Lions of Kandahar (14 page)

A life of backbreaking farmwork had honed Riley’s tendencies when it came to force. This I used to great advantage as my team pursued our country’s goals. I could and would ask Afghans nicely one time and one time only for anything. If my politeness was taken for weakness, I would send in Riley. Whatever technique he applied, he did so without hesitation, usually resulting in a smiling Afghan returning to me hat in hand, ready to do what I asked. Soon word got around and I only had to ask the one time. This job and Special Forces in general were a perfect fit for Riley. While methodical in the clinic,
he was a fierce gunfighter fueled by natural rage. He wore his emotions on his sleeve and preferred to be on the front of stack ready to kick in the door and lay waste to the enemy. If you wanted to take ground, put Riley in the front. The problem was, he was too valuable to sacrifice. His job was to keep everyone else alive.

As the senior medic, Riley never forgot his absolutely critical responsibilities. He was charged not only with providing medical assistance to the Afghans, and training the medics for the ANA, but most important, with keeping team members alive until they could be medically evacuated from the field. These things made for a heavy rucksack of burden, but Riley had big shoulders. His ability to practice medicine in the worst of circumstances was inspiring. Once, he got word that one of our ANA soldiers had been wounded in a firefight. The nineteen-year-old arrived in the small triage room with a huge gunshot wound to the chest. The ISAF medic and nurse had already given up on him because they couldn’t get a chest tube inserted to inflate his lungs so he could breathe. Riley arrived, dropped his trauma bag, and went to work. He had the chest tube inserted and the patient stable and breathing on his own in minutes. It would be one of many instances where Riley would back up his brash demeanor to the hilt.

Riley continued to fire all around the rocks and up into the wadi to suppress enemy fire. Taliban fighters on the opposite side of the river began firing back, thinking that their ambush had been sprung; in response, all the machine guns and grenade launchers on the GMVs opened up. For the second time that day, I heard Jared call, “Troops in contact!” over the radio.

The remaining GMVs raced forward across the mud. Jared’s truck stopped just long enough for him to jump in, and then all the Americans were across except for my team and the GMV stuck in the bog. The Taliban fire began to die down.

Across the river, two trucks dashed back to the edge of the mud, tossed towing straps to the sunken GMV, and easily freed it. Jared ran
to Shinsha and told him to get all of his equipment off the stuck Ranger. Under sporadic fire, the ANA formed a line and heaved backpacks and ammo to another truck. Finally, with everyone else on the far side, Jared ordered my team across, too. Brian grinned as the massive Goodyear tires slung mud in all directions. We roared past the waiting trucks and once again took up the lead.

A significant ambush never materialized. Once we moved through the kill zone, the Taliban fighters stopped taking shots and our machine guns went quiet. There were no more targets. Overhead, Air Force jets covered our escape. Jared called in an air strike on the Ranger we’d left behind to prevent the enemy from digging it out and using it. We couldn’t afford to have Taliban fighters in possession of an official Afghan Army vehicle, parading around in it as propaganda. As the bluish gray sky gave way to darkness, we saw the flash of a precision bomb striking the vehicle. If anyone had been trying to pillage it, they were dead.

We were down a truck, but we made good progress after the mud. We set up a small base on the ridgeline on the cusp of the Red Desert, content with the day’s accomplishments.

A CAT-AND-MOUSE GAME

T
he warm water felt good as I poured a small amount of it over my eyes. It ran down my neck, soaking my already wet T-shirt. The blazing sun had baked us during the day, but as it dipped below the mountains the heat was giving way to a cool breeze at the edge of the desert. I swigged warm water that would have felt better in a shower instead of in a water bottle, swishing it and spitting it out to get the dust and grime from my mouth.

We had covered about ninety kilometers, had a truck successfully airlifted to us, and been in two small firefights with no one injured. A busy three days. On top of that, the Taliban had to be wondering just what the hell we were up to down here.

“Not bad,” I said to Dave.

“Yeah, no problem, sir,” he said dryly. “Now we just have to cross two hundred kilometers of some of the most unforgiving terrain on the planet, sneak into the enemy’s sanctuary, establish blocking positions, and wait for the ISAF to push the Mongolian horde into our tiny element.”

“How did you become so cynical?”

Dave cocked an eyebrow and looked down at me as he finished cleaning the heavy machine gun.

“I’ve worked for you for two years, Captain.”

In that moment, I wished I could stay in this job for the rest of my career.

Jared came by and said we should get some quick rest. We needed to be off the ridge before the sun came up. I went to pass the word to Hodge and Team 26.

Hodge asked, “So, Rusty, how did you miss that Talib today?”

“Guess I didn’t take my Geritol,” I said.

He laughed.

“What about yourself?” I shot back. “I’m surprised at your age that you can see that far, much less think you can hit a moving target at over three hundred meters.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t miss today. You did.”

Hodge was right. I had reflex fired instead of taking the time to line up the stadia lines in my optic sight and lead the target. I would not let that happen again, ever.

Bill set up the guard shifts while I went over to check on the Afghans. The fight had left me keyed up. There was no way I could rest. Plus, I knew the ANA broke out the chai every time we stopped. When I got to Shinsha’s truck, the blue propane flame was licking the black bottom of the brass pot and I could hear the water rolling to a boil.

Shinsha was in good spirits. His men, who seemed as fired up as I was, scurried around their trucks making the tea, smoking, or making a mess. As soon as I sat down, the Afghans started making fun of my Pashto, which I speak with a western North Carolina accent. I could say a few words and phrases and knew enough to get my point across in a pinch, but I needed an interpreter for the heavy lifting. Still, the tea was hot and sweet and an hour passed before I headed back to my truck to take my guard shift and relieve Smitty.

I settled into the turret of the truck, picked up the thermal imagery scope, and took a look around. Nothing. Not even a stray donkey or camel herd. Under the dying light, the smooth, rolling surface of the desert flowed away out of sight. After such a long day, I enjoyed the few hours of quiet. It gave me time to collect my thoughts, which soon drifted back to my family. I did the math and figured out it was still afternoon in the States. I could see them in the kitchen. I wondered what they were having for lunch.