The Last Platoon

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

  “Major Barnes, interview all the patrol members,” he said. “I want a complete account in forty-eight hours. Every statement signed. ”

  Barnes was startled.

  “Sir, uh, we don’t have the authority to interview CIA,” he said.

  Coffman quickly backtracked.

  “All right, we’ll put that aside for now,” he said. “You both know how disappointed I am, and sorry about Sergeant Lamont. That will be all.”

  Once he was alone, Coffman carefully wrote his report. Then he called General Killian.

  “I don’t want word of this getting out prematurely,” Killian said. “Worst thing would be a mother hearing about this by rumor.”

  “We’re buttoned down, sir. The troops have no cell phones, no access to internet.”

  “OK. What happened?”

  “The ANA provided only one understrength platoon. I had to send out my own patrol. Hit an IED.”

  “Shit luck,” Killian said. “What about the operation? You on schedule?”

  “We’ve delivered every fire request, sir. But I’m disappointed in Colonel Ishaq. The ANA are the slow movers. We’re more than holding up our end.”

  “Hal, I never doubted that,” Killian said.

  Emboldened by the softer tone, Coffman tried to make Killian part of the operation.

  “The UAVs,” he said, “are providing continuous video. If we stay inside the wire, we can avoid those damn IEDs. But that leaves us open to snipers.”

  Killian didn’t rise to the bait.

  “We’ve been over this, Hal,” Killian said. “I’m not your direct boss over there. I’ll keep you informed, but how you protect your lines is up to you. Or you can call Gretman in Kabul and he’ll work it out for you.”

  Coffman felt his cheeks flush. The reprimand stung. He should have known Killian would respond like an old-school grunt, expecting the commander on the ground to make the hard decisions without turning to his superiors. He adapted instantly.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Coffman said. “I’ll patrol as necessary until the ANA get up to strength. There’ll be no gaps in my lines.”

  25

  Do Your Best

  When Cruz walked into the platoon tent, Binns was finishing the debrief. Most of the Marines were sitting cross-legged on the tarp spread across the dirt floor. Some were sprawled against their rucks. The CIA team was standing in the shadows in the rear with the platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Sullivan.

  “Tough day out there, devil dogs,” Cruz said. “But we can handle it, right?”

  The Marines shifted uneasily. Two casualties on two patrols weren’t good odds. A hand shot up.

  “We going out again, sir?”

  “That’s not decided,” Cruz said. “But 2nd Squad’s on deck and should hold a rehearsal.”

  “Agreed,” Sergeant McGowan said. “It’s time to nut up and pay those bastards back.”

  Wolfe shyly raised his hand and tapped his chest.

  “Wolfe, that’s appreciated,” Cruz said. “If we do go out, we need you at point.”

  Doyle was frantically waving his arm.

  “Sir, I can operate all the systems,” he said, “and I got the joint qual card.”

  “OK,” Cruz said. “Mad Dog, you’re my systems operator and you control fires.”

  A husky Marine, nervously shaking a few pebbles in his hand, spoke up.

  “Shit, sir, why not declare a no-entry zone? Any muj within rifle range of our firebase gets pounded?”

  Cruz looked down at the name stitched on the right breast pocket.

  “We don’t know who‘s a Tango until he opens fire, Corporal Kirkland,” Cruz said. “We’re not driving farmers off their land.”

  Face taut with anger, Kirkland didn’t back off.

  “They’re part of this. They know where the muj planted the IED that killed Lamont.”

  There it was, the direct challenge Cruz had been expecting. He had thought about how to phrase it, how to reassure them without blaming Lamont for making a fatal mistake.

  “We have the edge. We’re better trained. The Tangos lost people today. They’ll stand farther off. So set your BZs at four hundred meters. Wolfe knows his job. Stay inside the markings and think before acting, every minute and every step.”

  Cruz looked from face to face, hoping to break the soggy mood. After a few seconds of silence, Kirkland spoke up again.

  “I donno, sir, you’ve kind of taken over. You have your shit together, but we don’t know you.”

  Best to have this out now, Cruz thought. Stop this spiral.

  “You don’t have to know me. When I was a squad leader in Fallujah, I went through three platoon commanders in thirty days. I didn’t get to know them. Focus on your job, not how well you know me.”

  Kirkland kept his head down, fidgeting and poking at the tarp. Cruz waited, while silence dripped like moisture down the tent walls. Finally, McGowan waved his hand.

  “Yeh, well, Captain,” he half shouted, “I look at this like Groundhog Day. I’m all good with wasting the stinkies. Did it on my last push, and I’ll do it this time too.”

  “Solid attitude,” Cruz said. “McGowan, you’re a sergeant. I’m the captain, above me there’s Colonel Coffman, above him, there’s a general. How do we handle this? Simple: We’re the worker bees. We do our best. I don’t care what job you’re given. You do your best.”

  He waited until another hand went up.

  “Lamont was our third cas, sir. There’s gonna be a lot of worried people back home.”

  Whenever he lost a Marine, Cruz avoided a lugubrious tone. The time for mourning was later.

  “I don’t want you thinking about back home,” he said crisply. “This firebase depends on you. You concentrate on that. You lost a brother today. So let’s share some good thoughts about Sergeant Lamont.”

  Again a short silence while the Marines shifted gears.

  “Monty and I’ve been tight ever since sniper school,” Ashford said. “He couldn’t remember names, so he called everyone ‘dude,’ even the staff sergeant.”

  “I was feeling mellow that day,” Sullivan said. “Only had him fill a hundred sandbags.”

  Smiles and laughter all around.

  “Monty loved his woman,” Ashford added.

  “You got that right,” Doyle said. “I never should’ve taken him to Tijuana.”

  “Mad Dog,” McGowan said, “sometimes you’re an asshole.”

  “All right,” Cruz said. “Let’s wrap this up before it degenerates.”

  “Sir?” Doyle said.

  “No more from you, Sergeant.”

  “No, sir, I want to say a prayer.”

  Cruz hesitated, then slowly nodded.

  “Lord,” Doyle said, “please watch over my brothers, as we watch over one another. And Monty, you watch over us too. Amen.”

  McGowan’s eyes widened.

  “Mad Dog,” he said, “where’d you learn that?”

  26

  The War Is Over

  Within hours, every echelon in the chain of command had been notified of Sergeant Lamont’s death. The Marine component at the Central Command in Tampa informed the battalion in Pendleton. The battalion’s casualty assistance call officer, or CACO, and the chaplain were awakened at four in the morning. Two hours later, a sergeant was driving them up I-5 to Newport Beach.

  They grimly studied the instructions set out in a thorough Marine Corps order. The chaplain, Navy Commander Paul Higgins, was wearing his dark blue uniform, and company commander Captain Ward Miller was in starched khakis with a stack of ribbons across his left chest.

  “This is my first run as CACO, Father,” Miller said. “Any tips?”

  Higgins was a slender friar, Order of Franciscan Minor, with a slight paunch, soft features, and a friendly manner.

  “Beyond the prescribed steps,” Higgins said, “I try to stick to patience and silence. It’s such a shock. What counts is that we’re there. Don’t say much.”

&nb
sp; “Lamont’s the first KIA,” Miller said. “But there were two medevacs before him. This’ll upset a lot of parents.”

  “Many of the troops married?”

  “About twenty in that platoon,” Higgins said. “I hope to hell I don’t have to call on any wife.”

  “You don’t think this was an oddity?”

  Miller snorted.

  “An IED hit? That means the grunts are patrolling and the Tangos are on the prowl. No, I don’t think this was a one-off.”

  “If we’re not asked,” Higgins said, “don’t mention the closed casket. There’ll be time for that later.”

  They arrived shortly after eight at a small bungalow on a quiet side street. After they knocked, a slight, pleasant-looking woman in her fifties opened the door. When they introduced themselves in subdued voices, Mary Lamont sagged, grasping the door for support.

  “It’s Brian, isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Well, I can’t leave you standing there,” she added. “Please come in.”

  She gestured them into the small living room, overstuffed with a thick divan and a heavy leather chair facing a huge TV screen that dominated the room. As the two men sank into the couch, she sat on the edge of a straight-back chair and began talking. Her last defense was a torrent of jumbled words.

  “Tim, my husband, loves football,” she said. “So does Brian. They watch it together. Can I get you some coffee? Are you sure this isn’t a mistake? Tim’s on his way to work. He never remembers to take his cell phone. I don’t watch much television myself.”

  She stopped talking, drew in a breath, and waited.

  “Mrs. Lamont,” Captain Miller said softly, “it is with the deepest regret that I must inform you that your son, Brian, died yesterday from hostile fire—an explosion—while serving with his unit in Afghanistan. The Secretary of the Navy extends his deepest sympathies.”

  Miller said nothing more, letting the room absorb the silence. Mrs. Lamont dipped her head as her tears flowed. Higgins offered his handkerchief as she grasped for a box of Kleenex and dabbed her cheeks. After a while, she gathered herself.

  “I have to call Tim’s office. Oh, dear, I should call Amy, Brian’s girl. They had some silly spat before he left. They’re practically engaged.”

  She put her hand to her lips.

  “I don’t know what to say to her.”

  “Why don’t you wait until your husband is here,” Father Higgins said gently. “You can talk it out together.”

  “Were there others?” she said. “Is his friend, Colin Ashford, all right? He and Brian were going surfing when they came home next week.”

  “I’ll check and let you know,” Miller said.

  “I hope,” she said, “no one else was hurt.”

  She looked at both of them, unsure what else to say or what would come next.

  “Your son, uh, Brian’s casket arrives in Dover, Delaware, the day after tomorrow,” Miller said. “If you wish to be there, the government of course will take care of all expenses. I’ll look after everything personally and go with you. The, uh, transfer ceremony will be brief and dignified.”

  “How do we get him home?” she asked softly.

  “I’ll take care of that,” Miller said. “A brother Marine will accompany your son at all times. He won’t ever be alone.”

  She sat upright, twisting a tissue, her face bewildered.

  “Brian wasn’t staying in the Marines,” she said. “I mean, why did he die? The war is over.”

  Remembering the priest’s advice that silence can be solace, Miller did not reply.

  27

  A Political Vise

  It was a humid afternoon in Washington—approaching twilight back at Firebase Bastion—when an angry Senator Hank Grayson of California called Towns. Liberal in social policy and conservative in security matters, Grayson was a persistent critic of the administration. He chaired the Defense appropriations subcommittee and took himself seriously, lashing out at any perceived slight.

  “Mr. Secretary, I’ve been informed about the death of Sergeant Lamont,” he said. “The Lamonts are my constituents. Let me cut to the chase: What the hell’s going on in Helmand?”

  Towns felt uneasy. A vast hierarchy separated him from the corporals pulling the lanyards a continent away. He was as ignorant of the details of the fight as was Grayson.

  “Senator, we have a small artillery unit providing temporary support,” he said. “As you know, we have several of these deployed. It’s standard procedure not to reveal publicly the exact location. That helps the enemy.”

  “That’s damn nonsense,” Grayson said. “The enemy obviously knows where that unit is! I want to know why it’s there. You’ve already cut a deal to get out of Afghanistan. What’s this all about?”

  “Senator, the Pentagon isn’t part of the negotiations,” Towns said. “But the Taliban have been increasing their attacks, after promising not to do so. In any deal, you can’t be pushed around.”

  “I don’t buy that rationale, Mr. Secretary,” Grayson said. “Our soldiers aren’t bargaining chips. To quote your own president, fighting not to win is obscene. Yet it sounds like you’re doing exactly that. To put it bluntly, you’re fighting the wrong war. My committee wants a public hearing of what’s going on.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that, Senator.”

  AFTER HANGING UP, Towns called Armsted to fill him in. The National Security Advisor was sitting in his small office in the West Wing with Diane Baxter, the White House press secretary.

  “Mike, it’s a shame about that soldier,” Armsted said. “I have Diane on the line with us. She’s, ah, a bit concerned.”

  Diane Baxter had a congenial, relaxed style that played well with the press corps. She knew when to be serious and candid and when to duck a pointed question with a smile and a vague remark.

  “Hi, Mike,” she said. “The press will put this on the front page for a day. We have to make sure this story doesn’t grow legs. I’m concerned about you appearing before a Senate hearing.”

  “Grayson was insistent,” Towns said. “He can hold up our budget.”

  “Buy time,” Armsted said. “Maybe tell your contacts at WaPo we’ll be out of there in a few days?”

  Clever bastard, Towns thought, insinuating I leak to the press and setting me up if anything else bad happens.

  “That might encourage the Taliban,” he said, “and undercut the operation. I think it’s best to say nothing and let this blow over.”

  Armsted didn’t hide his disappointment.

  “When POTUS steps off Air Force One,” he said, “he’ll be steamed. I’ll try to keep things calm, but I can’t promise.”

  The phone call ended with Towns sensing he was caught in a political vise. He knew that doing nothing weakened his standing with President Dinard, who didn’t fully trust him in the first place. Towns didn’t care that his mannerisms—sparse comments in White House meetings and the lack of a flattering smile—conveyed aloofness. He had joined the administration to give back, at the same time telling himself that he had the wealth and self-confidence to leave anytime he wanted. He liked to believe that he was secure in himself.

  Sitting at his nine-foot nineteenth-century mahogany desk, he pulled out a sheet of stationery embossed with the seal of a golden eagle. This was his fifth condolence letter in nine months, and he was modest enough to appreciate the lightness of his burden. Previous Secretaries of Defense had signed thousands of letters. He picked up his pen and wrote carefully to avoid a spelling mistake. Lamont, not LaMont or Lamonte. In his neat, tiny penmanship, he labored over each sentence to convey his heartfelt tone.

  His sorrow was as genuine as his gnawing sense of unease. It was easy—too easy—to rationalize that he couldn’t dwell over one fatality in a military that numbered over one million. But was he leading or merely presiding over a giant machine? How much difference did his presence as Secretary of Defense make? He imagined the owner of a foo
tball team, sitting so far above the stadium that he could scarcely see the field of strife, much less hear the jarring collisions of the competitors. He thought of asking some probing questions of the Chairman, then decided against it. Admiral Michaels and the other brass had recommended the deployment. This wasn’t the time to second-guess or go wobbly.

  28

  Zealots

  While Towns was writing his consolation letter, Mullah Akhim Sadr was driving through the dense evening traffic in the city of Quetta. As the leader of the Quetta shura, or high council, his devotion to the Taliban cause was absolute. At the age of sixty, Sadr was a hard man, convinced that tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands if need be—must embrace martyrdom so that the just and global rule of Allah could be restored, with Jerusalem again its caliphate. With his approval—with his joy!—two of his five sons and his only daughter had gone to paradise as suicide bombers.

  Inside the Pakistani air base, Colonel Balroop was waiting in an abandoned hangar. After Sadr was escorted inside, they exchanged perfunctory courtesies without smiling. Balroop intended to place the Taliban emir on the defensive.

  “Your representatives are negotiating with the Americans,” he said. “You are close to victory. Yet you attacked Lashkar Gah, when I asked you not to.”

  “The American president was stalling,” Sadr said. “We had to keep up pressure.”

  “But he didn’t fold, did he?” Balroop said. “You embarrassed him when you cut off the city. He has thrown it in your face by sending back Marines.”

  After decades of battle, Sadr was not impressed by a few artillery tubes.

  “A tiny base,” he said dismissively. “We will drive them out.”

  Balroop’s eyes grew wide with surprise and disbelief.

  “Like this morning?” Balroop said. “Zar’s fighters were wiped out! I listened to the villagers on their ICOMs.”

  “Farmers don’t know what they’re talking about,” Sadr said.