grenade launcher was thunking in an easy rhythm.

  “Eagle Six, this is Wolf Six,” Cruz said into his boom mic. “Wait one, out.”

  Coffman’s frustration boiled over.

  “Wolf Six, don’t tell me to wait! What is your situation? Over.”

  In the ops center, Marines glanced at each other.

  “Eagle Six, this is Wolf Six,” Cruz radioed. “We are exchanging fire. No friendly cas. Over.”

  “Wolf Six, good. But damn it, keep me informed.”

  Doyle was crouching, head above the poppies, calling a correction to the mortar pit. Eagan had attached the steel rod to his sniper rifle, stuck the supporting tripod into the ground, and was glassing the tree line.

  “They’re hauling ass,” Eagan said. “Keep putting rounds into the bush.”

  HASSAN WAS GRABBING AT HIS FIGHTERS, shoving at them to run deeper into the woods, put more trees between them and the Marines. Young Ibir, though, couldn’t abide running away without firing one of his beloved rockets. He stepped out of the underbrush, the RPG pointed skyward, and settled the butt into his shoulder for a quick shot.

  Wolfe yipped and pointed. Ashford aligned on the target and snapped off one shot. The bullet hit Ibir center chest. First T-man down.

  “Yes!” Ashford shouted.

  Eagan had adjusted his scope to scan deeper into the tree line. The three lenses on the sight refracted light to distinguish movement against the stationary background. The computer identified a blur lasting one-hundredth of a second and calculated the location, allowing the twenty-power lens to focus in. The computer then slewed in front of the target until finding an opening among the trees wide enough, about three feet, to allow the 6.5mm Creedmoor to cover 1,200 feet in half a second.

  Lugging his PKM, a muj was blundering so awkwardly through the bush that Eagan thought he could have found him without the computer. He had set the trigger on automatic. He did nothing but hold steady and absorb the recoil. The round hit Ajbar in the back, pushing him forward into the dirt. Second T-man down.

  Eagan worked the bolt and continued scanning.

  ALA, THE ELDEST SON OF NANTUSH, was the next to fall, because he didn’t know what to do. Was he supposed to run away or help Ajbar? He ran a few steps back and paused, an easy target. The bullet struck him in the neck.

  HASSAN HAD TAKEN COVER behind a thick oak. He lay there for a few seconds, breathing hard, trying to think. Ibir, then Ajbar, and now Ala struck down in what…a few seconds? That couldn’t be. He rose to one knee and looked carefully about. The first hollow point shattered his right shoulder and lodged in his chest cavity. The second ripped through his ass.

  His piercing scream reached Alam Shah, who was safely hiding in a gully. Without hesitating, he ran back and reached down to aid his younger cousin. A bullet smacked into his cheek. Fifth T-man down.

  That left Yakoz, the itinerant worker. After exiting the far side of the tree line, he ran pell-mell across the next field and slipped into a deep drainage ditch. He lay there for several minutes, gasping. When no one joined him, he wondered what he would tell Zar, who was sure to beat him. He hid his AK, and climbed out of the ditch. It was seventy kilometers to Farah Province, but he had enough money to pay for a motorcycle ride. The sole surviving mujahideen headed home.

  EAGAN KEPT SCANNING, but the computer detected no further movement in the tree line. It had been four minutes since the last incoming round. The outgoing rate of fire from the patrol had slackened to occasional short bursts. Mad Dog Doyle wasn’t sure whether to call for more mortar rounds. He looked from Binns to Cruz, uncertain which of them was
in charge.

  “Continue the mission?” he said.

  Cruz didn’t reply, deferring to Binns. The sergeant held up his hand, listening for a moment.

  “Cease fire!” he shouted into his mic.

  The Marines stood up and looked around, grinning and softly yelling, “Yeah! Yeah!” The first firefight for the squad. Combat Action Ribbons for everyone. No friendly casualties. Enemy down. All right!

  “We lit those fuckers up!” Mad Dog Doyle shouted.

  “You heard the bronze gong, didn’t you, Sergeant?” a bemused Stovell said.

  “What the fuck you talking about?” Doyle said, hastily adding a “sir.”

  “Homer,” Stovell said, “wrote that warriors hear imaginary drums in battle.”

  “When was that?”

  “Three thousand years ago.”

  “I wasn’t born back then.”

  Up at point, Ashford was grinning hugely. He raised his sniper rifle triumphantly and looked back down the line to Lamont.

  “Tango down!” he yelled. “In the black!”

  “Bro!” Lamont shouted back.

  Running forward to congratulate his friend, he lurched slightly outside the Silly String. WHAM! The earth heaved up in a black mushroom of smoke as the tremor from the explosion shook the ground. Lamont flew several feet in the air and landed in a crumbled mess, helmet knocked off, armored torso bent at an odd angle, tiny red bits of his leg dripping from the faces of stunned Marines. The percussion slammed into their eardrums and for a few seconds sealed the grunts in a tomb of silence. It was broken by Lamont’s moans that quickly mounted into a piercing wail.

  “My leg!” he screamed. “My leg!”

  Cruz was trying to clear the ringing in his head when he saw Corpsman Ronnie Thomas running up the line of frozen Marines.

  “Hold! Don’t go out there!” Cruz yelled. “Wolfe, do a sweep!”

  Wolfe stumbled past Cruz, paused to suck in a breath, then turned outboard into the shroud of gray smoke. He swept the metal detector back and forth, quickly covering the short distance to Lamont. Corpsman Thomas was right behind him, fumbling to tear the plastic covering off a tourniquet. Lamont was sitting upright, weight balanced on his outstretched arms and hands, looking in horror at the gushing stump where his right leg had been. Thomas knelt down and frantically adjusted the wide black strap around the stump. He twisted hard on the knob to cinch the strap tight and stop the spurting blood. Lamont shrieked in fresh pain.

  Binns was looking around absently, tapping his helmet, his brain concussed, unable to make sense of what was happening. Cruz had bent over, opening his mouth to emit sharp yawns, forcing air to clear his ear canals. Mad Dog was tugging at his armored vest.

  “Sir, it’s Eagle Six,” Doyle said.

  Cruz pressed his voice mic.

  “Eagle Six, this is Wolf Six. We have one critic. Over.”

  “Wolf Six,” Coffman said. “Medevac’s on the way. Get that patrol back here!”

  “Eagle Six, I repeat. Cas is critic. Recommend Lima Zebra here.”

  A moment’s pause before Coffman came back on the net.

  “The zone’s not secure. We’re talking about a V-22.”

  We’re talking about a fucking life, Cruz thought.

  “Eagle Six, zone will be secure in ten mikes.”

  He switched off. Binns and Eagan had gathered around him.

  “Set up over-watch from three points,” he said. “One fire team with Eagan to search the bodies. Binns, take the second team with Wolfe and clear an LZ to the west. Third team, cover our backs with the 240.”

  As they turned away, Lamont let out another piercing cry. Ashford pivoted to run to him. Eagan seized him by the collar and jerked him around.

  “Stay focused,” he said. “Your job’s with Wolfe. He’s exposed without you.”

  Ashford fell in behind Wolfe and the fire teams dispersed, leaving Corpsman Thomas cradling Lamont in his arms, rocking back and forth, waiting for the morphine to grab hold. Doyle hunkered down so that the corpsman could shout into his mic.

  “Talkin’ to aid station,” Mad Dog whispered to Cruz.

  Lamont’s right leg had swollen balloon-size, straining the stitching of his trouser. Thomas looked up, his face white and lips quivering.

  “How critic, Doc?” Cruz said.

  “Femoral’s cut,” Thomas said. “The tourniquet’s so tight the blood has nowhere to go. Come on, sir!”

  Cruz checked the time. Ten minutes had passed.

  “Fifteen mikes out.”

  Cruz moved away and checked his iPad. Blue dots showed where the fire teams were set up in over-watch positions.

  Lamont moaned again. Doyle was holding him now, crooning to him.

  “I got you, bro. We got you.”

  “Arrgh fuck, I was an asshole, goin’ with you to Tijuana.”

  “Sush, it’s all right, man. That don’t mean nothin’.”

  Thomas was holding up the saline packet, ferociously concentrating on the drip into Lamont’s arm.

  “It’s not all right,” Lamont said. “Aww Jesus, I was a shit. I can’t die like this.”

  Binns was kneeling, his head almost touching the ground. He had grasped Lamont’s hand and was softly praying. Lamont’s back was arcing in spasms, and the sepulchral blue tint had spread from his lips to his cheeks.

  “You tell Amy I love…”

  “Tell her yourself, bro,” Doyle said. “Big bird coming all for you. Wheee. You’re going home.”

  “You think so?”

  Lamont’s breathing was rasping and gargled.

  “Brother, I know so.”

  Over the next several seconds, Lamont eased away. Thomas put down the IV packet and closed Lamont’s eyes. Mad Dog gently detached himself from the body, while Binns frantically looked around for a poncho liner or something to cover the body. It was the fifth time Cruz had witnessed a young Marine slowly die. Each time, in that last, liminal moment he had heard a final profession of love, not anger.

  “Sergeant Binns,” he said, “inform base that we have one angel.”

  A few minutes later, the V-22 streaked in from the northeast at seven thousand feet, its twin engines pivoting vertical directly over the purple smoke popped to mark the LZ. The aircraft dropped straight down, the four-thousand-horsepower thrusters scorching the earth and raising a huge billow of dust. Marines carried Lamont up the rear ramp, removed the body from the litter, and gently placed it on the cold metal floorboards.

  “For Christ’s sake,” the crew chief yelled, “leave the litter so we can strap him in.”

  “I’m keeping it,” Doyle shouted back. “We may need it before we get back to base.”

  While Doyle folded up the litter, Cruz radioed for the fire teams to pull back in. Binns kept his head down and didn’t try to take back control of the patrol. Returning by another route, Wolfe led the patrol across a dozen fields empty of laborers. He detoured three times in response to beeps from the metal detector. At the rear of the column, Eagan occasionally stopped to place his monster rifle on its tripod and scan to the rear. The returning patrol received no incoming fire.

  24

  No Gaps in My Lines

  It was early afternoon when Cruz, still in battle rattle, followed Barnes into Coffman’s office. In a dozen sentences, Cruz summarized the fight. When he finished, Coffman seemed doleful.

  “Did Lamont suffer?” he said softly.

  The question startled Cruz. Suffer? He fucking died! He was too scared to feel pain. When you’re blown up, the body goes numb. You know parts of you are missing. Fear grips the mind.

  “He held on for a while, sir,” Cruz said, “but he was in shock. The corpsman gave him two morphine shots.”

  Coffman’s tone suddenly changed.

  “And whose fault was it?” he snapped. “Was there negligence out there, Captain? Think before you answer.”

  Standing off to one side, Barnes pursed his lips together, signaling Cruz to tread cautio
usly. While returning to base, Cruz had thought about what to say. Lamont shouldn’t have veered outside the Silly String. But blaming him wouldn’t change what happened and would cause his parents more pain.

  “It was a judgment call, sir,” Cruz said. “He was moving forward to help Ashford when he tripped the IED.”

  “That’s your story? That it was an accident? An act of God? No one made a mistake out there?”

  “The area was laced with IEDs, sir. Lamont moved a few feet the wrong way and…”

  Coffman was mulling how he would phrase his after-action report. There had to be someone to blame.

  “He tripped the IED after you were in contact?” he said. “Why was he moving at all? You could have launched Scorpion to locate those bastards!”

  “We didn’t need a second drone, sir,” Cruz said. “Once the muj opened fire, we had an fix on them. Solid ISR.”

  “Five enemy killed, you’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Ashford put down one. Eagan smoked four with his wonder gun. We recovered a few papers from the bodies. We have photos and DNA. That CIA team knows its stuff.”

  Coffman had forgotten that CIA was part of the patrol.

  “This isn’t about them,” he said. “You were in charge. How many weapons recovered?”

  “We didn’t bring any back, sir. They were extra weight. We broke them up and scattered the ammo in the ditches.”

  “That was my decision to make!” Coffman said. “What the hell can I show to the press? Goddamn it, we’ll look foolish, like we’re back in Vietnam, claiming enemy kills that never happened.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cruz replied evenly.

  “No, it’s not ‘yes, sir,’” Coffman said sarcastically. “It’s an error in judgment on your part.”

  Coffman was fed up with Cruz. So what if he he’d fought in Fallujah and Sangin? He couldn’t take out a local patrol without fouling up.