Red Metal

PROLOGUE

The radio crackled to life and Marine Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly snatched up the handset mounted on the dash of his Humvee. He wiped a heavy crust of southern Afghanistan dust off his mouth for the fifth time this morning, using a corner of his desert camouflage neck scarf, and he licked his dry lips.

A swirl of dust spun around the vehicle, seeping in through the top gunner’s hatch and between the nooks and crannies in the seams of the doorframes, which sagged because of the heavy appliqué blast armor. The vehicle’s position, at the center of a convoy of Humvees, ensured it was constantly engulfed in a nearly impenetrable cloud of sand and dirt.

Connolly pulled his canteen off his web belt, took a sip of warm water. Into the mic he said, “This is Betio Six. Send your traffic.”

A rushed and eager voice said, “Betio Six, this is Betio Main. Sir, flash, flash, flash! Report from the Deuce follows.”

It was barely ten o’clock in the morning and already the temps were in the nineties. Connolly wiped sweat from his eyes with one hand as he reached over and turned up the radio. The Deuce was the call sign of the battalion’s intelligence officer, and a flash report from him told the lieutenant colonel that this already sweltering Afghanistan morning was probably about to heat up even more.

Without pausing for acknowledgment, the radio operator in the battalion’s operation center said, “Someone in your vicinity has eyes on you. Deuce says attack on your convoy imminent.”

“Betio Main, Betio Six, acknowledged.”

Shit.

Connolly was commander of 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment, and he didn’t have to be here right now. There was no operational reason for someone of his rank to go out on this mission to a neighboring town to speak with the mayor. Any of his company commanders, all captains, could have handled this themselves, but Connolly had wanted to see this town for himself because the reports he’d been getting were that the locals had begun working closely with the Taliban.

And now someone was watching his movements. He assumed the Deuce had decoded a radio intercept of insurgent chatter.

He clicked over the dial on the AN/PRC-119 radio and rekeyed the handset. “Lima Six, this is Betio Actual. Be advised: Stay tight and sharp. Betio Main just reported we’ve got someone with eyes on us, time now. Let’s do a security halt and see if we can get inside their loop.” This was Marine jargon, meaning Connolly hoped to do something the enemy wouldn’t expect to make them trip a potential ambush early.

Lima Six acknowledged the order, and the convoy began slowing to a halt.

An earsplitting boom rocked the road at the front of the convoy. Connolly was shaken in his seat, and even before he could look through the dust out the front windshield, he heard the sounds of multiple RPG rockets detonating and bursts of incoming machine-gun fire.

Connolly saw huge chunks of road flying through the air ahead of him, followed by a plume of flame and smoke. The debris came raining back down amid the small-arms fire, pounding his vehicle and adding to the soundtrack of the chaos.

The twelve vehicles immediately performed a “herringbone,” a well-practiced battle maneuver in which each vehicle pulled either left or right in alternating fashion. The turret gunners on each Humvee began firing their .50-cal machine guns in their sectors, churning the surrounding hills with heavy rounds.

“That sure as shit didn’t take long!” yelled Connolly’s driver over the heavy thump of the M2 Browning machine gun and the steady ringing of bullet brass and metal links dropping through the vehicle’s hatch above them.

Connolly turned to the radioman in the back. “Sergeant Bosse, grab your rifle and get out, my side! Let’s go!”

The radio operator didn’t need to be told twice. Sitting in a Humvee during a firefight was a sure way to get killed. The version the Marines rolled in today was heavily armored, but a well-placed RPG could destroy the vehicle and everyone in it — and, with the firepower pouring out of the turrets, each Humvee would be an RPG magnet.

Before he could bail, Connolly heard another transmission on the radio affixed to the dash. “Six, this is Echo Six Papa.” It was Lima Company’s First Sergeant Perez, one of the battalion’s most competent enlisted leaders, sounding as calm and confident as ever. “Lima Six’s vic is down,” he said. “They gotta be shaken, but I see his gunner returning fire, so I think they’re good to go. He’s on the platoon radio tactical net right now giving orders to attack.”

The improvised explosive device was usually fabricated from several hundred pounds of iron or steel scrap, surrounding dried ammonium nitrate mixed with fuel oil. The Taliban buried these devices in the middle of the road, often using battery acid to melt pavement, then planting the weapon and covering it with dirt. The Taliban fighters liked to initiate their IEDs, launch a few rocket-propelled grenades, hammer the area with machine guns, and then leave in the confusion.

Connolly knelt outside his vehicle, his rifle at his shoulder held with one hand while he clutched the radio handset with his other. “Copy, Echo Six Papa. I’m coming to your position. Let Lima Six know he’s got this fight.” He tossed the handset back in the Humvee and put both hands on his rifle.

Sergeant Bosse’s heavy body armor slowed down his escape, as he had to cross over from his side of the vehicle and between the machine gunner’s feet, but he tumbled out of the Humvee seconds later.

“Bosse, get the damn radio!” Connolly shouted, pointing back into the vehicle at the PRC-119. The young Marine had grabbed his carbine but forgotten his primary weapon, the battalion commander’s portable radio.

The radioman clambered back inside as incoming AK fire raked the armor on the opposite side of the Humvee. As he stumbled back out, radio in hand, he and his lieutenant colonel were joined by the sergeant major, and the three Marines set off down the length of the convoy at a crouched run while 7.62mm rounds whizzed overhead.

All the Humvees’ turrets had pivoted their M2 .50-cal machine guns to the left side toward the attack, and they crackled off a near-constant volley of fire. As Connolly ran along, he saw the air officer firing his M4 over the hood of one of the vehicles. Connolly grabbed him by his load-bearing vest and pulled him along, knowing he might well need him.

M2 tracers pounded the hillside to the north of the column. Some of it was aimed fire, blasted at points where the gunners saw enemy positions, but other shooters were simply hosing the hills, because they were, after all, Marine Corps machine gunners, and even if they couldn’t see their targets, they loved an opportunity to fire their weapons in anger.

And so far it was paying off. The Marines’ heavy barrage of outgoing lead established immediate fire dominance and forced the enemy to take cover behind rocky outcroppings. Connolly knew that if he could just press this attack, he could get the Taliban retreating, caught out in the open on the far side of the hills.

Connolly, the air officer, the battalion sergeant major, and the radio operator arrived at the lead vehicle, where the Lima Company commander was positioned.

Connolly was almost out of breath when he reached the young captain. “How do you want to handle this?”

“I got a good base of fire goin’, sir. I want to keep drivers here in their vics to maneuver if needed while I flank left with an assault force.”

“Okay, you got it. I’ll grab the air-O and see what’s on station.”

Lima Company began pushing up a rocky hill, maneuvering toward high ground adjacent to the rear side of the hill, where the Taliban attack had come from. Connolly followed behind. Lima’s captain was the one running the fight, and even though Connolly was the battalion commander, his job here was simply to support.

He positioned his small team of four on a rocky hilltop two hundred meters away from Lima Company so he could see the battlefield. His first action was to get his air officer, a Marine pilot who’d spent the past few years on the ground with the grunts, into the fight.

“Bill, you are danger-close range to Lima, but I’ll have him hold back a bit if you can get something overhead in the next five mikes.”

“I have a section of fast movers itching for gun runs, sir.”

“Copy. Deconflict with Lima and let’s nail these fucks.”

The air officer knelt behind cover and worked up a nine-line briefing. Each line of text was chock-full of data describing the target, the location and composition of the enemy, and how the air officer wanted the aircraft to attack. After the necessary radio calls, the air officer told Connolly a pair of A-10 Warthogs was en route.

Soon a distant but unmistakable whine signaled the A-10s’ approach. In moments a solo A-10 blasted directly over Connolly and the rest of his small team of headquarters personnel on the hilltop, its 30mm cannon spitting fire at 3,900 rounds per minute. The blast of the low-flying aircraft’s jets knocked Connolly flat as the brrrrrrrrt of the cannon slammed rounds into the insurgents’ positions.

Some Taliban, apparently certain they would die if they remained in place, made the choice to run from their positions.

They didn’t run far.

Lima Company resumed their ascent onto the small, rocky peak where the enemy held out. The fight quickly became localized as smaller platoons and squads from Lima Company coordinated with the supporting aircraft. The first A-10 pulled off wide right, giving the enemy a chance to pick up and move, right as the second A-10 began its gun run, killing more of them.

The Marines swarmed upward, closer to the enemy’s remaining fighting positions.

The air officer signaled that the A-10s were moving off to get set for another run, giving Connolly and the men from his headquarters a break in the noise level. The lieutenant colonel pulled out his binos and watched Lima’s maneuvers with satisfaction and pride in their skills and training, but also with a gut-wrenching concern for the Marines with each daring step they took.

Suddenly a burst of AK-47 gunfire crackled no more than twenty meters off Connolly’s right side. Next to him, the air officer cried out and fell to the ground.

The sergeant major spun quickly and emptied a full magazine at two Taliban fighters firing over boulders lower on the hillside. His shots missed but convinced the attackers to drop back behind cover.

Connolly pulled a grenade from his pouch and yanked the pin.

“Frag out!”

He threw it twenty meters out, just to the left side of the boulder.

It bounced down and landed near the two Taliban fighters, but one man kicked it away, and it skittered farther down the hill before detonating in craggy rocks.

This wasn’t the result Connolly was looking for, but it gave him an idea.

“Bill, you still up?”

The air officer replied through obvious pain, “Yes, sir. I’ll be fine.”

Connolly glanced back from his position low in the rocks, and he could see Bill crouched ten meters back, blood pouring out of his right calf, but he held his radio up and was clearly still in communication with the A-10s.

“Stay put,” Connolly said. “Keep the Hogs on Lima’s insurgents. But I need you and Bosse to keep up small bursts of fire to keep these two guys pinned. Sergeant Major, you got any grenades?”

The sergeant major was closer than the air officer, just five meters to Connolly’s left. His eyes and his rifle were pointed at the boulder that the insurgents hid behind. “Yes, sir! I’m stacked.”

“On my signal, toss one at a time, three total. Let them cook off a second or two first; buy me some time to move to the south. Once the last one blows, I’ll attack from the right flank.”

“Got it, sir. Ready when you are.”

“Go!”

With bursts of fire from the air officer and radioman preventing the enemy from maneuvering, the sergeant major threw his three grenades, keeping the two Taliban low and focused on not getting blown to pieces. The first two missed their mark, but the third grenade blew close enough to kick rocks and debris over the two men crouched behind the boulder. Connolly had shifted wide to the right, and now he put his rifle’s Aimpoint sight right on the rocks. Flanking the enemy position, he saw two darkly clad forms holding AKs.

One of the Taliban saw him at the same time and swung his weapon around to his left.

The Marine dropped hard to his kneepads and fired twice, hitting the man in the head both times. The other fighter stood up and shot wildly, but Connolly squeezed off two more shots, knocking the man down. The Taliban groaned and climbed back up to a kneeling position, but the radio operator took him out with a head shot of his own.

Connolly climbed back to his feet, peered around the boulder, and then noticed a suicide vest on one of the men.

“I see an S-vest on one of these guys! Get some cover while I give him a head shot to make sure he can’t detonate it.”

Connolly moved around the boulder and aimed his rifle, and then the suicide vest went off.

The lieutenant colonel was blown backward and then the steep gradient of the hill sent him rolling to his right, debris and shrapnel ripping through the air around him. He tumbled end over end twice and then went upright, but he was still falling.

With a crunching impact he landed feetfirst on a rocky footpath twelve feet down the hill.

He ended up on his back, his knees raging in pain from the rough landing, but he checked the rest of his body and was stunned to find he had not been injured by the blast itself.

Christ, he thought. Dumb luck.

He struggled to stand, his knees aching still, and had to pull himself upright with the help of a nearby boulder.

The sergeant major called from above. “You hurt, sir?”

Connolly limped a few steps as his knees recovered slowly. “I’m good.” He took the footpath back up the steep hill to his men, still walking gingerly. He found the sergeant major standing by the two mutilated bodies.

“You keep doing young-guy shit like that, sir, those knees ain’t gonna last.”

“Thanks for the advice. You know of anybody around here looking to hire someone to do old-guy shit?”

“No, sir. I’ll keep my eyes open, though.”

They left the enemy fighters’ bodies and went back to the radio operator and the air officer, who now had his boot off and was applying a bandage from his medical kit. Blood poured from the raw calf wound, but the dressing stanched it quickly.

“Let’s call in a medevac,” Connolly said.

“Lima just called one. He has a few casualties, too. None life-threatening. Shrapnel wounds and a gunshot to the arm.”

Connolly grabbed the radio as he leaned in to look over the air officer’s wounded leg.

“Lima Six, Lima Six, this is Betio Six, sitrep, over.”

“Copy, Betio. We have seventeen dead mooj. I understand you have two of your own up there.”

“We do. Keep on the alert for more. Understand medevac birds are en route for your wounded.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Great work, Lima Six.”

“We’re gonna have to thank the Deuce, sir. Pretty sure he saved our asses with that intel right before the IED.”

“Copy. Make sure you buy him a round when we’re back stateside. We’re going to grab the air-O and climb down to your position.”

Connolly handed the handset to the operator and patted him on the back.

The air officer was still talking to the pair of A-10 pilots orbiting nearby, keeping them on station as insurance. While doing this, he tried to stand, as if he wanted to walk on his own, bootless and bleeding, down the hill.

The sergeant major glared at him, then grabbed him by the arms, pulling him and his heavy gear up onto his back like a human rucksack.

As they moved down the hill slowly, the sergeant major spoke through labored breaths. “Eighteen years of fighting Taliban, sir… and I’d say we’ve finally just about got it down. What do you think?”

Connolly struggled with the pain in his creaky knees and the arduous movement down the hill. “Well, it’s about damn time. But I can’t help but worry we’ve spent too much time fighting these medieval assholes and not enough time getting ready for the next fight.”

“What’s the next fight, sir?”

“Well, Sergeant Major, can’t say. But I figure whoever we fight next, they won’t look like our enemy now. An enemy with no air, no navy, no armor, no cyber, no reach or lift or tactics beyond hit-and-runs and roadside bombs. Trust me, we’re going to look back on the good ol’ days with a sense of wistful nostalgia, pining for the times we were just getting blown up and shot at in the mountains.”

There was a long pause on the sergeant major’s side, then: “Have to say it, sir. You’re a bit of a buzzkill.”

The wounded air officer riding on the sergeant major’s back chuckled at this, then winced in pain as his bloody calf brushed against a thicket.

Captain Raymond Vance banked his A-10 to the left and looked down at the smoking, cratered road below. The Marine Humvees had begun picking their way over the broken terrain again, hunting for remaining Taliban.

He called his wingman as he leveled off. “Hey, Nuts, what’s your round count?”

“Below two K.”

“Copy. I’m at eight hundred.”

“We’re gonna have to call off station, but they look like they’ve got it all in hand down there.”

“We handled it. The Marines just got our scraps,” said Nuts.

“Yeah. Hate to be those boys, though.”

“Why? Livin’ down in the dirt was their choice. They could’ve been pilots if they wanted to.”

“Maybe so, but we leave theater in three days, while they have months more of this shit.”

Captain Ray Vance, call sign Shank, saluted in the Marines’ direction as he checked off station with the unit’s air officer.