The Severance (12 page)

Kodiak Platoon was unprepared for the drop in temperature at Bagram, which was a staggering 1,000 feet higher than Salerno. No one was at the terminal to meet the platoon. With only enough seating inside the terminal for outbound personnel, the men sat around in a circle just outside the flight line in the near-freezing temperatures. They didn’t enjoy the cold, but were used to being left in the elements. They waited while Jake made calls to get them a place to stay. He’d been gone for about 20 minutes.

“Do you think the ‘Sir’ will get it done?” Sergeant Olsen asked.

“He always does,” McBride said, burying his hands in his armpits.

“Got any ideas, in case he doesn’t?”

“Nope. Like I said, he’ll figure it out.”

“Well, I was thinking we could try crashing in the library if—”

“Gramps, the captain is going to be back in a minute and we’ll have a tent. No need for homeless plans just yet,” McBride said.

“I’m just thinking out loud,” Olsen said.

“Well, try using your indoor voice when you think out loud,” McBride said. Parsons and Big Joe chuckled and Olsen glared at them. The soldiers immediately fell silent and looked at their boots.

Olsen vented on, “Listen to you talk about loyalty. Captain Roberts could have recommended me for promotion last month and that would have delayed my ETS date beyond 20 years. He could have saved my retirement. You know what he did? Nothing. Talk about loyalty.”

McBride nodded his head thoughtfully, as if mulling over what Olsen had just said. During the course of the deployment, he’d become more and more disgusted with Olsen’s incompetence and overall lack of professionalism. There had been a time when Olsen had been able to conceal his true colors from McBride. That had resulted in more than a few mistakes. McBride himself was getting thrown out of the Army shortly after the conclusion of the deployment, but he still took pride in being a noncommissioned officer. He was a leader and that was what got him out of bed every morning. Olsen, on the other hand, got out of bed because he hadn’t figured out how to make his soldiers serve him breakfast there. McBride held his tongue for the most part, but not now.

“Olsen, do you know what’s wrong with you? You see rank as clout, an entitlement or a way to get out of hard work. You enjoy the power and get a kick out of bossing people around. A leader looks at rank as a responsibility and a privilege. It means taking care of people and not abusing them. For the record, I recommended to Captain Roberts not to put you in for staff sergeant, because, frankly, you’re not staff sergeant material. So if you want to blame someone, blame me,” McBride said, looking at Olsen directly. Olsen glared at the younger, higher-ranking NCO, a contemptuous sneer on his lips. Parsons and Big Joe stared at both McBride and Olsen with mouths agape. Olsen turned away from McBride and lit a cigarette.

McBride blew hot air onto his hands. He looked out beyond the end of the tarmac toward the terminal. His years as a sniper had taught him to scan around his area for as far as he could see. The logic was that if he could see trouble coming at a distance, he could deal with it at his discretion and on his terms. Trouble had come in many forms in McBride’s life, so it didn’t take long for him to spot trouble in an all-too-familiar package, even 150 meters away.

The woman had black hair and wore camouflaged surgical scrubs. She was standing at the edge of the tarmac staring at McBride and the platoon intently, not moving. McBride could tell that she had a wellmaintained body underneath the baggy scrubs. The platoon sergeant had long since given up trying to keep track of the litany of women that his platoon leader had seduced over the course of their deployment, but he knew there was only one reason that a women that attractive would stand out in the cold, glaring at his platoon. Though he had never actually seen Jessica, McBride had heard many of the men give detailed descriptions of her. Resolving to talk to the woman, McBride struggled to his feet. As if on cue, she turned and briskly walked to a nearby pickup truck, hopping into the passenger seat. The truck quickly sped off. McBride stood for a moment watching the truck leave. How could this woman be Jessica Walsh? There had been only one C-130 flight out of Salerno to Bagram that day, the one the platoon had been on. Nonetheless, the similarities between Jessica’s description and the woman whom McBride had just seen were undeniable.

“Fucking weird,” McBride muttered as he flopped back down onto his duffel bag.

After another ten minutes of waiting, the soldiers spotted Jake making his way toward them.

“What’s the verdict, Sir?” McBride asked.

“Battalion liaison is sending a truck for the gear. We have a tent waiting for us, B-23 in the main transienttent yard. They say it’s off the Disney road. Truck should be here in about five minutes,” Jake said, sitting down on his bags.

“Never had a doubt, Sir,” Olsen said.

“You always have a doubt, Gramps,” Jake said.

Parsons and Big Joe started to chuckle again and Olsen got up, saying that he had to use the latrine.

As promised, a truck pulled onto the airfield and the soldiers loaded their gear. It was a short walk to their assigned tent at the air base.

Bagram was a huge installation, as large as Charlottesville, Virginia, a small city Jake knew well. Thousands of soldiers were either patronizing the restaurants, the two movie theaters, or the massage parlor on Disney Road, the base’s main strip. Otherwise they were simply walking around. With virtually no insurgent activity in the surrounding area, the roar of F-15s and A-10s screaming down the runway was the only reminder they were in the middle of a war. Life was easier at Bagram, and soldiers only knew they were still in Afghanistan because their maps said so.

Once the platoon was settled into its new home, appropriate parkas were put on, a tent-guard roster established, and the group made its way over to one of the base’s dining facilities. While the residents of Bagram enjoyed fresh fruit and sodas, there were some soldiers in Afghanistan who subsisted on stale Pop-Tarts and water. The food at Bagram was better than any other base in Afghanistan and everyone in the platoon had looked forward to enjoying it.

When Jake walked into the chow hall, it reminded him of the cantina scene from Star Wars. Sailors, airmen, and even marines who were permanently stationed on the airbase presented a checkerboard collage of colorful uniforms and camouflage patterns. Among them were hard-looking Special Ops types in exotic-looking fatigues, carrying customized carbines and rifles that Jake had only seen in movies. He resolved to give those men a wide berth.

The civilians scattered in the crowd each represented a government agency or company. Now that billions of dollars were being pumped into reconstruction projects and counter-terrorist operations, everyone cared what was happening in Afghanistan. Every government agency or private contracting firm that could justify sending representatives there was sending them as fast as possible. Few of these people left Bagram Air Base or did anything productive, but since there was very little oversight, if they could justify their budget expenditures, they didn’t have to produce.

One of the few things Jake still enjoyed about the Army was eating dinner with his troops. He rarely said anything while they ate and just listened to the soldiers’ banter. They talked about simple things like movies and cars. Laughing and joking, the guys shoved away the death and destruction they faced every day.

After dinner, they split up into groups of two to go out on the town, all understanding that there would be hell to pay if they were late for their tent-guard shift.

As McBride and Jake walked back to the tent, Jake caught a whiff of burning garbage. Even on the most developed bases, the Army still disposed of its trash in large burn pits.

“Always reminds me of the bazaar,” McBride murmured.

“The bazaar was worse,” Jake said. The two men fell silent.

• • •

God, it was hot. It was Khost and it was July, so of course it was hot, like 105 degrees. Jake took a final sip from the bottle of water sitting next to him, but the water was scalding. The smell of burnt canvas, gasoline, and bodies filled his senses. Dead Afghans piled up in the ashes below him, and he had a splitting headache. He retrieved a battered photo of his wife and son from his wallet. Big smiles and lots of happiness.

“Miss you,” Jake whispered. On days like today he really meant it. There was a faint crackle and then a crashing sound, another scorched tent framework collapsing under its own weight.

This was not the way it was supposed to happen. They’d been air inserted to disrupt Taliban operations in the Mockta Bazaar and support the much larger clearance operation of Zambar village. Mockta Bazaar was a notorious pit of vipers. Jake had been prepared for a fight, but not the fire.

Just my luck, Jake thought. His platoon had assaulted the open-air market that had stood for over a century and had managed to incinerate it in under 20 minutes. Canvas reacted badly when it came in contact with tracer rounds. Propane tanks reacted even worse. Surrounded by thick 20-foot-high mud walls, the tent shops inside had burned intensely almost from the outset of the fight.

They’d entered the market just before daybreak. It had appeared deserted, as expected. The insurgents had waited until the platoon was well inside the market before commencing their ambush. Fighting insurgents in the dense maze of tents was daunting enough without the added problem of the fires erupting all around them. Finally someone, Taliban or American, hit a propane gas cylinder. The massive fireball was the last straw. Jake hadn’t lost any of his own men, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

“Fall back, fall back!” he shouted, as the tents burned like paper. His calls were deafened by the combat. It was surreal to watch his men sidestep the flames while firing at blurs of motion in the dark labyrinth. The fire painted the canvas tarps in shades of orange, red, and black. Like the abstract artwork of a madman.

Over the dissonance of chaos, a ghastly scream erupted. From a burning tent, a man came stumbling out, afire but waving his arms at the Americans. Jake watched as the Afghan collapsed in a heap of crackling and popping sounds that was his burning flesh. That was almost as sickening as the sound of his dying screams. It was time to leave.

“Retreat, goddammit!” Jake screamed at the top of his lungs. Thankfully, his men began to listen and fell back out of the walled-off deathtrap that was the Mockta Bazaar. He doubted they would have been able to last much longer.

Safely outside the bazaar, they watched the fire light up the predawn sky. Jake imagined that it was exactly what hell looked like. It took over an hour for the fire to burn itself out. The platoon reentered and secured their objective, now unopposed.

Seven hours later, they were still hunkered down near the bazaar, waiting for a ground extraction, running low on water and baking in the midday sun.

“Convoy sighted!” Corporal Harris announced, peering through the scope of his M-14 rifle.

“About fucking time!” someone said.

“I hope they have water,” called another.

Jake let out a long sigh of relief. It had taken the convoy over seven hours to travel 12 kilometers to their position. He couldn’t fault them for their speed. Traveling in this part of the province by vehicle was a lethal proposition, since the only trafficable lanes were driedout riverbeds. With perpetually soft dirt, these lanes were prime real estate for emplacing Improvised Explosive Devices. Every dark patch of earth was potential death, so each one had to be closely examined at a distance before proceeding.

“How long you figure it will take them to get here, Petey?” Jake asked, taking off his helmet.

“Figure about forty-five minutes, Sir,” Corporal Harris replied. Bena attempted calling the convoy on the radio and gave Jake a thumbs-up.

“Time to face the music, I suppose,” Jake said, taking the handmic from Bena.

“Kodiak 6, this is Talon 6, over.”
Colonel Miller’s voice came through the earpiece before Jake could transmit.

“This is Kodiak 6. Go ahead.” Jake replied.

“What is your SitRep? Over.”

Jake took a deep breath and collected his thoughts before answering,

“Mockta Bazaar has been secured. Break. It has been destroyed by fire. Over.”

“Casualties?”

“Zero U.S. Casualties. Seven enemy KIA.” Jake said. They’d recovered seven charred corpses and seven destroyed AK-47s, but only two of the bodies actually had weapons on them. It was guilt by association for the rest, the way Jake figured it. One of the bodies looked as if it may have been a child, but Jake couldn’t be sure.

He stood there, overlooking the scorched remains, wondering why Miller was so slow to respond.

Then,
“Outstanding work Kodiak 6. You have dealt a
tremendous blow against the enemy in this sector. It will take
months for them to bounce back after this. We will be there
in a few moments to extract you. Looking forward to seeing
the market renovations. Talon 6, out!”

What was going through Miller’s mind, Jake wondered. This operation seemed like a disaster. Along with being a Taliban staging ground, the Mockta Bazaar had served as a commerce center. Destroying such a public center could only cause the people in the surrounding area to hate Americans forever. Moreover, the units in Zambar village had failed to locate any enemy or weapons of any kind.

And Kodiak Platoon was beginning to develop a grim reputation in the battalion and even in the brigade. If it became absolutely critical to have a mission accomplished or objective taken, you sent Jake Roberts. If you wanted anyone to survive, you sent someone else. Jake told himself that he had done what he was supposed to do, and he had to remember that the dead didn’t really matter as long they were Taliban or listed as Taliban.

Handing the handmic back to Bena, Jake resumed his seat on the wall and looked at his family picture again.

“Damned if I’m not out of smokes,” McBride said, sitting down next to him. The NCO took out a handkerchief and wiped away the streaks of black ash and grime on his face. He offered the small piece of fabric to Jake, but the officer refused, instead staring at the photo of Amy and John as if afraid it would disappear.