Victory Point - Ed Darack [97]
Why Shah chose this convoy, however, remains a mystery; Marine Corps convoys plied the Pech Road virtually every day. Killing ⅔’s commander would have been a monumental victory for Shah, heaping even more attention on the extremist. But how could he have known that the lieutenant colonel was in the convoy? Shah had very likely been tipped off that the new battalion commander was on board; possibly by Wafa, or possibly by someone in the governor’s entourage, or possibly by a Watapor local paid by Shah as a lookout. Neither Donnellan nor any of the other Marines of ⅔ would ever know.
Relieved that everyone would fully recover from their injuries, Donnellan walked back to his Humvee as he mentally scrolled through the destruction that Shah had caused: the IED attacks, the mortar and rocket attacks, the police chief, the SEAL recon team, the MH-47. And now this, his own convoy. Unemotional, consummately professional, the battalion commander icily resolved that afternoon to do everything within his ability to allow his Marines once and for all to destroy Shah’s cell. As he reached to open the door of his Humvee, Donnellan scanned the ridgelines throughout the area—unbeknownst to him, two of Shah’s men stared right back at him and the other Marines from their hide—pulled the heavy door shut, then continued the journey to Blessing.
When the shortened convoy arrived in the late afternoon, the three rear Humvees returning to A-Bad with the injured Marines and the interpreter, the shadows of the peaks rising to the west of Blessing had smothered the camp in cool shade. Donnellan emerged to the greetings of Kinser. “Welcome to the edge of the empire, sir,” the lieutenant belted out as he rigidly saluted the new battalion commander. Having closely monitored the events that had just unfolded, by radio, and knowing that everyone had survived the ordeal, Kinser felt the urge to ask sarcastically, “So, what took you so long?” But the lieutenant realized that it was too early to start joking about the attack, especially with a lieutenant colonel he’d never met.
“Well, I’ve finally made it. Camp Blessing,” Donnellan remarked as he gazed at the various lookouts perched atop surrounding ridgelines, then took a deep breath and studied the scene at the camp: grinning members of the ASF washing their feet in buckets of water; Hamchuck and Henrietta lounging in the dirt of a boxing ring the Marines had constructed in front of the base COC; living quarters built not according to any master plan, but simply into the steep terrain; old Soviet and Chinese recoilless rifles, RPG launchers, heavy machine guns, and AK- 47s everywhere, not just dotting the zigzagging, razor-wired perimeter, but leaned against tables and chairs, suspended as decorations in the chow hall, even used to prop open a door. Next to the Humvees, intricately adorned, “jingled out” Toyota Hiluxes, with an array of weapons systems bolted and welded into the trucks’ rear beds, stood ready for some outrageous battle. Camp Blessing looked like some bizarre cross between a set in Apocalypse Now and a set in Thunderdome.
“EEEE!”
“Kinser. What’s that red—”
“EEEE!” From inside the COC, Molly, the base’s resident monkey, loudly emerged.
“What is . . . that? And why is it red, with a Mohawk?”
“That’s Molly, sir. Molly the monkey. She was here when we arrived. She used to have a friend, Mr. Peepers, but he disappeared one day. Not sure, but one of the locals may have lured him out.”
“Mr. Peepers?” Donnellan paused. “I think Molly needs to move along, too.”
“Tried, sir. Tried giving her away a few times, once to a villager five miles up the Waigal Valley, toward Nuristan. I got back from a patrol one night a few days later and found her dragging one of my frag grenades around by its pin. Lucky I had it taped!” Kinser laughed nervously.