“I trust you had a pleasant flight, sir?” Ruhl asked politely.
“We did, thank you. Is this your first deployment?” Kellan had long ago mastered the art of small talk.
“No, sir, my second,” Ruhl replied. “When I complete this one, I hope to be accepted into BRC.”
Kellan nodded. The corporal knew exactly who he and Jonah were. “Good luck with that. I’m sure you’d make an excellent Recon Marine.”
Activity was peaking inside the camp perimeter. Marines bustled around, some wearing combat gear and carrying weapons, obviously preparing to head out on a patrol. Others wore Under Armor fleece shirts or cammo uniform blouses as they conducted in-camp business. There was a tension in the air, a constant sense of readiness that felt vaguely familiar to Kellan. His time in Afghanistan had been during the opening months of OEF and they had all had such conviction and enthusiasm, nearly a decade ago.
The bright sun reflecting off of all the light colored structures was blinding and Kellan was grateful for his sun glasses, snivel gear or not. Despite the sun, the temperature wasn’t as warm as Kellan had expected. He knew from experience the nights got cold. So cold that it seeped into his bones and took up residence, no matter how many layers of bedding he rolled up in.
The paths between camp facilities were all hard-packed and well-worn from the passing of many booted feet. Everything around them was coated in a layer of fine, powder-like dust, the same pale beige as the endless sands that surrounded them.
“Damn moon dust gets into everything,” Corporal Ruhl muttered.
“Excuse me?” Kellan asked, not quite hearing what the corporal had said.
“The top most layer of sand is this fine, powdery stuff we call moon dust,” Ruhl said. “It gets picked up easy by the wind and gets into everything. We can’t keep anything clean for very long.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Kellan replied. He was brushing that sand off and out of things for almost a year after he’d returned home.
Reaching a large, neutral colored structure, Ruhl held the door open for Kellan and Jonah. Colonel Mills was a short, stout, graying man with a stern expression.
“You’re here to speak with Gunnery Sergeant Galen Foster.” Mills didn’t make it a question.
“That’s correct, Colonel,” Kellan replied, trying to get a quick read on Mills.
“Foster is with Charlie Company, Third Battalion, Second Marines.” The Colonel pointed to a map hung on the wall behind his desk. “Charlie is currently staffing a combat operations post sixty klicks from here.”
Kellan’s annoyance rose. He wondered if Foster had been assigned to the post before or
after
this trip had been approved. “That’s rather problematic.”
“It would be, except for two things,” Mills said. “First, Top Carver functioning as your aide bolsters your personal security. Second, you aren’t the typical civilian. Golf Company is scheduled for a patrol tomorrow, and Charlie Company’s COP is on their list of contacts to make.”
“That sounds fortuitous,” Kellan said noncommittally, just in case he was reading the Colonel wrong.
Mills folded his arms over his chest and looked from Kellan to Jonah and back again. “If you’re up for it, I’m not opposed to letting you accompany Golf Company on their patrol. You can conduct your interview tomorrow and be on a plane back to Germany the day after.”
Kellan was pleasantly surprised that the Colonel so easily facilitated his mission. Maybe it was more than just the enlisted ranks who were unhappy that Restrepo had twice been denied the MOH. “That is an acceptable plan, Colonel.”
§ § §
To Kellan’s annoyance, he needed Jonah’s help with his MTV—modular tactical vest—just before they stepped off on patrol. It was different from the interceptor body armor that had been standard when Kellan had been an officer. Luckily, the Kevlar helmet hadn’t changed.
As they approached the line of Humvees swarming with young Marines, the captain broke off from his men and approached Jonah and Kellan.
“Captain, sir,” Jonah greeted, “First Sergeant Jonah Carver.”
“Top.” The captain’s name patch read Miller.
“May I introduce Kellan Reynolds?” Jonah gestured in Kellan’s direction.
Captain Miller shook his hand briskly. “I’m honored to have you both with us today,” Miller said in a serious tone. “I don’t even mind that you’re both armed. At least I know neither of you will cause yourselves or one of my men harm with a negligent discharge.” His small grin took some of the edge from his words. “But if things go tits up, the two of you will take cover in the Humvee. How copy?”
“Solid, sir,” Jonah replied, still standing stiffly, every inch the enlisted Marine.
“Solid copy, Captain,” Kellan said emphatically. They’d proven themselves in combat enough to have lost count. He and Jonah wanted to make it out intact, they had no issue with taking cover and staying safe.
“I know you’re both very capable, but you haven’t trained with the Marines in my company,” Miller continued. “They have a shorthand and a rhythm that you take the chance of disrupting.”
“Absolutely understood, Captain Miller,” Kellan assured him. “I was a platoon commander, I clearly remember what it was like to have a cohesively functioning team. We’re armed for our own protection, not for the purposes of joining in combat.”
“If one of you comes face to face with an insurgent, by all means, put a bullet in his brain,” the captain said. “Otherwise, stay behind cover and follow any and all directions my men give you.”
“You have my word, Captain,” Kellan agreed. If Kellan was honest with himself, he was even a little bit rusty when it came to combat.
Jonah and Kellan were assigned to ride in the rear seats of a Humvee in the center of the convoy. Kellan had ridden through Iraq in a gun truck, which was less cramped and more open, so he wasn’t used to the claustrophobic feel.
“Is the view different from the back seats?” he asked Jonah jokingly.
As an NCO and a Team Leader, Jonah had spent his deployments in the front passenger seat.
“All the additional armor changed the view after that first deployment,” Jonah responded. “For all the reduced visibility and reduced maneuverability caused by the hillbilly armor, we might as well be in tanks instead of Humvees.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the roar of the diesel engine firing up. Their gunner climbed up the rungs of the small ladder into the turret on the roof. The familiar sound of a .50-caliber round being racked into place reached Kellan’s ears.
Minutes later, they were oscar-mike. The rough, unpaved roads made the ride kidney-jarring and uncomfortable. The volume of the engine made idle chatter with Jonah impractical and getting to know the other Marines in the victor impossible. Kellan settled in for a long, boring journey of staring out the window.
The patrol’s first stop was at the fields of a local farmer. The man greeted Captain Miller and the rest of his family soon joined them. The conversation was friendly and animated, rapidly translated by one of the Marines.
Their Humvee’s Team Leader advised them it was clear for Jonah and Kellan to exit the Humvee, but not to wander too far. They were told to extend their situational awareness and keep their heads on swivels. This farmer was friendly but insurgents were everywhere.
Kellan walked along the side of the rutted road that paralleled the farmer’s crops. Jonah stayed right on Kellan’s six but didn’t say much. Kellan blinked several times, his brain refusing to register what it was he was seeing. Granted, this was the first time he’d ever seen this particular crop outside of a photograph.
They stood looking out over acres and acres of infamous Afghan poppy plants.
Coming to a stop, Kellan quietly asked Jonah, “Are you aware of what this is?”
Jonah seemed to focus on a plant just a few feet from where they stood. “Is it what I think it is?”
“Poppies,” Kellan replied. He should have recognized them sooner. Now that he looked, he could see the score marks where the farmer had let the sap ooze.
“Stay close to me, Kel,” Jonah said tightly, his body going tense as he turned three-sixty. “He’s growing this for a local tribal leader who could show up at any time.”
Kellan didn’t argue. He knew Jonah was right. “We probably shouldn’t separate ourselves from the rest of the Marines.”
Together they walked back toward their Humvee, mixing among the Marines who stood watch and held the perimeter. Captain Miller was still talking to the farmer and it seemed a friendly, informative conversation. Kellan approached slowly, ready to be waved off by Miller if necessary.
Instead, Miller gestured Kellan forward. He introduced them both to the old farmer, saying that Jonah and Kellan were honored guests, on their way to talk about a Marine who had died a hero.
The translator went through the polite ritual greetings.
“Wasim cultivates poppies at the
request
of a local tribal leader,” Captain Miller explained. “He would rather not, but it’s a crop that pays well enough for his family to live comfortably.”
“Not to mention the fact that cooperating with the tribal leader allows him to live in relative peace and safety,” Kellan added.
“It bothers Wasim that he is a source for something that makes so many American people ill, but he has to take care of his family,” Miller said. “The tribal leader might be able to force Wasim to cultivate the crop, but he hasn’t earned Wasim’s loyalty.”
“He provides Marines with information?” Kellan asked.
“He’s very cooperative,” the captain said with a nod. “In the past, Wasim has given us information on both the activities of the tribal leader, and the movements of strangers coming into the area.”
“Insurgents?” Kellan asked in surprise.
“As it turned out, yes,” Miller confirmed. “But as Wasim said, strangers are uncommon in this region. They’re easily noticed and typically not functioning with innocent intent.”
“Has Wasim been compensated for this information?” Kellan asked.
“Not directly,” the captain said quickly. “Not in a quid-pro-quo arrangement. But we have assisted him in recovering missing livestock, we’ve helped him make repairs when irrigation levees have broken, and when a herd of goats went missing, we saw to it they were replaced.”
“Hearts and minds?” Kellan smiled.
“Hearts and minds.”
The translator expressed all of their farewells to Wasim and the Marines climbed back into their victors. Their next stop was at a combat post, which was nothing more than a platoon of Marines dug into a flat patch of dirt and rock. Even now, Marines were squaring walls of trenches with e-tools and stacking sandbags.
“Ammo restock, looks like,” Jonah mused.
“MREs, too,” Kellan said, as he watched crates and cartons get tossed and stacked.
Their stop was brief and they were oscar-mike again.
Kellan was sure his spine was permanently compressed by the time they reached the combat post that was Gunnery Sergeant Galen Foster’s current billet. As soon as the compound gate secured behind them and the Marines began to exit their victors, Kellan carefully stepped out and stretched his aching muscles.
This COP was in what appeared to be some sort of ancient fortification. Tall walls made of mud brick encircled the entire compound. Two single-story structures stood side-by side, also made of mud brick. The original wooden roof had been reinforced with more secure metals, not unlike the hillbilly armor of the Humvees. It was primitive and austere, only slightly less spartan than the first COP they had visited.
Activity buzzed around them. Marines wearing Under Armor shirts unloaded trucks, cleaned weapons, and worked under the hoods of vehicles. Kellan heard laughter and swearing, dirty jokes and most of all, complaining. Marines loved to complain.
Captain Miller took Kellan and Jonah to meet the post commander who quickly summoned Gunnery Sergeant Foster. It didn’t take the Gunny long to respond since he wasn’t on watch. The post commander showed them to a small, cramped, windowless room where Jonah and Kellan could talk with Foster privately.
The room contained several backless camp chairs and empty crates stood on end to serve as tables. Jonah arranged three stools equidistance apart but still close together. Kellan would use proximity to turn up the pressure during this conversation. Foster held the key to something, they were convinced. Kellan just wasn’t sure what that key would unlock.
“How can I be of help, sirs?” Foster asked, unable to mask his anxiety.
“A Senate committee has put me in charge of determining why next to no veterans of Operations Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom are being awarded the Medal of Honor,” Kellan informed him brusquely, falling silent to gauge Foster’s reaction.
The Gunny looked stricken for the briefest of moments before he schooled his features. “What does that have to do with me, sirs?”
“You know what it has to do with you, Gunnery Sergeant,” Kellan replied sharply. “Sergeant Restrepo has twice been denied the MOH and you are on record as a witness to his act of valor.”
“But I’m on record as supporting Sergeant Restrepo,” Foster said in confusion. “How can I be responsible for him not receiving the medal?”
“I didn’t say you were,” Kellan said mildly. “Secondary to that investigation, the First Sergeant and I have determined there are certain inconsistencies in the story of Restrepo’s heroism. They don’t affect the current status of the Sergeant’s medal, but they are problematic on their own.”
“Marines have lied, Gunnery Sergeant,” Jonah interjected sharply. “Not about Restrepo’s heroism, but about why he had to take heroic action at all.”
Foster’s posture stiffened and his expression shuttered.
Kellan leaned toward Foster, resting his forearms on his knees. “Now, the fact he was awarded the Silver Star means that investigators uncovered the truth about what happened that day, and Restrepo’s actions have been verified and validated. What I want to know is who the investigators are covering up for, and why?”
Foster swallowed audibly. He shifted slightly in his chair, eyes darting between Kellan and Jonah.