Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (6 page)

When the briefing ended, Parson and Chartier returned to the ops center. Given Kassam's threat of continued attacks, it seemed even more likely now that NATO or UN forces would get involved. As a member of the AFRICOM planning cell, Parson figured he'd better get cracking.

The new Libyan government had already given permission for military use of Mitiga International Airport near Tripoli. Parson sat at his computer, tapped at the keyboard, and brought up airfield data for Mitiga.

The field's long history mirrored the history of the country. First built by the Italians in 1923, the base was captured by the Germans during World War II. The U.S. took it over during the Cold War and named it Wheelus Air Base. Wheelus hosted the cargo planes of the old Military Air Transport service and the bombers of Strategic Air Command. The U.S. closed Wheelus in 1970 and turned it over to the Libyans, who renamed it Okba Ben Nafi Air Base.

At around the same time the Americans were preparing to shut down the base, Muammar Gadhafi deposed Libya's King Idris in a military coup. In 1986 Gadhafi got the bright idea to bomb the La Belle disco in West Berlin to kill and injure American servicemen. Payback was a bitch; President Reagan launched Operation El Dorado Canyon. Parson's own dad, as a weapons systems officer in an F-111 Aardvark, attacked the base that American fliers once called home. The elder Parson had spoken of the grueling mission from RAF Lakenheath in Britain.

“France, Spain, and Italy denied overflight,” Dad had said, “so we dragged our asses all the way around the Iberian Peninsula. Refueled in the air several times.” But the long flight paid off when he found that row of Ilyushin transport planes in his crosshairs.

Parson could not ask about that raid now. His father had died in the crash of his Wild Weasel during Desert Storm.

In the 1990s, the Libyan base targeted by the elder Parson converted to a civilian airport. It bore a new name: Mitiga International.

Hope Dad didn't tear up Mitiga too bad for the Libyans to repair properly, Parson thought, because I might need it soon. Parson's computer told him Mitiga boasted two runways, the longest just over eleven thousand feet. Long enough for any plane in the U.S. inventory—assuming the runway and taxiways could bear the weight
of a heavy like a C-5 or a B-52. He needed to dig a little more and find the pavement classification numbers. Then he could write a proper Giant Report on Mitiga. Boring as hell, not nearly as much fun as flying. But the work needed to get done right.

As Parson worked, he glanced at Chartier. The Frenchman scrolled through e-mail. One message in particular seemed to catch his attention. Chartier's eyes widened, and he smiled faintly. Parson jotted some notes on a writing pad, then said, “What you got, a picture from one of your girlfriends in Paris?”

“No, sir. It is from my squadron commander back home.”

“What's up?”

“I am sorry, sir. But they are recalling me for a possible alert. They want me back in the Mirage. No more flying a desk.”

Parson leaned back in his chair, tore off a sheet of notebook paper. Wadded up the paper. Tossed the paper wad at Chartier, who grinned as it whizzed by his nose and bounced off his computer screen.

“You lucky, champagne-swilling, croissant-eating son of a bitch.”

O
n a Thursday morning, Blount steered his Ram onto Interstate 95 North for his journey to Camp Lejeune. The trip would take hours, but driving through the rural coastal plain of the Carolinas would give him a chance to think, to get some perspective. He hadn't realized retiring from the Corps would feel so wrenching. Once a Marine, always a Marine.

Cool wind blasted through the truck's open window. Blount's fellow South Carolinian Darius Rucker sang over the radio, something about a “come back song.” Blount sighed; in his own life, he could take that line two ways. He felt pulled in two directions.

This year's tobacco crop had come in late; Halloween was only a couple weeks away, and some fields still stood studded with denuded green stalks. Pretty soon the farmers would run their Bush Hogs over the stalks, then disc the fields under and maybe plant winter wheat. Near one of the fields, Blount saw a row of bulk tobacco barns shaped like windowless, silver mobile homes. Their owner must have been curing the last of his crop; the fragrance of drying tobacco leaves wafted through the air. The aroma of curing smelled nothing like cigarette smoke; Blount had once described it to a British Royal Marine by telling him to imagine the richest tea leaves he'd ever smelled, mixed with brown sugar and bourbon.

Just past Santee, Blount reached the bridge over Lake Marion. At the water's edge, a nine-foot alligator lolled in the shallows. The middle of its tail looked as big around as Blount's biceps. Blount recalled seeing a big old gator one time while fishing with his grandfather.

“You better respect his strength,” Grandpa had said, “but he won't hurt you if you don't mess with him.”

Maybe Blount would get a chance to fish these waters more often. Once he got outprocessed, he'd have all the time in the world for the simple pleasures. Especially if he had to wait a while to get a law enforcement job. He sure hoped the hiring freezes wouldn't last too long.

Halfway across the bridge, he spotted a johnboat plowing across the still surface of Marion, propelled by a trolling motor. Two boys with fishing rods sat in the boat.

For Blount, that was what the counselors called a trigger.

His palms grew slick on the steering wheel. Memories and images came back of their own accord. A bright morning in South Carolina turned into the blackest night in Afghanistan. Blount saw three boys about the same age as the kids in the boat. They came out of the cave, walking toward him and the other Marines. Blount yelled at them with what little of their language he knew, taught to him by that smart Army woman Sophia Gold.

“Zaai peh zaai wudregah!”
he shouted. Stay where you are.

The children kept coming at him. Blount backed up several steps and repeated his command. Sweet baby Jesus, stop right there. Don't make me do this.

He called for them to halt in Pashto and English. He'd have hollered in every language in the world if he could have, right down to caveman talk. Anything to make something different happen.

They wouldn't listen. Some other grown-ups had got to them first, taught them nothing but wrong things. He was running out of time. They were running out of time.

Blount raised his weapon, leveled his sights on the children. Cut all three of them down.

All three kids wore suicide vests. On one of them, the vest detonated.

The blast knocked Blount off his feet. His cheek hurt; something had cut his face. Maybe a ball bearing from inside that suicide vest. He felt his sweat and tears mix with the blood. He raised himself with one gloved hand. For the first time in his life, he felt like turning his rifle on his own self. Couldn't do that, though. Other Marines counted on him. He got up and pressed on.

The thump of his truck tires crossing the north end of the bridge brought Blount back to the present. That Afghanistan scene played like a movie in his head whenever it took a mind to. He didn't control the projector.

The tobacco and cotton fields, the pinewoods and trailer parks rolled by until he came to Jacksonville. Here, just like at home, many of the vehicles carried Marine Corps stickers. Familiar turns took him to the main gate, where the brick signpost read
CAMP LEJEUNE—HOME OF EXPEDITIONARY FORCES IN
READINESS.
Blount's battalion now served with the 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit, one of three MEUs based at Lejeune.

He showed his ID to the gate guard, who examined both sides of the card and handed it back. Blount noted that the back of the card identified him as someone falling under Geneva Convention Category II, which spelled out how he must be treated as a prisoner of war. Fortunately, that bit of information had never played a part in his career. And the Geneva Convention would have meant nothing to any of the enemies Blount had ever fought.

By now it was late in the afternoon. All the offices would close soon, and Blount would have plenty of time to outprocess tomorrow. So instead of going to personnel, he checked in at the Lejeune Inn, the base's temporary lodging facility. In the lobby he saw Corporal Fender, the Marine who'd been with him the night of the sarin attack at Sig.

“Gunny,” Fender said. “Didn't expect to see you here. I thought you were getting out.” The corporal, off duty now, wore faded jeans
and a Carolina Panthers hoodie. Worn-out tennis shoes. His clothing might have marked him as a young delinquent if not for his buzz cut and straight posture.

“I am,” Blount said. “Just running some last errands. What about you? I thought you were staying at Sig in case something kicked off.”

“They sent me back here for some more chem warfare training. And now the MEU is setting sail.”

“The Twenty-second?” Blount asked. “Everybody?”

“Yes, Gunny.”

That meant Blount's battalion was heading out, along with a helicopter squadron and all the support sections needed to sustain an air–ground task force. In the Mediterranean, the 22nd MEU would join the Marines of the 24th, the men Blount had seen during his layover at Rota. He remembered well these pulse-quickening preparations for battle, the anticipation and the anxiety. The uncertainties of a new mission, along with the solid certainty that the Marines around him would have his back.

“Sorry you're not going with us, Gunny,” Fender said. “Always felt safer knowing you were there.”

The corporal meant that as a compliment, but the words knifed right into Blount's heart. Leaving the Corps came hard enough without knowing the people closest to you might soon go into harm's way. He hid his emotions as best he could, but he wanted to know more about this deployment.

“What else have they told you?” Blount asked.

“They briefed us yesterday about some new terrorist dude named Sadiq Kassam. Weird-looking motherfucker who says he wants to bring back the days of the Barbary pirates.”

Blount frowned. Bring back the Barbary pirates? Every Marine knew what happened when Thomas Jefferson got fed up with the first terrorist threat against the U.S. The Barbary states had captured American vessels and enslaved the crews to extract ransom. Jefferson
decided to give them another kind of payback, and the Marines still sang about the shores of Tripoli.

“Somebody needs to ask Kassam how well that worked out last time,” Blount said.

“I was just thinking that. But last time, they didn't have nerve gas.”

Fender had a point. Anybody with chemical weapons posed a dangerous threat. And as outlandish as talk of the Barbary pirates might seem, Blount knew terrorists dreamed of stranger things. Osama bin Laden had spoken of creating a worldwide caliphate.

Blount chatted with Fender for a few more minutes, wished him a safe deployment. With nothing to do until morning, Blount decided to drive off base for an early supper. On his way to the main gate, he met a column of military vehicles. The Humvees and Cougars bristled with weapons; some carried the .50 caliber M2, others the Mark 19 grenade launcher. Marines on their way in from some training—or maybe on their way out for a night exercise. The sight made Blount feel he was leaving a job unfinished. A big part of him wanted to climb aboard one of the vehicles, check in on the radio, offer encouragement, bark an order.

He found a barbecue joint in Jacksonville. When he ordered his pork barbecue, slaw, and hush puppies, the waitress gave him a military discount without asking for his ID. Somehow she knew, even though Blount was not in uniform.

Am I that obvious? he wondered. The Corps had become such a part of him that he exuded it. What would life become for him on the outside? Part of him felt ready to leave. Bernadette and the girls wanted him home, and he certainly needed no more nights like the one at an Afghanistan cave. At the same time, he knew he could never find this kind of camaraderie anywhere else. He knew of Marines who'd leaped onto grenades to protect their buddies. But on the outside, at least for some chumps, it was all about Number One.
1-800-EAT SHIT
.

The next morning, Blount went to the battalion S-1 office to get his outprocessing checklist. The checklist would direct him to various places on base to turn in equipment, settle any debts on his government travel card, deactivate his government e-mail. But he found no one in the office to help him.

“I'm sorry, Gunnery Sergeant,” a young private said. “Everybody's working on mobility processing right now.”

They have their priorities straight, Blount thought. Better to spend time on Marines going to war than on one Marine calling it quits. They got more important things to do than bother with me.

The personnel people, along with folks from the clinic, the Judge Advocate General, supply, and the Navy chaplain's office, were making sure the platoons were ready to deploy.

Checking shot records, dog tags, passports, wills, and powers of attorney. Handing out refrigerator magnets from Family Readiness with numbers for spouses to call in emergencies. For Marines who wanted them, free pocket-sized Bibles with camo covers. Qurans, too. Blount had gone through that drill many times.

With his plans for the day shot down, he walked outside. An Osprey tilt-rotor from the nearby New River air station flew overhead, making its distinctive buzz and pulse that sounded like no other aircraft. At the same time, a CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter pounded above the tree line. The Stallion did not look like something meant to fly. The chopper hung in the air as deadweight, held aloft by brute force of engines and rotors. As the aircraft flew nearer, Blount recognized an M777 howitzer slung underneath the Stallion. Preparations for a fight. Probably taking the gun to New River to prep it for airlift to North Africa. Automatic-weapons fire chattered in the distance. More training going on.

To step aboard that helicopter, to catch a Humvee over to one of the ranges and supervise a combat exercise, seemed the most natural thing in the world. Blount had never felt so torn in his life. What did
he owe to his family? To himself? But then, what did he owe to his country and to the Corps that had made him?

This very moment felt wrong: to find himself aboard a Marine Corps installation, in uniform, still drawing government pay, but with no task at hand. No orders to carry out, no purpose. Unsure what to do with himself, Blount stopped in to see his most recent boss, his company commander.

Captain Adam Privett rose from his desk to greet Blount, silver bars gleaming on the collar of his digital camo. Blond hair cut to stubble on the sides of his head, just enough hair on top for a comb. Papers and folders littered the desk of the thirty-year-old officer. Privett offered a firm handshake, Naval Academy ring on his right hand.

“You look busy, sir,” Blount said. “I won't take up much of your time. Just wanted to say hello while I'm still here.”

“Yeah, you know how it is right before a deployment. Always somebody who needs an anthrax shot or can't find his passport.”

Blount's first instinct was to go find the offender. After Blount got done with him, any young eight-ball Marine would rather stand a post in hell itself than let the sun go down without his deployment requirements squared away. Instead, Blount could only ask, “When do you ship out, sir?”

“We board the
Tarawa
in three weeks. Brand-new ship. I'll miss you, Guns. Never had a worry with you beside me.”

I keep hearing that, Blount thought. Hurts worse every time.

“Once you get to the Med, do you expect to get sent ashore?”

“If they can nail down a location for a terrorist base, probably. If these chemical attacks keep happening, definitely.”

Blount imagined the amphibious assault ships would lurk off the coast of Libya or Algeria, maybe steam into the Gulf of Sidra. Commanders would wait for intel on the whereabouts of this Sadiq Kassam and his posse. The Marines would continue to hone their skills
as well as they could aboard ship, straining at the leash like Dobermans until loosed on a target. Then they'd carry out their core mission: Locate, close with, and destroy the enemy. Blount could almost smell the sea breezes, the helicopter exhaust, the rifle smoke. Hard to believe this operation would launch without him.

“Godspeed, sir,” Blount said as he rose to leave. He shook the captain's hand again.

“Go home and take care of your family,” Privett said. “You've earned it.”

A nice thing to say, but it didn't ease the turmoil in Blount's warrior heart. Outside Fox Company's offices he felt at sea, and not in a good way. Drifting between opposing tides with no clear, proper course. He passed by the break area, noted the ever-present smell of burned coffee, the cardboard sign over the coffeemaker:
THIS COFFEE MESS APPROVED BY THE CAMP LEJEUNE FIRE DEPARTMENT
. The desks and halls and lockers here felt as familiar as his own home, maybe more so. One of those lockers contained his helmet, body armor, and other gear. He needed to clean out that locker, but he just didn't feel like doing it now.

He'd accomplished not one thing today. And over the weekend he could do little but take up space in temp lodging. Blount decided to drive home, spend the weekend with his family, re-attack on Monday. A waste of gas, for sure. But maybe the open road, the night air would settle his mind. He checked out of the Lejeune Inn, filled his tank at the Marine Corps Exchange gas station, and bought a cup of black coffee.