The Last Platoon

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

  “I’ll ask Gretman to stay on him,” Killian said. “There’s…uncertainty about you, Hal. It extends to the top, if you get my meaning. You understand what that means.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Coffman said. “More ANA arrive tonight.”

  “Umm,” Killian said. “Maybe that’ll help. You gotta keep them off you.”

  After hanging up, Coffman mulled over Killian’s unspoken message: provide an active defense of the firebase. He called Barnes into his office.

  “Major, get Cruz ready to set in the ANA reinforcements and—”

  He stopped when he heard a brief flurry of shots.

  “What the hell? Get after them!”

  Barnes was caught off guard. Thermal cameras at night quickly picked out temperature anomalies such as hot rifle barrels. So a Taliban would fire off a burst, then smother the barrel in dirt and wait a few hours before shooting again, if at all.

  “No rounds hit inside the base, sir,” Barnes said. “But it’d be hard to avoid IEDs if we go searching for them in the dark.”

  “Then damn it,” Coffman said, “as soon as it’s light, I want a thorough sweep. All the ANA and Cruz’s people too. I’m sick of this.”

  After Barnes left, Coffman rubbed his forehead and forced himself to think rationally. Lashing out at an absent Cruz was like kicking a rock. That damn captain thought he was the only war fighter. In his eyes, everyone else was a REMF, a rear-echelon motherfucker. Killian had the same attitude.

  Yes, that was it! Go out with the patrol. Why not? As task force commander, he had the right—no, the duty—to see for himself what was going on. He thought of the movie Patton, where George C. Scott, three stars on his shoulders, had personally directed traffic to get his soldiers moving. By God, Patton knew how to command! Be seen with the troops! Hell, old Killian would smile when he heard about it.

  SHORTLY AFTER THE V-22 TOOK OFF, two CH-53s landed and forty Afghan soldiers trotted down the ramps. Cruz had decided to post them outside the wire to the southeast. Setting them in proceeded smoothly, with the new Afghan lieutenant taking his cues from Lt. Ibril. For the patrols in the morning, Cruz assigned the southern sector to the new ANA unit, while Ibril covered to the northwest.

  When Cruz returned to the op center, he called together the platoon NCOs, the CIA team, and 3rd Squad.

  “XO wants us to sweep clean the perimeter to the east at first light,” he said. “Sergeant Binns, your squad’s up. Our job is to clear down to the canal. Think of the symbol of the Olympics—those five interconnected rings? That’s us, looping back and forth. We want the muj, the dickers, the field workers, everyone to see us searching everywhere. Got it? Now let’s hear from intel.”

  Sergeant Ahmed walked in front of the large photomap and clicked on his laser pointer.

  “Stovell and I composited this overlay for your tablets. We used overhead video and the returns from the pressure plates Stovell put in. These blue dots trace where the workers walk to avoid the IEDs. You follow those dots, you’re safe.”

  Wolfe wagged his forefinger.

  “Solid hus, Sergeant,” he said.

  Ahmed smiled.

  “Appreciated. You’ll have a drone overhead, but we can’t see through trees.”

  He stood back to let Cruz take over the briefing.

  “How many of you,” Cruz said, “qualified expert with those scopes on your M27s?”

  Most raised their hands.

  “Good. We might spook a muj or two today. He won’t pose for you. It’s like seeing a rat at the dump. One thousand one, one thousand two, and the rat is gone. So be fast. Take the snap shot and put him down.”

  “Oorah!”

  Cruz allowed a small smile.

  “We’ll hold a steady pace,” he said, “and designate a new rally point every thirty mikes. The Talibs stash their weapons in the fields, so there’s no sense searching compounds.”

  Ashford, who was standing in the rear, raised his hand.

  “Sir, me and Eagan been talking,” he said. “The muj may pop up after the patrol has gone by. How about if the sniper team trails behind?”

  Cruz noticed that Ashford and two other Marines had, like Eagan, painted their faces with green tiger stripes. Eagan wasn’t wearing a helmet or armored vest.

  “You going out naked?” Cruz said.

  “Armor makes too much noise,” Eagan said, “and with a helmet on, I can’t hear in the bush.”

  Ashford was silently asking to do the same. Cruz compromised.

  “You Marines on that team can take off your helmets,” he said. “But wear armor.”

  As the meeting was breaking up, Richards approached Cruz.

  “Could the patrol swing by the compound where the suicide bomber was?” he said. “It’s important I get Tic back there.”

  Cruz hesitated, trying to think of a reason to refuse. He didn’t want to return to where he had left that dying boy. And Richards had stung him for not standing up to the colonel. Still, Eagan had proven twice how deadly the CIA team was.

  “All right,” Cruz said. “Have Wolfe plug the compound in as a waypoint.”

  Binns had been watching. After Richards left, he walked up to Cruz.

  “Sir, I don’t like this,” he said. “The snipers trailing us on their own, that spook team doing their thing—too many moving parts.”

  “Sergeant, work up the patrol order,” Cruz said. “I’ll take care of the other parts.”

  “Sir, you coming with me again?”

  Cruz was impatient with Binns’s testy tone.

  “No, Sergeant, you’re coming with me again.”

  Binns didn’t reply, shaking his head at this sorry way of doing business.

  IN A PREDAWN GRAY AS FUZZY AS FOG, the Marines stood in column, checking their weapons and testing their radios. When Coffman strode up in battle rattle, Cruz thought he was going to say a few rah-rah words to the patrol. Instead, he spoke quietly.

  “I’m tagging along, Captain,” he said. “I want to see the terrain.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Cruz said.

  He wasn’t completely surprised. On his previous tours, senior NCOs and staff officers had joined patrols, because a single enemy shot qualified everyone as “directly engaging the enemy.” For the rest of their careers, they wore the yellow-and-green Combat Action Ribbon, marking them as combat Marines. Cruz disliked the ribbon. Combat was episodic, flaring up in some years and absent in most. The CAR defined no one as a better Marine.

  As Coffman ever so casually stepped into the center of the file, Cruz walked toward the rear for one final check. He heard a Marine snigger about “the colonel getting his CAR.” Cruz stopped and spoke in a low voice.

  “Someone bitching about a superior officer? Step forward, so I can ship your ass out on the next resupply chopper.”

  He waited five seconds, letting the Marines shift uneasily.

  “Do your jobs,” Cruz said, “and don’t criticize others. We clear?”

  He turned his head sideways, listening.

  “Clear, sir,” came a mumbled reply.

  Cruz nodded briskly.

  “Get your heads in the game,” he said. “The muj want to kill you, and you’re playing on their home turf.”

  QUAT AND HABULLAH WERE HIDING in a tree line a few hundred meters from the firebase. They watched carefully as the patrol exited in a precise Z-shaped pattern, turning left, right, and then left again. In his notebook, Quat sketched three arrows, indicating which way the Marines had pulled back the barbed wire at each turn.

  Pleased with his work, he smiled at Habullah, who responded by swallowing two pills. Quat frowned, disliking the casual way in which Zar’s men smoked hashish and popped uppers. More than a bit high, Habullah then decided not to retrace their route back to the mosque. Instead, he slipped through the bushes parallel to the American patrol. Quat had no choice but to follow behind him. Foolish fellow, he thought, showing off by trailing the Americans.

  AS THE MARINES HEADED TOWARD
THE CANAL, they were facing directly into the bright sun and had to shade their eyes even after putting on their Oakleys. There was no wind, and tendrils of mist curled up lazily from the irrigation ditches. The harvesters were slicing open poppy bulbs. The women ignored the Marines, the boys looked at them with unsmiling curiosity, and the men glared. The grunts returned the stares and ground their boot heels hard into the plants, leaving a muddy trail behind them.

  Wolfe was sweeping the mine detector in rhythmic arcs. The rest walked in single file, following the dabs of Silly String. Head hunched down, Wolfe watched for changes in the color of the dirt, warily skirting around any light, turned-up patch of earth among the poppy rows. Whenever he increased his speed over ground packed too firm to conceal an IED, Binns would stubbornly cling to a measured pace, forcing those behind him to do the same. When Wolfe looked back, Binns would signal palm-down to him to take it slow.

  Binns didn’t think he was acting spitefully. He knew his job and wanted to impress the colonel. It was his squad, not Cruz’s. He resented the presence of the spooks, and the sniper team trailing behind was another worry. What if they opened fire without asking him first? All these hangers-on weighed down his squad, his Marines.

  When Wolfe reached a long tree line, he clicked on his throat mic.

  “Wolf Three, I’ll cut around to the north,” he said. “It’ll take too long to hack through that bush.”

  “Hold one,” Binns said. “Let me think this over.”

  Cruz pushed forward and spoke quietly to Binns.

  “We have to pick up the pace,” Cruz said.

  Binns straightened, hoping to catch the attention of the colonel.

  “I’m no boot, sir. If we rush, we invite trouble.”

  His petulance angered Cruz.

  “You’re falling behind schedule, Sergeant. We have a lot to turf to cover.”

  “Sir, I know what I’m doing, really I do. We both can’t be in charge of this patrol. That didn’t work out the last time.”

  Cruz grasped it then. He should have seen this coming. Binns blamed him for Lamont’s death.

  “You’re right,” Cruz said. “We’re not both in charge. You obey my orders. If you don’t like that, fall in at the back of the line.”

  Binns had blurted out his feelings without thinking it through. He had acted on instinct, sensing that the colonel’s presence worked to his advantage. Now he was startled and uncertain.

  “Sir, I’m thinking of my men. My job is to get them all home in one piece.”

  Cruz cut him off.

  “Sergeant, your job is the mission. This conversation is over.”

  After gesturing at Wolfe to proceed, Binns let out a theatrical sigh. As he walked to his place in line, Coffman gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Trailing behind, the sniper team had also stopped. Through his scope, Ashford watched the interaction.

  “Wish they’d make up their minds who’s running the show,” he said. “We’re wasting time.”

  38

  Extortion

  When they reached the field bordering Nantush’s compound, the squad set up a defensive position. Tic walked through the open gate of the compound, followed by Richards and two alert Marines. Seeing this, Coffman beckoned to Cruz.

  “Since when does the CIA run a Marine patrol?”

  Cruz pointed to the white flags slightly flapping on the walls of several other compounds.

  “Those are Talib flags, sir,” he said. “Usually there’s a few, but not one on every compound. The terp, Tic, is smart. He might get a line on what’s going on.”

  When Coffman moved off, Cruz radioed the sniper team.

  “Winmag, this is Wolf Six. Got anything?”

  “Wolf Six, we’re glassing dickers on compound walls,” Ashford said. “No weapons visible.”

  Trailed by Sergeant Doyle, Cruz walked over to Stovell, who had unzipped his square backpack. He was squinting at a computer screen showing the spectrograph of radio lines, head cocked to listen to his earphone.

  “Ahmed says there’s no traffic about the sniper team,” Stovell said. “They haven’t been spotted yet.”

  Doyle looked from the Marines to the laborers in the field not a stone’s throw away. He idly snapped off a vermillion poppy bulb and juggled it in his hand.

  “I used to chop tobacco leaves,” he said. “Made thirty dollars a day and upchucked at night. These Afghans are even dumber than me, collecting tiny gumdrops all day.”

  Stovell shook his head.

  “Sergeant, this land’s worth a million dollars an acre. You’re looking at fields of gold.”

  “I’m looking at fucking cemeteries, loaded with IEDs.”

  “What do you expect? You’re bad for commerce.”

  “Yeh, and those fucks work their kids like slave labor.”

  Stovell smiled.

  “There’s an old painting called Cranberry Season,” he said. “It shows women and children on their knees, pawing for berries.”

  “That’s what I mean. We were starving back then.”

  Stovell laughed.

  “See those canals? Built by American engineers in the ’50s, part of our foreign aid program,” he said. “You can grow anything here. Wheat, corn, melons, sunflowers, tomatoes, you name it.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “The children in that old painting weren’t starving. They were gathering cranberries as a treat. No one is starving in Helmand. Here, opium is the treat. It buys TVs, motorcycles, shopping trips to Doha. Don’t feel sorry for them.”

  “This is fucked up,” Doyle said. “What’d he die for then?”

  Stovell looked puzzled.

  “Lamont,” Doyle said. “Everyone says you’re super smart. You think maybe he went someplace special?”

  Stovell answered with care.

  “You’re like most Marines, Sergeant,” Stovell said. “You believe there’s another side. It’s even written in your hymn, that stanza about Marines ‘guarding the streets of heaven.’

  “What about you?”

  “Some claim the universe started with a big bang,” Stovell said. “That sounds scientific, doesn’t it? But what caused the bang?”

  “You’re jerking me around.”

  “No, I’m saying you can argue the case one way or another.”

  “I feel like Brian’s out there somewhere,” Doyle said.

  “Hang on to what you believe, Sergeant. Scientists know no more about God than you do.”

  Doyle gestured at the laborers bent over in the fields.

  “I’d be bored out of my mind doing that day after day,” he said. “I wonder what they think about.”

  “The answer to that is simple,” Stovell said. “They’re thinking how to kill you,”

  INSIDE THE COMPOUND, Nantush brought Tic to his modest hujra, or guesthouse. Once they were alone, he reached into his tunic and handed over a packet of black heroin. Tic tossed it lightly in his hand, opened the bag, and stirred the tan, coarse powder. He placed a sliver on his tongue.

  “And for this you traded how much opium?”

  “The harvest from five jeribs. Twenty-five kilos of poppy.”

  Tic tossed the bag back to Nantush.

  “I want three bags, like I told you.”

  Nantush was fumbling with his prayer beads, hoping Allah would intervene.

  “I asked,” he said. “They gave me only one. No more!”

  Tic shrugged.

  “That’s your problem. You do business with ghlaa, thieves who cheat you.”

  Trembling with rage and grief. Nantush pointed a shaking finger at Tic. His voice sounded scratchy, as if the words were strangling him.

  “I have lost two sons,” he said. “Yes, you can kill me. No one can stop you but God. You, a Kandahari, work for the invaders. Leave me alone! You are takfir, cast out by Allah.”

  That broke it for Tic, who lashed back.

  “How can you speak of Allah? Think back, old man. Do you remember when
your hazra lied about Noora, an honest camel trader from Kandahar? Were you there when the Taliban killed him?”

  Nantush scrambled to remember, but Tic gave him no time. He dusted off his hands and turned to leave.

  “God is great and merciful, old man,” he said. “I am not merciful. I don’t care about your family or your lands. Do not be dalaal. Three kilos, not less. Or Guantanamo.”

  Once back among the Marines, Tic handed a folded tissue to Stovell.

  “This enough?”

  Stovell looked at the powder.

  “This is what we need,” he said. “Why the scowl? Any problems?”

  “Fucking tribal memories,” Tic said. “That farmer thinks I’m the second coming of Attila. Good thing my family’s in Omaha. Anyway, he’s broken. He’ll make the call.”

  Tic turned to the knapsack, checked the computer settings, put on his earpiece, and held a finger up to be quiet while he listened.

  NANTUSH WAITED UNTIL THE INFIDELS HAD LEFT, then retrieved his cell phone from under a stone and pressed a number. As soon as Tulus answered, Nantush began to plead, his voice trembling.

  “Nephew,” Nantush said, “I need two more melons. My family, please, my family.”

  Tulus had anticipated the call. He knew one kilo wouldn’t satisfy the takfir traitor working for the Americanis. Tulus thought he knew how to persuade Zar to part with two more kilos.

  “Uncle, melons are heavy to lift and collect,” he said. “When the laborers are finished, can you provide them water and shade?”

  “Yes, yes!” Nantush yelled in relief. “I have much room! I can arrange all!”

  TIC TRANSLATED THE MESSAGE to Richards and Stovell.

  “That seals it,” Tic said. “The mosque is the lab. The farmer’s getting his heroin. In return, he promised support for some job.”

  “Bravo!” Stovell said. “Tic, you have a future in extortion. You should consider law school.”

  39

  The Third to Fall

  After leaving Nantush’s compound, the patrol headed north a few hundred meters, then south toward the canal and, after a slight hesitation, north again. It was now eight in the morning, the sun was blazing, and the ops center estimated there were two hundred laborers in the poppy fields. The white flags of the Taliban dangled limply from poles and tree limbs. On the bank of an irrigation ditch adjacent to a footbridge, Wolfe detected the day’s first IED.