Part 35 (1/2)

Within twelve minutes, they were in the air, as was another Apache flown by Chief Warrant Officer Third Cla.s.s Randy Huff and Chief Warrant Officer Second Cla.s.s Christopher Wright. They were about thirty minutes from Forward Operating Base Bostick, which normally would be their first stop, to refuel, but based on what they were hearing on the radio, Lewallen and Huff decided to go directly to Camp Keating instead. The valley was too dangerous for the medevac but not for the armed Apaches. This would mean they wouldn't have as much fuel when they got there and therefore wouldn't be able to stay as long, but it sounded like there wasn't a minute to spare. They climbed to an alt.i.tude of ninety-five hundred feet along the mountain range, keeping an eye out for the enemy the whole time. One lucky shot, a single bullet that cost no more than a gumball, and it could all be over.

As the Apaches neared Forward Operating Base Bostick, the operations center at Jalalabad reported that Camp Keating was being overrun. Everyone not only outside the perimeter but also inside it could be considered hostile. ”If this is as bad as you're telling us, we're going to need more Apache support,” Wright replied, knowing the message would be conveyed to his commanders.

The pilots knew that the insurgents were used to seeing the U.S. helicopters travel east to west through the valley to the camp, so they decided instead to fly directly over the top of the northern mountain. As they crossed the peak and came around, they could see nothing of Combat Outpost Keating beyond an orange fire and a billowing column of smoke. It looked as if every building at the camp were aflame. They radioed in to Keating's operations center: ”Black Knight seven-oh, Black Knight seven-oh, do you read?” The pilots had no idea that the men of Black Knight Troop had lost their generator and were having difficulty responding.

Lewallen felt a sinking feeling in his chest. The entire camp must have been overrun, he thought. Everyone was dead.

But then, all of a sudden, Camp Keating made contact on a different radio frequency.

”We've been compromised,” Bundermann announced. ”We've got guys inside the wire.”

Out his window, Bardwell saw a long finger of roughly thirty Afghans walking down the southern mountain on a trail that ran along the river, heading toward the eastern side of the camp.

”Hey, Ross,” he told Lewallen, ”I got a whole bunch of guys here.”

”Do they have weapons?” Lewallen asked.

”Yeah,” said Bardwell.

Lewallen looked. There were so many bad guys that he couldn't believe they were all bad guys.

”We see guys on the road,” Lewallen over the radio. ”Do you have friendlies on the road?”

”No!” said Bundermann. ”Ice 'em!”

”That's not an ANA patrol?” Lewallen said.

”No!” Bundermann reaffirmed.

Apaches can be outfitted with three weapons systems at the same time: up to sixteen h.e.l.lfire missiles, each a one-hundred-pound explosive with precision accuracy that follows an aimed laser to its target; unguided Hydra 2.75-inch rockets, propelled from the front of the aircraft; and a chain gun of 30-millimeter high-explosive detonating rounds that can fire at a speed of up to 640 rounds a minute, targeted at whatever the pilot is looking at, provided that the system is linked to his helmet.

At 7:10 a.m., both Apaches let loose with their 30-milllimeter chain guns, and the insurgents, who were by then trying to breach the wire, were all killed.

A medevac hovering over the camp was waved away; it was still way too hot for it to land. The two Apaches began trying to solve that problem, firing at insurgents on the Putting Green and the Switchbacks. But now, of course, the helicopters had become enemy targets as well.

Romesha led his team of five into the ammo supply point, where they grabbed grenades, three each. They'd need them to throw around blind corners. By now, the Latvians, Lakis and Dabolins, had joined them.

The arrival of the Apaches provided a welcome distraction as Romesha's team made its way to the shura building. Bullets rebounded off the building, with RPGs and B-10 rounds shaking the walls. Bombs screeched as they were dropped from F-15s, a high-pitched whistle that ended with the deep rumble of explosion. Romesha and Rasmussen looked at each other. ”I wonder if this is what it was like during World War Two,” Rasmussen said. They were always talking about how bad previous soldiers had had it-in the trenches of Europe, on the beaches of Normandy, in the jungles of Vietnam. Romesha grinned and said, ”I'm sure this is just a small taste of what it was like, brother.”

Dulaney noticed five insurgents near the maintenance shed, to their south, and he sprayed them with his machine gun; the Latvians followed his lead, dropping grenades on them with their M203 grenade launcher.

Romesha realized that the machine gun in the south of the camp that he'd requested from Bundermann and Hill was still not in place. If it had been, they'd have had a great crossfire to kill those five insurgents, but as it was, they were just eight men trying to fight dozens, if not hundreds, of enemy fighters in three different positions-to the north, the west, and the south. Romesha called Bundermann, ready to let loose: no machine gun, no cover, what was the problem? Even more infuriating to Romesha was the att.i.tude he felt he had picked up listening to his fellow soldiers on the radio: some of the guys from Black Knight Troop sounded as if they were giving up.

f.u.c.k no, Romesha thought. We're not going to sit here and roll over and f.u.c.king get killed. He could feel his adrenaline flowing. You f.u.c.king muj are not going to keep us down, we are going to take this fight to you!

But first he needed everyone to get on the same page. He got on the radio again. ”Where the f.u.c.k is my machine gun?” he asked Bundermann. ”I can't f.u.c.king continue without it! You're going to get me and f.u.c.king everybody with me trying to take this COP back f.u.c.king killed!”

While it didn't feel that way to Romesha, Bundermann had in fact made it a priority to get a machine gun in place to provide him with cover. Problem was, the machine guns were all in use. Hill did find one not being used, in the possession of an Afghan soldier who had taken cover in a drainage ditch outside the operations center. But no matter how hard Hill tried to get the machine gun from him-through argument and brute force-he couldn't do it; here, in the wrong place and at the wrong time, an ANA soldier was finally showing that he had some fight in him.

Finally giving up on the Afghan, Hill ran to the Cafe outside the aid station and found an M240 machine gun. He grabbed it and ran north. Better than nothing. His larger goal was to push north and then west from the operations center, to extend the perimeter of controlled territory. He a.s.sembled a team of men, and they all ran to the dining hall, where they found Private First Cla.s.s Daniel Rogers looking fairly hunkered down. ”What the f.u.c.k?” Hill asked. ”How long you been here, Rogers?”

”I don't know,” Rogers said. He was now part of Hill's team.

They couldn't push past the dining hall because every time they tried to make a move, bullets hailed down on them from the hills. Figuring it couldn't hurt, Hill set up the M240 machine gun and, streaming a Z-pattern with the gun, unleashed several hundred rounds. He set up Gregory, Rogers, and Davidson in positions to help Romesha and his team, and then he ran back to the Cafe.

After forty-five minutes of sitting scared in Wong's hooch, Cookie Thomas heard someone come into the barracks. Then he heard a most welcome language: Latvian. Dabolins and Lakis had come in to get more ammunition.

Thank G.o.d, Thomas thought. He cried out, and they came to him. The Latvians helped the cook get to the aid station, where Floyd, Hobbs, and Cordova started fixing up his leg.

”If the pain gets any worse, I'll give you morphine,” Cordova told him.

”I don't want any until I get out of here,” Thomas said. Until he was on a medevac and in the air, he wanted to be as alert as he could be.

At the Cafe, John Francis looked at Jonathan Hill. ”It's been nice fighting with you,” he said. ”It's been nice serving with you. In case we don't make it out of here.”

”Same here,” Hill replied.

Chris Jones stood at the corner of the ammo supply point, from which vantage he could see the river and the road toward Urmul.

”We got dudes running outside the wire across the bridge,” Romesha said. Jones stood and aimed his rifle. He fired it, and the blast of metal took down one of the insurgents. Rasmussen did the same. Jones fired at a third insurgent and killed him as well. Rasmussen looked at Jones. The kid had a huge grin on his face, like it was the coolest thing he'd ever done.

”Stay here at this position,” Romesha said. ”Anyone who comes up, kill 'em.” Jones was handed the Mk 48 light machine gun, and Dannelley was posted nearby to make sure no enemy snuck up on him.

Sure enough, Dannelley soon saw someone through the wall, on the road. ”Hey, stop,” he yelled. ”f.u.c.king stop! Stop!” Stop!” When the man turned around, Dannelley saw that he was holding an AK-47. ”What are you doing?” Dannelley said, then shouted, ”He's got a gun!” He aimed his M4 rifle at the insurgent, but he had placed it on ”safe,” so it didn't work for a second; he ducked behind the wall. When the man turned around, Dannelley saw that he was holding an AK-47. ”What are you doing?” Dannelley said, then shouted, ”He's got a gun!” He aimed his M4 rifle at the insurgent, but he had placed it on ”safe,” so it didn't work for a second; he ducked behind the wall.

”f.u.c.king shoot him!” yelled Romesha.

”Shoot him!” echoed Rasmussen.

Dannelley clicked off the safety on his rifle and stood to fire, but he'd waited too long-the enemy fighter shot him twice in the arm, and he fell to the ground.

Jones fired his Mk 48 machine gun at the insurgent while Romesha, Rasmussen, and Miller threw grenades over the wall. As the grenades exploded, they looked up and saw the spray of a b.l.o.o.d.y mist and some sc.r.a.ps of the insurgent's clothing rise into the air, then fall. In the craziness of it all, they laughed.

Romesha went over to Dannelley and inspected his injury; it was a sizable flesh wound to his left shoulder and left upper arm, but ultimately he'd be okay. The laughing over, Romesha was now mad. He'd put Dannelley in charge of just one thing: making sure no one snuck up on Jones in the middle of an intense firefight. The kid had seen the insurgent to stop and told him to stop, as if he were on guard duty back in Colorado or something. Romesha figured the Rules of Engagement were mostly to blame; these kids were taught they would go to jail if they overreacted even slightly. It was ridiculous, and it created situations like this one, he thought. Such, he mused bitterly, was the ”politically correct” Army. But while the Rules of Engagement were whatever McChrystal said they were, Romesha always told his men that at the end of the day, ”it's better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.” He sent Dannelley to the aid station, and while the rest of them hunkered down, he told the Latvians to go back and help out Sergeant Hill.

Bundermann directed Ryan Schulz to replace Dannelley. Romesha liked Schulz-he was a cool guy and a hard charger-but he thought of him as being a desk jockey, not a front-line trigger-puller, and his rea.s.signment seemed a sign of how desperate they were. They still had no cover from the south, so Romesha once again radioed Bundermann, who checked with Hill to see what the holdup was. Hill explained that they were still trying to get a machine gun down there, but he said his own men were busy with other tasks-namely, securing the eastern side of the camp and trying to put out several (literal) fires.

”Let the barracks burn,” Romesha said. ”They're just barracks.”

The staff sergeant decided that his request for cover fire from the south was just never going to be met; that fight was lost. He told Rasmussen, Dulaney, and Miller that the wait was over: it was time to take back the shura building. Jones and Schulz would cover them with grenades as best they could, paying special attention to their southern flank, where they would be completely exposed. It was a rash decision, but it needed to be done, and they couldn't wait any longer. They were going to reclaim the entrance to the camp.

Romesha turned to the three men. ”You guys trust me, right?” he said. ”This could get bad.”

”We'll follow you anywhere,” Rasmussen replied.

”You're going to be the point man,” Romesha told Rasmussen.