Lions of Kandahar (25 page)

Jared turned back to the video feed, checking one last time for civilians. Finally, Mike gave the thumbs-up.

“The aircraft is cleared HOT. Everybody find cover! I am not kidding!” he shouted, hustling behind the trucks.

It looked like a fraternity stunt as we all stuffed ourselves into the trucks.

“Bombs away!” I heard Mike yell.

The B-1 bomber was a black spot in the sky. As it got closer, I could see its arrowhead shape dive down, flatten its trajectory, then rise sharply as a series of gray dots fell from its belly. The seven two-thousand-pound bombs streaked to earth and disappeared in flashes, followed by a deep rumble, as though the earth itself were erupting. Then a massive discharge of earth and debris shot hundreds of feet into the air.

“Are we good?” I hollered over to Bill, who, like me, was hunkered down in his truck.

“Everyone is okay,” he said.

I reached down and hit the two-minute timer on my watch. I wanted to give Taliban survivors a chance to come out of cover before we started lobbing mortars. Before the smoke had blown away, I asked Ron if he could see the target. Huddled over the Predator feed, he said two buildings had survived and several dozen Taliban fighters were stumbling around the wreckage. More would emerge.

At thirty seconds, Hodge had the Americans and Afghans, mortar rounds in hand, posted beside their mortars.

“All tubes stand by. On my command … Hang … FIRE!” Hodge yelled.

The consistent
tump, tump, tump
of rounds sang out, accompanied by large plumes of fire from the tubes. Like a conductor, Hodge synchronized the mortar barrage, making sure the rounds kept a steady beat. Still dazed from the air strike, the fighters fumbling through the rubble probably never heard the whistling arch of the ten-pound missiles as they slowly fell to earth. Ron watched the Predator feed as the rounds hit the remaining two compounds and the rubble from the other five. Enemy fighters crumpled as barrage after barrage landed.

Round two belonged to the Green Berets.

Everyone was running on fumes as we loaded the remaining boxes of ammunition on the trucks and gave the guns a quick oil bath. I walked to Bill’s truck, and we checked on the rest of the team and our Afghan soldiers. I needed to see for myself that my men were all right. We stopped to see Zack. The metal was still there in his left arm, but it hadn’t hit a major artery. We asked Riley for an assessment.

“It’s not bad, Captain, but he needs to get that metal out and get treated for infection,” Riley said.

I looked at Bill and he nodded.

“This is bullshit! It’s just a scratch,” Zack said.

I knew the only way I could get him on the medevac helicopter was to promise to return him to the team as quickly as possible. Whether he liked it or not, he had to get his wound looked at in a sterile environment.

“Bill, can they get him treated and back out here on a resupply bird?”

Bill nodded.

“Don’t worry, Zack you’ll be back out here tomorrow,” Riley added, although none of us honestly knew that for sure.

I took a moment to look over Ole Girl. The truck told the whole
story. Brass casings covered the floorboards and filled every nook and cranny, overlaid by dozens of empty rifle magazines, ammo cans, and water bottles. Bullets had shattered the windshield and headlights. RPG blasts had sheared off the front and rear antennas. Deep shrapnel grooves scarred the armored chicken plate surrounding Dave’s machine gun on the turret. Blackened telephone-book-sized pieces of Kevlar on the hood and sides of the truck were shredded; bullet holes the size of a pinkie finger pockmarked the rest. All of the trucks looked the same. I pulled out a black Sharpie marker and darkened in the “MISSED ME BITCH” message that I had written on Ole Girl’s hood two years earlier, this time with more arrows pointing to more holes. Pocketing the marker, I gazed over at the hill again. Today was the first time in my entire career that I had broken contact with the enemy.

One disaster averted, we started working on an emergency resupply. I had two grenades, sixty-eight rounds for my M4 rifle, and a single red smoke grenade for signaling. Brian, Dave, and Ron had less. We all desperately needed ammo, water, spare parts, and replacement equipment.

Bill canvassed each truck, including the Afghans, to get an update on how much ammunition and equipment we needed. Riley, Steve, and Greg inventoried the medical gear. Dave and Zack checked weapons and night-vision equipment. Brian and Jude inspected the radios. Dave split the remaining ammunition, rockets, and demolitions across all the trucks in case of attack.

Shinsha’s driver had already broken out the chai when I arrived to check on the Afghans. They were in a celebratory mood. The driver stuck out his hand and greeted me through the cloud of his own cigarette smoke.

“Roostie,
der sha, der sha;
very good, very good,” Shinsha laughed, pulling me into a vise-like hug. “The Taliban were expecting much better today my friend. Now they are angry and calling for their commanders
and soldiers on the radio. They will never hear them speak again. It is good, yes?” It appeared the air strike and mortar barrage had killed not only foot soldiers, but several commanders as well.

We had two wounded Afghan soldiers who needed attention. I radioed for Greg, Riley, and Steve, who hustled over and began treatment. One Afghan soldier had had a bullet pass through his arm and another had shrapnel in his leg. Neither wound was life-threatening.

The ammunition resupply helicopters were inbound, so we took the Afghans out to wait with Zack at the landing zone. Soon, the reassuring echo of large rotor blades could be heard in the distance. Help was on the way. Bruce threw a purple-colored smoke grenade to mark our position and the Chinook maneuvered to land. Nearby, an Apache attack helicopter circled like a hawk.

The hulking green cargo helicopter, with its two massive rotors, looked menacing up close. It crept into the perimeter, just twenty feet off the ground, its wheels barely clearing the top of a gun truck. The twin Lycoming engines let loose a high-pitched whine as the wheels touched down softly. Wind and sand whirled like a tornado around us. It felt like having your body rubbed with coarse sandpaper. As the dust settled, the ramp at the rear of the bird dropped. The crew chief looked like Darth Vader in his flight suit and helmet with black faceguard. The engines revved and the helicopter slowly rolled forward. The cargo, now unhooked, slid down rollers on the deck toward the ramp.

I walked over to Zack and shook his hand. Bill did the same.

“See you soon,” I said.

Zack nodded and walked up the ramp. He was pissed. The two Afghans, wide-eyed, followed. Bill and I loaded them up into the red-and-silver jump seats and helped them buckle into the vibrating, rumbling beast. Both stared intently at the formidable crew chief and then turned to Bill, who flashed them a reassuring smile and patted their shoulders. Both smiled wearily and sat back, still unsure what was going to happen.

We jogged back to our trucks as the whine grew louder. The helicopter bounced slightly, then pitched nose forward and rumbled into the air. Making a hard turn left, the bird gained speed and disappeared over the mountains. I always felt a sense of relief after a medevac, knowing the wounded were headed toward safety. I pulled my sweaty vest off. Leaning against the rear tire of my truck, I poked holes into the top of the cap on the water bottle with my knife and squeezed its contents onto my face. My head throbbed.

Another day at the office.

I noticed a clean hole above the wheel well and poked my finger into it, wondering why the bullet hadn’t gone through and hit Ron in the legs. It was probably tucked neatly away in someone’s backpack or stuck in a Kevlar panel. A miracle, one of many today. I looked out over the valley and knew this would be our Fallujah—except we didn’t have battalions of Marines, tanks, armored vehicles, artillery, or air support at our disposal.

But the stakes were the same. If we didn’t succeed, Kandahar city would soon be overwhelmed with enemy fighters, and the momentum of the war would shift. Kandahar was the ultimate prize, the heart and soul of southern Afghanistan and the Taliban movement. This was their birthplace, their home. To defeat them here, now, would be crushing. Conceding a single foot was a defeat for either side.

I fished a plastic bag from my sleeve pocket and pulled out a cross and small cloth American flag.

Unfolding it, I tried to smooth out the wrinkles.

The flag and cross belonged to my good friend Captain Charlie Robinson. He was killed in 2005 by an IED in southern Afghanistan and had them in his pocket when he died. At his memorial ceremony, the flag was bunched in his wife’s hands. When she gave it to me, she stared me straight in the eye and made me promise that at every available opportunity, I would make the enemy pay a high price for their actions and her husband’s sacrifice. It is a promise I still fulfill.
But that day, I clutched the cross and said my thanks to the Lord for sparing me and my men.

As I folded the flag and replaced it in my pocket, Dave popped his head out of Ole Girl’s door.

“Hey, Captain, think we can get a pizza delivery out here?”

“I don’t think Domino’s was on our resupply request, Dave.”

The rest of the day, we unloaded supplies. Two more Chinooks floated in, and at sundown we cleaned out the vehicles and reloaded them with ammunition. No one wanted to talk about the next day. We all knew we were going back up that hill.

Except for a few scattered gunshots, the night was quiet. Around midnight, Jared summoned all the detachment commanders to his vehicle. We crowded around the hood while the major cut on a small green light to highlight the map.

“Gentlemen, I think you knew this was coming. Tomorrow we go back in to take the hill. The movement time is yet to be determined because we have several more resupply aircraft coming in the morning. We will execute the same plan, with one change: Bruce, your team will be in reserve this time. Hodge, your team will be the assault element and follow me. Rusty, your team will stay in the lead and establish the supporting fire for Hodge. I will be second in the order of movement and follow your team in.”

No big surprise. At least now we could notify our teams and start getting ready. Everyone was gearing up for round three. The Canadians north of us were also preparing an attack, and Taliban commanders spent the night calling the surrounding provinces, especially Helmand Province to the west, and Pakistan for fighters and supplies. They were determined to salvage their plans to overthrow Kandahar city by winter.

I headed back to my truck knowing in my gut that the next day
would be much worse. I found Bill sleeping next to the radio and decided to let him and the rest of the team get some rest. They’d earned it. I’d fill them in on the mission at dawn.

After Hodge relieved me on the guard shift, I caught a few hours of sleep. I woke to the distinctive smacking sounds made by a helicopter rotor and sat up just in time to see the long, lean Apache gunship cut directly in front of my truck. This one had American markings and was flying between Sperwan Ghar and the Chinook resupply helicopter that was settling onto our landing zone.

The Apache’s multibarreled 30-millimeter cannon searched back and forth in synch with the gunner’s eyes. Several dozen red tracers snaked their way into the sky as a Taliban machine gunner decided to shoot at the helicopter. I heard the pilot call out, and the Apache dipped out of the way before firing back. This motivated the Chinook crew, and the pallets seemed to come out much quicker than usual. Not far behind, a bearded man in full kit walked off the ramp, grabbed a bag, and headed toward our trucks.

Zack.

The bandage was visible from a distance, but he didn’t favor the wound. I hollered for Bill.

“Guess who’s back?”

“I bet it’s our boy Zack,” Bill said.

Zack was holding a small sack full of Copenhagen and Gatorade powder. Pure gold.

“Well, look at what I found here, boys,” Zack said, enjoying the fact that his little jaunt to Kandahar benefited the team.

“Good to have you back, partner,” I said, smiling and shaking his hand. “Have much trouble getting out of the hospital?”

“Nothing Lieutenant Colonel Bolduc couldn’t handle on his end.”

Bill and everyone else were right behind me to welcome him back,
but the homecoming was cut short when Jared radioed that the last resupply helicopter would arrive in two hours. Then we’d move on Sperwan Ghar.

We spent the next several hours restocking the trucks and finished just after lunch. The last resupply bird was still a no-show, and the math was turning against us. If it didn’t come in soon, we’d have to attack in the evening. I talked with Hodge and Bruce about postponing the attack, given the Afghans’ lack of night-vision equipment.

Jared didn’t want to hear it. He felt pressure to take the hill and help the Canadians. We all did, but we weren’t willing to execute just because of a timeline. We all agreed, though, to defer the decision until the resupply helicopter actually arrived.

Time moved in slow motion. Teams inspected and reinspected both their own and the Afghans’ equipment. Almost everyone spent time checking their watches. The helicopter finally crested the mountains about two p.m.

Two hours later, Hodge, Bruce, and I went back to Jared. We all agreed it was too late to attack—there wasn’t enough daylight. Jared saw us coming.

“Don’t even start, you three! We will assault as soon as the resupply is complete,” he barked.

“Sir, I need you to listen to me,” I said. “If we assault that fortified enemy position with an indigenous force as the sun goes down, it will turn into a nightmare. There is a distinct probability of fratricide. The ANA do not have night-vision equipment and don’t operate at night. They will shoot whatever moves in front of them. It is already difficult to command and control them, much less control their sectors of fire or rates of fire,” I explained.

As Jared weighed my argument, Hodge and Bruce voiced the exact same assessment. He didn’t want to hear it from them either.