Short Season

by DJ Scott

  Young Joe was determined to surpass them all.

  As a second generation Academy man, Castelli was well prepared for the rigors of life as a midshipman. He knew how to put a blinding shine on his shoes and a razor sharp crease in his trousers. He excelled in the classroom, where he wrote an honors thesis on the Battle of the Philippine Sea which was later published in the journal Naval History. It was as a wrestler, though, that he became best known to his classmates. He lost a few matches on points, but ‘Tiger Joe’ was never pinned.

  Only three hours ago, he’d flown unannounced into Camp Butler, a small Marine Corps FOB in the parched desert of western Anbar Province carrying orders directing the battalion based there and Marine Air Group 39 to provide any and all support requested for a top-secret operation.

  The battalion commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Ahrens, had been a little trouble. He’d refused to take Castelli seriously until he’d called up the chain of command and confirmed his orders. Then he sighed.

  “Okay, Commander, what do you need?”

  “One NCO, a rifleman, and a corpsman. I need people with dismounted patrol experience.”

  “Ordinary infantry? You’re sure you don’t want SEALs or Force Recon?”

  “If I wanted Recon, I’d have said so.”

  Ahrens gave him a long, and not too friendly, look. “Wait here and I’ll bring your people.”

  But Castelli recognized the scent of white mutiny—screwing with someone while technically obeying orders—when he smelled it. “I think I’ll just stick with you, Colonel.”

  “And I told you to wait here.” Ahrens stuck his head out the tent flap and spoke to someone briefly. A large Marine with dark, penetrating eyes and an utterly humorless expression entered and stood at parade rest. “Sergeant Major Cruz will take care of you until I get back.”

  “Right.” Castelli leaned back in his chair and avoided the gaze of the Sergeant Major.

  Ahrens returned in fifteen minutes with a huge Marine who looked like a lumberjack—or a linebacker. “Lieutenant Commander Castelli, this is Staff Sergeant Al Johanssen. He’ll select the rest of your team. If you give him a bit more information about your mission, he can find the best people for the job.”

  “Staff Sergeant, all you need to know is what I told your CO. I need a rifleman and a corpsman with experience in dismounted patrols. Period. I’ll brief you all when the team is together. Have your people ready in thirty minutes.”

  Johanssen glanced at Ahrens, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, before responding, “Aye aye, sir,” and left the tent.

  Pointedly ignoring Ahrens, Castelli turned to the Sergeant Major. “Take me to the airfield. I need to talk with the CO of MAG 39.”

  “My pleasure Commander. Please come with me.” Castelli brushed sand off his pants and followed the Sergeant Major.

  At the airfield Castelli ordered the first Marine he met to take him to the Commanding Officer. A quick display of his orders got the MAG-39 CO into motion, and this time without the fuss. An operations order was written, and the alert crew notified. He told the CO the approximate distance of the required flight, but that further details were only for the actual flight crew. The Commanding Officer seemed to accept this without hesitation.

  Returning to the 5th Marines area, Castelli found Johanssen and the men he had selected in a small, well-guarded tent. He introduced himself to his team and began the briefing.

  “My cell,” he began, “has developed strong evidence that the principle producer of improvised explosive devices, IEDs, killing Marines in Anbar Province is working out of a farm just across the border in Syria. We’ve been trying for days to get authorization for an airstrike. Cross border strikes are touchy, as you’re probably aware, but we finally got the go ahead earlier this evening. The weapons, GPS guided GBU-31 two thousand pound bombs, will have to be released inside Iraq to avoid violation of Syrian airspace. That’s not a problem, but the second condition is a bit more complicated.” He said this in the casual way British officers in movies always described difficult missions, something he’d practiced in front of a mirror. “We need to enter Syria and put eyes on the target.” For emphasis, he poked at the air with two fingers. “We confirm it is what we think it is, and then call in the strike.

  “Naturally, there can’t be evidence of American presence in Syria. So we’re going to helo up to the border, walk in, confirm the target, call in the strike, and walk back to the border for pick-up. Simple enough?”

  Johanssen and the other two enlisted—Lance Corporal Luis Delgado, and Petty Officer Second Class Mike McGregor—listened in silence and asked no questions. When Castelli was finished, he distributed maps, copies of reconnaissance photos, and communications protocols. “Staff Sergeant, what do you recommend for ammunition load and gear?”

  “Well, sir, you didn’t mention what we might encounter as far as opposition, but normally I would go with 210 rounds per man, four grenades—two smoke and two frag—six liters of water, night vision, two MREs, and a radio for each member of the team. I see you’re carrying a Beretta. You should probably have an M4 as well.”

  “Good. I have the radios. Each has crypto already loaded as well as the comm frequencies for the air assets. Unfortunately, I was provided with only two.” This brought a scowl from Johanssen, and raised eyebrows from the corpsman, but neither said anything. “Round up the rest of my gear while I go back to the airfield and brief the helo crew. As for opposition, our mission is to avoid contact. If we have to shoot our way out, we’re doing it wrong”

  Johanssen said, “We’ll just have to hope the opposition has the same mission. Sir.”

  Castelli gave the big Marine a sharp look. “Just get my gear, staff sergeant.”

  The team drew seven thirty-round magazines each of 5.56 mm., rations, and a rifle for Castelli. Except for the corpsman—in theory a non-combatant—they drew the smoke and fragmentation grenades. McGregor took only the two smoke grenades plus a pop-up flare and a star cluster, useful for signaling medical evacuation helicopters from the ground. The rest of their gear—body armor, pack, canteens, knives, and all the other items required for even the briefest mission—they each retrieved from their tents. Each man carried three two-liter canteens, one on their load-bearing vest and two in their rucksacks. In the desert heat, six liters was enough for a day, but not much more than that.

  While they were waiting for the arrogant Castelli to return from the airfield, Petty Officer McGregor sidled up to Staff Sergeant Johanssen. “Joe, this mission has a funny smell to it. What’s really going on?”

  “What’s on your mind, Doc?”

  “For starters, this guy Castelli is clearly no field operator. He puts together a cross border mission on the fly with orders that keep the Colonel out of the loop. This is about more than some bomb maker.”

  “I always thought you were too damn smart for your own good,” replied Johanssen. “Sure this guy clearly hasn’t a clue about field ops—did you see the creases in those cammies? And he’s definitely not sharing everything. What you’re forgetting, though, is that we are just three grunts—or considering you’re a corpsman—maybe two and a half. We follow orders. You know what they say about orders—you have to go out, you just don’t have to come back.”

  McGregor was considering the wisdom of a response when Castelli pulled up in a Humvee and said, “Okay men, let’s saddle up,” as if they were going to a church picnic.

  On the short drive to the airfield, he handed Johanssen a handheld radio. “It’s the new PRC-148; most units won’t get them for a year or two. Crypto is controlled here and frequencies here.” McGregor and Delgado both leaned in for this explanation, too. They might have to use the unit someday.

  “What’s the range?” asked Johanssen.

  “About twenty clicks line of sight. Not a problem, the F-15’s will be just inside Iraqi airspace
and the AWACS bird has been pulled westward. Their comm gear will have no problem receiving us.”

  The Staff Sergeant raised his eyebrows. “This mission has enough priority to reposition an AWACS?”

  “It does.”

  Johanssen scowled at McGregor, who couldn’t resist a slight smirk.

  Arriving at the airfield, the team saw the crew of a Huey, the venerable Viet Nam era helicopter, completing their pre-flight checks. True to their motto, “Any Time—Any Where,” the Marines of Light Attack Helicopter Squadron 267 had prepared the alert helicopter to launch within minutes of Castelli’s arrival. In two minutes the crew and Castelli’s team were aboard, and the engines were turning.

  Once away from the ground lighting, they were enveloped by darkness with only the half-moon illuminating the desert below. After about half an hour in the air, during which time Castelli, the only team member with headphones, maintained a steady conversation with the pilots, the helicopter circled for a minute then landed just west of a packed-sand road. The team quickly disembarked and walked away from the helicopter, which roared off to the southeast, kicking up clouds of grit and sand.

  Castelli produced his map and a GPS unit, but when he pulled out a small flashlight, Staff Sergeant Johanssen pulled out his own and handed it over. “Sir? It’s got a red lens. Lets us keep our night vision and can’t be seen beyond about ten meters.”

  Castelli took the flashlight without a word. After reviewing their position and destination, they headed west, into Syria. Johanssen put Delgado at point, followed by himself, Castelli, and McGregor at the rear.

  It was just before midnight, but the temperature had barely begun to drop from the day’s high of 122 degrees. The ground was fairly flat, just small ridges and a few shallow wadis—dry stream beds, but the sand was soft, and walking took a lot more energy than on hard ground. Half an hour out, McGregor suggested a break for water and a brief rest. He knew Johanssen and Delgado wouldn’t need it, they’d acclimated to the desert and were hard from months of foot patrols. But he was concerned that the Lieutenant Commander, living in air-conditioned comfort in Baghdad, probably did. And he would be too proud to ask for it himself.

  Castelli smiled when the arrogant little corpsman suggested a break. He probably figured Castelli was soft. But he’d figured out long ago that a high level of fitness and a recruiting poster look went a long way in the Navy. Every day he went for an hour run in the Green Zone just as the sun was rising, and every evening he worked out in the gym. He liked showing up the younger enlisted men. His lean, hard appearance had also gotten him selected for press and flag officer briefings, while the dumpy reserve Commander with the PhD and the fluent Arabic was kept behind the scenes. He’d enjoy showing McGregor what he was really made of.

  As they walked, he moved over to Johanssen and asked quietly, “Why them?”

  “Sir?”

  “Why did you choose Delgado and McGregor? I know Lieutenant Colonel Ahrens picked you, but you picked them.”

  “Nothing complicated. Delgado is one of our best Marines in a fight. He’s an excellent shot, very cool under fire, and he grew up in the desert south of Tucson, so he’s comfortable out here where a lot of guys are not. Doc is probably the best all-around corpsmen in the battalion. He has been through paramedic training and worked the streets in Detroit before joining the Navy. He knows his land nav, communications, and is a pretty fair shot, for a sailor.”

  “What are their weaknesses?”

  “Weaknesses?”

  “I think you heard me, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Well sir, Delgado is a follower. He knows how to take orders and if he’s still breathing you can rely on him to carry them out. But don’t count on him to make decisions.The Doc, well he is just the opposite. Thinks too much. Wants to understand his orders. He will definitely take charge if you need him to. Problem is, I think he probably wants to be in charge right now.”

  “That’s useful, thanks. One other question, why are we moving in column? The manuals recommend a diamond formation for a unit this size.”

  Johanssen carefully considered his response before saying, “That would be true in daylight, but for night movement, especially with only two radios, the risk of losing contact with a man in the dark is too great.”

  “Why not use the night vision?”

  “Are you experienced in overland movement using NVGs Commander?” responded Johanssen.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then it isn’t a good idea. Anything else, sir?”

  Castelli considered reprimanding Johanssen for his attitude, but realized the Staff Sergeant did know more than he did about foot patrols. “No.”

  With the half-moon providing reasonable light and with the sand getting firmer, progress was good. Just after midnight Castelli checked his GPS, changed their course slightly, and after five minutes signaled the team to get low. According to the recon photos, their target was just ahead. He instructed everyone to approach a low rise in a crawl.

  And there was the target, exactly as Castelli had expected it to be.

  He keyed his radio and said very softly, “Crossbow, this is Lancer. Eyes on target.”

  “Roger Lancer. Be advised Archer is now on station.” Archer was a flight of two F-15E Strike Eagles that had launched out of nearby al-Assad Air Base, and was now flying in a racetrack pattern just east of the border.

  “Delgado,” Johanssen ordered, “work your way far enough west to see beyond those buildings, report in, then maintain your position.” He handed the young Marine his radio and tiny combined microphone-earpiece. “Doc, find a good spot about a hundred meters north and use your NVGs to look for any sign these guys have put out security patrols. If you see anything, come on back and report. If nothing shows up in ten minutes, report back anyway.”

  The two men moved off to their assigned positions, and in less than ten minutes Delgado reported, “Two guys on the west side of the house about twenty meters out. One has an AK and the other an RPG. With the NVGs I can see two more about three or four-hundred meters further west doing a foot patrol.”

  Castelli told Johanssen of this development, but before he could respond McGregor returned, much sooner than expected.

  “Doc, what’s up?” Johanssen asked.

  “There’s a little rise about fifty meters straight north of us. I was low crawling over it with my NVGs on when I saw the flare of a match about five-hundred meters further north. It was a guy lighting a cigarette. I watched them for a couple of minutes, and they seem to be on a foot patrol working their way south by doing east-west legs.”

  “With any luck we’ll be out of here before they get too close,” Castelli said.

  “Luck sir? Those guys are out on patrol looking for people like us. Aside from luck, what exactly is the plan?”

  Castelli had to keep a lid on his temper. He keyed the mike on his radio. “Come on back Delgado, you’ve seen all you need to.” He shut off the radio and gave Johanssen an even glare. “We’re going to maintain this position. It’s the best place to observe the compound.”

  Delgado crouch-walked back into the wadi and made his way over to Johanssen. “Staff Sergeant Joe, what’s the plan?”

  “I think the Lieutenant Commander will have to answer that. There are things going on here you and I don’t know about.”

  Castelli’s hands clenched into fists. “Look Staff Sergeant, I’m getting damn sick of you second guessing me. There is one person in command here, and that’s me!” He took a deep breath. A good commander didn’t need to pull rank.

  “Look, the decision to withhold some information from the briefing was made above my pay grade. But now that we’re on site and seeing more than expected opposition, I should probably fill you in.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Johanssen, with just a hint of sarcasm.

  Castelli let it go. “That se
cond building”—he pointed at the building closest to the house, an adobe structure about the size of a one-car garage—“really is a bomb factory. We could have blown it awhile back and without sending anyone on site. We left it standing because of intel that a meeting was planned for this location. Tonight. A meeting of several important bomb makers, one of the senior Sunni insurgents, and most important, a major Saudi financial backer. He is bringing funds, and negotiating for further funding if he likes what he hears. We have to confirm the principals are on sight before committing to the strike. Do I have your attention now?”

  “Yes sir,” from each of the enlisted men. Castelli had made his point. Some officers might think that the mission would be more likely to succeed if he’d by been straight with his people from the start. But the intel business didn’t run that way.

  Thirty minutes passed. They heard only the soft conversation of the guards, the hum of the generator, and the occasional whine of a sand fly. To the north, the foot patrol had closed to within two hundred meters, and their next pass was going to take them dangerously close to the teams’ observation post.

  Then, on the road from the south, two vehicles pulled around an rock outcropping and into view. A Toyota Land Cruiser and a large, black Mercedes, both running without headlights. “Contact,” Castelli said. “The guests are here. Let’s start the party.”

  They pulled into the open space east of the house, and two men, each armed with AK-47s, jumped out of each vehicle. They conferred briefly with the guards, one of whom went to the house and knocked on the door. In a moment two bearded men wearing the traditional long disha dasha and knit kufi skullcaps walked out of the house.

  One of the armed men from each vehicle spoke with the drivers and, after a moment, one man stepped out of each. From the Land Cruiser, a short man with a prominent beard emerged. He wore long white robes and a colored head scarf.