The Last Platoon

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

  “He held patents on some detection devices,” Webster said. “And he was a close friend of our ops chief.”

  “How will you handle it?” Dinard said.

  “Officially, he was a contractor testing equipment,” Webster said. “In a private ceremony, we’ll add a star to our wall for him.”

  Dinard looked at his watch. In four hours, he could be teeing off in Palm Beach.

  “This is tragic, a true catastrophe,” he said. “It gives Grayson an opening. Know what Kissinger once told me?”

  He affected a deep German accent.

  “Zee first rule of foreign policy, Meester President, is to get reelected.”

  He waited while Armsted guffawed and the others gave slight smiles.

  “OK, no more politics,” Dinard continued. “Let’s talk about Afghanistan. I’ve decided to change direction. I called Duncan. Our wonderful Secretary of State is doing a terrific job at that summit in Brussels. He agrees with the change.”

  POTUS gestured at Armsted to take over. Armsted tried to look sheepish, as though none of the credit was his.

  “Well, I’ve been logging the air miles. The president wanted a secret back channel. The result is a breakthrough. Congratulations, Mr. President.”

  POTUS beamed.

  “Lay it out,” he said.

  “All parties agree that Helmand will be a neutral zone,” Armsted said, “with the capital off-limits to armed combatants. This provides a venue for the Taliban and Kabul to reconcile. The Afghan troops will fall back.”

  Towns and Michaels looked at each other in stunned surprise.

  “I haven’t heard anything from General Gretman,” Michaels said. “Did the palace agree?”

  Dinard squinted over his pen at Armsted.

  “Security Advisor, I don’t want blowback,” Dinard said. “You’re certain Kabul’s on board?”

  “The president was reluctant, sir. I told him your patience had run out. He’ll go along.”

  “Damn right he will. He needs us a hell of a lot more than we need him. When you discussed this, did he look like he was having a nervous breakdown?”

  “No, sir,” Armsted said. “I got the feeling he’s glad we had made the tough decision for him.”

  “You actually negotiated with the Taliban shura?” Webster said.

  “A few discreet meetings in Quetta,” Armsted said. “I went through the ISI.”

  “That explains why an ISI colonel tipped us off,” Webster continued. “A few hours ago, we droned Zar, the leader of the attack on the firebase. He was tied into that heroin lab, a very expensive loss for our Pakistani friends.”

  “So the Pakistanis set him up?” Admiral Michaels said.

  “It appears to be a gesture to us, after our losses at the base,” Webster said. “Of course, someone has undoubtedly replaced him. Rich, what have you offered Pakistan?”

  “We take them off the terrorist watch list and restore aid,” Armsted said.

  Webster shook his head.

  “That’s a billion-dollar gamble,” he said. “The Pakistanis live in a world of self-deception, an incurable affliction. They can’t be trusted.”

  Armsted understood this, but it exasperated him to hear it.

  “This is a transaction, not an alliance,” Armsted said. “Quid pro quo. If they renege, we cut them off again.”

  Dinard rapped his pen like a teacher calling students to pay attention.

  “Hey, I get it! Pakistan plays both sides. Let’s get back to Afghanistan,” he said. “Admiral, suppose things fall apart over the next year. It won’t end like Saigon, will it? That looked terrible, terrible.”

  “No, sir,” Michaels said. “The Taliban don’t have the vehicles or armor to take the major cities. In the worst case, the country reverts to warlords.”

  Since entering the room, Towns hadn’t said a word. Dinard now gestured at him to speak up. Towns was seething at being blindsided. POTUS had exploited the deaths of the Marines to accelerate America’s withdrawal from Afghanistan.

  “Sir, I’m concerned we’re walking into a strategic defeat,” he said, “based on a tactical setback.”

  “Tactical? We got plastered last night!” Dinard said. “All those dead and wounded, soldiers wobbling, looking like shit. The public saw that. So did Grayson and everyone in Congress.”

  POTUS had slipped back into domestic politics. Armsted leaped in before Towns could object.

  “President Reagan pulled out of Lebanon after our barracks were bombed,” he said. “Clinton did the same in Somalia. They knew when to cut their losses. After last night, the public won’t stand for our troops staying exposed.”

  “You’re not just pulling back,” Towns replied. “You’re carving up a country. Afghanistan won’t hold together!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mike,” Armsted said, “this isn’t Munich. Kabul never controlled Helmand. We’re not abandoning what we or Kabul never had.”

  Towns ignored Armsted and appealed to the president.

  “It’s about unraveling, sir,” Towns said. “If we flinch, the crazies become emboldened. The Taliban will share Helmand with al-Qaeda.”

  There was silence as each participant weighed what to add. They had exhausted all their standard lines. Dinard drummed his fingers on the heavy oak of the Resolute desk. When no one spoke up, he finally pointed at Webster.

  “What does the CIA think?”

  Aware of the stakes, Webster replied cautiously.

  “Helmand’s drug industry is worth five hundred million to a billion dollars,” Webster said. “Al-Qaeda will try to muscle in. That will throw the province into chaos.”

  “Agreed,” Towns said. “We’re handing back a safe haven to al-Qaeda.”

  Webster glanced almost sorrowfully at Towns.

  “Actually, chaos works in our favor,” Webster said. “The Taliban are Pashtuns and al-Qaeda are Arabs. Friction is inevitable. We have a deep bench of informers. We can bomb as we please.”

  “We’re conceding territory to the Taliban,” Towns said. “We can’t whitewash that.”

  Armsted had anticipated that objection.

  “Mike, we already have a written deal with them,” he said. “A neutral Helmand fits inside of that.”

  Before Towns could respond, Webster put forward his closing argument.

  “The Taliban want to rule Afghanistan and shut out the world,” he said. “They’re a cancer inside an isolated country, not a global pandemic.”

  Armsted vigorously nodded, agreeing with his unexpected ally. Dinard too was happily surprised. The DCI had provided the ending he needed.

  “Reagan and Clinton knew when to pull back. So do I,” Dinard said. “We’re going ahead. Security Advisor, coordinate the details with State and Defense.”

  As they got up to leave, Dinard called to Towns.

  “Mike,” he said, “can you stay for a minute?”

  Despite calling him Mike, Dinard’s tone held no warmth. He didn’t ask Towns to sit down. Instead, POTUS walked out from behind the desk, stood a few feet away, and paused before speaking, conveying the gravity of what he was about to say.

  “Let’s clear the air between us,” he said. “If you stay silent, the press will assume you’re opposed. I’d like you to stay on, but I can’t have that.”

  The president’s candor hit home. Towns had intended to avoid saying anything to the press, the dodge he employed whenever he disagreed with his commander in chief. He enjoyed his taciturn reputation, detached from the White House out of concern for the larger common good. He hesitated, unsure how to respond.

  “Keep killing terrorists. Drop all the bombs you want,” Dinard continued, “but no more troops. Those wounded kids looked awful, all banged up and bloody. That was the last task force.”

  Towns didn’t reply. His mind was whirling. His pride at being one of the most powerful men in the world was struggling with his fear of being fired for a disaster over which he had no control. Unsettled by his own in
decision, he kept his face neutral.

  Dinard stepped closer, bearing in.

  “I have to know,” he said quietly, “are you with me?”

  Towns wasn’t conceited enough to view their disagreement as a moral drama between good and evil. He considered Dinard a narcissist and Armsted an opportunist. But neither would deliberately put American soldiers in an untenable position. He responded in a level tone.

  “Yes, sir. I will fully and publicly support your decision.”

  The president dismissed him with a patronizing pat on the back.

  “You’re a good man, Mike!”

  Towns walked out, upset with himself. Was he a good man? Like five Secretaries of Defense before him, he had failed to come to grips with Afghanistan. For two decades, the generals had claimed the war could be won, plodding ahead despite the vacillations of three commanders in chief. Towns had gone along first with Admiral Michaels, who wanted to trudge on, and now with President Dinard, who wanted to get out. In his own mind, he hadn’t decided which one was right.

  He dreaded his next trip to Dover to console the families. Why had their loved ones died to protect Helmand, heroin supplier to the world?

  61

  Don’t Blame the Dirt

  Shortly after the NCOs left the platoon tent, Cruz heard the chugging of incoming choppers. He popped five Motrin, shouldered his ruck, and strode to the landing zone, where Richards was standing with a few others.

  “We’re out on the same bird,” Richards said. “End of a long week.”

  “Tic going with you?”

  “Only to Kandahar. After that, he’s off to LA. Stovell set him up at USC. Full ride.”

  “Who is he, really?”

  Richards took him aside.

  “You know I won’t answer that,” he said softly.

  “He’s a pro. I’ll give him that,” Cruz said. “All you spooks are. You almost pulled it off.”

  “We caught one break,” Richards said. “If that Marine hadn’t been guarding our prisoner, the suicide bomber would’ve waltzed right into the ops center. I don’t want to think about that carnage.”

  “We still got our asses handed to us,” Cruz said.

  His cheek was throbbing and he slurred the words.

  “Yes, we did,” Richards said. “I assume Dr. Zarest gave you a shot?”

  Cruz looked at him blankly.

  “No, of course not,” Richards continued. “You’re too stubborn to block out pain. Well, take a final look, cowboy. Say goodbye to Helmand. No more rodeos. You commanded the last platoon.”

  All around them, ragged, filthy Marines were breaking down structures, dragging howitzers into liftoff zones, and queueing up into chalks.

  “What’re you going to do,” Richards said, “once your face is plastered together again?”

  “I’m wrapping up my tour at the recruit depot,” Cruz said. “After that, it’s back to the fleet, maybe a company command.”

  Richards pointed toward a group of Marines.

  “A command? Sounds impressive,” he said. “Look at Barnes, collecting statements. He thinks that’ll help you. Busy beaver.”

  “He didn’t clear that with me,” Cruz said.

  When he started toward Barnes, Richards stopped him.

  “Let him be. It makes him feel good,” he said. “Won’t help you, though.”

  “You’re one hell of a motivator.”

  “Coffman’s finished,” Richards said. “When he goes down, he’s sure to throw shit on you. Add in this broken arrow, and you’re carrying too much baggage to snag a command.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Cruz said. “I’m working on my teaching cert. If the worst happens, I can step into a classroom, teach algebra, and coach wrestling. Maybe art on the side.”

  Richards burst out laughing.

  “Right, your credentials are sterling,” he said. “You’re the first guy I ever met who strangled someone. The teachers union will send you to a school for headhunters in Pago Pago. Earth to Cruz: you are not a model instructor for the safe space generation.”

  For an hour, Cruz had been imagining he had a fallback if he was forced out of the Corps. In one sentence, Richards had popped that daydream.

  “Even if you stay in,” Richards continued, “you’re too old to ever do it again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Lead from the front. Shape your younger brothers. Take care of them. Watch over them. Stovell saw that in you right away. He was smarter than me.”

  “Doesn’t seem right that he’s gone,” Cruz said. “He’s the one who didn’t have to be here.”

  “A long time ago, I saved his ass,” Richards said. “He never forgot. I’ll miss him every day. He treated life as an adventure.”

  Cruz nodded.

  “You going back to Kabul?”

  “For a few months,” Richards said. “Then I’m slated for a cushy stateside posting, with sunshine and sea breezes. Eagan’s coming along. There’s a few billets open in our Special Operations Group. Good pay, interesting work, a sound pension. You’re welcome to join us.”

  The offer caught Cruz off guard.

  “I’m a slow learner, not completely crazy,” Cruz said. “I’m having a long talk with my wife before I jump off another bridge.”

  “Job’s one world and family’s another,” Richards said. “I have a solid home life, a terrific wife and two daughters. You can balance both. You’ve deployed enough to know that.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “She’s on the staff of the 3rd Fleet, right? Easy to get a transfer so you’ll stay together.”

  Cruz didn’t know whether to be interested or irritated.

  “How do you know about my wife?”

  Richards shook his head like a teacher disappointed in a star student.

  “After Stovell recommended you,” he said, “Langley ran a background check.”

  “I’m sure as hell not a substitute for him.”

  “No, you’re not. But I need someone fluent in Spanish.”

  “I’m not trained for what you do.”

  “You forget I was a jarhead?” Richards said. “What does the Corps do? It protects civilians who lack the sense to get out of the rain. My outfit does the same thing. What have you been doing for the past seventeen years?”

  “Mowing the grass,” Cruz said.

  Richards laughed.

  “Good description. If you cut grass short enough, snakes don’t have a place to hide. You’ll fit in with us, and we have fewer Coffmans to foul things up. We both love the Corps, but it’s time for you to move on.”

  “I don’t know. That’s a lot to digest. This fight and all will come as a surprise to Jenny.”

  Richards looked sharply at him.

  “You haven’t talked with her?”

  Cruz looked into middle space. His jaw was throbbing, with jolts of pain flashing through his head.

  “I told my platoon,” Cruz mumbled, “that calls had to wait until we were out of here.”

  “The wounded are supposed to call home!” Richards said. “What, you think your wife doesn’t assume that Rolling Thunder wasn’t in the thick of it? She has to be worried sick.”

  He extended a cell phone.

  “Sometimes you’re dumb stubborn,” he said tightly. “Here, reassure her. Hell, if you want, tell her you have a job offer.”

  Cruz took the phone and walked a few feet away. Jenny picked up on the first ring.

  “Hi, Babe, I—”

  Jenny immediately cut him off.

  “Thank God you’re alive! How bad are you hit? Tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying to me!”

  She knew the protocol that wounded called after a fight.

  “Fractured jaw,” Cruz said, trying to sound normal. “I got off easy. How are you and Josh?”

  “We’re fine. Don’t try to divert me. You’re really in one piece?”

  “Yes, I swear.”

  He listened to her sobs of
relief.

  “This is the second time!” she said. “Two Purple Hearts! I don’t think we could cope if you were gone.”

  “We lost twelve angels, Jen,” Cruz said quietly, “on my watch.”

  “Honey, I’m just grateful you’re alive,” she said. “But my heart breaks for those poor families. I’m on my way now to the Support Center.”

  “I should have done more,” Cruz said. “The mothers, the wives…I…”

  “Stop!” she said. “Don’t take everything on yourself.”

  Cruz hesitated, then decided to tell her.

  “It’s not about me, Jen, it’s about them,” he said. “There’s no going back. The investigation will hammer me. But I may have a job. Kind of an interpreter, somewhere nice in the States. We’d be together.”

  “Oh?” she said softly. “Well, that’s worth talking about when you get back.”

  After hanging up, Cruz returned the cell phone to Richards, who snapped it in two and shoved the pieces into his pocket.

  “Once we’re out of here,” Cruz said, “maybe we can continue our conversation.”

  “Good,” Richards said. “Working with us beats supervising recruits on a rifle range.”

  Richards had wound down. It had taken considerable effort for him to be so open. Cruz too felt numb and exhausted. Together they listened to the throb of the approaching helicopters. The nishtgar workers were scouring the nearby fields for any surviving poppy bulbs. They acted as though all the Marines had left and life had resumed its normal tedium. Sunlight filtering through the billions of dust particles suspended in the air bathed the landscape in a baleful orange that glowed like a molten furnace.

  “Hell’s the right color for this place,” Richards said. “Hope I never see it again.”

  They watched as a teenaged Marine, sweat pouring down his grimy face, filled in the gaping hole that had been Bunker Five. With each stroke, he smacked the earth harder with the flat side of the shovel. Gradually, he picked up the pace until he was swinging with all his might. Cruz walked over and took hold of his arm.

  “Easy there, devil dog,” Cruz said. “Don’t beat dirt for being what it is.”

  Glossary

  81s: 81mm mortars, effective out to a range of four thousand meters