I stood up and fastened the buckle on my white web belt, then pulled Caro into a tight hug, ignoring the Brit’s noisy huffing.
“Remember what I said, Sebastian,” whispered Caro, running the tips of her fingers down my cheek.
“I’ll try, baby. And you remember what I said, what I’m thinking about when I look at you.”
I kissed her softly, unwilling to let her go, hating that I had to, desperate to know that she’d be safe, hating that she wasn’t.
“Never take my ring off, Caro,” I said.
“Ti amo tanto, Sebastian.”
I smiled painfully. “Sempre e per sempre.”
I glanced briefly at the Brit, and then quietly left.
At least I knew I’d see Caro tomorrow.
We were heading to Camp Leatherneck, 350 miles away along the Kabul–Kandahar Highway, one of the most dangerous roads in the world.
The Russians, the Taliban, and now us—it all added up to three decades of war and neglect, leaving the road that connected Afghanistan’s two main cities in ruins. Uncle Sam had funded the rebuilding of three-quarters of the route, with Japan chipping in another chunk of cash. It was currently in slightly better repair than it had been, but it had become a favorite target of the Taliban again—ambushes and IEDs were common.
The guys on point were heavily armed and supported by Explosive Ordnance Disposal Techs whose job was to spot devices before one of our Armored Personnel Carriers rolled over them. Metal detectors weren’t as much use as you’d think because the Taliban used as few metal parts as possible. But tell-tale signs included depressions in the road where a hole had recently been dug and had sunk when it was recovered, or any wires sticking out that might lead to pressure plates.
Being in the middle of the convoy was no picnic either: if a device functioned, we’d be pinned down, prey to ambush. We also had to make it through checkpoints manned by ANA, keeping a covert eye open in case they weren’t as onside with US or International Security Assistance Force as they were supposed to be. Green-on-blue attacks were escalating to the point where each ISAF unit had appointed at least one soldier as a ‘guardian angel’ to act as a lookout—to keep an eye on our Afghan allies. I hoped like hell we made it in one piece.
I saw Caro briefly from a distance, flashing her a quick smile until I remembered that I was supposed to ignore her. But she smiled back briefly before she turned away.
It was comforting and scary as fuck to think that she was just a few vehicles back. I had to force myself to forget that she was there or I wouldn’t be able to do my job—but it was hard. I wasn’t needed on point because the regular terps were being used; instead I had a lot of hours to get to know the guys in my team: the five Afghan interpreters who’d be my responsibility.
As soon as I walked towards them, I knew there was tension in the air. It didn’t take a genius to work out the problem.
“As-salaamu’ alaykum.”
I introduced myself, noting their shock when I spoke their language. It took only a couple of minutes to work out that two of them were Shiite and the other three were Sunni. Both groups prayed to Allah, but that was about all they had in common. Oh yeah, and they both hated Sufis.
Well, this was going to make my job that much harder. I’d have to keep them apart whenever possible. Grant was not going to like it. And I had a feeling it would end up being my fault—definitely my problem.
Aabadar and Fazel were brothers, and very insistent on telling me that their father was Mujahadeen and fought the Russians. Jee-zus—two or even three generations of Afghans who’d known nothing but war.
The noise when we were seated inside the APC made it almost impossible to talk much, which was something of a relief. I separated my guys, distributing them among the leathernecks riding with us. I got some shit for that, but it was all muttered because I could pull rank any time I wanted. Didn’t mean I would, but these bootnecks didn’t know me, so they were ready to show who was boss. Fine by me. I’d come up through the ranks and I knew every trick in the book, and then some.
We all enlist for different reasons. For some, the Marine Corps was a chance to have a real family for the first time in our lives; for others it was a means to an end: learning a trade, or getting a college education; several said they wanted to serve their country, motivated by the events of 9/11. And for a few, it was the last chance to do something that wouldn’t end with a prison sentence.
Once they figured out I was The Man, they muttered and cussed quietly behind my back. I paid my fucking dues for this rank so until they did the same, they should quit their bitching.
The journey to Leatherneck was hell. What would have been a six- or seven-hour journey back home, turned into 15 hours of heat, dust, and a numb ass as the APC ground along the highway. We stopped at several ANA checkpoints, but I wasn’t needed as a terp. Some of the ANA were good guys and I’d worked with a few of them before. They were determined to get rid of the Taliban, and several listened to rock stations on the internet when they could get a signal, which wasn’t often—the Taliban had banned music. All music. At every camp, there was a black market trade in western CDs and DVDs—all things the Taliban considered un-Islamic at best, and satanic at worst.
I was less happy when I saw men in turbans armed with AK-47s at checkpoints. They weren’t regular army, and they watched us pass with cold eyes. It made me wonder if they were phoning ahead to let the Taliban know that a convoy was en route. Hell that had probably happened the second we left Kabul.
The AK-47 was a good weapon. I preferred my M16 because although it had a long barrel, it was two pounds lighter and the magazine was half the weight. But a lot of guys tried to smuggle Russian weapons back to the US when their tour was over as souvenirs. On my last tour, one dickwad had tried to take back a live and very unstable grenade even though it was a federal offense. My flight stateside was delayed by 20 hours while EOD were called and the device neutralized.
Several of the guys on my APC were straight out of boot camp and on their first deployment. They were ready to kick some Afghan ass, so having my five terps traveling with us was unsettling for them—that and seeing the road ahead was torn up where IEDs had been planted and burnt-out cars pushed to the side, abandoned.
I closed my eyes, dozing as best I could.
Leatherneck, our destination, 50 miles west of Kandahar, housed 28,000 British troops at the adjacent Camp Bastion, several thousand Afghan National Army soldiers at Camp Shorabak, and 20,000 US Marines. Altogether, the three sectors must have covered nearly 4,000 acres. Leatherneck, by itself, was bigger than many small towns back home. It was supported by four gyms, a vast dining area that could serve 4,000 people at a time, three chapels—or so I was told. Best of all as far as many of the guys were concerned, there were calling centers where they could phone and email their families back home. The only person I’d ever called was Ches, and that was maybe once or twice a year.
It wasn’t much, but we called it home. Ha fucking ha. That was last tour. This time, I’d be going further into the boonies, staying at Leatherneck for just one night.
I knew that the camp also housed two- or three-thousand female soldiers. In theory they were kept segregated, although I’d managed some hook-ups when I’d been there before. For a while, I’d had a thing with Lieutenant Susie Harris who worked in the spook office with the FBI. Gotta say there’s something about fucking a senior officer. Just saying.
I’d like to try hooking up with Caro, but I knew that would be dangerous for both of us. Didn’t stop me wanting it though.
Once we arrived, hot, stinking and covered in dust and dirt, Grant called the senior non-coms together to organize transit accomm. I was sharing with the two sergeants who so far hadn’t shown much interest in me beyond the basic courtesies. They knew I was on special assignment, which meant they also knew I couldn’t talk about it.