The Fifth Act, page 11
Earlier in the day, Ian and I had spoken on the phone. Both of us had remarked on how surreal this increasingly crowdsourced evacuation had become, how it had placed us in chat groups with people we’d never met and how we’d found ourselves scrambling to evacuate Afghans whom we knew only tenuously—often through the referral of Americans whom we knew only slightly less tenuously. It infuriated Ian how our government had no system in place, how the leveraging of personal networks was what determined whether someone could get into the airport or not, how Afghans would live or die based on the contact list in their cell phone. Ian said it reminded him of the war, which was waged in a similarly personal and networked fashion. He reminded me of the targets we used to chase, in some cases for years, those al-Qaeda cell leaders and Taliban commanders. We became familiar with them, the relationships having a similar quality of acquaintance, and we would hear in our reporting that our adversaries hazily knew who we were too, how they understood what units and—in certain cases—what people were rotating in and out of familiar Afghan bases. The war—so long forgotten—had been fought on intimate terms.
And now it was ending that way too.
It is late. Of Adeeba and her group, Ian writes, They are smoked and trying to rest before pushing. Everyone too tired to move and too scared not to.
Exhausted myself, I fall asleep.
The next morning, my wife and I are hustling our children through breakfast, out of our hotel, and into a taxi when another message arrives. It’s the one we’ve been waiting for, from Richardella:
Team, how many do we have ready to come through the North Gate?
SCENE VII
Zerkoh Valley, Herat Province, 2008
Standard operating procedure was to keep black vinyl bags in the back of each truck, out of sight. His remains had been zipped up in one of those bags. It had been placed nearby, on a patch of charred sand, not far from the crater. The destroyed Humvee sat on the lip of the crater. Blood, like spilled paint, stained the side of the hood and wheel well. The remaining vehicles in the convoy had fanned out, their machine guns refuting the IED and the valley’s insult like a piece of staircase wit. The major sat inside the RG-33, dazed like a prizefighter between rounds, clutching a radio handset he wasn’t talking into. We had gotten down there in less than an hour. You could still smell the explosives in the air, the acrid mix of cordite and gasoline. Everyone was speaking in whispers. Tubes was dead.
We needed to remove all the sensitive items from the wrecked Humvee, which mostly included Tubes’s encrypted radios. We then needed to rig up the Humvee so we could tow it back to our firebase. We worked into the night, a circle of our headlights illuminating the wreckage. I learned from others what had happened: how headquarters was running late for the KLE; how, to arrive on time, they’d chosen to take a dirt road that led them into a wadi; how they’d accounted for this risk by placing the IED-resistant RG-33 at the front of the convoy because it could safely absorb most blasts; how they hadn’t accounted for the RG-33’s narrower wheelbase; how the Humvee’s wider wheelbase had run over the pressure plate and triggered the IED as they came out of the wadi; how the explosives must’ve been placed directly under Tubes’s seat; how the major had been sitting next to Tubes and had survived; how if Tubes’s radios had been working, he would’ve been in the RG-33 instead of with the major.
Periodically, as we worked, I jogged over to the major, to update him on our progress. He remained seated in the RG-33, still clutching his handset but not making any transmissions. What transmission could unwind the should’ves and could’ves of that night? Tubes should not have died. They could have taken a different route. Or Tubes could’ve ridden in the RG-33. I wanted to snatch the handset away from the major. What was the point of holding on to it? There was nothing left to say about what’d happened in this valley, just as there was nothing left to say about Shewan, or that any of us could say about any of this. If he and I had been friends, if he hadn’t been my boss—if he had been, say, Tubes—I would’ve told him, Is what it is. But he wasn’t. Instead, I quietly asked Redbone to get on the radio. He would pass our situation report up to our higher headquarters in Bagram.
We convoyed through the valley in silence. Tubes’s body was in the back of another Humvee. The next morning, a C-130 would land at the dusty airstrip near our firebase for the first leg of his journey home. Until then, we would need to keep him somewhere. Our hospital corpsman suggested we use our refrigeration container as a makeshift morgue.
Immediately on returning to our firebase, we placed Tubes’s remains inside the refrigeration container on a stretcher. We cleared out a corner for him, in the back. This was the best we could do, at least for now. Each of us paid our respects, and I soon found myself alone with him in the cold. I crouched down and touched the vinyl bag. I was saying goodbye when the door swung open. The sun was, by now, coming up. I squinted into the light, toward a silhouetted figure who apologized as he quickly stepped inside. It was one of our Afghan cooks. He was so sorry to interrupt, but he needed to grab a few things. He’d been told by Willy to go back and see if it was possible to reheat the meal from the night before.
SCENE VIII
A taxi to the airport
My wife counts our bags. Then she counts our children. We have everyone and everything. Shoulder to shoulder, we load into the taxi. She also counts the time, which she’s made sure we’ll have plenty of, so we won’t miss our flight. I’ve often teased her about how early she makes us arrive at any airport. But because of her we’ve never missed a flight, and likely never will.
Shah is also on his way to the airport, as are the eight Afghans from Ian’s group. Richardella, who is inside HKIA, posts in our chat, Let’s shoot for 1300. Consolidate who you can and tell them to move toward the front of that side gate.
Our chat has a new addition, Danny. He is the army veteran turned college roommate of my friend Richard’s nephew. He is the one who fought alongside Shah in Afghanistan. We’ve added him because he is in direct contact with Shah. After Richardella sends his message, I post, Rgr. Ian, copy? Danny, copy?
Both reply, copy.
The Marines will need to be able to recognize Shah in the crowd. To signal them, Shah writes his name in blue block letters on a piece of white printer paper along with that of his wife, Forozan. It’s the best he can do. Danny posts a photograph of Shah’s paper sign to the chat, so Richardella can pass it along to the Marines who will be looking for him.
Ian is struggling to get in touch with his eight at the mosque. He posts, I’ve lost comms with Adeeba and group. Her WhatsApp was last seen an hour ago, don’t want to hold you guys up.
Richardella posts, Let’s get as many in at once as possible. This site is burned. I want to get this group in before we shut it down for a while.
Ian asks Danny if he knows what Adeeba said to Shah when they last spoke the night before.
When I arrive at the airport with my family, Danny still hasn’t responded to Ian’s question. The taxi driver is helping us unload our bags, and I am doing my best to pay attention to the chat and to help my wife count the bags and the children as we move into the terminal. We are at the ticket counter when a response from Danny finally arrives: I think she just made contact . . . Stand by . . . She’s close to the north gate . . . She called Shah . . . He is looking for her.
Ian answers, I needed that. Thanks.
Danny posts a photograph taken by Shah to the group chat. It is of his perspective with relation to the North Gate. A pair of wheelbarrows sits in the foreground, filled with bottled water that vendors are selling to the desperate, exhausted crowds. Beyond the vendors, those trying to leave have pressed themselves against a concrete wall. The top of the wall is threaded with coils of concertina wire. At a distance, a single helmeted head wearing wraparound sunglasses pokes above the wall. The muzzle of a rifle is trained on the crowd. It’s one of the Marines from 1/8, Richardella’s battalion. Shah draws a big red arrow on the photograph pointed down at this Marine. When he shares it, Danny writes, Working to get a better picture but this is what I got. Shah didn’t want to get too close.
Ian sends the photo to Adeeba. Their two groups are struggling to find each other at the North Gate. He writes, Trying to talk her through sharing location with me on WhatsApp.
My wife needs my passport. She has checked our bags at the ticket counter, and they are now printing out our boarding passes. “Didn’t I already give my passport to you?” I ask, shifting my attention away from the phone. She shakes her head, no. In her hand are everyone else’s passports except mine, and she reminds me how when she had offered to hold on to all of the passports at the beginning of the trip, I had insisted on keeping track of my own. I riffle through my pockets until I recall that I’d put the passport in my carry-on. I hand it to her and return to my phone, where I see that Richardella has posted another message: The team needs to move to the fence gate. Get to the front and sit tight. How many are we extracting?
I write, Danny, I’m tracking you’re: 2 pax. Ian, I am tracking you’re: 8 pax. That’s 10 pax total. Confirm.
Both confirm the numbers traveling in their groups and that they are now headed to the side gate. Richardella posts, Let us know when the group has linked up and are in position. We’ll be ready.
The crowd around the North Gate is a thick swaying mass, jammed chest to chest and shoulder to shoulder. In recent days, the Biden administration has publicly remarked that those with visas to the United States, as well as green card holders and American citizens, are free to enter the airport for processing. Except entering the airport is no small feat. The crowds are so dense, the environment so chaotic, that what we’re asking Shah and Adeeba to do is the equivalent of finding each other in the crowd at a packed rock concert—say, the Rolling Stones at Altamont—and then working their way to the front of that crowd and then getting the attention of the band so they can be lifted up on stage.
Ten minutes have passed when Ian writes, Update: Adeeba says she can see the gate and is trying to get there. I’ve tried to talk her through sharing location in WhatsApp, but for now seems better that she just keep moving. I will ping her in a few and reassess.
Danny responds, Shah is at location where tear gas was just dropped as a reference point for location.
Another ten minutes go by. I am waiting in the security line with my family at the airport when Ian posts, She seems far still.
Danny writes, Shah close to gate, but not pushed up so as to link up with Adeeba.
Ian confirms that Adeeba is still struggling to get up to the gate. Danny tells him that Shah will keep waiting. Shah has never met Adeeba. She is a stranger to him, but he’ll wait. Then Ian posts, Appears to me she will get there right at 1300.
Richardella pops up in the text: How many are ready to go?
Danny: Linkup with two groups happening at north gate now, stand by for confirmation.
Richardella: Roger, let us know. They can link arms, move to the front, and we’ll bring them in.
A few more minutes pass. Danny comes up in the chat. It seems the linkup between Shah and Adeeba has occurred, though it’s not entirely clear, and I post, Roger, so I copy all 10 pax linked up and moving to North Gate now.
Danny confirms this as I’m emptying my pockets into a dish, to include my cell phone. I pass through the metal detectors at security. In the few minutes it takes me to gather my things and walk with my family to the gate for our flight, the text chain proceeds like this:
Richardella: We’re here and ready. What’s signal of lead trace?
(I repost the sheet of paper with Shah and Forozan’s names printed in blue block letters.)
Danny: Linking arms. Pushing to front now.
Richardella: Copy on all. We’re ready.
(For good measure, I repost a photograph of Shah while Danny reposts a photograph of Forozan, so both will be more easily recognizable to the Marines.)
Richardella: This is what it looks like from our end. Canal to the south, t-walls north which is the vehicle entrance. Vendors are right behind the group in front of us.
(The photograph he posts is taken from down a narrow, open-air corridor, a ravine of barricades, dominated by a cement wall on one side and a chain-link fence on the other, which drops a dozen feet into a putrescent canal. Empty bottles of water, seemingly hurled over the wall by the crowd, as well as shreds of cardboard and rocks, litter the ground. Tangles of wire lurch toward one another as though frozen in the act of collapse. Their contorted attitudes reinforce every conceivable point of vulnerability, from the tops of the walls to the opening of the single steel door at its far end. The plan is for the Marines to charge down this corridor, out into the crowd, and then to haul our group inside.)
Danny: Relayed your picture. Their view.
(The photograph is taken by Shah. He is wedged into the crowd, so the frame is mostly consumed by the backs of other people’s heads. In the distance you can see a pair of Marines barricaded behind a concrete wall with a roll of concertina wire unspooled across its top and a security camera with its black orbed lens dangling overhead on a small crane.)
Richardella: They are in front of the vehicle entrance, the fence gate is to their left on the south side of the t-wall. They need to move back, go around, and swing left.
Danny: Rgr. Communicating it to him.
Richardella: The canal is to their left. That’s the catching feature. Hit the canal and turn right. Come to the fenced gate.
(A minute of silence passes.)
Richardella: Got visual. Keep coming forward.
Danny: Lost comms he’s moving.
Richardella: We’re moving now. We see him.
Danny: On phone w Shah that’s him.
Richardella: We have him.
Danny: I love you. Thank you sir.
I have since arrived at my gate. My son is sitting beside me, playing a World War II fighter pilot game on his iPad. He blasts Nazi Messerschmitts and Japanese Zeros out of the sky. The other children are doing much the same, playing games on their phones or their iPads, watching videos, gently bickering with one another, and generally killing the thirty or so minutes until we board our flight. My wife slips into the seat next to mine. “You okay?” she asks. I show her my phone. She scrolls through the past fifteen minutes or so of messages. It was said of my wife’s father that he could cry at an ice hockey game, and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I’ve seen my wife cry watching football. It’s one of the many things I love about her. When she hands me back my phone, she is wiping tears from her eyes, and she says only, “Thank God.”
At this, my son glances up at the two of us and asks, “Are you guys okay?”
“We’re fine,” says my wife. “Some people who your dad has been trying to help look like they’re going to get out of Afghanistan.”
“But that’s good news,” he says. “Why are you both crying?”
My wife places her hand on the back of my neck. Very quietly, she says, “I think I’m just happy for those people.” Then she looks at me and adds, “And I’m happy for your dad.”
My son sits up straight, flaring back his shoulders ever so slightly. He puts his hand on my shoulder. He considers me for a moment like a general reviewing one of his troopers in the ranks, and with all the seriousness, composure, and gravitas a nine-year-old boy might muster, he says, “Good work, Dad. I’m happy for you too.” Then he goes back to his game.
In the chat, we’re trying to confirm that everyone got through the gate, that in the chaos no one was inadvertently left behind. Ian reposts the manifest for Richardella to confirm. In addition to confirming the manifest and that consular services have now processed everyone into the airport, Richardella posts a selfie. Shah stands center frame with his left arm embracing Forozan. To their right is Richardella, whose arm is outstretched as he snaps the picture. He still wears his helmet and body armor, with a small and familiar 1st Battalion, 8th Marines unit crest Velcroed to his chest alongside his rank insignia. The eight others in the group are huddled around these three, cramming themselves into the frame. Their smiles are unrestrained.
Ian writes, Heroes.
I write the same.
Danny writes, I’m crying. Heroes. There’s the fucking mannnnn.
Our flight is going to board soon. My wife asks me if I wouldn’t mind grabbing us a few sandwiches, as we’re going to miss lunch and who knows what they’ll serve on the plane. I wander off into the terminal, to a small kiosk, where I wait in line. On a separate thread, just to Richardella, I write, Rich, on a side note, I was wondering which of your companies got them: A, B, C, Wpns? Just as an alum. Really damn fine work. I’m so grateful to you and those 1/8 Marines.
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s busy, of course. I pick out a few sandwiches, some waters, a treat for each of the kids. In my pocket, I feel my phone ping with Richardella’s response but need to finish paying. I take my change from the cashier and, with my arms full, manage to find a place to sit down. I fish out my phone. Rich has written, Your old company of course. Anything for a Beirut Marine.
My two wars, which spanned two decades, seem to collide with each other in this message. The force pins me to this seat in the airport. I sit there with the bag of sandwiches at my feet, in a daze, while whole packs of travelers seem to float by. I am staring vacantly across the terminal when my son eventually finds me. “Dad,” he says, “it’s time to go. We’re boarding.”
