Chapter 5: Deployment

PART TWO: COMBAT

The C-17 Globemaster descended through the Afghan darkness toward Camp Bastion, and Lance Corporal Kirstie Roberts felt her stomach drop with the altitude. Around her, the rest of the Purple Foxes sat in silence, each Marine lost in their own thoughts as they approached the war zone that would be home for the next seven months.

Through the small window, Kirstie caught her first glimpse of Afghanistan—a vast expanse of darkness punctuated by scattered lights, the desert stretching endlessly in all directions. Somewhere down there, people were trying to kill Americans. And soon, very soon, she’d be hanging out of a helicopter with a machine gun, trying to keep them from succeeding.

The C-17 touched down hard, taxied to a stop, and the ramp dropped. The heat hit them like a physical force even at 0200 hours—dry, oppressive, carrying the smell of dust and diesel fuel and something else Kirstie couldn’t quite identify. The smell of war, maybe.

“Welcome to Helmand Province,” Sergeant Vance said beside her. “Still think this is what you wanted?”

“Ask me in seven months,” Kirstie replied, shouldering her pack.

Week One: Orientation

Camp Bastion was a small city in the desert—20,000 personnel from multiple nations, the largest British military camp since World War II. The Marines of HMM-364 were assigned to a section of the sprawling base, their Black Hawks parked in protective revetments, maintenance facilities set up in hardened structures.

The first week was orientation and acclimatization. They learned the base layout, the threat level, the rules of engagement. They practiced donning body armor and helmets in under thirty seconds when the incoming rocket alarm sounded—and it sounded often. The Taliban liked to lob 107mm rockets at the base, usually missing but occasionally getting lucky.

“Get used to it,” Captain Mendez told her crew during their first briefing. “We take indirect fire almost daily. The Brits have counter-battery radar that usually tracks the launch point and sends fast movers to destroy it, but sometimes the enemy gets a few rounds off before we can respond. When you hear that alarm, you move. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused.

Kirstie learned the rhythm of combat aviation operations. Flight crews worked twelve-hour shifts—day crew and night crew. They pulled QRF (Quick Reaction Force) duty, sitting ready to launch within fifteen minutes for emergency medevacs or troops-in-contact situations. They ran scheduled missions—resupply runs to remote outposts, troop movements, reconnaissance flights.

And they flew in conditions that would have grounded civilian aircraft. Heat, dust, high altitude, primitive landing zones, all while the possibility of enemy fire was constant.

“The enemy doesn’t care that it’s 120 degrees,” Master Sergeant Kowalski said during a maintenance brief. “They don’t care that the dust is eating our engines. They don’t care that we’re tired. The mission continues. We keep these birds flying or people die. Simple as that.”

Kirstie spent her off-duty hours studying maps of Helmand Province—the districts, the towns, the known enemy positions. She memorized call signs, frequencies, medical facility locations. She cleaned her weapon obsessively, checked her ammunition, rehearsed emergency procedures in her mind.

“You’re going to wear out that M240 just from cleaning it,” Sergeant Vance observed one evening in the maintenance hangar.

“Can’t be too prepared,” Kirstie said.

“No, you can’t. But you also can’t prepare for everything. At some point, you just have to trust your training and react.” He paused. “First combat mission is always the hardest. The unknown is scarier than the reality most times.”

“When’s our first mission?”

“Tomorrow. 0600 launch. Resupply run to FOB Delhi. Should be routine, but there’s no such thing as routine here. Get some sleep.”

Kirstie tried. Sleep didn’t come easily.

First Combat Mission

The pre-dawn darkness was cool, a brief respite from the coming heat. Kirstie performed her pre-flight checks by muscle memory, hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her system. This was it. Her first real mission.

Captain Mendez and Lieutenant Morrison completed their pilot checks. Sergeant Vance gave her a thumbs-up from the left door. The aircraft carried supplies for a remote outpost—food, water, ammunition, mail from home for Marines who hadn’t seen friendly faces in weeks.

“All crew, preflight complete?”

“Left door ready.”

“Right door ready,” Kirstie confirmed.

“Roger. Bastion Tower, Purple Fox 05, request departure.”

“Purple Fox 05, cleared for departure, contact departure on button 4.”

The Black Hawk lifted into the Afghan dawn, and Kirstie settled into her stance. The M240 was loaded, safety off, her finger indexed along the receiver. Her eyes scanned her sector—the right side of the aircraft, watching for threats, obstacles, anything that could affect the mission.

The landscape below was alien—brown and tan and beige, mountains rising in the distance, dried riverbeds cutting through the desert, mud-walled compounds clustered near water sources. Beautiful in its desolation. Deadly in its possibilities.

“Crew, we’re approaching the route checkpoint. Taliban activity reported in this area last week. Stay alert.”

Kirstie’s grip tightened on her weapon. Every shadow could be a threat. Every building could hide an enemy fighter. Every—

“LEFT DOOR, MUZZLE FLASH, NINE O’CLOCK!”

Sergeant Vance’s M240 roared to life before Kirstie fully processed the words. Tracer rounds arced toward the ground, kicking up dust. The aircraft banked hard right, and Kirstie fought to keep her balance, her sector now including the threat area.