The Long November

1

Man has no need to fear any future hell. For by his actions he has created his own in the here and now.

Walt Gragg

11:11 p.m., October 31

Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment, 2nd Marine Division

Spinager Air Base, Northwest India

Marine captain Samuel Erickson stood watching as the loading of the King Stallions began in earnest. In the swirling dust and consuming darkness of a nearly moonless night, the company commander observed the expanding activity around the six widely spaced CH-53K cargo helicopters. At India's insistence, before arriving, any identifying information on the King Stallions had been painted over, masking what they were and to whom they belonged.

Groups of recently roused men rushed in every direction. For many, a fitful sleep still clung to their eyes. Each was gathering weapons of war and depositing them near the noisy craft. Anxious directives from their platoon and squad leaders filled the air. All understood that if they were going to prevail in their desperate attempt, little time remained. An hour at most before the Marine Company's incursion inside Pakistan had to begin.

They'd arrived on the previous night and been secreted away in a desolate portion of the Indian air base. They weren't supposed to be here. And India's government strongly desired to keep the Americans' presence secret. Nonetheless, given the severity of the situation, they'd reluctantly agreed to allow them onto their country's soil. Even if only briefly.

Erickson had been told his men were to be the backup portion of the American rescue plan. In all likelihood they wouldn't be needed. The situation called for them to remain sequestered at the air base for no more than a couple of days prior to being airlifted out of the country. They were to sit on their packs and wait for word to come. Only if things went unforeseeably wrong would they be called into action. They were to be ready but could anticipate doing nothing more than sweating beneath an unrelenting Indian sun before being withdrawn.

Yet, to their surprise, things in Islamabad had, in fact, gone awry. And Erickson had received the frantic call to action. With little notice, he was readying his men to rush headlong into the middle of a vicious civil war that already had claimed millions of lives. While they prepared to depart, the secrecy of the operation was of paramount importance. They couldn't risk the rampaging jihadists across the border being warned of their activities.

The first of the company's lethal up-armored Humvees eased up the rear ramp and disappeared into the belly of the foremost helicopter. Under the King Stallion senior crew chief's direction, it edged forward to the front of the hold and settled into place. Before its driver could turn off the engine, the aircraft's pair of crew chiefs began securing the combat-ready vehicle in preparation for the coming flight. Soon a trio of Humvees would be nestled inside each of the six large helicopters. The company's men would then bring on board the heavy machine guns, mortars, Javelin and TOW antitank missiles, ammunition, medical supplies, rations, and materials needed to support the company's men for up to a week of intense combat. The list was nearly endless. When filled, each heavily laden transport would contain three Humvees, stacks of boxes and equipment, and up to thirty men.

As the pace quickened, the company's executive officer, Scott Tomlin, approached Erickson's position. The first lieutenant's somber face carried the uneasiness each of the Marines felt.

Erickson had to shout to be heard over the helicopters' droning engines and the frenetic activity around them. "Scott, I know we've had little time to prepare for whatever it is we're walking into, but have you been able to brief the platoon leaders and platoon sergeants?"

"Yes, sir," Tomlin replied. "I've gone over the situation and laid out each platoon's role. As soon as we're airborne, they'll brief their squad leaders and men. With things evolving so quickly, even with the embassy's Marine security detachment doing their best to establish a semblance of control over the landing zone, when we get to Islamabad, I've directed our men to treat this as a hot landing and to be prepared for any eventuality."

"Good. I don't want any slipups. We need to be ready for whatever it is we're about to face."

"I've made your expectations clear. Once we're on the ground, 1st and 2nd Platoon will form on the roadway south of the embassy. At the same time, a squad from 3rd Platoon will establish a perimeter while the remainder of the company empties the King Stallions. As each helicopter's unloaded, we'll fill it with the first of the waiting civilians and get them headed back here."

"That should work," the dark-haired Marine commander replied. "I've spoken with the King Stallion flight leader. He said on each round trip his six CH-53s can handle four hundred or so of those we're evacuating."

"When we arrive I'll make sure the embassy folks are briefed on that, sir," Tomlin said.

"The King Stallion flight leader's confident that after the four hundred evacuees are unloaded, there'll be adequate time remaining for his crews to fill each CH-53 with all the food and water each can carry. Once they have, they'll head back to Islamabad, dump their loads, and pick up a second four hundred of those fleeing Pakistan. So if all goes well, we should be able to get eight hundred out of harm's way before the sun rises."

"If we can pull it off, freeing eight hundred from this mess in the first few hours is a pretty good start, sir."

"Yeah, but that'll be it for tonight. Given the circumstances, there'll be no possibility of evacuating more until tomorrow evening. With what we're going to be facing, attempting daylight excursions would be suicidal. So it'll be up to us to hold off the crazies while waiting for night to arrive once more. Even with darkness masking our actions, each rescue attempt's going to be iffy."

"How many flights do the pilots estimate we can get in each night, sir?" Tomlin asked.

"Given the distance, along with the loading and unloading at both locations, we're estimating four hours for each round-trip. That means if things go perfectly, the helicopters will be able to complete three rescues before each night ends."

"So we're looking at twelve hundred escaping this nightmare prior to every sunrise. That doesn't sound too bad. Have we received a count on how many people are waiting in Islamabad?"

"Not an accurate one. When I spoke to the embassy security detachment's gunny, he said they didn't know exactly what we'll be facing numbers-wise. So we're going to have to play it by ear until we've gathered everyone and can make an actual determination. We know we're going to have to evacuate the staffs and families from multiple embassies along with the four thousand civilians waiting at the Islamabad Marriott."

"So maybe five or six thousand, sir?" The concern in Tomlin's voice was unmistakable.

"Sounds about right. But even that number might be a bit low."

For the first time, the company's executive officer began to comprehend the enormity of the situation. "Six thousand people butchered in the most hideous of ways if Salim Basra and his fanatics get their hands on them."

"That's not going to happen, Scott. Not if we have anything to say about it. Until the final person's on these King Stallions, it'll be up to us to make sure those people are safe. Is that understood?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"You need to make sure our men realize what we're up against. We're going to save as many of those people as we can, but there's no way this is going to be easy. Even if things go off without a hitch, we're looking at at least five days of intense combat against thousands upon thousands of hell-bent assassins before the last of us reboards these helicopters and gets the hell out of Pakistan. And you know as well as I do that in these situations things rarely go as planned. So don't be surprised if this ends up taking a week, possibly longer."

The rock-hard Tomlin's jaw clenched. He took a look around. There was determination in his response. "This company contains some of the finest Marines I've ever been associated with, sir. I don't care what the enemy throws at us, we'll handle it. And we'll save those people."

"For that to happen, while I'm leading 1st and 2nd Platoons to the Marriott, it's imperative you get the embassy's defenses laid out and our preparations underway."

"I'll start on them the moment we touch down, sir. Any chance of reinforcements arriving?"

"Not anytime soon. With the limits India has placed upon us, we're all there is. And these six are all of the King Stallions they allowed us to bring. So this is on us. We've got to take advantage of every break to have any chance of succeeding. With the enemy closing in, you can anticipate being under attack long before the helicopters return tomorrow evening to pick up further evacuees."

"What about air support, sir."

"For now, we have none. The president has decided that unless the Pakistani leadership fully commits to us joining their efforts, he wants to do everything he can to stay out of this war. The only involvement he's willing to risk is the rescue of all non-Pakistanis trapped in Islamabad. Beyond that, the United States is officially neutral in what he's calling the Pakistani people's 'internal struggles.'"

"Understood, sir."

"But tomorrow, who knows? This really is an evolving situation. Worse come to worst, that directive might change if those we're protecting are in extreme peril or our government finds itself with little choice but to get further involved. That's a call higher-ups tell me he'll make if and when he needs to."

"Yes, sir."

"Then let's make this happen, Scott."



The fleeting minutes rushed past as the company’s scrambling efforts continued without pause. Finally, all was ready. With the Humvees and equipment in place, the battle-tested Marines shuffled on board.

First Sergeant Claude Vickers stood watching as the last of the 175 men, all in full combat gear, silently headed up the rear ramps. "We're all set, sir," he relayed to the company commander.

As Erickson walked toward the lead King Stallion, he took a final look around. He'd done his best in the brief interval he'd been given. He had what appeared to be a viable rescue plan. Yet, given his unfamiliarity with the terrain and the exceptionally volatile situation in Islamabad, he realized in the coming hours that even the best of approaches couldn't anticipate what his stoic force might encounter. There were bound to be surprises and split-second, life-defining decisions to be made. For all he knew, by the time they arrived in the Pakistani capital, hordes of jihadists could be swarming over both the hotel and the United States embassy. Each compound could be fully engulfed in flames, with no chance of escape at either location.

As he took his spot in the windowless hold, the ramp began to close.

The company commander's mind was racing. He'd been in tough spots before, but this mission was one that could challenge him beyond even his immense limits. He had to wonder what horrors might be waiting. He had to question whether his unit would arrive in time to change a horrific destiny for thousands upon thousands of anxious people. Little did he know that the woman he'd fallen in love with three years earlier during another desperate struggle was among those waiting. If he had, his growing concern might have overwhelmed him.

One by one, the helicopters rose into the blackness and roared toward the west.

They'd hug the broad valleys and wide plateaus. They'd skim the rugged, snow-encrusted mountain passes to evade detection by both the surging terrorists and any rogue elements of the Pakistani military. From this moment on, their lives would be on the line.

It was 12:01 a.m.

For the onrushing Marines, the first fateful moments of November had arrived.

2

11:11 p.m., October 31

The Ambassador's Office

United States Embassy

Islamabad, Pakistan

As Sam Erickson's men started loading the King Stallions, in Islamabad the United States embassy's regional diplomatic security officer, Steven Gray, and Marine Gunnery Sergeant Eric Joyce, walked into the ambassador's office.

Alan Ingram was waiting. After his wife's recent death from lymphatic cancer, he'd used the immense requirements of his position to hide from his all-consuming sorrow. With three decades of experience in some of the most dangerous places in the world, the stately American, his dark hair turning gray, was every inch the consummate professional needed for this critical posting. As Pakistan devolved into madness, his country had the right man in the right place with the distinguished Ingram. He could be counted on for a cool head and keen judgment no matter how difficult the situation became.

"Well? Are the rumors true?" he asked the moment the pair entered the room.

Gray and Joyce glanced at each other. The disturbing developments they were about to convey were written across their features.

"It's confirmed, Mr. Ambassador," Gray replied. "The Marine Security Augmentation Force, along with the armada of commercial airliners they were escorting, turned around and headed back to Germany an hour ago. The Pakistani forces guarding the Islamabad airport have been overwhelmed in a massive attack by the insurgents. The jihadists are in firm control of every inch of the place. Once they seized it, they blew huge craters in the runways. There's no longer a possibility of even a single plane reaching us, sir. Any attempt to do so would be suicidal."

The ambassador couldn't mistake the significance of what he was being told. Their well-planned escape route had fallen into enemy hands. Until this moment, he'd thought their efforts to evacuate all non-Pakistanis in the next few hours would be accomplished with little or no loss of life. In an instant that belief had changed. An exceptionally difficult situation was becoming an impossible one.

Gray could see the recognition in the ambassador's eyes. Without pausing, he continued to brief the embassy's leader. The sooner Ingram understood the gravity of the situation, the sooner they could get his approval for what they had in mind. "Many of the explosions you hear are those half-crazed idiots blowing up everything they found waiting on the tarmac," Gray added. "Our sources tell us they've already destroyed the control tower, all of the landing lights, and every plane they found sitting on the ground. The passenger terminal's little more than smoldering rubble."

"Our original plan's gone, Mr. Ambassador," Joyce added. "And the alternative idea we discussed about escaping overland is out of the question. Even if we had enough vehicles to pull it off, all roads south are cut off-or will be shortly."