The Last Platoon

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

  “Begin firing!” he shouted.

  INSIDE BUNKER ONE AT THE NORTH END of the perimeter, Binns sat hunched against the deafening wind, a towel wrapped around his neck, peering through his goggles at a greenish maelstrom of twigs and flecks. He heard the slow bark of a PKM, sounding like a hammer beating against a pipe, so loud the gunner had to be within a few hundred meters of the wire. Binns thought the gunner was an idiot. A complete, total waste of rounds. He knew better than to fire back in the remote chance of revealing where he was. His two comrades had popped up and were peering forward, unable to see any rifle flashes. Seconds later, the deep clapping bang of an RPG caused Binns to instinctively duck before hearing the rocket explode near the piss tubes off to his left. He crouched down out of the wind to report in.

  WHEN HE HEARD THE BARK OF THE PKM and the thump of the RPG explosion, Quat pulled the first suicide team to their feet, aligned them in the direction of the ops center, and gave them a shove. They stumbled forward with the wind pushing them. Quat oriented the second and third teams toward the artillery pits. That left the fourth team. They had to take out Bunker Five to allow Zar’s assault wave to rush past without encountering fire. He grabbed the tunic of the fourth bomber and dragged him a few meters forward so that he could see the glowing green marker at the foot of bunker.

  He patted him on the back and crawled back to his two companions. He gestured at them to go back and bring up Zar’s force. He would remain at the cut in the wire to point them in the right direction as they entered the base.

  INSIDE BUNKER FIVE, Lance Corporal Henry Delgado was still standing watch. It had been five hours since Cruz had visited him. When his two bunker mates had returned from the patrol, he had insisted they get some added rest. They were curled womblike in their ponchos, breathing through bandanas clutched in front of their mouths, occasionally spitting out a swish of bottled water.

  Whenever he peered out, sand whipped and lashed his face. It felt like sandpaper was scouring his body, pricking at every capillary, flaying him inch by inch, scraping raw every inch of exposed skin. He tried to think of home, but there was no past, no parents, no girls, no parties, no warm memories. Only stings, bites, and nips, the wind screeching and his flesh peeling.

  It was shortly after two in the morning when Delgado heard the RPG explosion. He snapped alert, tugged down his helmet-mounted goggles, and peered through the infrared intensifier. A million black dots collided against the artificial green backdrop. He shook his head and flipped to thermal. A zillion bright green particles of dust, pebbles, straw, and twigs swirled around like a child’s kaleidoscope. He had no field of vision and no notion whether he was looking at the sky, the horizon, or the ground.

  He switched off the night vision aids and peered out through clear plastic goggles. It looked like he was swimming with his eyes open under muddy waters. Not able to see a thing, he tucked the handheld close to his left ear and listened to the traffic on the net. As he hunched forward, he heard someone scrambling up the revetment. He looked out. A dust-caked face with a shaggy beard and small goggles was staring back at him. He saw a brilliant white flash.

  INSIDE THE PLATOON TENT, Cruz was looking at his laptop when the pressure wave cracked through like a lightning bolt. He lurched sideways, falling on his right shoulder. He scrambled to his feet, head ringing, and pressed his handheld to his ear. The platoon net was flooded with the voices of excited Marines. He waited for a break in the frantic transmissions and pushed the talk button.

  “This is Wolf Six. Everyone shut up! If any Marine has real info about that explosion, speak up now.”

  “This is Wolf Three” McGowan said. “I think it came from Bunker Five. Bunker Five, answer up!”

  Silence on the net.

  “Break, break. Wolf Six, this is Wolf Three again. Request permission to go to Bunker Five. Over.”

  “Wolf Three, this is Six. That is a negative! All bunkers, hold your pos! I want each bunker to report in, starting with Bunker One. Give your bunker number and sign off.”

  YUSEF, THE FIRST SUICIDE BOMBER through the cut in the wire, knew his target was the ops center. He felt no fear and was alert, but his brain was functioning on automatic. Two hours earlier, he had swallowed two tramadol pills. Now he had no real sense of where he was and didn’t care. His mind was racing through past images, sitting on a camel in a dry desert, his glum father leaving him at the madrassa, praise from the mullah with the bad breath, the mujahideen treating him with respect, Zar bowing before him, the sweet purple grapes at the mosque.

  His bodyguard was holding his hand to guide him. Suddenly the hand squeezed hard and released. A tall infidel in a helmet and goggles was standing right in front of them, guarding a door. The infidel raised his rifle. Yusef heard a slight coughing above the shrieking wind as his guard grabbed his stomach and fell to his knees. Yusef didn’t hesitate. Lunging forward, he squeezed his kill switch.

  OVER THE RADIO, CRUZ HAD CHECKED on three bunkers when the second shock wave knocked him sideways. He fell to one knee, shook his head, and pushed himself up, fumbling for a water bottle to wash out his eyes. He was breathing in dust, and all around him Marines were coughing and spitting, trying to clear their throats.

  “Everyone get outside!” Cruz yelled. “In the lee! Go to the west of the tent!”

  In less than a minute, they had gathered in the downwind side. The canvas had collapsed, providing a partial bulwark against the screeching wind. Cruz flicked on the miner’s light strapped to his helmet. Other Marines did the same and quickly responded to a ragged roster call. Everyone was accounted for. Cruz fumbled for his handheld and called the ops center.

  “Eagle Three, this is Wolf Six, over.”

  Only static and a few garbled words came back.

  Cruz switched to the platoon net.

  “This is Wolf Six,” he said. “All bunkers! Enemy inside the wire. Stay in place and watch your six at every bunker!”

  Cruz grabbed Doyle and Richards by the shoulders and shouted at them over the howling wind.

  “I’ll check the ops center,” Cruz said. “Wait for my orders.”

  “My team will go with you,” Richards said. “We can’t do anything here.”

  “All right!” Cruz said. “Doyle, send one man with me as a runner. If I can’t establish comms, I’ll send him back with instructions.”

  “Take Ashford,” Doyle said. “He’s got a good sense of direction.”

  Cruz took a bearing with his compass and started out, followed by the CIA team and Ashford. When they reached the ops center, they had to crawl over the crumbled revetment. The tent top had snapped off, with sections blown away and remnants the size of living room rugs flapping crazily. Marines were running about in the dust and smoke, some screaming for order and making the chaos worse, others carrying bodies to the aid station. One Marine on a stretcher was groaning and holding his dark-stained stomach. Cruz wondered how the medics would ever get the dust and sand out of his intestines. He saw Sullivan being helped out, his left leg dangling at a crooked angle.

  Pawing his way from group to group, Cruz found Barnes sitting on the ground, back resting on an upturned table. Lasswell was down on one knee, shining a light in his blood-smeared face. Barnes pointed a trembling finger at Cruz.

  “Muj all over the place!” Barnes yelled. “Fire the FPF!”

  “We got no targets, no Tangos!” Cruz said.

  He peered at Barnes, who hadn’t been wearing a helmet when the shock wave hit the ops center. Cruz looked at Lasswell, who grimaced and shook her head.

  “I just got here,” she said. “The colonel’s concussed, barely conscious. Said for us to wait for his orders. Barnes isn’t any better. He’s not making sense.”

  “We called in broken arrow!” Barnes yelled. “We’re going under!”

  Cruz looked at a Marine with a handset who was hunched next to Barnes. The radio operator nodded.

  “I sent it,” the operator shouted. “We have comms with Cap
tain Golstern. He says there’s no shooting in the Afghan sector.”

  “Fuck the Afghans!” Barnes yelled. “We’re the ones in the shit!”

  PROMPTLY AT 6:00 P.M., President Dinard heard the heavy chugging of Marine One as it landed at the far end of the West Lawn. He was looking forward to his weekend in Florida, especially tomorrow’s round with Tom Barrow, a two-time winner of the Masters. He walked quickly outside, where his wife and a few aides were waiting. His buoyant mood vanished when he saw his National Security Advisor walking hurriedly toward him.

  “Sorry, sir,” Armsted said. “It’s about that base in Helmand. We have word of a broken arrow. That’s the emergency code for a unit’s that’s being overrun.”

  “Shit! They’re fighting enemy inside the base?” POTUS said. “What orders do I give?”

  “None, sir. Everyone’s poised to help, but there’s a huge storm down there. No aviation can get in.”

  “Terrible, terrible,” he said. “Keep me updated.”

  POTUS turned back toward Marine One. Armsted, looking uncomfortable, didn’t move.

  “I recommend you stay here, sir. To be, ah, playing golf when this breaks in the press…the optics would look bad.”

  Dinard didn’t hide his frustration.

  “The damn press always pounds me for other people’s mistakes,” he said. “What’s the next move?”

  “The Chairman and Towns are on their way over,” Armsted said. “Diane will take pictures of all of you in the sit room.”

  “Like the one of Obama watching the raid that bumped off Bin Laden,” Barnum said, “with everyone around the commander in chief?”

  “We have no video to watch, Mr. President,” Armsted said. “The photo op will make you look presidential. But those Marines are on their own.”

  53

  The Tipping Point

  Inside the wrecked ops center, Barnes was struggling to stand, legs twitching. Cruz turned to see Coffman standing behind him, blood trickling from his nose, dilated eyes popping out of his dirt-caked face. He was swaying, but he brushed aside Cruz’s outstretched hand.

  “Cruz, this is your fault,” he said, slurring the words. “Barnes, you’re the watch officer. You take over security.”

  He stumbled back, confused that troops were moving around him as if he didn’t exist, tending to others and shouting to each other. Over the din, he pointed at Cruz.

  “Report to me in my office!” he yelled.

  He staggered drunkenly away, barely keeping his balance. Barnes was now on his feet, supported by Lasswell and Richards. Cruz looked at them and shook his head. The operations center wasn’t functioning. No officer had taken charge or was giving sensible directions. No one had a solid fix on where anyone was. The GPS signal couldn’t cut through the swirling dust. Every bunker, sleeping tent, and gun pit was on its own. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the Taliban swarming through the cut at Bunker Five. He shook Barnes by his shoulders.

  “Disperse everyone!” he yelled. “Muj are loose with satchel charges!”

  Barnes looked confused.

  “The colonel said,” he began, “you’re not supposed to…”

  Cruz pushed past him and grabbed the arm of the radio operator.

  “Get on the net,” he said. “Order everyone out of the tents. NCOs are to form their people in 360s. Stay prone in wagon wheel formations and for God’s sake, no one shoots unless he’s looking at a muj with a beard!”

  Cruz turned to Richards.

  “Sullivan’s down,” he said. “Can you run comms with the bunkers? Tell the squad leaders to fire only to their front, and check the wire between bunkers. I’m heading to Bunker Five with the QRF. Tell McGowan not to fucking shoot me!”

  Barnes tried to intervene.

  “You need permission from the colonel,” he said. “You’re disobeying—”

  “I’m checking the lines!” Cruz yelled. “You restore order here!”

  Cruz left the bedlam of the ops center. Lasswell too didn’t wait for Barnes to recover.

  “I’m going back to my sector,” she said. “I’m evacuating all tents.”

  The wind whipped away her words as she adjusted her goggles. Stovell looked at Richards.

  “Eagan should go with her,” he said.

  Hearing this, Lasswell looked relieved.

  “Be glad of the company,” she said.

  “No!” Richards said. “Eagan stays with you.”

  “I’m not helping here,” Stovell said. “Eagan and I will go together.”

  “You’re not trained for this!” Richards shouted over the storm. “Make sure Eagan leads!”

  ACROSS THE BASE, everyone was on the move. Within minutes, 319 Marines and 27 Navy medical staff were forming into groups of five to twelve, grabbing ropes or cords, or simply holding hands, and stepping out into the screeching void of whirling dust. Some shuffled into the lee of the revetments, while others wandered short distances before plopping down and forming defensive circles, lying shoulder to shoulder, unable to see, the wind shrieking, imaginations running wild.

  AT THE NORTH END OF THE PERIMETER, Binns was standing watch with Corporal Gordon, who had been brooding since he’d watched Beal die. Gordon’s wife was expecting, and he was upset that he couldn’t call to reassure her. The third grunt in the bunker, PFC Josh Byram, had joined the platoon a week before the deployment.

  Binns resented the order to check the wire. Can’t see shit, he thought. Fucking Cruz, why doesn’t he do it himself? Still, he knew the order made sense. To hunker down was to die. But he wasn’t going out there by himself.

  “Byram, you hold here,” Binns said. “Gordon, let’s check the wire.”

  “I got to?” Gordon said.

  “Yeah, you got to,” Binns said. “Byram’s the newbie. I need you at my six.”

  Gordon patted his armored vest, feeling for his notebook. He knew he wouldn’t be coming back. He had to write something for Carol. Couldn’t leave her wondering why he hadn’t come back. She…

  Binns was jerking a rope around him, slapping at his hands.

  “Stop fucking around! Tie in! Let’s go!”

  Gordon cinched the rope, picked up his M27, and followed Binns out of the bunker.

  At least he didn’t whine about his wife, Binns thought. Shit, I’m starting to think like Cruz!

  He radioed to Bunker Two that he was coming down the wire and be damn careful about shooting. Followed by Gordon, he stumbled from the bunker down the slight slope to the wire. A ten-foot rope, attached by slipknots, linked the two Marines. Binns flipped down his NVG and clicked the SureFire illuminator on the rail of his M27. In the halo of greenish light, thousands of dust and sand particles swirled like a snow blizzard. He couldn’t see beyond the front sight. He shuffled forward, poking tentatively, until his rifle barrel pinged against a coil of barbed wire.

  Still strung tight! No break here. He stopped momentarily to let his heartbeat subside. Thank you, Lord! He turned right, hunched over, and duck-walked south with his head down, pebbles and twigs pelting his face. He held his rifle in his left hand, like a blind man with a cane, tapping the wire as he moved toward Bunker Two. Holding the rope taut, Gordon followed behind, his face feeling sandblasted.

  NOT TEN METERS AWAY, a suicide bombing team was staggering toward them. Abdul Quaz, with three tramadols racing through his system and his synapses misfiring, clutched his kill switch as he blundered blindly along. His target was an artillery pit, but the wind had pushed him sideways toward the perimeter.

  His bodyguard, Natiz, could offer no guidance. He had refused the pills. He didn’t need them to numb his brain; he was confident Allah would welcome him. But this was foolish. Four minutes had passed since the Asian had pushed them through the cut in the wire, and they were wandering aimlessly. Natiz had no idea where he was.

  He was bumbling along, fighting the impulse to turn back, when Abdul tripped. Startled, Natiz jerked back. Abdul was yelping and flailing, fighting some monst
er that was pulling him down from behind. Natiz reached out a hand and felt a sharp sting. Abdul had tripped over a coil of barbed wire. He was struggling to pull free, both arms stretched out. His writhing entangled him more. Desperate for help, he appealed to his companion.

  “Dalta raasha!” Abdul yelled. “Help me!”

  Frightened at being blown to bits, Natiz backed away.

  BINNS HAD HIS HAND ON THE WIRE, puzzled that it was vibrating, when he heard the shout. He straightened and looked back. Gordon was pointing ahead with his M27. Without exchanging a word, they advanced side by side, rifles at the ready. They hadn’t walked a dozen feet before they dimly saw a figure pinned against the wire, tugging and straining to pull himself free.

  BOTH MARINES AIMED IN. Neither glimpsed Natiz, who was standing farther back. Recovering from his shock, he opened fire without raising the AK to his shoulder. Four of the five bullets hit the Marines in their armored vests, staggering but not putting them down. Both returned fire on automatic, the rounds ripping through the Afghan’s stomach and chest.

  NATIZ’S FIFTH BULLET HAD PLOWED INTO Binns’s right thigh, shattering the femur and femoral artery. Binns tottered, then collapsed, his back catching in the wire, rifle barrel pointed at the suicide bomber, who was struggling to reach his kill switch. Binns shoved the barrel into the Afghan’s side and fired fifteen rounds, emptying his magazine. Gordon rushed over and put a final bullet in the bomber’s head.

  “Call it in,” Binns wheezed. “Get help from Bunker Two.”

  He felt Gordon patting him, trying to find the wound, struggling to open his vest.

  “Where you hit?” Gordon was yelling. “Where you hit?”

  With each breath, Binns felt his blood spurting out. He’d done his best, and wished Cruz had been there to watch him. He felt cold and started to shiver. In the distance, a light was faintly glowing, becoming brighter as it approached. That was strange. He thought death was a black curtain.