Allies

by Wolf Riedel

  Hernandez also smiled; for the first time since Tuffy got there.

  “We do have a plan for the operation, Antonio,” Hernandez said. “She is not important to it.” He looked toward Meraz. “What do you think? It comes under you. Does she stay or go?”

  “Go, I think” said Meraz.

  “Go, it is then,” said Hernandez and turned back to Tuffy. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “No, Jefe,” said Tuffy.

  “Good. I’ll have my driver take you back to wherever you need to go.”

  “Thank you, Jefe.” Tuffy turned to go.

  “One more thing, Antonio.”

  Tuffy stopped and turned back to Hernandez.

  “Luis will permanently assign you a car tonight. If you don’t already have a driver’s license make sure that you get one quickly.”

  CHAPTER 21

  SOCCENT HQ, Tampa, Florida

  Saturday 10 Mar 07 1000 hrs EST

  CSM Jackson had assembled the attendees for the videoconference in short order. One by one they filed into the room that was already occupied by Phil reading through several daily reports. He nodded in the direction of each of Lieutenant Colonels Benedict, the SOCJ-1 and Souci, the SOCJ-3 and Kurt as they came into the room, saluted and took their chairs behind the conference table facing the large video screen.

  “All present, Sir,” reported Jackson as he too took his seat.

  “Go ahead CSM. Get the techs to get us connected.”

  He looked over at Kurt. “What about you?” he asked. “When are you and your guys off?”

  “Pretty much right after this meeting,” replied Kurt. “We’re flying out early this afternoon.”

  “Did Tara get off okay?” Phil asked.

  “Yes Sir. Toni’s already out in BC with her folks and we were able to get Tara a flight out a few days earlier than planned. She left this morning.”

  “Good. I owe you one for that but it couldn’t be helped,” said Phil. “O’Donnell and Shirazi all prepped?”

  Yes, Sir,” said Kurt. “They’re downloading pretty much any report about the ODA and TF ZABUL that they can lay their hands on. We’ll have time in the air to go over those. I’ve also had Winters see what he could find out about any MP or CID issues involving those boys. The CSM and I will be speaking to him shortly after this meeting. The CSM will also be our point of contact on the Lewis investigation until I get back.”

  “Sounds good,” said Phil and turned his attention to the screen which suddenly went live with an image of the commander of CJSOTF-A.

  “Lou,” Phil said. “It’s your nickel. I gather you’ve got more on our lads up in Nangarhar.”

  “Yes, Sir. I do,” he replied. “Over and above what you and your people already know about the incident on the fourth, commander TF SPARTAN and I and our staffs have been comparing some notes. In short, the Marines were brought in as experts in special reconnaisance and were to operate within SPARTAN’s AO on that type of mission and to do ANA training. We’ve come to the conclusion that they unilaterally changed their own terms of reference to conduct missions that were more in the area of direct action. SPARTAN tells us they knew of very few of the missions that they actually did even though the Marines’ job was to coordinate all operations with them. We think there were up to twenty-five missions that they did that SPARTAN had no idea were going on within their AO.

  “We’re still trying to sort it all out but we’ve already got stories of their filing plans with my people and then carrying out completely different missions including ones where they went out dressed up as Afghans without my authority.

  “Yesterday I think we had the straw that broke the camel’s back. They’ve had two vehicle accidents that had some injuries. That by itself isn’t the problem but the incidents ended up with what in our opinion here was an unnecessary escalation of force. On top of that, one of the missions was an unauthorized self-generated mission.

  “To put a fine point on it here, and as I’ve said before, I’ve lost trust and confidence in their leadership. I’ve told them to stand down on all operations. Incidentally CJTF-82 is initiating an investigation into the vehicle rollover and force escalation incidents and SPARTAN has made it clear they don’t want them in their AO anymore. These guys are undermining an awful lot of our credibility with the conventional command here.”

  Phil pondered this information.

  Todd started up again. “I’ve got one additional concern here in that my 3rd Group and I are due to hand CJSOTF-A over to 7th Group. I don’t want to leave this problem hanging around for Ed.”

  “Gotcha, Lou,” said Phil.

  “Any word from the Marines head shed on this?” asked Todd.

  “Yeah,” said Phil. “MARSOC’s been cc’d about your views and SPARTAN’s on the company’s leadership. I received an email from Commander MARSOC who’s been following our emails and he’s expressed his disappointment with his boy over there. He’s hoping I’ll keep the company in theater but he’s at about the 95% mark at relieving the company commander and senior enlisted man. He’s leaving the call for redeploying the company up to me.”

  “Well, boss. If I’ve got a vote on this then the turnover to the 7th would put me on the side of sending the unit back and not just a change in leadership.”

  “Noted Lou,” said Phil. “I’ll give this some thought. Sending them back would be a big kick in the Corps’ nuts.”

  “That’s why you get the big bucks, Sir.”

  “Anything else, Lou?”

  “That’s it, Sir,”

  Phil looked over to CSM Jackson and nodded his authority to shut down the link.

  Phil’s discussion with his staff was brief. His mind had been pretty much made up with Todd’s explanation that he and the key conventional forces commanders who operated in Afghanistan had lost trust and confidence in the MARSOC company’s leadership. The difficult question to resolve was whether one needed to replace just the leadership or remove the entire company. The former was the minimum action that had to be taken; the latter would undoubtedly be interpreted as an unjust group punishment for the actions of a few. This discussion, more than anything else, had been to allow his staff to voice their opinions and present any factors that Phil may have been missing or to which he might not be giving enough weight.

  Nothing that had been said had changed his mind.

  Phil left his conference room for the short walk back to his office. On the way he contemplated the emails that had come in from Commander MARSOC.

  The dynamics here were interesting; MARSOC was a three-star general. Fleetingly he thought that it was about time that SOCCENT became at least a two-star and that CJSOTF-A be at least a one star. The original structure and size of the various special operations geographical unified sub-commands had never envisioned the use of special operations forces in a campaign to the extent of this one; two major theaters and with many thousands of special operators doing extremely complex and diverse missions. It wouldn’t be Phil. He knew full well that getting his first star without ever having commanded a formation as a Colonel had been the behind the scenes work of his four-star mentor at SOCOM, General Clint Peters. That had put a lot of noses out of joint already; getting another star would foment a rebellion.

  Phil made the short walk from his conference room through the fore-office of his executive suite when he was given a paper by his aide.

  “Another email from MARSOC, Sir. I thought you’d want to see it right away.”

  Phil nodded his thanks and walked into his own office and sat down on one of the couches facing his desk as he read the paper. In short, Commander MARSOC was looking for Phil’s approval to send the commanding officer and the sergeant-major of the 2nd MSOB—Marine Special Operation Battalion—for a what the hell is going on visit to their company.

  Phil moved from the couch to behind his desk and called up the message on his computer and started composing his reply. He started out by updating MARSOC on the most recent t
wo incidents and the fact that Todd had stood the company down. He went on to say that they could send the CO and sergeant-major if he wished but the only solution was to take the MSOC out of Afghanistan:

  . . . sadly because the people have no trust in them . . .

  . . . I am convinced we need to move them out. I need to look at what the best option is . . .

  . . . This is a hard one for me, no one wants this to work more than you and I . . .

  Phil reread the message twice, tweaking the language, before hitting the Send key.

  He sat back for a moment then leaned forward again and started composing messages outlining his decision and his reasons to the director of operations at CENTCOM and to the Commander of SOCOM. The last thing he would do would be informing his own staff and Todd of the decision so that they could start the necessary staff work required to repatriate the unit.

  All-in-all it was a crappy day.

  CHAPTER 22

  Edgewater Beach Dr., Lakeland, Florida

  Saturday 10 Mar 07 1030 hrs EST

  Mark looked at the pile starting to gather in the foyer and shook his head.

  “Do we really need three blankets?” he called down the hall to Kristin who was gathering together the last of the essentials for their outing to Bok Tower. The drive was a mere thirty miles to the southeast to Lake Wales and from there a short drive up Iron Mountain upon which were located a contemplative garden and the Singing Tower and its carillon bells. Mountain was a bit of a misnomer since anywhere else it would be termed a hill, but at just under three hundred feet above sea-level it was nonetheless one of the highest points in Florida with a commanding view of the hundreds of orange groves that surrounded it. It was always one of Kristin and Max’s favorite outings.

  “We’ll need one for Max’s toys, one for the food and the last one for the two of us to sit on,” she said as she came down the hall carrying an Igloo nine-quart cooler which she thrust into Mark’s hands. “So yeah. We need three blankets.”

  Mark took the cooler outside and loaded it into the back of their SUV. He went back inside for the blankets . . . the bag of toys . . . the collapsible beach umbrella . . . two beach chairs . . . the canvas tote-bag filled with bread, potato chips, bagel chips and pita chips . . . a small tote filled with bug repellent, sunscreen and God only knows what else.

  How the hell are we going to get this all up from the parking lot to the top of the hill without a wheelbarrow? he asked himself.

  Down the hall Kristin could be heard trying to convince Max that it was time for one more trip to the bathroom as Mark’s cell phone buzzed for attention in his pocket.

  “Winters,” he answered.

  “Mister Winters. It’s Colonel Richter. Am I interrupting anything?”

  “My family and I are about to head off on a little picnic but I’ve got time to talk, Sir,” he replied.

  “Excellent,” said Richter. “I’ll be brief. I’m heading out to Afghanistan this afternoon. Anything further from your people there?”

  “No, Sir. There are no relevant investigations or files open on either matter. Special Agent Galloway is expecting you and will be happy to talk to you if you need anything from him.”

  “He’s your guy in Kandahar, right? Wasn’t he there a year or so ago?”

  “Yes and yes, Sir. He says he met you before.”

  “Right. I’ll definitely look him up. Just for your information, the matter with the Marines is winding down. There have been more incidents yesterday which have pushed this over the crisis point,” said Richter. “The SOCCENT COS is over there doing an Article 15-6 and if things look like police involvement is needed he’ll go to NCIS. You won’t need to track that any further for the time being.”

  “Good, Sir.”

  “How are things on the Lewis investigation?”

  “Nothing new there,” said Mark. “The word that one of the bodies recovered is not a Lewis girl has hit the Trib and I expect that others will pick up on it too.”

  “I’ll leave a heads’ up with the public affairs guys here before I go,” said Richter. “How are the gun issues going?”

  Mark wanted to keep this avenue of the case quiet for the time being so he couched his words carefully. “We’ve got some leads to explore but for the time being there’s nothing of substance to report.”

  Mark felt a poke going into his ribs and turned to see Kristin behind him with her left arm around Max holding him in a straddle on her left hip.

  Who’s that? She mouthed silently.

  Mark held up his hand extending a finger, One minute.

  “Okay,” said Richter. “Like I said the CSM will look after this and if you do need to get a hold of me you’ve got my cell and email.”

  “Yes, Sir, Have a good trip.”

  “You too. Enjoy your outing.”

  Mark checked the rear view mirror angling it down to check the seat belt on Max’s car seat. Kristin always belted him in and she’d get pissed if Mark checked her work by tugging on the seat. As a compromise he’d surreptitiously sneak a peak at the belt in his rear view mirror; Kristin had always found him kind of anal that way. For her part, Kristin pretended that she hadn’t seen him do it.

  As Mark backed the SUV out of the driveway, Kristin slipped a Styx disc into the car’s CD player and then repeatedly punched skip until she came to a stop at track fifteen. Within seconds the plaintive, tinkling piano introduction to Come Sail Away filled the car’s cabin. Kristin had bought the disc last month immediately after they had attended a Dennis DeYoung concert at SeaWorld’s Bud and BBQ Fest. She loved the music on both discs from the set but this song was her favorite with Mr. Roboto and Lady running a close second and third. Why haven’t we ever listened to their stuff before? she’d asked. Because they were at their height when we were babies, Mark had replied. They’d watched all four of the concerts at the series—not to mention having a fair bit of Bud and barbecue—and swore that they’d be back next year.

  Mark made his way down N Lake Parker Ave through some of Lakeland’s commercial properties before turning left on South US 98; Bartow Road. The traffic was moderate as residents of the outlying suburbs and scattered developments shuttled back and forth from their homes to do their weekly shopping.

  About half way between Bartow and Lake Wales, on a particularly bucolic stretch of SR 60 going past some orchards—just as DeYoung was breaking into the second verse of Babe—Kristin dropped the bomb on him.

  “Mom’s coming for a visit.”

  Mark sank deep into his seat.

  There was only one person in the world who hated anyone more than how much he hated his mother-in-law, Mabel. That one person was Mabel and how much she hated Mark.

  The principle theme in Mabel’s life is that Kristin had been selfish in marrying a soldier who had taken her away from her mother. Kristen, in Mabel’s eyes, had abandoned her mother. This was already the mantra she spouted when they were posted at Fort Bragg which was not very far at all from Mabel’s home in Raleigh. Things had really blown up, however, when barely a year after Mabel had celebrated becoming a grandmother, Kristen had told her that the army was moving Mark and the family to Florida. The screaming had gone on for the better part of a day.

  Personally, Mark couldn’t give a shit about what pleased or didn’t please Mabel. In his eyes she was a complete waste of skin. What rankled him however was the effect that Mabel’s continuous nagging and whining had on Kristin. The whole matter was visibly depressing her. Kristin never took Mabel’s side. She knew full well just how selfish and unreasonable the old woman’s demands were. But in the end Mabel was family and family, especially mamas, counted for a lot in a traditional southern Baptist household. She had endured it. Dutifully, she’d called home regularly. Stoically, she internalized the complaining, the badgering, the nagging that in Mabel’s eyes was a newsy chat with her daughter. After every call, Kristin would be quiet and brooding; keeping the frustrations inside and not letting them affect her own famil
y. Mark had initially tried to get her to talk it out but Kristin hadn’t been comfortable with that. So he’d stopped trying.

  Visits were the worst. During them Kristin couldn’t even escape through the benefit of ending the call. Her best defensive mechanisms were to squeeze in a few extra hours of daytime shift to get out of the house or to escape to the kitchen to cook. One benefit of Mabel’s visits was that the meals took ever more preparation time and became ever more elaborate.

  In short, Mabel was Kristin’s mama and the thought of disrespecting her, no matter how justifiable, was simply out of the question.

  Mark on the other hand could tune Mabel out easily enough. He’d let her ramble on and give her a mental fuck you and cheerfully nod at her blathering. What tore at his heart, however, was what Kristin would have to endure during the visit.

  “When is she coming?” he asked.

  “Tuesday for five days.”

  Mark hesitated. “That’s not so bad,” he said.

  “No. I guess it’s not,” she sighed.

  Mark reached across the console with his right hand and gave her left hand a squeeze.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said and hoped that it would be.

  Rather than making two trips from the parking lot up to the tower they had decided to leave the beach chairs behind and just use the blankets.

  On the blanket in front of them, the remnants of the fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, crusty rolls and apple pie bore silent witness to the feeding frenzy that had taken place a scant few minutes before. Behind them the bells of the pink and gray marbled tower were still chiming out some English baroque concert music.

  Kristin let out a giggle as Max came storming across the grassy slope clutching a twig in his small right hand. They were sitting to the south of the tower on an expansive lawn of some type of coarse Bermuda-like grass overlooking a shallow slope toward a multitude of orange groves. Wafts of the mild perfume of the groves—no more like incense, thought Mark—occasionally enveloped them as the gentle breeze gusted up to them from below. Overhead, a canopy formed by several dozens of massive oaks hung heavily with tendrils of Spanish moss.