Lions of Kandahar (26 page)

“Listen, the battalion commander wants us to seize that hill, and you are gonna fucking assault that hill. Do you understand?”

“Sir, I do, and we will, but not tonight if we can help it,” I pressed.
“We must set the conditions for success. We do not have close air support. It does not make tactical sense to go up there now. I have done this dozens of times at night with the ANA before. It’s a tactically unsound decision. Not to mention that the Taliban are using armor-piercing rounds and a good set of foreign advisors, based on the previous ambush. We can attack in the early morning when we have all day to use close air support. We are not the U.S. Marines. We don’t conduct head-on assaults without setting the conditions for success. That means CAS. We’re too small a unit. At least call and ask if the assault is an operational necessity. If it is, we go. If not, then ask for an extension till early tomorrow. We cannot lead these men on an assault, knowing we will bury some of them, if it is not an absolute necessity.”

“All right, you made your point. I’ll call the commander and explain the situation. BUT, if he says go, then we go, no arguments.” Jared slammed his helmet onto the hood of the GMV, grabbed his satellite phone, and walked off into the desert to call Lieutenant Colonel Bolduc.

Cooler heads did prevail. I was lucky that Jared knew the difference between insubordination and candor. To his credit, he discussed our assessment with Lieutenant Colonel Bolduc, who wasn’t afraid to let his ground commanders make the final judgment. Jared came back a few minutes later.

“We will assault at five a.m. Get ready.”

PUT YOUR MOUTHPIECE IN

G
rowling, barking, and hissing jolted us awake the next morning. A pack of wild dogs was fighting close by, just on the outer edge of the perimeter between my truck and Smitty’s.

Brian rolled off the hood of the truck with the first growl, his rifle at the ready. We slept on the hoods of our trucks to avoid camel spiders and vipers. It looked like the dogs were fighting over a large stick. But when Brian and I got closer, we realized that the stick was an arm, probably from one of the Taliban soldiers killed in the fighting the day before.

The pack was a mix of Afghan wolfhounds and mastiffs brought over by the Russians and bred for fighting and protection. They towered over most rottweilers and had the temperament of pit bulls with roid rage. I didn’t want them coming any closer. I’d seen them maul ANA soldiers in the past and wasn’t going to take any chances now.

“Shoot that SOB before he comes over here,” I told Brian, locking
eyes with the leader, a massive gray animal with dirty, matted fur and a wild look in its eyes.

Without saying a word, he shouldered his rifle and fired. The bullet clearly passed through the dog, which shot its attention to us, but it didn’t seem to notice the bullet. Brian raised the rifle again and fired. The second round slammed into its chest. The dog staggered back, howling, and dropped dead, scattering the rest of the pack. But they wouldn’t stay away long. The fresh kill would be difficult to resist, and I knew they’d be back after a while to tear it apart too.

As the sun peeked over the mountains, I started packing up my sleeping bag and gear. My mood turned foul when I realized the dogs had cost me nearly an hour’s sleep. We made our preparations using night vision and made sure the Afghans knew the plan. Finally, Jared radioed the countdown to start the engines. As before, all eleven trucks started at once, like the beginning of a NASCAR race.

Dave racked the charging handle on his Browning twice to ensure the new .50-cal round was seated cleanly in the chamber. Brian fiddled with his kit, leaned his rifle out the window, and stuffed bottles of water beside his seat. I cradled my machine gun and reached back to make sure my rifle, boxes of fresh magazines, new rockets, and water bottles were in place. It was just a formality, but touching them eased my mind. I popped in a piece of cinnamon gum and tapped the can of Copenhagen in my pocket.
Dagga tse dagga da;
it is what it is.

We were ready.

“Talon 31 elements, give me an ‘UP’ when you are ready to go.” All three trucks responded in kind over the radio, and I called Jared to let him know we were ready.

“Eagle 10, this is Talon 30, request permission to kick off,” Jared called back to the TOC.

In my mind I could see Bolduc sitting in front of the monitors in Kandahar waiting for the show to start. Predator drones buzzed overhead, giving him a bird’s-eye view of the action. Modern commanders can now watch a battle unfold live from complete safety, but we knew Bolduc wanted to be out here with us, not watching the action on a monitor. But on this day, the Predator was as close as he could get.

“Talon 30, this is Eagle 10, permission granted.”

I grabbed the black radio hand mike clipped to the sun visor above my head.

“Put your mouthpiece in for this one, boys, cause it is gonna hurt.”

Brian just nodded his head. Nothing more needed to be said. I squeezed the handset again. “All Talon 30 elements, truck 1 is moving.”

Sunlight streaked through the valley. The light was a blessing for the ANA, who didn’t have night vision, and a curse for us all, because now the Taliban could see us coming. We slowly passed the mounds of empty shell casings that marked where Dave’s team had pried us out of the ambush two days ago. The grape hut where we spotted the Taliban scout on the first assault came into view. Hopefully, the Taliban would be still asleep or praying when we got to the hill.

No such luck. The speaker systems in the local mosques that usually announced morning prayers began a call to arms.

“Contact front!” Dave shouted. He dropped down in the turret as bullets cracked around the truck.

“Talon 30, this is Talon 31, contact front. Troops in contact!”

Bill wasn’t in the mood to screw around. Calling for us to stop, he snatched the Goose recoilless rifle from his truck, darted out, and took a knee. From behind our truck I heard someone yell, “Back blast area clear!” and then “Oh, shit!” from the back of the truck, as the high-explosive rocket streaked past my door at nearly a thousand feet per second and slammed into the mud compound.