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Short Season

Page 11

by DJ Scott


  Nothing; they were too heavy to move more than a few meters.

  Johanssen rolled off the improvised sled and told his Petty Officer, “Try one at a time, Doc. I think that might work.”

  Without a word McGregor began pulling again. After a moment the trunk lid began to slide across the coarse sand at a slow, but steady pace. McGregor turned, and told Johanssen he would go about a hundred meters then come back, which he did. Moving Johanssen was harder, but possible, and after a total of ten minutes, the team had progressed one hundred meters.

  “Doc, the math is not on our side,” Johanssen said. “At this rate it’s going to take an hour and a half to go a kilometer, and that assumes you won’t need any rest.”

  McGregor studied the situation. He pulled the ceramic plates out of his body armor and helped Castelli and Johanssen out of theirs. Between them, they shed more than thirty kilos.

  “That should help. Let’s see if I can pick up the pace.”

  He did. The ground sloped slightly downhill with no obstructions, and the heat finally abated. A GPS check after an hour showed the small band of Americans had moved a kilometer towards the Iraqi border. Only three and a half to go. McGregor was sweating profusely, however, and the two wounded men agreed he should have all the water.

  After another kilometer’s progress, this marred by a fifteen minute delay crossing a wadi, McGregor pulled out the phone and hit speed dial. This time the battalion surgeon, Commander Ron Jenkins, answered.

  “McGregor, where the hell are you? I heard you were out on some kind of special mission.”

  “That’s right sir. We’re in deep shit and I really need to talk with the CO. Like right now.”

  “Okay, HM2. Hold one.” There was the sound of the tent flap being thrown open and feet on sand. In less than a minute, McGregor heard the soft baritone of Lieutenant Colonel Henry Ahrens’ New York accent.

  “Petty Officer McGregor, situation report.”

  “This phone is totally unsecure, Colonel. Retrieved from enemy KIA. We have one enlisted KIA, one officer and one enlisted wounded. Location is three-hundred twenty-four kilometers from your location on an azimuth of 022 degrees. Our heading 090.” Johanssen had worked out the distance and direction from the camp on his GPS to avoid giving their exact location over the unsecure satphone. “Sir, what can you do for us?”

  “Working on it. Out.” Ahrens terminated the connection.

  June 9, 2005 0145Z (0445 AST)

  Forward Operating Base Butler, Western Anbar Province

  Henry Ahrens had never wanted anything more from life than to command Marines. The father he idolized had been a Gunnery Sergeant in Viet Nam, and young Henry had absorbed a lifetime of Marine Corps lore. Unable to gain entry into the prestigious Naval Academy, he attended Fordham on a Navy ROTC scholarship and entered the Marines as a second lieutenant. After graduating from the Basic School at Quantico, he progressed steadily from platoon to company, and then to battalion command with a few stops at various desks as personnel or recruiting officer. But he had no interest in desks. When he volunteered for a second tour as battalion commander, his mentors advised against it, but he took the job with relish, vowing to put everything he still had into the assignment and then to retire on his own terms. To command the 1/5, a legendary unit which had fought in every campaign from WW1 onward was, to Ahrens, the pinnacle of his career.

  The secret mission thrust upon him was one of those unexpected complications. Obviously things had now gone sideways, and his men were stranded in Syria. But why? Had that smug Navy officer screwed up? Or was it just bad luck? Whatever the reason, Ahrens intended to do everything humanly possible to get his people out.

  When he pushed open the flap to the operations tent, the small staff on duty all stood quickly to the call of “Attention on deck.”

  “As you were.” Ahrens pulled up a chair next to the duty officer, an eager young Captain. “Message traffic?”

  “Routine, except for this,” he said while handing Ahrens a message form. “Something must have happened in Syria; message from Baghdad ordering no entry and no over flight under any circumstances.”

  “Well, that explains it. Whatever the hell happened, it involved three of our people who were on some kind of spook mission with a Navy intel officer. I just got a satphone call from HM2 McGregor. There’s two wounded and a KIA. They are trying to make the border, but with wounded it’s obviously going to be tough. Here, find this position on the map.” He handed the Captain the information he had received from his corpsman.

  After a minute with a large map and several old fashioned map tools, the officer placed a small mark on the map just west of the Syrian border. “About here, Colonel.”

  Ahrens pondered the map for a minute. “There’s no way we can get up there by road. Look at this.” He pointed to the circuitous route from Camp Butler up to the border area being traversed by McGregor and the wounded men. “It would take four or five hours, at least. Call ops at the airfield; tell them I’m on my way and that I’ll need to see their CO. We have an emergency mission, here’s what I’ll need.” He scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper. “I’ll be in direct command.”

  Surprised by the last remark, the operations officer asked, “Departing when, sir?”

  Ahrens looked at his watch, “Ten minutes. Make it happen.” As he walked from the tent several enlisted Marines sprinted out behind him.

  The CO was not surprised to see his driver and HUMVEE waiting outside operations. The young Lance Corporal seemed to have a sixth sense for action. In three minutes he was at the operations tent for MAG 39 where he ran into their commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel ‘Buddy’ Gaston, a notoriously early riser. A short ruddy-faced Alabaman, Gaston was the opposite of Ahrens in everything but rank. Despite his good ol’ boy affect, Gaston was an intensely ambitious Academy grad on the fast track. He had attended every school, taken every staff job, and had smoked cigars with every colonel who could help him on the climb to flag rank. His current combat command was a vital ticket to the top, and he was determined to complete this tour without any kind of screw-up.

  “Buddy,” said Ahrens. “We have some Marines out in the deep weeds and we need a couple of your helos to pull them out.” He quickly briefed the aviator on the situation.

  “Yeah, one of our Hueys flew those guys up to the border a few hours ago. What’s with that Navy officer? He seemed mighty impressed with himself?”

  “I suspect he’s less impressed, now.”

  “Damned straight.” Gaston took a quick sip of stale coffee from an old Academy mug, an affectation which annoyed Ahrens. “Henry, we just got very clear orders about Syria. I assume you got them as well. We have two alert Hueys and can fly you up to the border, but those guys will need to get out on their own. Sorry.”

  That was about what Ahrens expected. Orders were, after all, orders, and Gaston was not about to violate Syrian airspace and risk his career for a couple of Ahrens’ people. “That’s fine, Buddy, wind ‘em up and get us up to the border. I’ll have my people here and an exact location in a few minutes.”

  “Okay then. I’ll have my ops officer notify the alert crews and you’re on your way. Gaston stepped into the operations tent, strode over to the duty officer and spoke for just a minute. On his way out, he turned and said loudly enough for Ahrens to hear, “No Syria, absolutely no Syria.”

  June 9, 2005 0425Z (0725 AST)

  100 kilometers North-Northeast of Al Bukamal, Syria

  Mike McGregor lay face up on the hot sand of eastern Syria. The sun was up, and it was well over 100 degrees.

  Every muscle screamed. His head ached, and he could feel blisters oozing blood into his boots. The GPS told him they were within five-hundred meters of the Iraqi border. But so what? He had been counting on help from his CO, but he could see nothing ahead. He tried the satphone, but the battery was dead. />
  At about 0600 he thought he heard helicopters, but he saw nothing, and the rotors quickly faded.

  Lying on the improvised sled, Castelli was unconscious. His pulse was well over one-hundred, and his breathing rapid and shallow. He was bleeding out, and McGregor could only think about how much easier it would be to move without the extra weight.

  Johanssen lay prone, looking south.

  “Doc, some kind of vehicle approaching.”

  They both watched as a wispy trail of dust resolved itself into a black vehicle heading straight towards them.

  “A Range Rover,” Johanssen said. “They found us. Well, at least it’s just one vehicle.”

  Both men took hold of their rifles and crawled a few meters to the minimal cover of a small outcropping of jagged grey rocks. Castelli was on the trunk lid in a small depression behind them, about as safe as he could get. They watched, mesmerized, as the big black SUV approached. At about three-hundred meters, they saw a small puff of smoke from the front of the vehicle followed immediately by a loud clunk and a second later, by the distant report of a rifle. The Range Rover coasted to a halt and four men leapt out, all carrying weapons. Three of the men had the ubiquitous AK-47, but the fourth had a long rifle with a scope—a Russian Dragunov sniper rifle.

  Yeah, they were in trouble.

  Within a second of exiting the front passenger door, however, one of the men was thrown violently against the fender and even at three hundred meters McGregor could see an explosion of blood from his chest.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Johanssen. “Somebody out there has a Barrett.” The M107 Barrett Light Fifty was the premier sniper rifle in the Marine Corps inventory. Capable of hitting a man-sized target at more than a thousand meters—or disabling a vehicle—the Barrett fired the venerable .50 caliber machine gun round. “Let’s give them a hand.”

  McGregor and Johanssen began returning fire. The Syrian sniper, lying next to the driver’s side front wheel, was placing accurate rounds into the rocks on either side of them. It wouldn’t be long before one of them was hit. Both men were having difficulty getting a good sight picture as their target was in the shade of the vehicle, while they were in direct sun.

  McGregor took aim at the front tire and moved slightly right. Just as he was about to fire, he felt a sharp pain in his cheek and right arm. It took less than a second to realize what had happened—one of the sniper’s bullets had fragmented and several of these fragments had hit him.

  Not taking his finger off the trigger, McGregor regained his sight picture and squeezed off the shot. The sniper jerked. He rolled to the left to avoid a second shot, but in doing so exposed himself to another Marine sniper who placed a .30 caliber round through his neck.

  The fourth insurgent, after watching the rapid demise of his comrades, began running west and, after passing below a small rise, was soon out of sight.

  Mike McGregor saw four men approaching from the east. Two were pushing litter carriers—metal frames on oversized bicycle wheels with an attached standard military stretcher. In a minute they were close enough for him to recognize the Old Man himself in the lead, followed by Commander Jenkins and HM3 Bell, the other paramedic. Bringing up the rear was Battalion Sergeant Major Cruz who carried an M-25 sniper rifle, a modified M-14. It was the Sergeant Major who had taken out the man with the Dragunov. The first three were heading straight for the men on the ground while Cruz scanned the horizon for threats.

  McGregor rose and stood at attention, blood dripping down his face. Staff Sergeant Johanssen said, “Please pardon my lying down, sir. I’m having a little trouble with my leg.”

  “So I see Staff Sergeant. What say we get the hell out of Syria. Doc, you’re a mess, get a dressing on that face.” He turned to the Sergeant Major who spoke into his radio and in a few minutes the helicopters, which had withdrawn a few kilometers, were now visible, and the wounded men were being wheeled back towards the border. The medical personnel were busy with the seriously wounded men, so Mike McGregor held a battle dressing against his own face and found the strength to shuffle the last few hundred meters to safety.

  In a little over an hour, they were back at Camp Butler where Castelli received blood, IV fluids, and antibiotics while Johanssen had his boot cut off and a temporary dressing applied. He also received antibiotics. During this time, Ahrens debriefed Johanssen and McGregor, then the battalion operations and intelligence officers debriefed them again. Castelli, now conscious, aggressively refused debriefing saying Ahrens had no need to know anything about his highly-classified mission. He did, however, report that despite his overall competent performance, he felt it necessary to point out that HM2 McGregor had been insubordinate, had assumed command under highly questionable circumstances, and had used an unauthorized and insecure form of communication.

  Henry Ahrens considered this for a moment, said, “Noted,” then turned and walked away.

  June 12, 2005 0010Z (0310 AST)

  60 Miles North-Northeast of Al Bukamal, Syria

  The rocks were piled along the west side of the wadi, exactly as McGregor had reported in his debrief. Two Marines with entrenching tools quickly uncovered the body of Lance Corporal Luis Delgado and carefully placed him in a body bag. He was then loaded into the back of a Humvee while four other Marines, including Lt. Colonel Henry Ahrens and Sergeant Major Cruz, provided security. When Ahrens had quietly asked for volunteers to recover Delgado, the entire Battalion had stepped forward.

  Mission completed, three Humvees headed for the border and the five hour trip back to Camp Butler. From there Luis Delgado began the long journey to Baghdad, to Dover Air Force Base, and finally to the cemetery of a small rural church south of Tucson.

  April 7, 2006 2115Z (1715 EDT)

  Red Hawk Bar and Grill, Ann Arbor MI

  The bar at the Red Hawk was already busy with the usual Friday mix of students, faculty, and locals. Sitting at the far end, in his usual seat, Mike McGregor sipped a local micro-brew while contemplating the FedEx envelope which had arrived at his rooming house a few hours earlier. The return address was, “Headquarters Marine Corps”, which seemed odd. Since transferring to the Reserves McGregor rarely heard from the Navy and never from the Marines. He didn’t perform monthly drills, and his only obligation was to keep his address current, maintain his medical readiness, and to appear at a reserve center for the occasional inspection. Finally he tore away the sealing strip and extracted several pages.

  It was a set of orders. After the usual incomprehensible accounting data, the orders consisted of just a few lines. First, he was being recalled to active duty for a period of forty-eight hours starting 0600 April 14—a week from today. He was to report no later than 1100 to the Marine Corps Base at Quantico, VA. Uniform was service dress blues. Also enclosed was a brief letter in standard military jargon informing him that air travel had been arranged, with tickets for an 0630 flight enclosed, and that he would be met at the gate by . . . his old pal Gunnery Sergeant Johanssen. So Staff Sergeant Joe was now Gunny Joe. Well, orders were orders, and he would find out in a week.

  April 14, 2006 1430Z (1030 EDT)

  Marine Corps Base Quantico, VA

  If the orders had been surprising, events after landing at Reagan National Airport had been surreal. Gunnery Sergeant Johanssen was indeed his old Staff Sergeant, and McGregor was surprised to learn he was now working on the Commandant’s staff. Probably explained how he was able to bypass security meet McGregor at the gate. It also explained how they were able to enter a back gate at Quantico.

  They proceeded to the base headquarters at Lejeune Hall. While changing into his dress blues in a small locker room, McGregor asked, “Don’t you think it’s time to tell me why I’m here?”

  “There’s going to be a little ceremony. Colonel Ahrens is going to be here.”

  “That’s great, but for what?”

  “I don’t t
hink the he wants me to spoil his surprise. I will say that he somehow got the Commandant’s ear and he gave a nudge here and there to help it along. He has a soft spot for corpsmen. Did you know he was wounded twice in the first Gulf War?”

  “I’ve seen the Purple Heart in his photographs.”

  “Okay Doc, time to go.”

  He was led onto the parade ground behind the building where a few dozen people in Navy dress blues or Marine alphas were standing in formation. He recognized Henry Ahrens, who had made full Colonel after all. There were also several senior medical officers and a Corpsman Master Chief. There was a tiny middle-aged Hispanic woman accompanied by a Marine Gunnery Sergeant and to McGregor’s amazement there was LCDR Castelli accompanied by a Navy Captain wearing aviator’s wings—and the Navy Cross.

  Taking their position at the front of the small formation, McGregor took his cue from Johanssen who stood at parade rest. With the call of “Ten-Hut,” everyone snapped to attention. Striding towards them was Colonel Henry Ahrens, tall and lean, ramrod straight, with sharp features and his signature closely-cropped grey hair. He was accompanied by a heavily-decorated Sergeant Major and a very young looking corporal.

  The Sergeant Major barked, “Gunnery Sergeant Albert Johanssen front and center.”

  Johanssen took three steps forward and was presented with the Purple Heart. This was followed by the posthumous presentation of a Purple Heart to LCPL Luis Delgado. The medal was given to Maria Delgado, his mother, who accepted with great dignity. Castelli was then awarded both the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star for his leadership of a classified mission that seriously degraded the Iraqi insurgency at its highest level. When he stepped back into ranks, Castelli gave McGregor a long look. It was not a friendly look.

 

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