The Last Platoon

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

  “Go,” he whispered urgently, “go now. Press the button when you reach the first kafir.”

  The boy lurched off the path and hesitated, looking toward the Marines. He paused among the poppy flowers, unsure.

  “Go,” Nantush hissed. “Go!”

  “HEY, TIC,” ASHFORD SHOUTED DOWN THE FILE, “what’s the word for a cross dresser?”

  “Bacha bazi,” Tic said. “Why?”

  Ashford pointed at the boy slowly approaching the Marines.

  “Check the lipstick on this kid,” he shouted.

  The boy’s red lips looked like a gaping sword wound as he picked his way through rows of pink and white poppies, softly chanting, “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.”

  “Shoot!” Tic screamed. “Shoot that fucker! Now! Now!”

  The mourners had dropped the casket and were scattering, providing Ashford with a clear field of fire. He paused before taking the shot. Kill a boy?

  Eagan had no hesitation. He took one step out of line and placed a round in the boy’s chest. No delay, no thinking, done in a blink. The impact drove the boy back and he tottered drunkenly, his right hand extending the kill switch toward the Marines, as if offering communion.

  “Down!” Tic yelled. “Down!”

  The Marines reacted instantly, diving down. The earth seemed to sneeze, a deep snort as the explosive belt ripped apart the boy’s body. A pink dust cloud erupted, the brown dirt mixing with the red flesh. Three seconds and one breath later, Cruz and a few others had scrambled to their hands and knees, scanning for enemy.

  “Up! Up!” Cruz yelled into his mic. “Form a three sixty. McGowan, give me a cas count!”

  The Marines popped up into kneeling positions, rifles on shoulders, sweeping back and forth. McGowan took a quick count.

  “All good!” he shouted.

  Ashford was scoping in every direction, trying to avoid Tic, who was glaring at him.

  “I couldn’t shoot,” Ashford said. “He looked like a scared kid.”

  “When I yell, you fire!” Tic said. “That kid was infected. He’d kill us all and smile about it. I know these people. He was a fucking murderer!”

  30

  It’s War, Doc

  The lipstick boy had evaporated. A black smudge, surprisingly small, marked the blast site, and only few body parts lay scattered about—a pale white foot, a slab of red thigh meat, a few innards that looked like uncooked sausage. Back down the path, Ala’s abandoned corpse lay in the dirt, still secure in its white shroud. Cruz smelled the familiar sweet, nauseous mix of cordite, smoke, and broiled meat.

  Farther off, the mourners had fearfully clustered around Nantush, kneeling and crouching, waving their hands in front of their faces, silently beseeching the Marines not to shoot. A shriek of pain came from the bushes, followed by high-pitched wails. Nantush bolted upright and, flapping his hands toward the Marines, ran a short way up the path and knelt down. When he stood back up, he was holding in his arms a small, screeching boy. He looked toward the Marines, shaking his head, indicating he didn’t know what to do.

  The boy’s wails took on an anapest rhythm, sob, sob, scream, sob, sob, scream, over and over. His left foot and shin were dangling by a flap of skin, the kneecap shorn off and blood spurting out in rhythm with the boy’s jagged breathing. His eyes bulged from the shock and fear of the unbelievable, his face so pale his tears could scarcely be seen.

  “Doc, check out the kid,” Cruz said.

  HM3 Bushnell rushed up and cinched a thick black tourniquet strap around the boy’s thigh, evoking a howl and sealing off the artery. Next he tore the wrapping from a three-centimeter needle, grasped the boy’s other thigh, and leaned forward. Then he hesitated.

  “Fifteen milligrams,” he said. “His breathing’s ragged. If I stick him, his heart might stop. I gotta talk to Commander Zarest.”

  “All right,” Cruz said. “McGowan, send a fire team to search the compound.”

  Stovell and Richards were standing off to one side with Tic.

  “Skipper,” Richards said, “OK if we ask a few questions?”

  When Cruz nodded, Tic strode forward, took Nantush by the arm, and half dragged him into a cluster of bushes. Legs crossed, Tic sat across from him and in perfect Pashto asked his name. Then Tic leaned forward gravely until their heads almost touched.

  “Nantush, I am Ahmed,” Tic lied. “Like you, I am Alikozai, from Kandahar.”

  Nantush accepted the words as true. The americani routinely hired locals to translate. He anxiously glanced back to see who was tending to his son. Tic grabbed his shoulders and pointed at the black smudge.

  “Nantush, you caused this tragedy,” he said. “You directed the bomber.”

  “No, no! He is hitsok, with a teacup from the Quetta madrassa. I can show you.”

  They were interrupted by wails and shrieks from the compound as frightened women and children poured out the gate.

  “You will find no asbaab in my home,” Nantush protested.

  “That’s because you moved the mortars into the fields,” Tic said. “You think I’m stupid? I ask again: how did the affindi arrive at your compound?”

  A panicked Nantush knew he was dead if he mentioned Zar.

  “I, I don’t know, it was dark. I was washing the body of my son.”

  “Liar. Your compound lights were on last night. I saw you push the affindi toward us.”

  “He was drugged. I wanted him to blow himself up away from everyone.”

  “Drugged? Show me the pills.”

  Nantush reached inside his tunic and handed over two faded brown capsules.

  “Who gave you these?”

  Realizing his mistake, Nantush pretended not to hear.

  “He was faqir, not one of us,” he mumbled. “We are not kuni. Ask them.”

  “Your relatives can’t help you,” Tic said. “The angry americani don’t care if the boy was an outsider. So what if you didn’t abuse him? You are old, akaa, but they will send you to Guantanamo, blow up your compound, sell your lands, and drive off your family.”

  Only two days ago, Nantush had been content, relaxed, happily bidding up the harvest price, dreaming of a flat-screen TV, a new Samsung refrigerator, a Deere tractor, and enough money for his pilgrimage to the hajj. Now his favorite son was dead, his youngest son lay dying, and he was going to the americani hell. He was ruined, his family torn apart.

  Tic didn’t speak for a few seconds, letting Nantush grasp the fullness of his devastation. Then he dribbled out a morsel of hope.

  “You are my bandi. You have no rights, but I can speak to the kafir for you. They trust me.”

  Nantush snapped at the offering.

  “I’ve paid all my workers,” he said eagerly. “I have three thousand left, in dollars.”

  Tic waved his hand, brushing aside the words. Nantush raised the offer.

  “I’ve sold only half my harvest,” he hastened on. “I have five more jeribs to be lanced. I can give you six thousand dollars in a few days.”

  “You’re lying. Kharaab. No one pays that much.”

  “No, no, the buyer is a foreigner, a Paarsi.”

  Tic glanced furtively around.

  “I don’t care if an Iranian pays you a few thousand dollars,” Tic hissed. “I’m not risking my job for a farmer’s wages. I want three bags of heroin. One kilo each, sealed well.”

  Nantush felt light-headed. For that, he would have to ask Zar, who would demand all his crop in exchange. He would be left with crumbs. His life lay in shambles, no matter what choice he made. His hands were shaking.

  “I can’t do that,” he stammered. “I would be in debt. He, he…”

  Tic looked anxiously toward the Marines.

  “Enough!” he said. “We have no more time. I will tell the kafirs to destroy your compound. Now!”

  “I am not Taliban!”

  “You are if I say you are,” Tic said. “Last chance: You have three bags when I next visit?”

  “Yes, yes!
When will that be?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  NANTUSH SCURRIED BACK TO HIS WAILING SON. Tic walked back and pulled Richards off to one side. When they finished talking, Richards joined Cruz.

  “Tic came up empty,” Richards said. “No mortars in the shed, and the farmer’s too scared to talk.”

  “Let’s bring him in with us,” Cruz said. “Sergeant Ahmed might pick up something.”

  “We won’t gain anything by that, Skipper,” Richards said. “The Tango who brought the suicide bomber is gone. That farmer won’t dime him out. If he did, he’d be butchered by dawn. Tic thinks there’ll be a squirter, though, when we leave. Can you vector a drone to track him?”

  Cruz felt his jaw tighten in anger. The CIA team chief was holding something back. Still, Eagan had shot the suicide bomber when the Marines had hesitated. Now wasn’t the time to push for answers.

  “All right, Mr. Richards,” Cruz said. “You got it.”

  He walked over to Doc Bushnell, who was tending to the injured boy. The tourniquet had staunched the dark red blood gushing from the black gnarl that had been a knee. Tiny pink bubbles formed a froth line around the edges of the seared flesh. The boy’s right tibia was peppered with bits of burnt blue cloth, and his toeless foot lay at an impossible angle, as if it wanted to run away, but was attached by a stubborn skein of sizzled tendrils and fried ligaments. The kid looked like he was four, maybe five. For a second, Cruz remembered Josh clinging to his knee back in San Diego. Was that only four days ago?

  “Sir, the trauma bandage has enough superglue to check the arterial bleeding,” Bushnell said. “I gave him ten cc’s of morphine. Commander Zarest might be able to stabilize him, once we get to base.”

  On Cruz’s first tour, commanders had called in helicopters to fly wounded civilians to hospitals where skilled doctors with sterilized tools rendered aid. Year by year, disillusion and cost awareness—jeopardize a $40-million helicopter and an American crew for a wounded civilian?—had set in. On his second tour, Cruz had left the wounded for the farmers to care.

  “His family can take him to Lash,” Cruz said.

  “Sir, he’ll never make it,” Bushnell said, half pleading. “Why not bring him back? Put his family out in front of us. They know where the IEDs are. That way we’re protected and the kid might survive.”

  Good for you, Doc, Cruz thought. You have the balls to bargain with me to save a five-year-old.

  “Doc, we’re a Marine firebase,” Cruz said, “not a hospital. If we bring the boy with us, tomorrow there’ll be a dozen at our wire. And one of them will be another suicide bomber.”

  The corpsman looked hurt. He hadn’t expected this from Cruz.

  “So that’s how it is, sir?” he said tonelessly. “We leave him?”

  Cruz nodded, his face blank. “It’s war, Doc,” Cruz said. “We’re not running a shelter.”

  He knew Coffman wouldn’t permit bringing the boy back. But he hadn’t even radioed in the request, and he didn’t like himself for not doing so. Had he become too hardened, or was he too worried about his fitrep, or both?

  The Marines were sorting themselves into a long file. Bushnell packed up his med kit and shuffled into his assigned space. McGowan finished his head count and looked at Cruz.

  “Beat feet, sir?”

  Cruz waved his arm and the Marines walked away. Only the rear guard looked back. Nantush was gently placing his dying son in a wheelbarrow.

  31

  Assigning Blame

  Inside the ops center, Coffman squinted at the bright overhead video showing a line of troops fording a creek.

  “The patrol’s heading back, sir,” Sergeant Ahmed said. “The CIA team has asked for surveillance on that compound.”

  “Permission granted,” Coffman said.

  He opened his notebook, checked his watch, and wrote a short entry. It would help to record how he had helped the spooks. Details, always attend to the details. He was never without his schedule.

  0600: Two laps around base. Wave to sentries and cannoneers.

  0700: Morning brief.

  0800–1100: Emails and telcons with General Gretman and staff in Kabul.

  1100–1200: Visit crews in gun pits.

  1200–1300: Daily ops update.

  1300–1400: Telcon with ANA Colonel Ishaq.

  1400–1700: Prepare daily summary for General Gretman, copy to General Killian.

  Coffman labored three hours to write three hundred words, crafting each sentence to convey the right tone. He knew Killian savored gritty particulars—range to target, firing conditions, enemy casualties inflicted, etc. Coffman made sure to include a quote or a comical quip from some lance corporal to illustrate that he was close to his troops. Now he had to report a suicide bomber. How would he phrase that to emphasize the positive?

  Cruz and Richards came into his office with sweat pouring down their faces, cammies muddy, shaking packets of sugared tea into water bottles and guzzling it down. Major Barnes stood behind them.

  “Good you all made it back,” Coffman said. “No casualties?”

  “An Afghan kid was torn up, sir,” Cruz said. “No Marines were hit.”

  “They must have been waiting for you,” Coffman said, “when you left the wire.”

  “That’s standard MO for jihadists, sir,” Barnes interjected. “They knew we’d send out security patrols.”

  Coffman rubbed his chin.

  “Thank you, XO,” he said dryly, “for pointing out the obvious. Did you find mortars at the compound, Captain?”

  “No, sir,” Cruz said.

  “So the mission wasn’t accomplished,” Coffman said, “and the patrol was endangered. Do you think that’s an acceptable outcome, Captain?”

  Cruz felt a chill as his chances for a solid fitrep dropped.

  “No, sir,” he said. “But I think we covered our east flank.”

  Coffman offered no praise.

  “That’s the responsibility of the Afghan army,” he said. “I’m working on that. Are your sentry posts tied in? Is the LADAR working?”

  Cruz never responded quickly in intellectual combat. Put on the defensive, he needed time to couch a reply. He failed to think of a sensible rebuttal.

  “Yes, sir,” he said lamely.

  Satisfied he had brought Cruz to heel, Coffman waved for him to leave and shifted his to Richards.

  “I want to help your team,” he said. “I authorized overhead surveillance. But it’s too dangerous for you to wander around looking for clues. I’m suspending further patrols.”

  With a curt nod, Richards left the tiny office. Once outside the revetment, he turned to Cruz.

  “Your colonel’s too risk averse,” Richards said. “We have to find another work-around.”

  Cruz swung up his jaw, the way he did when angered.

  “What’s this ‘we’?” he said. “You’re too one-way. That bullshit you gave me out there about finding nothing, then asking for a drone to trail a squirter? I’m not running any more errands for you. Once with Barnes was enough.”

  Richards didn’t back off.

  “We’re narrowing in on our target,” Richards said. “Tic’s playing that farmer. That’s all I can share for now.”

  “Earth to CIA,” Cruz said, “your black op almost got us killed!”

  Richards was tired. Under the noon sun, the wrinkles in his face cut so deep they cast shadows.

  “You’re the target, not us,” he said. “No one knows my team’s here. Those headlights in the middle of the night at that compound? You were suckered in. That suicide kid was meant for you. Your base has pissed off someone with heavy clout.”

  “You didn’t tell that to the colonel,” Cruz said. “You didn’t say a word.”

  “Don’t dump on me,” Richards said. “I was waiting for you to speak up. You know your shit outside the wire. But when Coffman braced you, you didn’t offer squat. I don’t get that about you.”

  He turned away, his tone of disappoin
tment lingering with the sweat on Cruz. Over the past three days, Cruz had been averaging four hours sleep. Years ago, he had learned to snatch a quick nap whenever the battlefield tempo allowed. Still smarting from Richards’s remark, he curled up in a corner of the platoon tent.

  In his exhausted sleep, he first saw the ashen face of Sergeant Lamont, cradling his sniper rifle. He briefly opened his eyes, forcing his mind to stop taking inventory of the fallen. When again he dozed off, though, other images crept in from prior deployments. His mind flickered from the pleading eyes of the skinny kid in Ramadi with the blood and shit spilling from his ass, to the spider spinning its web across the black hole that had been the face of a taxi driver in Fallujah, to the dust popping from the shirt of the too-trusting water truck driver as the bullets struck him. He had flashes from Sangin of a charred boy with holes in the center of his upturned feet, and a woman and baby hanging upside down in a smoldering car. Then he drifted back to the suicide bomber and the four year-old with his right shin dangling by a tendril. Somehow he knew where the dream was going. He was standing outside of himself, watching a final, terrible image. There were Jennifer and Josh clinging to each other, two more civilians he had failed to protect.

  Petrified, he struggled to escape from the nightmare, to reach the surface, to leave behind the fright of sleep. He snapped awake, sat up, and sipped tepid water. He looked at the canvas walls, fighting to drive away his fear of the costs of failure.

  32

  The Dog That Didn’t Bark

  Inside the intel section of the ops center, Stovell had taken a seat next to Sergeant Ahmed. Both were looking at a satellite photo that displayed the district broken into sectors measuring five hundred meters on a side. Each square was labeled with an alphanumeric, like R6T or Q9Y. Every compound within the squares was numbered.

  “You asked us to watch for squirters,” Ahmed said. “After your patrol left that compound, one dude on a motorbike hauled ass going north. We had eyes on him for a click. Lost him in the bush up in Q5F.”