Victory Point - Ed Darack [61]
“Very carefully, that’s how. They’re fucking badasses. Wish they could support us for that op we were gonna do.” With twenty cases of MREs and fifty cases of bottled water off-loaded, the Chinooks’ pilots spun the engines up and eased the two birds back into the heights, disappearing into the eastern distance with the Apaches, leaving only the sounds of gentle breezes on the airy slope—and some ringing in the grunts’ ears.
“Wow, look at all these extremist fighters here at this big-ass training facility,” Kinser began as he searched for a cigarette, examining the eight-foot-by-eight-foot-by-five-foot-high rock hut. “Think there’s fifty midget Taliban in there, Bradley?”
“Let’s find out.” Bradley lifted a latch and swung open a rickety wood door, exposing piles of harvested corn kernels.
“Oh . . . shit. Somebody gimme a cigarette,” Kinser ordered, shaking his head. “Great intel.” For the next four hours, the twenty Marines fanned out over the entire mountain above them, finding nothing—no weapons caches, no signs any bad guys had ever even been in the area. Then an old shepherd rounded a corner, the owner of the small storage shack. As the Marines greeted the Afghan, Kinser’s company commander radioed the lieutenant. “Nope, no monkey bars, no guys with black masks running through an obstacle course, no Osama bin Laden, just a nice old man and some corn.” Kinser gave a quick brief over a secure net.
“Okay. Then get back to Blessing, and take all that chow and water with you. Get back immediately, I mean now.” Kinser tried to explain the situation on the ground—the very, very steep ground below his feet—and that portaging the hundreds of pounds of chow and water would be virtually impossible without making a number of trips up and down the slope. After more back-and-forth, Kinser’s commander finally acquiesced, and the lieutenant gave all the supplies to the shepherd, which the Marines stacked inside and around his storage shack. Then, communicating more with hand gestures and facial expressions than in Pashto, Kinser apologized for “dropping in” on him and invading his space. The Marines followed their new friend down the mountain, on their way stopping by his small house, from which the shepherd brought out a large jug.
“I think he wants to give us something,” Kinser said with mock trepidation, still reeling from the undercooked goat at Haji Arref’s compound. As the shepherd poured cups of the creamy liquid, Burgos and Bradley looked at each other with fear for their commander.
“Sir, you aren’t gonna—”
Kinser gulped it down. “This shit is damn good. Goat’s milk! First time I’ve ever had milk from a goat. Well, from a goat rope mission, we get goat’s milk! Mmm.” He finished off the cup, remarking how cool the drink felt in his throat.
“Sir, I think it isn’t that cool; it’s just that it’s so freakin’ hot out that even something that’s a hundred degrees tastes cool,” Fisher added, then drank some himself.
With the sun closing on the jagged western horizon, Kinser and his Marines fanned out and started down the mountain. “Keep thirty feet of dispersion, Girl Scouts!” Bradley shouted repeatedly as the Marines clumped up on their passage down the peak. “Remember, it’s a lot easier for them to hit us if we’re all fuckin’ clumped together. Keep dispersed!” Many of the grunts had never faced such a grueling physical challenge before; each carried from eighty to one hundred pounds of gear and Kinser’s thermometer showed the temperature to be 105 degrees just as the sun kissed the horizon. Their body armor wasn’t just heavy, it compressed their chests, bound into their shoulders, and their Kevlar helmets acted as convection ovens, literally cooking their heads in the intense heat. “This isn’t fuckin’ boot camp! And this ain’t training! This is for fuckin’ real,” Bradley roared. “Stay damned dispersed and look alive. We can get shot at at any moment!”
Kinser, who bounded down the mountain at the head of the patrol, got tired of Bradley and Fisher