The Last Platoon

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

  “The coyotes have slaughtered your sheep,” Tulus said. “All of them. The shepherd was taken.”

  Zar, five kilometers away, did not reply. All the heroin? All? He turned off his ICOM and struggled to clear his mind. This wasn’t his fault. The shura had assured him that the mosque wasn’t in the americani zone. He hadn’t been warned the kafirs were coming. Someone had betrayed the brave mujahideen. But who, and why? Every year, Emir Sadr paid seven percent to the Afghan puppet officials. Their colonel had been paid. So why had askars come? It made no sense. And the Persian taken alive! Thank Allah the americanis did not know who he was.

  Zar squatted down on the side of the canal. The strengthening wind was blowing the gray smoke and the vinegar stink toward him. Across the district, the local phone nets had lit up. Every farmer had a question or a comment about the raid. There was no sense visiting any more farms, and Zar was too experienced to try to ambush the patrol returning to base. The americani could be tricked by clever planning, but only a fool rushed into battle against them. Their eye in the sky was too keen, and they listened for code words in all ICOM conversations.

  It would take the shura in Quetta a day to assess the damage. In the meantime, he was on his own. The attack against the americani base had to succeed. Zar forced his mind to concentrate upon the coming assault. It was the only way to make amends. Surely Allah would reward him.

  48

  No Right Decision

  The askars had moved away from the Marines and were standing in a loose column, with the captured Taliban in the center. Off to one side, Ibril was shaking his finger at Mohamed. As Mohamed turned away, a tall askar wearing Army-green wool mittens slapped at him with the butt of his PKM. Mohamed staggered slightly, retaliated with a short kick, and walked over to Cruz.

  “I want out, sir,” he said. “I’m going back to Captain Golstern. Let the fucking Tajiks and Pashtuns kill each other.”

  “Mohamed, you can’t walk off,” Cruz said. “Ibril needs a terp.”

  In the distance, Ibril was waving scornfully at Mohamed.

  “Sir, Ibril speaks English good enough,” Mohamed said. “He was with Tenth Mountain in the Korengal. He doesn’t want me talking about his shit. The SF are my real brothers, not those crazy fuckers.”

  Barnes and Tic had hurried back from the front of the column.

  “I’m picking up a lot of chatter,” Tic added. “We’ve pissed off the neighborhood. Not good to stay here.”

  “Ops center’s reporting some bikers off to the east,” Barnes said. “We have to move. What’s the holdup?”

  “Ibril’s in a pout,” Cruz said. “I’ll settle with him later. Mohamed, you stay with us. Now let’s step.”

  Ibril was leading his men through the crumbling compound wall. The askars were looking back toward Cruz and giggling nervously, like students concealing something from the teacher. As the Taliban prisoner, arms bound behind him, struggled through the wall, he slipped and fell. His guards jerked him to his feet and kicked him. He stood tottering, then suddenly bolted across the wash toward the Marines. The askar with the mittens raised his PKM and fired a three-round burst, striking the man in the back. He sprawled on his face, twitched, and lay still.

  “What the fuck?” Cruz yelled.

  Ibril strode to the askar and slapped the killer. He gestured toward Cruz with his palms up, indicating he was dealing with an idiot.

  Tic exchanged a glance with Mohamed.

  “They were going to kill him,” Mohamed said. “They didn’t want him talking.”

  “What the hell,” Cruz said, “are you holding back from me?”

  Tic spoke up to support Mohamed.

  “You got the wrong target, Captain,” he said, pointing at the askars. “They’re the ones carrying. Inside that cave, each grabbed three or four kilos. That’s why they rushed into the mosque. They wanted to score.”

  Tic had extended his finger directly at Ibril, who stiffened and glared back. His askars grew defensive, shifting to face the Marines. The Marines turned, weapons half raised. Between the two groups, the dead prisoner lay in the scree, the blood-splashed pebbles glistening like rubies. Eagan stepped off to one side to have a clear angle of fire.

  “Hey, Tic,” Eagan shouted, “tell Mittens over there, don’t twitch.”

  Tic didn’t have to translate. The askar with the PKM had the sense to remain frozen. This wasn’t a two-sided standoff. Every askar knew he would die inside a few seconds.

  Richards and Stovell didn’t speak. This was a matter for the Marines to work out. Barnes didn’t know what to do. His mind was blank as he watched the blood from the dead man ooze into the dirt. Everyone silently deferred to Cruz.

  “Drop your packs,” Cruz said, pointing at Ibril and the askars.

  His tone was as neutral as death. Ibril sensed his doom. Americanis were rigid about things they didn’t understand. It was insane to challenge them. With no way out, he exploded in anger.

  “CIA got prisoners!” he shouted. “We helped you!”

  Ibril had participated in enough spec ops missions to know that Richards and Stovell were CIA. He was bargaining, demanding payment for services rendered. Cruz kept his face firm and unyielding. He pulled his handheld from a vest pocket and pointed it at Ibril.

  “I’m calling Captain Golstern,” he said. “When you get back, you’ll be searched. You have no choice. Drop those packs.”

  Ibril didn’t back off. He was enraged, his face turning purple.

  “Why Colonel Ishaq say no go to mosque?” he shouted. “Everyone take. My men are poor. What we get, huh? What we get?”

  There it was, direct and unapologetic, the great wheel of commerce revolving in its immanent tribal circle from farmer to drug lord to the Taliban to the ANA colonel, each receiving payment and none facing punishment. Why shouldn’t one skinny, burnt-out lieutenant steal a sliver of drug money for his castaway platoon? The heroin would reach the addicts regardless of who sold it.

  Cruz looked at Richards, standing there beside him, blank as a telephone pole.

  “Tic told you Ibril came for that powder,” Cruz said, “and you didn’t tell me? You let him steal it?”

  “I didn’t want you dealing with a mess,” Richards said. “If you call this in now, Ibril’s finished. Ishaq will cut his balls off and sell the powder himself. Who gains from that? Let this go!”

  Barnes was listening, unable to think of a solution. A few feet away, the dead Taliban was leaking out. Whether he was murdered or executed depended on one’s point of view. And the enraged Ibril, was he an ally or a thief? Barnes didn’t know. He did know he was standing with his mouth open like a beached fish. He had to say something.

  “We don’t have proof,” Barnes said. “We can’t strip-search our fucking allies!”

  It was more a plea than an order. The decision rested with Cruz. His parents had ingrained rectitude into him. Though he hadn’t attended church since enlisting, Christianity had shaped him. The Corps wasn’t a God substitute, but like most Marines, Cruz believed in its dogma. “First to fight for right and freedom, and to keep our honor clean.” To Cruz, that hymnal verse was real. It molded and stamped him. All of his training—the rigid discipline and sense of order accumulated over sixteen years, his unquestioned assumptions about right and wrong—told him tthis was wrong. If he didn’t search the askars or call in a report, they’d hide their stash before returning to base. But without Ibril, they couldn’t have entered the mosque. Without Ibril, the mission wouldn’t have succeeded.

  Barnes was impatient. The comm net was loaded with Tango intercepts, and he didn’t want to tarry.

  “This isn’t our business,” he murmured. “We have what we want. Let’s get out of here.”

  Cruz could think of no better decision.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” he said.

  Staring at Ibril, Cruz slowly slid his 153 handheld back into a breast pocket. Ibril nodded and gestured for his askars to move out. Cruz watched them go, the
n turned away, feeling he had left part of himself behind. Stovell read the turbulence in his face.

  “This isn’t a country,” Stovell said. “It’s a pathology. Don’t fight what you can’t correct.”

  In a dispersed column, the Marines walked warily back to base, pestered only by a few desultory shots from tree lines rustling and bending under the stiffening wind.

  49

  Solace

  As the successful patrol was returning to base, Secretary of Defense Towns was getting off a helicopter at Dover Air Force Base. The morning newspapers and TV shows had featured Senator Grayson’s blistering press conference about a “secret war.” He ignored the shouted questions from a gaggle of reporters and TV crews. Several minutes later, a C-130 touched down, carrying the body of Sergeant Brian Lamont packed in ice inside a sealed aluminum casket covered with the American flag. Tomorrow, Corporal Compton’s body would arrive, and PFC Beal’s the day after. The public had long forgotten Afghanistan. Now, three fatalities had occurred on one tiny base in the middle of nowhere. Towns felt it was his duty was to show the families that their sons were not whimsically sent off to some far-flung pile of rocks, forgotten by those at the top.

  Standing on the tarmac were Lamont’s parents, flanked by the casualty assistance officers and Lieutenant General Paul Killian. Towns remained unobtrusively in the background during the transfer of the coffin to the Air Force mortuary. Upon conclusion, the assistance officers escorted the family to a private room. Towns followed behind with Killian.

  “Admiral Michaels speaks highly of you, General,” Towns said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Killian said. “The Chairman and I served together on two deployments.”

  Both squared their shoulders as they entered the room. Mary Lamont looked wraithlike in a somber gray dress, her face almost as white as the string of pearls around her frail neck. Tim Lamont, a stout man wearing cowboy boots and a stern expression, was holding her hand, his eyes fixed in space to fight back the tears. After extending his sympathies and offer to help in any way, Towns stopped talking to let them express their feelings. He braced himself, prepared to accept bitterness without lurching into excuses.

  “I did four years in Army artillery, sir,” Tim Lamont said. “Brian was proud that he qualified as a Marine sniper. He always was a good shot. It’s hard, though. Mary and me, we’re not sure Brian’s death changed anything.”

  “Believe me, if there was an easier way,” Towns said softly, “I’d find it. If we don’t stop them there, they’ll come here. Brian helped us hold the line.”

  As he spoke, he placed a hand on Tim Lamont’s shoulder. The Lamonts exchanged a look indicating they had expected to hear something like that.

  “What were they doing there, sir?” Tim Lamont said.

  “Helping the Afghan Army protect their city,” Towns said. “It’s a provincial capital, important for keeping the country together.”

  The face of Tim Lamont hardened.

  “Isn’t it time they protected their own damn cities?” he said.

  Mary Lamont squeezed her husband’s hand, shushing him gently.

  “I know you and the generals are only doing your duty,” Mary Lamont said, “like Brian did.”

  Her tone expressed resignation rather than accusation. Towns gently patted her arm. Killian stepped forward. He had been through this hour of sorrow too many times before.

  “I wish,” he said, “I could have been out there with Brian. That’s where us old farts belong.”

  He thought his words would mean little. The strain in his voice and the three small silver stars on his collars, though, might bring a dollop of solace.

  After ten minutes, no one could think of anything more to say. The casualty assistance officers escorted the grieving parents from the room, leaving Towns alone with Killian.

  “This is my second time here, General,” Towns said. “It’s rough. Have you lost many?”

  “Fifty-seven, sir.”

  “My God!”

  “At different levels of command, I pulled three tours in Iraq and Helmand.”

  Both looked out the window at the TV trucks driving away.

  “The press will be back tomorrow,” Towns said. “The Chairman is coming. He told me he keeps you informed.”

  “Yes, sir, but I’m not interfering with General Gretman.”

  “No worries. Personal contacts help in tight circumstances,” Towns said. “How have the deaths affected the unit at Pendleton?”

  “The support system is strong, sir,” Killian said. “But everyone’s shaken.”

  “When the task force gets back,” Towns said, “I’ll fly out to congratulate them. The CIA captured their man. And General Gretman thinks the Afghan brigade will soon reach Lash. We assured the president we could do this in a week, and we’ve done it.”

  When Killian nodded without enthusiasm, Towns smiled wryly.

  “This is the two of us talking,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

  Killian admired the Secretary, but thought he was too self-assured and too removed. He picked his words and spoke in a respectful tone.

  “On my last push, we cleared the Green Zone, sir,” he said, “and the Afghan Army gave it up when we left. I hope that doesn’t repeat.”

  “So in your tours, General,” he said, “you didn’t see much progress.”

  Killian avoided a direct answer that might contradict Admiral Michaels.

  “I didn’t intend to be my remarks as negative, sir. We always do our job and carry out the mission.”

  Towns controlled his irritation. He didn’t understand generals. One minute they were candid, and in the next, they closed ranks. They were their own union, promoted inside a closed system through the ranks to the top. Every mission was “can do,” even when it could not be done. He had embraced the strategy of the top brass, who spoke as a chorus. Yet here was one of their key deputies, in an oblique manner offering a contrary view. Where, he thought, did truth reside?

  “In your personal judgment, General, what’s going on down there?”

  Invited to be candid, Killian didn’t hold back.

  “Mr. Secretary, I sent a genuine hardass captain to guard that base,” he said. “That wasn’t good enough. Three Marines have died, fighting tribes from another century. Pakistan shelters the Taliban, and the elite in Kabul stay alive through a system of payoffs.”

  Towns felt a jolt of conscience. His day was broken into fifteen minutes segments of meetings and calls, an udersectretary, a senator, the White House, a major news outlet. The demands for his time never slackened. He hadn’t spent even an hour trying to understand this bygone war. When General Gretman and Admiral Michaels had recommended the task force, he had agreed. His job was too big and his rank too high to focus on a small part of a small war, barely a skirmish. Still, he felt unease. What had been gained by Brian Lamont’s death?

  50

  Coffman Takes Charge

  While Towns was flying back to the Pentagon, Coffman was soaking in praise. The classified internet chat room in the ops center was cluttered with attaboys from various commands. General Gretman called to congratulate him on “an aggressive display of mission command,” meaning he had allowed his subordinates to take the initiative. Coffman seized the moment to advance his personal standing.

  “General, we should be in Lash by now,” Coffman said. “Colonel Ishaq is all field and no hit. I’d like to motivate him, Marine-style.”

  Gretman laughed.

  “Go get ’em, devil dog,” he said. “If he doesn’t pick up the pace, let me know and I’ll pay a visit to the palace.”

  Coffman was glowing. In a day or two, he’d be waving alongside Ishaq at the cheering residents of the provincial capital. His twin successes—capturing the Iranian drug lord and liberating the city—guaranteed a note of praise from the White House to the selection board for brigadier general.

  He quickly called Captain Golstern for an update.

  “Ishaq’s
acting strange, sir,” Golstern said. “Usually he’s all smiles, but now he’s withdrawn. After he heard the lab was burned, he went to his tent. I haven’t seen him since. I’m not sure I can move him.”

  “Well, my size-ten boot will move him,” Coffman said. “Once this front pushes through, I’m coming over to motivate his lazy ass.”

  Once again a confident commander, Coffman strode to the concertina wire. It was midafternoon, and cobalt mares’ tails were skidding across the sky. He stood with his face toward the gathering wind and warmly greeted the two dozen returning Marines, slapping the back of each grunt as he came through the wire. He exclaimed over the captured PKM machine gun and patted the heads of both prisoners, the twin totems of his sudden, spectacular success, the guarantors of his rise to brigadier general.

  He waved at Barnes to follow him to his office, where he eagerly poured him a cup of coffee. Barnes launched into his carefully edited debrief, saying not a word about Lieutenant Ibril’s platoon.

  THE AGENCY TEAM KEPT CUSTODY of the prisoners. A backhoe had clawed a hole out of the side of the revetment that enclosed the ops center. Reinforced with a few sheets of plywood, the dugout provided a dank, dark cell for the two mullahs. Tic dragged them inside and forced them to sit.

  “This is a dirt hole!” the Persian screeched. “A grave! You are Kandarhari. You can’t leave us here. Allah demands mercy!”

  Tic spat out his answer, half playing his role and half speaking from his heart.

  “Don’t speak to me of Allah. He grants mercy to those who show mercy. That doesn’t include you. You are Iranian, a Shiite.”

  “No! I am Sunni!”

  “You keep repeating lies. I am tired of listening.”

  “You must hand us over to the Afghan police,” the Persian said. “It is forbidden for americanis to keep us.”