Duty, Honor, Money: Vol. II, Afghanistan

By J. F. Cronin

Armed with ideals of duty and honor young marines historically deploy to fight their country’s wars. In Afghanistan, they found things different. Risking their lives to improve the bottom lines of international companies, marines were thrown into the business of war and they were unable to equate their living and dying as a profit center.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781947938670

J. F. Cronin

J. F. Cronin is a retired Marine Corps general with five of his seven novels rooted in the political-military issues arising out of war. He has been a commander and has attended the top military schools. Along the way, he received a master's degree in International Relations providing an insight into political-military relations. His writing credits include a play, essays, commentaries, Op-Eds, and articles. He currently spends time in remote locations on the Oregon Coast and South Point (Ka Lae) Hawaii.

Book preview

1

Nothing focuses the attention like the snap of a bullet searching the darkness. With volleys flying overhead, the marines of Second Recon Platoon had the single purpose of becoming one with the ground. Those who found a depression in the dirt were lucky. The others, lying on the surface, exhaled and tried to deflate themselves so their silhouettes would be missed by any flying projectiles. In a din that made thinking difficult, their cakewalk mission had deteriorated, and they were scrambling to survive.

In hours, their world had changed. Sitting in combat outpost Tiger, south of Kandahar, the recon marines awaited the trucks carrying the platoon that would relieve them. It was their week to be rotated to the rear to serve as the battalion security guard. It was routine, a week of living in the dirt followed by a week of living above it. They all agreed that above was better.

Looking at their watches and wondering how late the trucks might be, their attention was drawn to two Cobra helicopters about a mile out. Silhouetted against a coral end-of-day sky, any thought that the Cobras were returning to their base was shattered. A puff of black smoke, followed by a flaming streak, engulfed the lead helicopter. The tight formation broke apart as the stricken helo plummeted, and the wingman climbed to report. The low helicopter disappeared from view, and a sickly cloud of smoke and dirt rose as the surviving helicopter circled, its crew looking on helplessly.

The marines watching had a sinking feeling. They knew a recovery attempt would be made, and as the closest unit they were on tap. In a race against time, they hoped the trucks carrying their relief would arrive before the recovery order was issued. A malaise overcame them when their CO shouted into the radio. Spirits fell when he called the platoon sergeant over and they started looking at maps. When the call came for them to gather, the troops knew they were going to be assigned the mission.

First Lieutenant Xavier Moran, the platoon commander, was called X by the officers in the battalion. The troops, prevented by military protocol from addressing him familiarly, lifted a nickname from the comic strips to describe him. Those who had been in combat with him marveled at his ability to stay unruffled when all about him was falling apart. They joked that his calmness was the result of a mutant gene like those of the X-men. In a mix of absurdity and respect, he was referred to as the X-man. He was well liked, but as he started outlining what they were going to do, the troops’ anger became directed toward him. The consensus among the recon marines was that the relieving platoon should take on the mission. Emotions slumped when X told them that the helo had been shot down and that the area thought clear of Taliban obviously wasn’t safe. He told them the pilots had survived and moods lifted, but they fell again when he told them to get ready to move out.

Sir, our relief could show up at any minute. Why not hand it off to them? A marine suggested.

There’s no time. It’s been reported that the downed pilots are safe for the time being, but the Taliban will try to get to them. We’ve got to get to the pilots tonight and extract them.

The terrain where the chopper went down is a bitch; how are we supposed to get to them with enemy in the area?

We’ll move at night using night vision goggles. Moran ended the discussion.

Insult was added to injury when the recon marines were crossing the wire at the same moment their relief arrived. They didn’t appreciate being called suckers by those getting off the trucks, but they took pride in what they were setting out to do.

Their rescue mission went sour fast. The pilots could no longer communicate because of their proximity to the Taliban, which complicated things. Without communications it would be extremely difficult to find them.

Sir. The platoon sergeant caught up to Moran in the darkness. We have a problem.

Another one. Moran was concerned. What is it?

The reworked night-vision goggles aren’t illuminating properly. They’re going to full black with no way to adjust them. We’ve already had two guys fall.

The platoon had recently swapped out half their NVGs for reworked and updated models that were supposed to improve their performance.

Get me a pair and find out how many aren’t working.

Yes, sir.

When the platoon sergeant returned, Moran tried on the goggles. He walked around and had no difficulty. He was just about to approve their use when all went black. He couldn’t see a thing. Fumbling with the adjustments did no good.

How many are having this problem? Moran asked the platoon sergeant.

Twelve. Only the reworked goggles are having trouble.

Son of a bitch. It was about half the platoon’s strength. Without knowing the size of the Taliban forces in the area, Moran didn’t know if half a platoon could do the job. Make sure the second squad is fully equipped.

He wanted the second squad on the mission because they were his best. Take the remaining usable goggles and equip the first squad as far as the goggles will go.

That’ll make nineteen effectives, including me and you. Will that be enough? The platoon sergeant reported and hoped his question would alert the lieutenant to his concerns.

It has to be. Moran didn’t like the way the odds were turning against him. The unusable goggles represented another equipment failure thrust on those fighting the war. In a previous engagement outside the wire, the platoon had spent the day fighting in the dirt. The firefight they had engaged in was so intense no one dared take a knee. The daylong encounter fouled their rifles making some unusable. With bullets flying the marines had to try to clean their weapons, but the firepower needed to control the battlefield wasn’t generated with as few as a third of the platoon able to engage the enemy.

The malfunctioning weapons made what should have been a quick firefight an all-day encounter. It was the most serious equipment deficiency he had experienced, but the faulty NVGs had the potential of being worse.

The faulty NVGs represented one more equipment problem on a growing list. The platoon couldn’t use their Hummers along mine-laden roads because they were under-armored and not capable of surviving an IED (improvised explosive device) blast. Marines carried the extra weight of body armor manufactured by the lowest bidder and received minimal protection from defective armored plates. Moran wondered how he was supposed to fight the war with the substandard gear he was being asked to use. He understood that equipment deficiencies were a part of war, but when he saw security contractors running around with top-of-the-line gear, it irked him to see his marines getting substandard equipment. Not one to keep his thoughts to himself, he unloaded on a congressional delegation that had visited Tiger.

They asked questions about equipment, and he thought they wanted answers.

They didn’t. They wanted photo ops. The story developed would be that they had visited the war and therefore knew of the problems, making them knowledgeable enough to vote on everything associated with the war. There were a lot of pictures and handshakes with the troops, but not one finger was lifted to help the men crammed into the photos.

Moran reported the difficulties with the goggles, but the senior officers on the headquarters staff took a pass on making a decision to cancel the mission. They passed the buck to the lieutenant. He would have to make the call. He had no doubt that if he didn’t continue, the pilots would be overrun. In his mind there was no decision to be made. He and the marines would try to do what they had set out to do.

Have those without useable NVGs set up in a defensive perimeter. We’ll pick them up on our way back, he ordered the platoon sergeant. If we get into trouble, they can come for us at daylight.

As the talk of the recovery was elevated up the chain of command, Moran started receiving crossed signals. Downed pilots were more than military casualties, they were PR events controlled and coordinated between Kabul and Washington. Some of those he spoke to on the radio hinted that he abort the mission as an aerial recovery was being assembled. Without anyone willing to make a decision, he would press on.

With the NVGs redistributed, a radio was left with the group staying behind, and those involved in the recovery moved out. The older goggles didn’t have enhanced reticles, and the peripheral vision was limited to about thirty degrees, meaning the marines could look forward. In order to gain situational awareness of the things around them, they constantly turned their heads, and after a while it became tiring, taking so much concentration their senses became overwhelmed. Moran was cognizant of the sensual overload and rested the marines often.

Nearing the last reported position of the pilots, movement slowed. If the pilots were under the gun of the Taliban it was no place for the marines to rush into. Walking a few minutes, Moran had the marines remove their goggles and listen. The pause refreshed the senses.

Close to the enemy, radio traffic was an interruption Moran didn’t need. People sitting in the comfort of secure offices didn’t limit their proffered instruction. He was told to hold his position, as the air package would be ready at daylight.

Using a night scope, Moran found the Taliban. They occupied ground overlooking the pilots’ reported location and were arrayed defensively, apparently making no effort to set up blocking positions. Their fields of fire covered the only landing zone in the area. The pilots clearly were bait. The Taliban wanted to shoot down more helos.

Moran understood a daylight recovery had the potential of becoming a bloodbath and gave a situation report highlighting the dangers of attempting an aerial recovery. He was told that the planning was too far along to call off the air package.

As the onsite commander, he weighed his options. He needed to talk to the pilots, but his repeated attempts were met with radio silence. It wasn’t a good situation. There was no indication they were still at their last reported position. He could only go on the last available information he had received and went with the assumption they were still alive. Without talking to them, he ran the risk of stumbling upon them unannounced. They had weapons and could easily mistake the marines for the enemy.

The marines had their sights on several Taliban outriders. Easy targets, the marines couldn’t pull the triggers. Their weapons weren’t sound suppressed and any shot would identify their location and put them at risk of what appeared to be a larger force.

Calling the platoon sergeant forward, Moran laid out his plan. I don’t think these guys were expecting a ground force to attempt a recovery. They are set up to do serious damage to any aerial attempt. My feeling is the only way the pilots have a chance to get out is if we do it.

Sir. Our orders are to sit tight.

If we do, there are going to be more pilots needing rescue. We are in position to act, and I intend to do what we came to do. Moran felt that an aerial recovery had the makings of a disaster. It was his responsibility to act to avert it.

It’s your call.

"I’m going to take four men and make a run for the pilots. I want you to engage the outriders. That should bring all the Taliban into the fight. Once you have their attention, start backtracking and try to draw them with you.

I’ll move out to the south." As he spoke both he and the platoon sergeant saw the weakness of the plan. They had no intra-unit communications and only one radio with which to talk to the outside world. A separated unit, at night, without the ability to communicate, with an enemy in the middle, was a recipe for catastrophe.

I don’t know, sir, the platoon sergeant hemmed.

"There’s no way to get to the pilots unless the Taliban can be engaged.

When you take them under fire, they should jump into a position that will block you. They won’t think anyone is crazy enough to split forces at night."

You got that part right, sir. You’re going to be running around in the dark and none of these marines is going to know where you are or who you are. That could turn into a cluster fuck. It has ‘friendly fire accident’ written all over it.

I fear the same things, but if we don’t get these guys out, they aren’t going to get out. It’s a long shot, but if we don’t take it, they’re dead. Moran stopped. I’m open to suggestions.

I’ve got nothing, sir. If you’re willing to hang it out, so am I.

The only way we’re going to have an idea of what’s going on is with the use of flares. Green will mean I have the pilots and am coming out. If I pop a red it’ll mean I’m aborting and want you to head back to people we left behind. I’ll meet you there; however, if I haven’t reached you at daybreak make for Tiger without me.

Are you sure?

Yes. Moran paused. It’s going to get hairy after we split up, so if there’s any question about who and what you’re going to take under fire, pop a white flare. I’ll do the same before I fire at unknown targets. It isn’t much but it’s the only form of communication we’ll have. I’ll leave the radio with you. When you report in, you’ll get more than enough advice. I have no idea what they’ll tell you to do. If I were you, I wouldn’t talk to anyone until you get back to Tiger. One exception. If by some odd chance you get to talk to the pilots, tell them what is afoot and fire off a green flare. Got it?

Moran moved off with four marines. The distance they had to cover was fewer than two hundred yards. Finding a wadi—a creek bed scoured into the ground—heading toward the pilots, they followed it until it veered off and the GPS stopped counting down, indicating they were moving away from the target. Having to climb out of the depression, they lost natural cover. Moran could hear the firefight between the Taliban and the marines left with the platoon sergeant. Waiting several minutes to be sure the Taliban were fully engaged, he masked the GPS and got a good fix on the pilots. He had the team move as quickly as they could. The range diminished to yards, and he couldn’t see the pilots. He had to take a dangerous chance.

Hey. Don’t shoot. We’re marines. He spoke in a muffled shout. No reply came.

Come on, guys, we’re hanging our asses out here. No reply came.

Lieutenant, fuck these guys. We gotta get out of here. Who are you, Lieutenant? a hidden pilot asked.

My name’s Moran. I’ve got the recon platoon at Tiger.

"You win. I’m in good shape but my copilot is banged up pretty good.

He’s going to need help."

Get him, Moran ordered the marine next to him.

The wounded pilot was brought out of his hiding place.

Two of you grab him and lets move. Moran was heading in the direction the GPS indicated toward Tiger. Pop a green flare to alert the others that we have the objective.

With a whoosh the flare raced skyward. With a gentle pop the illumination fanned out.

Jesus Christ, you popped a red.

Sorry, sir, the offending marine apologized.

The platoon sergeant, on seeing the signal, got his troops together and started moving toward the marines left behind.

The Taliban disengaged and swarmed toward the spot from which the flare had originated. They had no night-vision devices, but they were familiar with the terrain and traveled light, making up some of the head start the marines had gotten.

Moran lagged behind an pulled his goggles off and listened. He could hear his pursuers. With a wounded pilot needing help walking, they could only travel so fast.

Corporal. He addressed the senior enlisted man with the team. Take the GPS and keep heading to Tiger. He scrolled the GPS to a page that showed the distance and direction to the combat outpost. Here’s the heading you have to follow. If you get too far off, this light will blink. As long as your distance keeps counting down you’ll be all right. Can you do that?

Yes, sir, I think so.

No thinking. Do it. Moran tried to boost the marine’s confidence.

I can run the GPS for him, the unwounded pilot said. But what are you going to do?

We don’t have a chance unless I can delay those chasing us. I’m going to draw them off as best I can.

Fuck. Alone, out here in the dark, you’re screwed. The pilot stated the obvious.

I’ll take my chances. Help the corporal get back to Tiger. How many flares do you have? he queried the corporal.

Six.

The colors aren’t important, but every hour on the hour I want you to fire one off. It’ll give me some sense of where I have to head. Fire the last one off just before sunrise, and when you shoot it off do it at about a forty-five- degree angle pointing in the direction of Tiger. Got it?

Yes, sir.

Now each of you, give me one ammo clip, he said to the marines.

Shove off. I’ll see you at home plate.

When he said it, no one expected to see him again. They were thankful he was risking his life for them but wondered about his sanity.

Alone, Moran sat for a moment to compose his thoughts. Not knowing where he was, he could hear the direction from which danger was coming. Goggling up and looking in the direction away from his pursuers, he searched for a rise, a berm, anything he could hide behind to get off a few well-aimed shots. He found a rock pile and took cover. It would have been so much easier if he had a sound-suppressed weapon. He could have fired and remained undetected. As it was, he was going to get one kill shot before the rifle report and muzzle flash gave him away.

He painted his first target in the crosshairs of the night scope. As close as he was to the man he was going to kill, there was no remorse. The green haze of the night-vision devices made his target a video-game character. Kill him, score a point. It was unlike daytime, where the facial expressions could be seen, creating some kind of human-to-human bond. In the arcade game roiling in his mind, he fired. He didn’t wait to see if he scored a hit and was moving when the Taliban rained bullets on his former location. They wouldn’t move on the position until they knew he was dead or gone.

The problem with moving off so quickly after firing was that he had no idea which direction he was headed. Hiding behind a mound, he was lining up his second shot when a flare went off in the distance to the left and nearly in front of him. In the dark he had gotten turned around, so the Taliban were between him and the flare. Taking his shot, he moved several feet behind cover and waited. The retaliatory response from the Taliban ended, and they showed themselves thinking that his pattern was to shoot and move. In the open, they were clearly confused after he got off another two shots. Remembering the stars he had seen above the flare, he moved perpendicular, trying to get around the Taliban before turning in what he hoped was the right direction.

Thinking he had once again placed himself between the pilots and the Taliban, he listened. The noise told him he wasn’t in a blocking position. He was abeam his hunters. He let them pass. When he shot, they were confused; they had to turn around to find him. Their delay gave him another shot. He was so close he was tempted to take a third shot but didn’t want to press his luck.

He moved quickly, opening distance with his pursuers, but he wasn’t following his stars. A flare rose, but it was closer. The Taliban, despite his efforts, were gaining on the pilots. He didn’t want to head away from home but had to get in back of the Taliban and draw them to him. Without picking a hiding place, he sprawled on the ground and acquired targets. After firing, he moved backward, set up again, fired, and repeated. A third flare was good and bad news. His efforts had opened the distance between the Taliban and the pilots, but he too was farther away and the Taliban were directly in his path.

It was nearing 0400 when he decided to test his enemy. He had inflicted casualties and thought if he got several more clean shots, they would be unwilling to die that night. He watched as they moved cautiously. Well hidden, he took out his first target and was lining up the second under a hail of bullets when a flare went off. Preoccupied with staying alive, he ignored the flare’s positioning in the sky and took off but had no idea to where. The stars he had used to navigate were obscured by a high cloud cover, so he didn’t know if he was circling. By his count there were ten Taliban left, and if they could keep him playing hide and seek until daybreak, he was going to be found and killed.

The sky grayed, and the final flare moved in a flat trajectory. It pointed toward a hill. Moran memorized the hill, and as he moved he pictured it in his brain so it couldn’t be confused with others. There was no sign of the Taliban. He didn’t think they would give up on him now that he had lost the advantage of NVGs. A bullet ripped into the ground ahead of him. They hadn’t given up. Worse, the enemy was in a direct line to the mountain. While whoever shot at him could still see him, Moran made a show of running away. Finding cover, he hit the dirt and crawled in an effort to circle the enemy. They were cautious. One pointed in the direction in which he had fled. The Taliban moved quickly in the gray dawn, clearly thinking they could overtake him. When he uncovered himself, he had a back shot and was sure he could take one out, maybe two, but then the rest would be on the hunt for him again. When they moved out of range, he broke contact and headed toward the mountain.

Moran arrived at Tiger midmorning. As he walked through the wire he looked like a bloody apparition. His face was cut, and trails of blood ran down his neck. With everyone looking at him, he felt self-conscious but couldn’t remember how the damage to his face had occurred. He could explain the blood on his hands and the cuts on his legs, seen through his torn uniform, but he didn’t remember doing anything that would have damaged his face. As the adrenaline rush wore off, he didn’t need anyone to tell him where he was hurt. He could feel each ache specifically.

Moran found his platoon sergeant. How’d it go, Sergeant Ciccio?

No sweat. We saw the red flare and moved out like you said. It wasn’t until your team showed up with the pilots that we realized the red was a fuck up. You know, sir, there weren’t too many who thought they’d ever see you again. The platoon sergeant phrased it as a compliment.

How about you? Moran asked.

Shit, sir, I’ve been working with you long enough to know you don’t die easy. Any scares out there?

A couple.

You?

Not from the Taliban, but … The sergeant hesitated.

What happened?

"When I saw the red flare, I assumed the mission had been aborted, but I didn’t report in until I got to the marines who were left behind. I reported the mission was aborted and someone on the radio said no sweat. They were launching the air recovery package. When the pilots walked into the camp and their rescue was reported, the same guy gets on the radio and now he’s wicked mad. He accused me, the marines, of upstaging him. They had a whole aerial circus bearing down on the Taliban when they received the call that the pilots were here. I found out that I was talking to a General Lockley.

He was yelling that we disobeyed orders, and he threatened to boot me out of the Marine Corps. I told him I was only a sergeant and that you were still unaccounted for. Since you were not talking to him, he thought you were trying to make a joke at his expense. I tried to tell him you were still out, but he wasn’t buying it. To make it worse, he was embarrassed that he had made a fool of himself chewing out an enlisted man. He was angry enough that I think you may be hearing from him. It was all about the air show. He didn’t give a shit about the pilots."

Well, whoever he is, he’s going to have to get in line, because he won’t be getting a virgin.

I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I could have been more tactful.

Don’t worry about it.

Sir? A private came up to him. The pilots would like to speak to you before they’re evaced.

They walked through the camp, and the troops looked at Moran differently.

They recognized what he had done and rendered respect from afar.

You wanted to see me? He spoke to the upright pilot, who turned toward him to expose his rank. Captain, he added hastily.

They tell me your name is Lieutenant Moran?

‘Yes, sir."

I’m Jack Murphy. That is Dale Underwood. He pointed to the wounded pilot, who was obviously shot up with morphine. He was out of it. I don’t know how you thank someone who has saved your life, but thank you from both of us. I know you probably don’t give a shit, but I intend to put you in for the Navy Cross. What you did out there went over and above. I’ve seen a lot of marines who have done good things, but nothing like you. You’re a hero, and not a bullshit hero like they label us back in the States. Thanks. He pulled Moran in close and embraced him. Thanks again.

Moran was thankful but had reports to write and wanted to get out of the dirt.

Moran entered the lessons learned on the recovery into the after-action forms on the battalion’s operations computer on the off chance someone might care enough to read them. It was a long shot, but he wanted to alert those above him to serious problems. He indicated that the night gear used by the marines was inferior and that the company that had been awarded the contract to rework and recalibrate the NVGs had been criminal in its actions. He tried to highlight the advantages of having silenced weapons in the future and was sure that with them, he could have gotten to the pilots without having had to split his force. And having split his force, he recognized the need for intra-unit communications. He recommended the marines be outfitted with individual communications gear. He had a laundry list of recommendations, and he outlined them. He thought he knew the type of equipment that would make the marines’ jobs easier, and he hoped someone up the chain of command would read his report and act on it.

2

Lieutenant Xavier H. Moran, USMC, was out of the field, his first reprieve in two-and-a-half months. He hoped hot chow, real showers, clean clothing, and air conditioning would allow him to escape the physical and mental pressures of close combat, but rear-area comforts made him jumpy. Being away from his troops, he worried about what might happen to them in his absence. The constant worry made rear-area life, where people ate and slept on a schedule, nerve-racking. Strangely, he wished