The Severance (6 page)

Jake entered the large FOB tent and walked over to his cot. He saw that the boys had carefully stacked his body armor, helmet, and rifle at its foot. The soldiers took care of their leader and he appreciated it. Jake picked up his carbine and examined it. His PEQ-15 laser and ACOG scope had already been stripped. Without the attachments, his weapon felt featherlight, almost like a handgun. Jake checked his vest—his night vision, pistol, and ammunition had been taken, too.

These critical mission items had already been turned in by Sergeant McBride. Without them, Jake and his men couldn’t go on missions. No missions meant that the platoon was safe; they would make it home for sure now. Jake could sleep easy, knowing that the men of his platoon were all going to get back alive.
Almost all of
them
, Jake thought.

Everyone in the platoon was asleep, some snoring loudly and some silent. Looking up the line of cots, he saw Big Joe asleep with a boot still on his left foot. Jake chuckled softly as he struggled to take his own boots off. It proved to be a much harder task than he had anticipated. Finally, after a great deal of effort, both his boots were off and Jake lay down in his bunk, dog tired and ready to sleep like a dead man.

But sleep eluded him, as his mind turned over thoughts of Jessica, his wife, the platoon, and The Severance, the latest of Jake’s transgressions. His guys, a 21st century “Dirty Dozen,” took precedence in his troubled musings. Joe, Bena, SFC McBride, Ramirez. He remembered Ramirez’s excuse that he had never been a junkie, that he had always used cocaine “just to get by.” He had whined to Jake, “I never had enough hours in the day; that’s why I went from coffee to Adderall to cocaine.”

The Kodiak platoon had been built from the ground up upon a unique kind of soldier. DUI, drug abuse, fighting, and insubordination were just a few of the basic prerequisites to get into the Kodiaks. Out of an 800-man battalion, only about 22 could be mustered. The Battalion Sergeant Major referred to them as “semi-useful” manpower. Kodiak soldiers were able-bodied and intelligent, for the most part, but none of them had a future in the Army. Each of the soldiers had been offered the same deal: do a year in the Kodiaks and get a general discharge and partial veterans benefits.

Screw-ups. They were all screw-ups. And yet Ramirez had turned into an outstanding medic, always trying to save everyone, even when it was hopeless. Like Peter Harris—Corporal Peter Harris. Ramirez was probably the last person the mortally wounded soldier ever saw.

Jake lay on his back staring at the ceiling, trying to wash his mind clear.

• • •

When Jake and his platoon were sent to a combat outpost just outside the tiny village of Narizah, a scant five kilometers from the Pakistan border, it was universally accepted as the worst place in Afghanistan to be in combat. The sum total of the outpost was two poorly constructed pinewood shacks surrounded by a labyrinth of sandbags and Hesco Bastion barriers. Narizah was decidedly pro-Taliban, so much so that the platoon permanently stationed there rarely ventured inside the village limits and was perfectly content to remain in the squalor of their outpost.

One of the least enjoyable aspects of being in the Kodiak Platoon was being tasked to relieve units stationed in outposts, so they could rotate back to Salerno for rest and refit. It usually meant four days of living out of a duffel bag, eating awful food. On top of a general mission schedule, the platoon went on at least one of these relief missions a month. It was generally accepted that since Jake’s men were based out of Salerno, they lived an easy life, but the fact was that they rarely got to enjoy the comforts of the large Forward Operating Base. They were constantly out on convoys, foot patrols, and air assault missions. No one spent more hours outside the wire.

The lieutenant in charge of the Narizah outpost barely spoke five words to Jake before boarding the helicopter that had just carried Jake there. The lieutenant had been so excited to be going back to running water and food that he’d forgotten to mention all the suspicious vehicle movement and foot traffic that had been ongoing in the area for the past week.

Jake’s men got down to the business of securing the tiny outpost. Sergeant McBride, disgusted by the filth, ordered the entire position cleaned out. All the rotting food and other garbage were piled up about 700 meters outside the outpost and burned. The black smoke plume could be seen for miles.

McBride stood on the perimeter wall of the compound, surveying the massive fire, rubbing his hands together and nodding ever so slightly in approval.

“Perhaps just a bit excessive,” Jake said, joining his platoon sergeant.

“Excessive filth. Excessive fire,” McBride said, shrugging his shoulders.

The day dragged on and night fell at last. Each of the four corner guard towers was manned with two soldiers, each on one-hour shifts. The rest of the soldiers were bedded down in the larger of the two pinewood shacks, with the exception of Benakowsky, who was put up in the smaller command-post shack with Jake and McBride to help man the radios for three-hour shifts.

Later that night, Bena put down the paperback book he’d been reading and leaned back in his metal folding chair. The tiny desk lamp he’d been using to read was not a substantial light source. He still had another hour and a half before his shift ended. Bena let out a long yawn and rubbed his weary eyes. In past boring moments, Bena would gaze fondly at the picture of his wife that he kept in his notebook, but after she ran off with a neighbor, he’d thrown that picture away.

“Fucking whore,” Bena muttered to himself, allowing his eyes to close for just an instant longer than normal. He just needed a minute to rest and he’d be fine.

Out of nowhere, a banging reverberated on the roof of the tiny shack. The entire structure shook with the force of an impact. Bena fell out of his chair, making more thunderous clanging as the chair hit the floor.

“Wake up, Benakowsky!”
the small handheld radio on the table barked. He could hear a roar of laughter from the soldiers on the guard towers outside the shack. Gasping for breath, he looked down at his wristwatch. Twenty minutes had passed in what had seemed like an instant. He snatched the radio off the table.

“I-I wasn’t asleep. I just accidently kicked over the chair,” Bena said. The laughter outside intensified.

“Oh, I see. So you’ve been ignoring us for the last ten
minutes, while we’ve thrown used double A batteries at the
shack. That last one was a can of soup by the way,”
the voice said again. It was Sergeant Nelson, an imposing man.

“S-sorry about that Sergeant, is everything okay out there?” Bena asked sheepishly.

“Oh, everything is just grand out here. Now if you don’t
mind, could you bring me some more batteries, please?”

“Okay, be right there.” Bena said, setting down his radio and grabbing a handful of new double A batteries. Turning around, he saw both Captain Roberts and Sergeant McBride sitting up on their cots. Sergeant McBride glared at Benakowsky, shaking his head slowly, while Captain Roberts bit his fist to suppress his laughter.

“Tell you what, Bena, I’ll take the batteries,” Jake said, reaching down to grab his body armor and weapon.

“And while the captain is out, I’ll see if I can wake you up a little bit,” McBride growled.

With his vest on and weapon secured, Jake took the batteries from the soldier and turned to the door.

“Need about 30,” McBride muttered, rising to his feet. Jake nodded, shrugging his shoulders indifferently as he walked out of the shack. Aside from a few hundred push-ups and a little verbal abuse, Benakowsky would be no worse for wear.

The rickety old ladder groaned under Jake’s weight and his equipment as he climbed to the top of the perimeter wall. Once at the top, Jake carefully walked over to what he hoped was the right fighting position.

“How you guys doing?” he said, sliding into the hardened fighting position.

“We’re pretty good, Sir. We’ll be even better if you brought batteries,” Sergeant Nelson said. Jake reached into his cargo pocket and handed over the new batteries. Nelson examined the batteries for a moment, then gave them to Big Joe who was manning his M240 with a thermal scope attached. Big Joe immediately took the cover off the battery compartment and began loading the new batteries.

“How long have you been blind up here?” Jake asked.

“We didn’t lose the thermal scope at all. The battery indicator came on like ten minutes ago saying we needed new ones. That’s when we called and didn’t get an answer,” Joe said. Jake nodded his head thoughtfully as he surveyed the small fighting position the two soldiers had been sharing.

“I hope you guys don’t mind if I hang with you for a few minutes. Sergeant McBride is reinvigorating Bena,” Jake said, sitting down and leaning his carbine against the wall.

“Oh, no problem at all, Sir. I’d offer you a can of soup, but we’re fresh out here,” Nelson said.

“I hope Bena doesn’t get scuffed up too bad,” Big Joe mused, as he looked out into the darkness.

“Nah, Joe, it won’t be too bad. No harm, no foul,” Jake said.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Nelson said, “especially since he wouldn’t have been caught fucking up if you hadn’t fucked up to start with.”

“Sorry, Sergeant,” Big Joe said.

“Why don’t you tell the Captain what you did?” Nelson said, tapping Big Joe on the shoulder. Big Joe stepped back from the machine gun and let Nelson take over.

“So whatcha do, Joe?” Jake asked. He didn’t normally concern himself with his men’s smaller screw-ups (he had squad leaders for those), but he thought an interesting story would help keep him awake.

“Well, Sir, Corporal Harris reminded me to bring fresh batteries with me when we got on shift, but I forgot,” Joe said.

“Tell the captain how many times
I
reminded you,” Nelson said. Even in the darkness, Jake could see Joe roll his eyes.

“I was reminded twice,” Joe said, sighing.

“Yikes,” Jake said, faking a concerned tone. He’d been hoping for something a little more dramatic.

“Don’t worry, Eastman, when we get off, you’re going to learn about following instructions and, while I’m at it, I’m going to teach you about not blowing me off,” Nelson said, nudging Joe with his foot.

Joe’s shoulders drooped. He would be doing plenty of push-ups and squat-thrusts. Because he was so strong, it would take a long time for Big Joe to become exhausted and for Sergeant Nelson to be satisfied that he’d learned his lesson. Jake smiled and gave Big Joe a pat on the knee.

“You’ll be okay, Joe,” Jake said. Big Joe nodded slowly.

Sergeant Nelson’s posture stiffened; both Eastman and Jake noticed instantly. Big Joe grabbed his carbine and took his position next to Nelson.

“What’s up?” Jake asked.

“Movement. Twelve o’clock, about three hundred meters,” Nelson said.

“I can’t see it on night vision,” Joe said in a calm, even tone.

“It’s too dark for night vision, I picked it up on thermal,” Nelson replied. Night vision required at least a little ambient light to function and there was no moon.

“How many?” Jake asked

“Just one, no two—oh wait, there are a bunch of them now. Two of them are carrying something. I’d say about ten, moving toward us,” Nelson said.

“Damn, Sergeant, how’d they get so close?” Joe asked.

“Dunno, there are plenty of little ditches and hills out there to hide behind. What do you want to do, Captain?”

“Give me your radio,” Jake said. Nelson handed his handheld radio to Jake.

“Seven, this is Six, over,” Jake spoke into the radio.

“What’s up, sir?”
McBride replied.

“I’m up here with Nelson and Eastman. They’ve picked up about ten guys walking toward us. Three hundred meters.”

“Roger that. Your orders?”
McBride asked.

“Have Bena update Battalion and see if we can get close air support to take a look at these guys.”

“Roger. I’ll wake everyone up and get them ready,” McBride said.

“Okay. Let me know,” Jake said, setting the radio down. In the darkness, he could hear the soldiers in the other bunkers rustling around, preparing for possible action. Below him, in the darkness, he heard the door of the command post shack open and close, as McBride walked to where the remaining soldiers were sleeping. Seconds later, Jake heard soldiers clamoring about as they put on their gear.

“They’ve stopped, Sir,” Nelson said, looking through the thermal sight.

“What are they doing now?” Jake asked, wishing they had more than one thermal imager. Other platoons had six thermal scopes and a host of other night-fighting equipment, but Jake had to beg and plead to get just one. Some of the more robust bases had elaborate security camera systems that could render both Infrared and Thermal video images with massive zoom capabilities. Jake had just one set of eyes that could see the possible threat; everyone else might as well have been blindfolded.

“I don’t know, Sir. They’ve stopped and they are milling around out there—maybe 250 meters out. It’s tough to tell what they’re doing,” Nelson said.

The radio crackled to life.
“Sir, word from Battalion is
they won’t allocate air support until we confirm that those
guys are hostiles.”

“Shit.” Jake needed the air support to confirm the men approaching the outpost were hostile, but couldn’t get it until
he
could confirm they were hostile. He’d faced this riddle far too many times and hadn’t figured a way to solve it. It really boiled down to Colonel Miller’s mood at the time. If the battalion commander was in the mood to kill something, he’d allocate anything and everything he could get, but if he was going through one of his counterinsurgency, “hearts and minds” phases, he wouldn’t authorize anything.

“Listen. Tell them I need the air supp—”

“Incoming! Get down!” Nelson screamed. An intensely bright, orange flash of light flew toward them, and the tower was rocked by the massive concussive force of a thunderous explosion. The fighting position filled with dust and smoke and Jake gagged.