The Last Platoon

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

  One Asian had been killed and all of the Persian’s money had burned inside the mosque. There was a moment’s silence on the cell phone. Zar thought he heard the murmur of Emir Sadr in the background. The caller came back on the line.

  “Leave your sheep in the hands of the digger,” he said in harsh Pashto. “Bring the two melons and one hundred kilos of cauliflower.”

  After hanging up, Zar stood motionless while the anger surged through him. The useless Quat lay dead somewhere. But he was ordered to drive the two Asians, who had failed, to freedom. They didn’t deserve it. And why did the shura direct that he leave Tulus in charge? It would take weeks to dig a tunnel under the americani base. A stupid plan. He would tell the shura to give him more mujahideen and he would assault again.

  He threw the burner phone into an irrigation ditch and walked back inside the compound. Nantush had done a good job of policing the battlefield. Ten dead mujahideen were hidden in the trunks of cars and under hay in the beds of pickup trucks, to be buried that afternoon in four separate cemeteries. Of the five seriously wounded, Zar had sent the two most likely to survive to the government hospital in Lashkar Gah. That had cost $500 in bribes. The others would have to languish. He would spend no more cash.

  Tulus was waiting for him in the guesthouse.

  “The shura has summoned me,” Zar said. “Put the Asians in my pickup. Pack a hundred kilos of cauliflower on the roof. This trip I’m to be a farmer. I’m leaving you in charge.”

  Tulus tried to look surprised.

  “I’m a cripple,” he protested, “not a renowned warrior of Allah like you.”

  Brimming with shame and anger, Zar glared at him.

  “I was poised to kill the infidels,” he said. “The Asians did not guide me. They are cowards. I’ll be back with more holy warriors to finish this.”

  “How much do you think the Persian has told the infidels?”

  Zar felt a chill.

  “That’s not our worry,” he said. “The fool got himself captured.”

  He scrambled into the front seat of the Hilux next to the driver, with the two Vietnamese in the rear. In a side pouch of the SUV, he’d shoved the cash left after purchasing some harvests yesterday, maybe $20,000. If the shura didn’t ask about such a small leftover amount, he’d give it to his wife. His family deserved something for all he did for Allah.

  As he drove off, Nantush approached Tulus.

  “There goes the great Zar,” Nantush said bitterly. “My sons are dead, the infidels remain, and still the shura favors him.”

  “Uncle, the shura knows more about Zar’s actions than you think,” Tulus said. “Allah will reward you with justice. Be patient a while.”

  THE LATE AFTERNOON SKY WAS CLEAR when Zar reached the border crossing at Chaman. A steady southerly wind had blown the dust toward Zhob, far to the east. Zar kept on the air-conditioning to avoid choking from the fumes of a hundred lorries queued up for inspection and the payment of small bribes. He hated waiting in lines, and it always irritated him to see the blue highway sign written in English, WELCOME TO PAKISTAN. English! Not Pashto or even Punjabi! The Pakistanis had no pride.

  His driver dodged around overloaded trucks and stopped in front of the customs office. Zar handed over their forged credentials, with one hundred dollars in crisp rupees folded inside. The young fauji corporal gave the documents to his mustachioed sergeant, who took them inside the building. Zar wasn’t concerned; this sometimes happened. He counted out more rupees when the sergeant walked back to the Hilux.

  “Wait over there,” the sergeant said, pointing to a parking lot.

  Knowing better than to make a public scene, an irritated Zar complied. Within ten minutes, he was fiddling with his worry beads. Ten minutes later, he was opening and closing the passenger door, trying to hold his temper. After thirty minutes, he was worried. During the four-hour drive to the border, he had replayed the failed assault again and again. Once in Quetta, he would explain that the Asians had run away.

  But what if others were talking against him while these stupid border guards treated him like a common truck driver? He leaned forward so he could not be clearly seen, took out a cell phone, and called the cutout for the shura. No one picked up. Much as he hated asking for a favor of any Punjabi, he had to call the ISI. He punched in the emergency number and was surprised when Colonel Balroop personally answered.

  “I am late for dinner,” Zar said. “I’m detained at the intersection.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Balroop said. “Are the cauliflowers on the roof?”

  To a sleep-deprived Zar, the question seemed a normal cover to deceive the NSA programs sifting through big data sets.

  “Yes, and I brought the two melons.”

  “Take the old road,” Balroop said. “It is faster.”

  Another hour passed before the sergeant handed back Zar’s documents, without the rupees. As the driver took the turnoff up the old mountain road, Zar saw no trucks in front of them. Good, they would make up the lost time. Behind him, the border guards had again stopped traffic. With the weight of the cauliflowers, the Hilux was taking the upgrade at a slow pace. To avoid overheating the engine, the driver turned off the air-conditioning. In the back seat, the two Vietnamese were jabbering in their singsong voices.

  Through the open window, Zar breathed in the clean air and admired the vista. They were three thousand feet above the dusty valley floor, and the twisting road to their front was free of traffic. Zar began to relax. Emir Sadr would understand. No one won every battle. Tomorrow he would return, perhaps with another young martyr from the madrassa.

  AT BAGRAM AIR FORCE BASE four hundred miles to the north, Air Force Master Sergeant Todd Swanson adjusted the reticle on the nose of the six-foot-long Hellfire missile. For the past ten minutes, he had flown the Predator UAV in a large loop around the mountain road. Now the target stood out sharply, with no other vehicle within half a kilometer. No donkeys, kids, or jingle trucks to worry about. After 176 missions and 55 kill shots, this was too easy. No sweating collateral damage. What a setup. How could he miss the SUV with vegetables on its roof? He laid on the crosshairs and pressed the red button on top of the joystick.

  ZAR WAS DOZING OFF when he heard zissst! The hair on the back of his head sprang up in instinctive animal fear a half second before the white flash of obliteration.

  “THAT’S SHACK!” SWANSON SAID over his voice mic. “Behold the lotus death blossom, all those lovely petals floating skyward. A beautiful secondary.”

  “Bagram Four-Zulu, this is Phantom Three,” a wry voice replied. “Control your enthusiasm. Those white petals are cauliflower heads.”

  “Phantom Three, thanks for spoiling my dinner.”

  59

  You Held the Line

  By late afternoon, the orange haze had thinned to the viscosity of Los Angeles smog, with visibility improving to several hundred meters. Relieved that he had not been publicly fired, Coffman retreated to his office, leaving the evacuation details to Barnes. At the staff meeting, everyone was hacking up balls of phlegm and tapping their fingers. They all knew the drill. So Barnes kept his remarks brief.

  “Artillery lifts out first,” he said, “followed by the task force staff. The security platoon will be the last out.”

  “I’ll set 0400 for my final chalk,” Cruz said.

  Barnes gathered himself and spoke with a determined finality in his tone.

  “Your cheek is badly infected,” he said. “Commander Zarest says you’re risking disfigurement for life. You’re to take the next bird out. That’s a direct order, not open for discussion. You’ve done all you can, RT, and not one of us will ever fucking forget it.”

  The swelling had swollen shut Cruz’s left eye, and his cheek bulged with dry, black blood. Lasswell nodded firmly at him, making clear her agreement with Barnes.

  “Gotta inform the squad leaders,” Cruz mumbled.

  After he angrily left, the meeting broke up. Lasswell lingered to ta
lk with Richards.

  “I don’t feel right about Stovell,” she said. “I should have reacted, done something…”

  “That’s not on you,” Richards said. “He’d be disappointed to hear you say that. He knew the score.”

  “Wife? Kids?”

  “Short marriage, divorced, no kids. Maybe that’s partly why he was out here. I’ll miss him. You should take him up on his offer. I’ll clear it with his chief operating officer.”

  “No, thanks,” Lasswell said. “His corporation’s too tied in with you guys. When I finish school, I’m going in a different direction.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I have to talk to Corporal Compton’s family and two others, and I don’t know what to say. For you, this is a career. For me, five years was enough. I’m proud of the Corps, but it’s time to push on.”

  CRUZ HAD WALKED OVER TO WHAT REMAINED of the platoon tent, a flap of shapeless canvas the size of living room rug. The squad leaders were waiting.

  “I’m ordered out on medevac,” Cruz said. “Chances are I won’t see you all again. So, uh, let’s wrap up a few things. First, there’ll be funeral ceremonies, but every family needs a personal letter. I’ll do Mad Dog Doyle and Binns. I knew them well enough. Sergeant McGowan, you write to the Delgados and the two corporals in Bunker Five.”

  McGowan shook his head.

  “I can’t write stuff like that,” he said. “I can’t even print straight.”

  “The subject’s not open for debate,” Cruz said. “The platoon’ll help you.”

  “You mean my squad.”

  “I mean your platoon,” Cruz said. “Staff Sergeant Sullivan’s evaced with a broken leg. As of now, you’re the acting platoon commander.”

  He waited for the chorus of yelps and groans to subside.

  “No way that’s happening, sir,” McGowan said. “I’m a mud Marine, two NJPs. I can’t handle that responsibility shit, having to think, going to meetings. This is fucked up. No way.”

  Cruz let him wind down.

  “Noted, Sergeant,” he said. “I’ll inform the Green Machine about your midlife crisis. In the meantime, suck it up.”

  “You’re all heart, sir,” McGowan said. “Ever wonder why they call you RT?”

  The NCOs laughed.

  “All right, let’s flesh out the evac plan,” Cruz said.

  After they had finished, he invited any final questions.

  “Our families are sure to be spazzing out, sir,” Denton said. “Can we call home?”

  “I know every family’s going through hell, Sergeant,” Cruz said. “But notifying next-of-kin comes first. Once you’re back at Kandahar, you can call.”

  Corporal Gordon, who had taken over 2nd Squad after Binns was killed, spoke up next.

  “We hear the press is claiming we got our asses kicked. My squad is pissed about that.”

  “I don’t see no reporters out here,” McGowan said. “Fuck them.”

  The NCOs bobbed their heads in agreement.

  “Yut!” Gordon drawled.

  Cruz looked at their tired faces. He knew from prior tours how deaths and subsequent investigations sucked the spirit out of the kids.

  “Wrong approach,” Cruz said. “Sullivan’s gone, I’m gone. You’re the NCOs. If you think negative, it’ll infect the whole platoon. Hold it together on a strong, positive note.”

  With his face down, McGowan was doodling in the dirt. The other NCOs were fidgeting. Cruz knew he had to keep going. He had to get a message across they could hold on to.

  “I won’t have the chance to say goodbye to each grunt,” he said. “When your people get off watch, you deliver this message for me. I’ve served in five platoons in two wars, and I have never been prouder of any group of devil dogs.”

  That touched them. McGowan was now looking at him, Denton was nodding, and Gordon’s mouth was open, as though he was inhaling every word. Cruz found his rhythm. He knew what he wanted to say, what image he wanted to leave them.

  “Last night tested every one of you,” he said. “When the enemy came among you, not one of you could see or hear them. You were blind and alone. But you held the line, each and every single one of you. You tell your men to post that thought in their brains for the rest of their lives—when the world was black and howling, you held the line.”

  60

  First, Get Elected

  Seven thousand miles west of the platoon tent, Towns and Michaels were walking down a thick beige carpet past nineteenth-century classic paintings of American landscapes. Mixing architectural understatement with sophisticated taste, the West Wing exuded majesty and tradition. The corridor leading to the Oval Office imposed upon every visitor, no matter how important he was in his own mind, a sense of humility.

  When summoned by the world’s most powerful leader to a sudden meeting on Saturday morning, common sense dictated reviewing how to respond to pointed questions.

  “Not to nitpick, Admiral,” Towns said, “but you’re sure there’s no change?”

  “No fighting in the past twelve hours, Mr. Secretary,” the Chairman said. “Visibility has improved, and the Taliban have dispersed.”

  “He could be golfing,” Towns said. “Instead, we’re here, with no agenda.”

  Without stopping, they exchanged a glance. As they passed the office of the National Security Advisor, Armsted stepped out.

  “Admiral,” he said pleasantly, “mind if I have a word with the Secretary?”

  As soon as the Chairman left, Armsted spoke in a husky, confiding whisper.

  “Nine dead! It’s really bad. POTUS is being pressured to let you go.”

  Towns felt like kicking himself. He had been so wrapped up in following the fight he hadn’t seen this coming. Yet it was so obvious. Someone had to be blamed, and maybe he deserved it.

  “If he wants my resignation,” he said, “all he has to do is ask.”

  Armsted was surprised. He thought Towns, a corporate CEO with a Christmas tree up his ass and fifty million in bonds, had a better grasp of real power.

  “Resign? It’s too late to run for that cover,” he said. “You recommended the task force. Dinard wants to fire you for incompetence. The public elected him, not you or me. We’re the hired help, remember?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You’re not the only one who cares about the troops,” Armsted said. “I’m working on something important for them. You being kicked out now would complicate that. Don’t fall on your sword and spoil things. Listen to POTUS with an open mind, OK?”

  Together they walked into the Oval Office. Webster and Michaels were sitting on the sofa. The White House lawyer and the press secretary were absent. A solemn Dinard did not rise from his enormous desk. After a few idle taps of his pen, he opened the meeting.

  “Broken arrow,” he said. “Goddamn, I never want to hear those words again. The way our soldiers looked on TV, covered with dust and crap, heads down, beaten, so, so un-Marine like.”

  With his phobia about dirt, Dinard couldn’t imagine those battle-worn grunts were the same chiseled young men with perfect posture and razor-creased trousers who rendered sharp salutes whenever he walked by.

  Michaels had a grim, fixed expression.

  “The investigation will be thorough, sir,” he said. “General Gretman may recommend relieving the colonel in charge of the task force.”

  Dinard looked across at Armsted, inviting him to speak.

  “Admiral, that’s your business,” Armsted said. “But doing that right now would create a major distraction.”

  Michaels offered a sensible compromise.

  “The task force is being disbanded,” he said, “and the investigation will take a month. So dealing with the colonel can wait until then. But regardless, there’s no excuse for enemy getting through the wire.”

  Webster thrust his head forward, his round owl eyes magnified by his bifocals. As usual, the others paid deference to the CIA Director. He spoke spar
ingly in a giggling, self-embarrassed tone.

  “May I amend the admiral?” he said. “Though hard to imagine, I was once a lieutenant in Vietnam, where my own lines were breached. The Vietnamese are the world’s best sappers. They possess infinite patience. What happened last night was partially my fault.”

  When Michaels started to protest, Webster reached out and patted his arm.

  “Yes, Admiral,” the DCI said, “we did alert the Pentagon that a few Vietnamese were training Haqqani’s terrorists. But we didn’t trace their movement to Helmand. That was our lapse.”

  “Vietnamese!” Dinard said. “Well, Hanoi can kiss goodbye to selling us any more T-shirts and socks.”

  “Actually, Hanoi alerted us,” Webster said. “These sappers were nguoi, outcasts from society because their fathers had served as South Vietnamese soldiers. I don’t think we want that circulated.”

  “Why not?” Dinard said. “I’m doing Hanoi a favor by not slapping a tariff on their cheap goods.”

  “Back in 1975, we, uh, left the South Vietnamese soldiers in a bad way, with no ammo to fight. This could be seen as revenge for having abandoned them.”

  “Let’s not give the media that opening,” Armsted said. “We’ll treat any mention of Asians as rumor. Thank God we didn’t bring back any bodies.”

  “Speaking of bodies,” Dinard said, “what happened to that drug buyer from Iran?”

  “Not a spoon of him left, sir,” Webster said. “We have a photo of him inside the heroin lab, but that’s too thin to use publicly.”

  “The Journal has reported the death of Stovell,” Armsted said. “He’s well known in business circles. How do we—”

  Dinard interrupted.

  “He was at a meeting I had with some CEOs a month ago,” he said. “Was he a donor? Did he give to my campaign?”

  Webster concealed his distaste.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We discussed technical things. Stovell—no one used his first name—was quite gifted.”

  “What was he doing out there?”