Amerine sat upright. He had never been to war and he was fairly certain that neither had the people asking for such crap. He would have expected awards to be considered after teams redeployed, but here they were requesting a submission from the field, something he hadn’t given a thought to—and wasn’t going to until they completed the mission.
“Better get moving on that Silver Star recommendation for me, sir,” said Dan, grinning. “Oh, never mind: Medals like that are just for you officers.”
“When they put out the usual quota system for awards, I’ll make sure to keep you at the top of the list,” retorted Amerine. “I’m going to rack out for a few hours. Unless something urgent comes through, just save it till morning.”
Lying back down, Amerine pushed the notion of awards into the back of his mind, the same place where he’d buried the absurdity of being pulled off two positions within an hour. As he began to doze, he thought of the thing that was most important to him: his men. In the finest tradition of the Green Berets, ODA 574 had pushed unwilling guerrillas up a hill under fire. They’d come together as a team, had taken their objective, and he was proud of them.
A couple of hours after Amerine fell asleep, Mag’s watch ended, and he found a flat spot just east of the Alamo’s command post—a rectangular patch of boot-beaten ground between a trench and a low wall—where he could catch four hours of sleep. The young guerrilla with the orange blanket had been shadowing him all day; now he approached Mag with Seylaab, who translated: “He would like to know how you stop the bombs from falling on you at night.” He pointed to the sky, and Mag tuned in to the ominous hum of Spectre’s props in orbit at a couple thousand feet. Mag cracked an IR chemlite, set it at the head of his sleeping bag, and let the Afghan look at it through his NODs.
Letting out an “oooh,” the man spoke a few words to Seylaab, then hurried down toward the medical clinic.
“He says you’re magic,” said Seylaab before taking off after the guerrilla.
Mag stretched out beneath his unzipped sleeping bag, which was buffered from the cold, hard ground by a thin piece of foam. His Beretta was on his stomach, his hand on top of that, and his M4 at his side. Boots on, go-to-hell pack ready at his head. Everything was exactly as it was when he went to sleep every night.
He was about to say his evening prayer when the guerrilla reappeared and spread his blanket next to him. Then another young Afghan crowded against his other side. They kept coming, fanning out around him. One put his head on Mag’s legs as if they were pillows.
“Wait a minute, I’m not your daddy,” Mag said, pushing the man off and attempting to spread them out a bit. With just a few inches of wiggle room between him and ten guerrillas, he began his silent prayer. This time he rambled more than usual, concerned that he’d sinned when he’d shot to kill for the first time in his life earlier in the day. I’m sorry, Lord, if I was sinning today. Forgive me if I was having fun pulling the trigger, and for looking forward to doing it again.
Even though Mag was feeling no real threat, he was oddly compelled to end the prayer as he’d only done when his life had been in immediate mortal danger. He didn’t question the compulsion, figuring that God knew something was coming.
I know, Lord, I asked you once in the Himalayas stuck in that crevasse, and then when I was sick with giardia, to just get me through and get me off that glacier and get me home. I asked you to save me then, and I didn’t walk your path when I got home. This time, Lord, I ain’t making no promises. All I’m going to ask you this time, Lord, if anything happens to me, I just want you to watch after my kids, let my family and friends know I love them, and don’t let me feel a thing. Forgive me my sins. I accept you as my Lord and Savior.
Amen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Thirteenth Sortie
* * *
There’s a grief that can’t be spoken.
There’s a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.
—Claude Michel Schonberg, “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables”
* * *
Just after one in the morning on Wednesday, December 5, Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Timothy Crosby taxied his B-52 down the runway at the U.S. air base on Diego Garcia, an island in the Indian Ocean. He took off, banking north and ascending to a cruising altitude of 40,000 feet. The Stratofortress bomber was part of a squadron of ten B-52s and a half-dozen B-1s that flew out of Diego every day, providing round-the-clock, on-call air support for teams on the ground in Afghanistan. Its five-person crew—Crosby, his copilot, an aircraft navigator, a radar navigator, and an electronic warfare officer—had thousands of hours of flying time between them.
This mission was the crew’s thirteenth sortie in Operation Enduring Freedom.1
At 3 A.M. in Shawali Kowt, Amerine was waking up after four hours of sleep. JD, hunkered down on watch a few feet away, heard Amerine’s sleeping bag rustle. “Top of the morning to you, sir,” he said, then gave a status report: Alex had been communicating with the Spectre pilot flying recon, who had detected no enemy movement in the area.
“It’s been really quiet,” said JD.
Amerine looked around to be sure nobody could overhear him, then said, “I’m going to fire Ken today. He’ll go to the C-team, and we’ll get their medic, who is coming in tonight with the rest of Fox’s staff.”
“It’s shitty, sir, but it has to be done.”
“I’ll take my shift after I write up the counseling statement on Ken,” said Amerine. “As long as you’re feeling all right.”
“I’m feeling pretty good, considering,” said JD. “Still wired.”
Walking along the Alamo’s perimeter, Amerine passed Fox, asleep on the ground, as was everyone else except for JD, Wes, and Ronnie. He chuckled when he saw the guerrillas around Mag like a litter of puppies.
Toward the northeastern end of the Alamo he came upon several Afghans huddling by a small fire they’d built in a shallow depression. The guerrillas were still inadequately outfitted for the nighttime temperatures that dipped into the 30s; despite numerous supply drops, few of them had even a sleeping bag. When he got close enough to hear their chattering teeth, he didn’t have the heart to make them extinguish the meager flames. In fact, he joined them, sitting off to the side as he wrote Ken up.
The fire broke a cardinal rule of field craft, yet Amerine wasn’t concerned. He found the moment oddly nostalgic, remembering bonfires on the beaches of Oahu. His guard was down, he realized, just as it was during Ranger School when he and his fellow students would build fires to mark the completion of a training mission.
He sensed that the battle with the Taliban was over: Sometime after sunrise, probably before noon, a high-level Taliban delegation would be arriving from Kandahar to discuss a peaceful cessation of hostilities. Less than three months had passed since 9/11, yet the United States, with its Afghan rebel allies, was about to topple the Taliban government. And he’d expected it to take six months just for ODA 574 to seize Tarin Kowt.
At 3:45 A.M., four Pave Lows that had originated from J-Bad, Pakistan, touched down in the desert at the landing zone designated LZ Jamie, a mile and a half north of Shawali Kowt. Sergeant First Class Chris Pickett, a twenty-eight-year-old medic, and Air Force Technical Sergeant Jim Price, thirty-four, were riding in one of two brand-new white Toyota Tundra 4x4s loaded in the cargo bays of the helicopters delivering Fox’s battalion headquarters. Price gripped the steering wheel tightly as the Pave Low’s ramp lowered, then he flipped on his NODs, turned the key, and steered the truck down and out into a swirling billow of dust and darkness.
A figure suddenly appeared directly in front of him and Price slammed on the brakes. It was Major Bolduc, who used hand signals to direct them south, where three beat-up trucks belonging to guerrillas were parked along the road. Bolduc ran back to the lead truck, which led the king cabs carrying the remainder of Fox’s battalion headquarters staff—call sign Rambo 85??
?to Shawali Kowt.
If Denise Pickett had known her husband was part of a small convoy in the middle of the Afghan desert heading in the direction of Kandahar, she would have been proud but not pleased. Pickett had assured his wife before deploying that, as a medic on Fox’s battalion headquarters staff C-team, there was no chance he’d get near the battlefield. “Don’t worry about me, honey,” he’d said. “Worry about the other guys—the A-teams. I’m with battalion; we don’t get into the mix.”
Though Fox had also chosen an Air Force combat weatherman, an Army intelligence analyst, and two Air Force TACPs (tactical air control parties), most of the fourteen men of Rambo 85 were Green Berets, personnel from Fox’s C-team, many of whom had been shocked in the weeks before this mission when Fox was ordered by Mulholland to start running them through combat drills. They were not a combat unit: The extent of their recent training had been completing—or, as one NCO put it, “fumbling our way through”—a couple of react-to-contact drills, which even the most novice infantry units master before heading into battle.
Now Price, Pickett, and the rest of Rambo 85 were driving through the desert to join ODA 574—one of the teams Pickett had told his wife to worry about.
When Mag opened his eyes the next morning, the first thing he saw in the predawn darkness was a man standing over him, laughing.
“What?” Mag said gruffly.
“Get up,” said JD, nudging him with the toe of his boot. He looked around at the Afghans huddled closely around Mag. “You got something you want to tell me about last night, soldier?”
“Yeah,” said Mag. “That was a damn cold night.”
“Sure was,” said JD, holding out a box. “Have one. They’re from my wife.”
“Well, thank you, Santa, and Mrs. Claus too,” Mag said, taking the Rice Krispies Treat.
“This too.” JD tossed over a box, and Mag read the return address. “From the love of my life,” he said with a grin.
“Battalion showed up in the night and brought the mail,” JD said, “and those.” He lifted his chin toward the two trucks parked alongside the team’s trucks at the base of the Alamo.
Mag held the bar between his teeth while he stuffed his sleeping bag and the shoe box–size package from his girlfriend, Sherry, into his rucksack, hoisted it over his shoulder, and walked away from the sleeping guerrillas to his truck. Mike was there sorting through some gear.
“Hell,” Mag said to him, pointing at the white king cabs. “I thought it was all a bad dream, but it’s worse. We really did get pulled off the hill—and battalion’s here.”
At a quarter to seven, Amerine and JD stood atop the Alamo watching the headquarters personnel mill about near the medical clinic. The sun glowed on the eastern horizon like a narrow band of orange fog.
“All right,” Amerine told JD. “Get Ken. Let’s get this over with.”
A few minutes later, JD returned with their medic, and the three headed off the Alamo together, away from the rest of the men. JD stood to one side, his arms crossed, while Amerine stared Ken in the eye and said, “I’m relieving you of duty and sending you to the battalion headquarters.”
Though Ken’s mouth opened in surprise, he said nothing. Without a pause, Amerine read aloud the counseling statement detailing the reasons for his relief, which included his panic in Tarin Kowt and Shawali Kowt and his failure to bring the mortar up to the ruins as ordered.*
Taking the document when Amerine handed it to him, Ken looked it over, angrily shaking his head. At last he signed the paper to confirm he had read it, but he circled the option stating that he did not agree with what the captain had written. Shoving it back in Amerine’s hand, he addressed JD. “You’re going to let him do this?”
“Grab your gear and move it into the medical clinic,” JD said. “Major Bolduc will meet with you and get you settled into Battalion.”
With a glare at Amerine, Ken walked away, still shaking his head.
Amerine shifted his attention to the headquarters staff now gathering along the low wall that encircled the command post. He recognized many of them from 5th Group. “A lot of good men here,” he said.
“When I got the mail, Chief Reed told me that Bolduc is going to brief the headquarters up there on the Alamo,” said JD. “What’s our next move, sir?”
“Let the men enjoy their mail, but tell them to be ready to pack up and go as soon as I give the word.”
Back on top of the Alamo, Amerine saw Alex lying in his sleeping bag near the command post, talking to two of his fellow Air Force TACPs, including Tech Sergeant Price. They turned their attention to Bolduc when he began to address the headquarters staff, and Amerine grabbed his rucksack and carried it down to his truck. Mag was busy with his own truck—“getting the battle chariot ready,” he said—as he performed the daily ritual of cleaning out the air filter, topping off the fuel, and checking the tire pressure. “It will be good to get on down the road,” Mag said, motioning toward the Alamo, where a group of curious Afghans had gathered to listen to Bolduc speak.
“What’s with the dog and pony show?” asked Mike, walking up.
With a shrug, Amerine leaned back against the truck to watch Bolduc’s energetic briefing. JD came over and stood beside him.
“I think we’re out of a job,” said Amerine.
“Yeah, Bolduc’s got troops to lead again,” JD said. “Sort of like his own A-team.”
“Regardless, the Taliban surrender should come sometime today.”
“Don’t fool yourself, sir,” said JD. “They aren’t going to surrender. We’re about to go from being insurgents to counterinsurgents.”
Bolduc’s briefing lasted fifteen minutes. By 7:30 he was ordering some of his men to set up communications in the medical clinic while he directed others to mingle with members of ODA 574 in order to learn more about the area and recent events. Amerine was standing off to the side of the Alamo’s command post, waiting for a chance to talk to the major, when Fox walked over after greeting his staff. Just as he arrived, a Pinzgauer crested the berm north of Shawali Kowt and parked on the top. Another one appeared farther west.
Only one unit used these customized fighting vehicles, which are high-speed, go-anywhere tanks on wheels, bristling with heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, and state-of-the-art armaments such as anti-tank rockets and mine-clearing weapons.
“When did Delta show up?” Fox said to Amerine. “Did you know they were here?”
“No idea,” said Amerine. “Must have come in during the night.”
“Why wasn’t I consulted?” Fox said, shaking his head. Amerine watched him trot down toward the medical clinic, then walked over to Bolduc and said, “It’s way too crowded up here, sir. If you want this position, I’ll move my men somewhere else.”
“No,” said Bolduc, “we want your team to stay and pull security. Later on we want you to retake the hill, so come up with a plan with Captain Bovee, write an order, and brief me on it before you move out.”
“Yes, sir,” said Amerine. Though the headquarters had no authority to order ODA 574 to pull security or take the hill with the ruins, they could keep the team in place based upon Fox’s TACON command authority. Amerine was happy to retake the hill, and he was not about to argue over authority. I want to get my men as far from here as I can, he thought.
“We’re staying put for now,” Amerine told Mag back at the trucks. They were watching the guerrillas on the Alamo crowding around the headquarters weapons sergeant, Chris Fathi, who spoke Farsi, Urdu, Turkish, Kurdish, and some Arabic. Word had gotten around that an American spoke the local dialects, and more and more Afghans gathered until more than thirty were pushing in around Fathi, talking over one another and resting their hands on his shoulders. Amerine felt for him—it had taken days for the men of ODA 574 to relax when their backs weren’t covered. He also knew that the Afghans were giving him an earful about how the Taliban “are everywhere!”
During the mission, local Pashtun had encouraged ODA
574 to attack homes, buildings, caves, even schools—always stating with certainty that Taliban fighters were inside. As more clans joined Karzai’s movement, the false leads and dubious intelligence multiplied until Amerine found it nearly impossible to distinguish reliable tips from bogus information.
Amerine walked from the trucks to the southwestern end of the Alamo, past Fathi and the group of Afghans to where JD sat in the dirt near Dan, reading a letter. Next to him was a small cardboard box, on which lay a four-by-six-inch photo of JD and his family that his wife had sent.
“How’s the family?” asked Amerine.
“They’re great,” said JD, reaching for one of the remaining Rice Krispies Treats. “Here, sir, have one.”
“Thanks,” said Amerine, taking a bite.
Amerine hadn’t gotten a care package or letters. He hadn’t provided his family with a mailing address, telling them he would be in touch when he could. He didn’t know when he would be able to write and hated the thought of receiving a pile of letters with no way to respond. Even worse, he didn’t want that pile of letters going back to his family, unopened, if he was killed on the mission.
Washing down the last of the bar with a swig of JD’s lukewarm cocoa, Amerine told him that they’d been ordered to take the hill by the bridge.
“You mean retake the hill.”
“Exactly,” said Amerine, turning to leave. “I’m going to work the plan with Bovee. I don’t see us doing things much different from yesterday—we can consider that our live-fire rehearsal. We’ll talk later. Enjoy that letter.”
“Want another?” JD held up the box.
“You eat them. Then tell the guys what’s up.”
Amerine walked a few steps over to Dan, who was tinkering with a disassembled radio laid out on a poncho liner.
“Everything going to be working in a couple of hours?” Amerine asked.
“Should be. What’s up?”