The Last Platoon

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

  Though exasperated to hear the truth, Dinard wasn’t foolish.

  “Fine,” he snapped. “Bring them in and we’ll wrap it up.”

  “SecState’s in Brussels.”

  “He’ll go along,” POTUS said. “Alert the others. And by the way, you look like shit.”

  “Haggling with smug Pakistanis has that effect.”

  Dinard pretended to applaud.

  “My sympathies,” he said. “But you’re probably right about Towns. He can be stubborn. Soften him up before we meet. Do some wet work.”

  OVER AT THE NMCC, the 11:00 p.m. news was showing the wounded at Kandahar when the carefully crafted message from Coffman arrived. The normally diplomatic General Gretman, on the televideo link from Kabul, made no effort to conceal his anger.

  “Sirs, I’m sorry this update got directly to you,” he said. “Colonel Coffman should’ve gone through me first.”

  “He’s under stress, Hal,” Michaels said. “He cc’d the standard chain of command.”

  “The colonel’s a vivid writer,” Towns said. “Sounds like a great victory. He writes, ‘The press will be impressed with the heroism.’ Are there reporters at the firebase?”

  “Not that I know of, sir,” Gretman said.

  “Don’t send any,” Towns said. “We haven’t heard how the White House plans to handle this. And Admiral, we don’t need messages like this floating around. Let’s tone down the self-congratulation.”

  Michaels looked at Gretman on the screen.

  “Hal, you’ll be conducting the investigation of the broken arrow,” he said. “We don’t want lawyers later claiming prejudice. Before you meet with the colonel, it’s best if General Killian counsels him.”

  As the lower-ranking three-star, Killian was surprised the Chairman had noticed him sitting in the background. He looked up at the televideo screen.

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  57

  The Reckoning

  After Coffman sent his sitrep, he walked outside. With visibility slightly increasing, repairs were in full swing. The artillery tubes had been scrubbed and the sentry posts were manned. But the troops looked wretched, their cammies and faces covered with grime. Without showers, there was little he could do to spruce up their appearance for the press. Good. It showed they’d won a tough fight.

  He was back in his office when the first call from higher up came in. He assumed it would be Gretman, but it was Killian’s grim face that popped up on the televideo. Killian was leaning forward, almost glaring, on the verge of giving a lecture. Coffman hastened to speak first.

  “Good morning, General,” Coffman said. “Oh, I forgot, it’s midnight on the East Coast.”

  He’d left the blood smears on his face and had his notes ready. He’d focus not on how the attack started, but on how it had ended, with his Marines the winners.

  “It was a hellava fight, sir, no vis—even fucking hail!—hand-to-hand stuff. The troops were superb!”

  Killian ignored the enthusiasm.

  “They’re Marines,” he said flatly. “They did their job, as expected.”

  Coffman wasn’t thrown off course.

  “Of course, sir. Still, when the press gets here, the devil dogs have a hellacious story to tell, complete with muj bodies we haven’t finished policing up.”

  “No press is coming,” Killian said. “And hand over any bodies to the locals to bury. We’re not ghouls.”

  The rebuke jolted Coffman. He had expected some bonding, some mutual tie now that he too had tasted combat. Instead, Killian had adjusted his bifocals and was looking down.

  “Here’s what you wrote in your sitrep,” he said. “During an intense dust storm, a vicious assault fell upon the dispersed bunkers along the perimeter…blah, blah, blah.”

  Killian put down his glasses and slowly looked up.

  “What kind of CYA crap is this?” he said. “Nine KIA, Colonel, nine!”

  “General, I was providing context. The attack didn’t happen in a vacuum. In fact, foreign mercenaries were involved, maybe from China. It…”

  On the screen, Killian raised a warning finger.

  “Colonel, this isn’t a TV detective show. You’re not listening. Remember that disaster in Somalia called Black Hawk Down? Let me read the first sentence of the report by that commanding officer: ‘The authority and responsibility for what happened rest with me, the task force commander.’”

  Killian stopped talking and waited. Coffman immediately shifted gears.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” he said. “The responsibility is mine.”

  “Correct,” Killian said.

  “Once we get to Lash, well, being in the provincial capital will change things. I’m prepared to continue…”

  Killian held up his hand and paused to let Coffman compose himself.

  “Colonel, Fire Base Bastion is playing in the press as a catastrophe,” Killian said. “You’re not going to Lash. Your mission is terminated. General Gretman is preparing the order.”

  Coffman looked so stricken that Killian softened his tone.

  “Hal, did you take precautions before the storm?”

  “Yes, sir. I have a list…”

  “That’s not enough. Gretman’s prepared to relieve you on the spot. You need someone to back you up and support any list you have. That’s all I have. Wash your face. You look shitty.”

  The televideo switched off.

  COFFMAN SAT STOCK STILL, feeling cold and empty. Yesterday, his future had looked promising. A heroin lab destroyed, an Iranian prisoner wanted by the White House, his chances of making brigadier sky-high and Stovell perhaps offering a civilian job. Twelve hours later, the prisoner had been vaporized, Stovell and nine Marines were dead, and his career was over.

  He moved past that. The worst thing—the very worst—was to be relieved of command and flown back to the States in disgrace, his picture on cable news hour after hour, day after day as the bodies were returned through Dover.

  Shaking slightly, he tapped the 9mm strapped to his hip and for a full twenty seconds thought about ending it. But he had the instincts of a survivor, not a brooder. No! He had taken all necessary steps before the storm! He was sure of it. All he needed was the right officer to back him up. He wiped the blood from his face and called Barnes into his office.

  “Major,” he began, “last night you performed with remarkable courage. Let’s go over what we did. We don’t want higher headquarters to act on false information. So let’s, ah, write down the true facts, beginning with how we prepared.”

  An exhausted Barnes was befuddled.

  “Sir, I was kinda knocked out. The real fight was on the lines. It was Cruz…”

  Coffman’s memory was hazy. It took him a few seconds to recall Cruz stumbling into the ops center, filthy and baleful, reporting that the perimeter was holding. Cruz? he thought. Yes! Killian’s pet, prior combat. He’d make a much better witness than Barnes.

  “Of course, I remember,” Coffman said. “Have him to report to me immediately.”

  Cruz was catching a catnap in the platoon tent when Barnes shook him awake.

  “Sorry, bro, but the colonel wants you,” Barnes said. “He needs a statement that our defenses were prepared the right way. He’s acting kind of loopy.”

  Cruz walked over to Coffman’s office, too groggy to think about what Barnes had told him. Coffman had his talking points ready when Cruz sat down.

  “Hellava battle last night, Captain,” he said. “I’m letting everyone up the chain of command know what a magnificent job you did.”

  Cruz had no reaction. His fractured cheek was throbbing too much to bother replying to an irrelevant remark. His thoughts were on the moment.

  “Captain Lasswell has loaned me thirty cannoneers to stand guard, sir,” he said. “My men needed sleep.”

  “Fine. Good to see everyone helping,” Coffman said. “In fact, there’s something you can help with. Or maybe we can help each other.”

  He gave a tentative
smile. Much as it grated him, he knew he had to mollify this insubordinate captain.

  “Before I get to that,” he said, “I want to clear up the matter regarding PFC Beal. He wasn’t wearing a helmet when he was killed, and that upset Sergeant Binns. But in my judgment, the mortars were registered improperly.”

  Cruz snapped out of his mental fog.

  “Sir, are you saying that Sergeant Doyle called a bad mission?” Cruz said.

  “I’m not assigning blame for Beal’s death. In fact, there won’t be an investigation of you or anyone, if I contradict Binns’s statement.”

  “I trust Doyle, sir,” Cruz said. “The fire direction center confirms every fire mission. You can check the log.”

  The retort sounded like a challenge. Coffman suppressed an angry reply and kept his voice level and matter-of-fact.

  “I’m stating what I recollect,” he said. “Neither of us gains by having a debate. In fact, you’re reinforcing my point. None of us will ever know what caused that tragedy. That’s why I’m inclined to close the matter, not prolong it.”

  He waited for some expression of gratitude, but Cruz didn’t respond. Coffman thought that strange. After all, he was salvaging Cruz’s career, while his own was over. At this point, all he wanted was a graceful retirement, with a small band playing and his headquarters company of admin and computer specialists marching past in review. He would salute smartly and walk away with dignity.

  “Captain, here’s where your recollection will help. We’ll be questioned about last night, and we don’t want accidental contradictions. As I remember it, you and I took all possible precautions. In fact, I went beyond that and provided you with another generator. As for your actions, well, they deserve my highest praise.”

  Coffman believed he was being reasonable. He was offering Cruz a superb fitness report. Hell, he’d throw in a medal, maybe the Silver Star. All he wanted in exchange were a few words about precautions duly taken. In their prior confrontations, Cruz had backed down. It wasn’t in him to stand up to a high-ranking officer. No reason this wouldn’t work out to both their benefits.

  Cruz was tired and hurt. He couldn’t keep his head up. Each time his jaw sagged, a bolt of pain cracked through his broken cheek bone.

  “No, sir,” he said.

  Cruz wasn’t sure why he had said it. He was too spent to feel anger and yet his rage at Coffman, so long smothered, was growing by the second. He sensed the fleeting presence of Jenny cheering him on. It felt good not to care what Coffman said or wrote about him. Following his duty came as a release, not a burden.

  “What did you say, Captain?” Coffman said. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly. I simply said that we took all reasonable precautions.”

  “That’s not true, sir,” Cruz said. “You refused to reinforce the perimeter. I’m not laying it all on you. I didn’t argue hard enough against your decision. We didn’t take the necessary precautions. That’s on both of us.”

  Coffman remembered insisting that the artillery crews remain at their gun stations. That was sensible in light of the mission. He felt no culpability about the perimeter. That was Cruz’s job. Because he was the overall commander when the attack occurred, he accepted that his career was over. But he didn’t accept that he personally could have done more.

  “Captain, you asked to take cannoneers away from their primary mission,” Coffman said. “You had no hard intelligence to back you up. How did you expect me to agree?”

  “Because I needed them, sir,” Cruz said.

  The defiance surprised Coffman. He had never taken the time or had the interest to discuss anything with the captain. He hadn’t built up the trust to turn Cruz aside by applying logic. For seven days, he had simply given orders to the captain and that had sufficed. Now Cruz was declaring what he would not do and Coffman could think of no rebuttal. He needed a few minutes alone to collect himself.

  “Well, Captain,” he said, “it seems we have agreed to disagree. Let’s hope our differences are not as stark as you make them out to be. You better get on back to your men. Ask Major Barnes to step in, would you?”

  Neither offered to shake hands. They would never see each other again.

  SEVERAL MINUTES LATER, Barnes walked from Coffman’s office back into the ops center, where Cruz was jotting notes. Barnes gestured to him to step outside. Together they stumbled over the collapsed berm and stood in the gloom where they couldn’t be heard.

  “Looks like a golf ball inside your cheek,” Barnes said.

  “I’m sucking on an orange,” Cruz said. “What’s up?”

  “Coffman’s worried shitless,” Barnes said, “that he’s going to be fired by General Gretman. He says you’ll testify against him.”

  Cruz snorted.

  “He sent you running after me, like you’re his errand boy? He refused to reinforce the lines. What’s he expect I’ll say? He’s worthless.”

  Barnes gazed at the charred ground, thinking how to phrase his next words.

  “That’s too harsh,” he said carefully. “He put together this task force, he wrote the plan, he drilled us so that we meshed as a team. We’ve responded to every request for artillery support. The Afghans didn’t do their part, not Coffman. I’m not taking his side. I’m just trying to work out what’s best for everybody.”

  Cruz shook his head. Each throb of his cheek felt like a hammer chipping at his brain. His resentment of Coffman flared.

  “Best? Doyle did his best. So did Binns,” he said. “The colonel didn’t do his best. That’s how I see it.”

  Barnes rubbed his forehead, unsure whether he was disappointed or proud of this stubborn Marine.

  “Fuck, RT,” he said, “this isn’t the time to get all moral. You’re not thinking straight because you’re pissed at yourself.”

  Cruz reacted angrily.

  “Meaning I should have stood up to Coffman from the start?” he said. “That I wimped out?”

  Barnes swung right back.

  “Now that you mention it, yes. We all saw you wanted to do your job,” he said, “but without pissing Coffman off. I didn’t know which side of you would win until you came through last night.”

  “Came through? I failed! I didn’t get more troops before the storm hit.”

  “That wasn’t your decision,” Barnes said. “He’s your commanding officer! This is the Marine Corps, not a debating corps. And suppose you had more troops, would that have changed things?”

  The question set Cruz back. He rubbed his forehead and thought before answering.

  “No, probably not. We were screwed once the bunker was blown.”

  “Then why place all this on Coffman?”

  “Because he’s a one-way asshole,” Cruz said. “I’ll dispute anything bad about Sergeant Doyle.”

  “I’ll handle that.”

  “Fine. And tell the good colonel I said, ‘Fuck you, Colonel.’”

  Barnes stared at him, willing Cruz to push aside pain and think clearly.

  “You don’t see what’s happening here,” Barnes said. “You’ve been like this from the start. The first day we landed, you fronted for Richards to put pressure on me for using a cell phone. You were subtle as a rock, set on patrolling your way. Coffman was clueless about you. That’s why you’re called Rolling Thunder, isn’t it? You keep rolling forward until every muj is killed and you’re the king of the hill. Once you focus in, you don’t think of anything or anyone else.”

  The accusation confused Cruz. He thought it sounded like something Jenny had said last week. His head throbbed and tiny jangles of lightning were flashing across the edge of his vision.

  “Barnes, you’ve only been in one firefight,” he said. “Don’t judge what you don’t know. I take care of my people.”

  Barnes shook his head and scoffed.

  “Care of your people?” he said. “No, you’re taking care of your pride. You’re consumed with going mano-a-mano against Coffman. Suppose he is relieved now, while we’re still here. K
now what follows? The press makes this all about Coffman, with the Marines cast as helpless, miserable victims. You saved lives last night, but now you’re killing the dead. ‘Rolling Thunder’ suits you. You don’t think in front of your nose.”

  Cruz hadn’t expected Barnes to attack him. He wished he could talk to Jennifer. He knew what she would say, but wanted to hear it from her. He didn’t like hearing it from Barnes.

  “For a staff weenie,” Cruz said, “that was one hell of a speech. You’ve been building up to that, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, I have,” Barnes said. “You’re feeling guilt that the perimeter was breached. But this fuck-up isn’t all about you. How does your ego help the troops? I’m trying to turn the spotlight on how they fought. You’re keeping it pointed at Coffman.”

  Having blurted out his version of truth, Barnes was spent. Throwing up his hands, he turned to leave.

  “Hold on,” Cruz said. “Maybe you have a point. What if I say Coffman took reasonable precautions? Then once the storm cut vis to zero, what more could he do? Does that take care of it?”

  Before Cruz could reconsider, Barnes agreed.

  “You took your time getting there,” he said, “but that covers it. I’ll inform Gretman’s staff. It’s enough to keep Coffman from being fired on the spot. He’s finished anyway once we’re back at Pendleton. I’ll make sure the report is about how our troops fought.”

  Cruz put on his best stone face and nodded gravely.

  “Let’s shoot the bastard and have done with it.”

  Barnes burst out laughing.

  “At last Rolling Thunder sees the irony, Coffman bailed out by Cruz.”

  58

  A Cauliflower Death

  As the firebase was being torn down during the morning, Zar received a cryptic call from the shura. In simple prearranged code, an anonymous voice told him to come to Quetta, bringing the Asians as well as the funds and records of the Persian.

  “One of the three melons was crushed,” Zar replied. “All the grapes were destroyed in a fire.”