He waved back and continued to walk toward me.
How do you say “Beat it!” in Pashto?
And then the shooter reappeared and sent another burst in my direction. Slugs kicked up dirt and ricocheted against the Humvee. When I sent back an answering burst, he fired again. He was getting closer now. Slugs chewed up the ground five feet in front of me. The bastard knew how to shoot. But aware I’d be firing back, he ducked again.
I heard bursts from somewhere, and I figured that was this guy’s partner. I hoped Maxson could take care of that end of things.
Then a burst kicked up dust ten feet from the kid.
“Goddamn!”
Without thinking, I pushed open the vehicle door, jumped out. The youngster was closer, in real danger of being hit. As I took off in his direction, I heard voices and someone shooting, but my only thought was the boy. Still thinking he was in some sort of game, he shouted something and tried to scoot away. He didn’t get far. Within a couple of seconds I was able to tackle him, and we hit the ground together. Immediately climbing to my feet, I scooped the kid up and ran like hell across the path and hit the dirt behind a stand piled high with fruit, a maneuver that brought us closer to the shooter behind the building. But when I bumped against one of its legs, the stand immediately toppled over, sending oranges and a dozen watermelons in every direction.
And then the shooter, not that far away now, was out in plain sight and firing in our direction, a couple of the slugs squishing into a watermelon two feet to my left. Although the boy was kicking and had begun crying, I continued to hold him down while trying to get my weapon sighted. Then I saw the guy again. Moving in a crouch, he’d been able to find cover behind a wagon adjacent to the road, and close enough for me to see the curl of his lips. I fired a short burst, then ducked.
He stood up and fired two long bursts. Prone and with the boy beneath me, I fired back, emptying the magazine. I was feeling through my jacket pocket for another magazine when I saw the truck.
The shooter emerged from behind the wagon and, staying low, ran for a fruit stand that wasn’t more than thirty feet away. He fired a long burst, but by this time I’d jammed the magazine into my own weapon and fired back.
The truck that had forced us off the road was now pulling up. The gunman took off at top speed for the road. A second later he was joined by his friend coming from the other direction. After they’d hopped aboard, they waved their weapons at us, and one saluted. The other was grinning. As I mumbled some profanity, the truck made a U-turn on the road and, brakes squealing, headed off toward downtown Kabul.
Good-bye and good riddance!
The child alongside me was crying. His blouse was ripped, his arm was smeared with blood, and I saw that he had an abrasion on his cheek, the result of hitting the ground hard. If that was all he had, he’d been very, very lucky.
As I climbed to my feet, a wild-eyed veiled woman came rushing at me shouting and waving her hands. She shook her fists at me, threw her arms around the boy, whispered something in his ear, then shoved him behind her. Almost immediately, she was joined by a bearded individual who could have been the owner of the fruit stand. He started shouting and pointing to the melons and oranges, which lay all over the ground.
And then he was in my face, waving and no doubt shouting Pashto curses, probably telling me I had to pay for his ruined produce. A few more people who may have been his friends joined the melee, gesticulating and shouting. I was breathing hard and had run out of patience. The loudmouth owner of the fruit stand followed me as I tried to move away, still yelling and waving his fist.
“Hey, buddy! Where were you when I needed you?”
Resisting the urge to belt this character, I turned, pushed my way past a couple more loudmouths, and headed back to the Humvee. Maxson had been able to drag Rackley out from beneath the vehicle and was now talking to someone on his cell phone.
“Ambulance’ll be here in a second, sir.”
People were all over now, pointing and shouting. I had the feeling that a bunch of them were talking about me. I definitely didn’t have the feeling we were among friends.
We only had to wait for a couple of minutes. An ambulance arrived, and then a van full of GIs, and within minutes I was talking to an African-American infantry captain named Johnson, telling him what had just happened.
“They all seem to be pointing at you for some reason, sir,” Johnson said. “They seem mad about something. What’d you do?”
I shrugged. “I shoved a kid out of the way. And knocked down the fruit stand.”
“Some of them are probably Taliban sympathizers. As I’m sure you know, Americans ain’t the most popular people in Kabul these days. Whatever you do for them, it ain’t right and ain’t never enough.”
When I told him how the truck suddenly came at us, he nodded. “That’s one of the Taliban’s tricks. They forced you over to the side of the road because that’s where they had the IED planted. They might have put it down within the last hour. When you were over it, someone touched the wires and closed the circuit. Half the people out here would have known it was there. The guys with the truck were waiting for an American vehicle.”
I said, “Sergeant Maxson did one helluva job steering us back onto the road. I have a feeling we didn’t go squarely over the bomb.”
The captain nodded. “If you had, sir, it would have been curtains.”
By this time, we were surrounded by vehicles and soldiers. I could see Sergeant Rackley being carried on a stretcher toward a waiting ambulance. As he went by, he gave me a thumbs-up and a grim smile. A tough kid. I had a feeling he’d be all right.
I waved back.
On the far side of the road was a massive crater, with clouds of smoke still billowing out. I wandered over and stared into it. The IED had contained enough explosives to destroy a couple of tanks.
A half-dozen vehicles were already on the scene, some of them belonging to ANP guys, the Afghan police, others to blue-uniformed Afghan soldiers. A van with “UN” printed on the side arrived and disgorged two men and two women. When I was approached by a pair of MPs, I began telling them my story. Captain Johnson, still carrying his clipboard, walked over and asked a few more questions.
After I’d given him information enough for his report, I asked if I could get a ride to Camp Eggers.
“No problem, Mr. Klear. And by the way”—he grinned broadly—“welcome to Afghanistan.”
CHAPTER 3
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 2013
“IT’S BEEN A while,” Major Stanley Jones said, stepping out from behind the cluttered steel desk in his Camp Phoenix office. It was a few minutes before 1000 hours the following day, a damp and chilly Friday. After introducing myself to his admin, I’d pushed open Stan’s office door.
“Welcome to the Criminal Investigation Command and to Operation Enduring Freedom!” Stan’s voice is deep and still retains some traces of a South Carolina accent.
Stan had thinning brown hair, wide blue eyes, and a fleshy face. He’s a burly 210, ten pounds heavier than when I last saw him, and has a strong handshake. Because he was a CID officer, he wore no insignia on his fatigue uniform. On the phone Stan said he was running the investigation into Colonel Pete Hansen’s death.
“All the comforts of home,” I said, looking around and nodding my approval. “It took me a while to find you.”
“They’re running out of space at Headquarters, so they moved us over here.” Stan pointed to a pile of folders. “I’m handling all the green-on-blues. Would you believe, there were over sixty last year?” He shook his head.
Stan’s office, which was situated toward the far end of Camp Phoenix, was away from the hustle and bustle at the main gate and fifty yards from the chow hall. It was spacious, with a couple of desks, some folding chairs, two computers, a printer, and a lot of electrical cables. Against one wall stood a row of steel filing cabinets and a small fridge. The walls were plywood and obviously built with the thought that the U.
S. Army wasn’t going to be in Afghanistan forever. The window overlooked a row of wooden buildings across a narrow street. Upward was a patch of blue sky.
Walking to the coffee machine situated on a table next to the filing cabinet, Stan said, “You like it black, as I recall. And no sugar.” Standing at the machine and glancing over his shoulder, he said, “I don’t know exactly the reason, but all of a sudden things are real busy around here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re here and Wanda, of course. But you won’t believe who else was here in the office yesterday.” Before I could ask, Stan said, “Douglas Greer.”
“You mean Undersecretary Greer?”
“One and the same. Undersecretary for International Development. Seems to be a good guy. He’s back and forth between D.C. and this part of the world pretty regular. But yesterday he stopped by to ask about the Hansen killing. This green-on-blue stuff’s made everybody jumpy.”
“Everybody thinks they’re going to be next. Is that it?”
“Just about.” Suddenly very serious, Stan said, “And I take it, that’s why you’re here. Because of Pete.” When I nodded, Stan said, “I remember Pete one time mentioning you guys were together at Fort Bragg.”
I nodded, recalling that long-ago time in my life. “We were providing some training for a bunch of Rangers. I was young then, didn’t mind the physical stuff. Around that time Wanda arrived.”
“Wanda Nyland, right?”
“Captain Wanda Nyland?”
Stan nodded. “Wanda and Pete hit it off right away. Pete told me they got married in the Fort Bragg chapel. Were you best man?”
I shook my head. “I probably would have been, but I’d already left for Bosnia. That’s when you and I ran into one another.”
“I remember. I was filing daily reports back to D.C. on how the drone program was shaping up. We’d outfitted them with cameras. After 9/11, someone got the idea they’d be good as attack aircraft. I was out on the tarmac at Eagle Base every day after that. You know the rest.”
Seated again behind his desk, Stan ran his hand through what was left of his hair. His expression changed suddenly. “It was tragic, Alex, Pete dying like that.” He shook his head. “These characters are brazen.”
“They seem to be getting more brazen all the time.”
“Everybody’s got the jitters.”
I took a sip of coffee. “I can understand why.”
“The thing is, they’re people you’re working with, day in and day out. One minute the guy’s your best buddy. Then, a second later, he turns on you and shoots you. I mean, we give them the weapons and ammo, show them how to shoot. How can you explain shit like that?” Stan began talking more rapidly, obviously carried away by the subject. Understandably. It was a subject that for us was hard to understand. “Something else. How can we prevent this stuff from happening?”
“There’s only one way. Don’t give them weapons.”
“Yeah, that’s not working either. I mean, that’s why we’re here. To help the Afghans establish a modern country, and that means a police force to keep order.”
“They need an army, too.”
“Right. To protect themselves from invasions, in case the Russkis want to come back.” Stan flashed a malicious smirk. We knew that was an unlikely development.
“Anyway, Alex, they need guns. So we’re between a rock and a hard place. If we provide training and weapons, they turn around and shoot us. And if we don’t, there’s no sense in us being here.” Stan paused. “So how come you’re here?”
“Jerry Shenlee sent me.” When Stan only shrugged, I said, “Jerry’s an NSC staffer.”
“Don’t know him. But why send you here? What’s up?”
“I knew Pete. I guess you could say it’s partly personal.”
Stan grimaced, making no effort to conceal his skepticism. He knew no one would care about Pete being a friend of mine. “Don’t they have other priorities in the National Security Council? C’mon, Alex. You can’t expect me to believe that.”
The truth was, I was still trying to puzzle out why Jerry had sent me over. In this business, when you can’t figure things out real quick, you might end up paying for your ignorance with your life. The post-9/11 world is a dangerous place. And in Afghanistan it’s doubly dangerous.
Stan fixed me with a cool stare. “I hope you’re not going to get us into hot water. If you’re only here to look over our shoulders, you won’t be popular. I guarantee that.”
Ignoring Stan’s veiled warning, I said, “Do you need help with the investigation?”
“We can always use as much help as we can get. I don’t think you know Todd Hammond. He’s the only agent I have now. He’s been working night and day.” Stan shrugged. “The White House wants everyone gone out of Afghanistan by the end of next year. We’re so shorthanded, it’s ridiculous.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Pete worked over in the ISAF Headquarters building, in the ‘Oversight and Accountability’ section. Exactly what he was working on I don’t know, but there’s someone you can ask.”
“Who?”
“Eric Page. Captain Eric Page. He worked for Pete, in the same office.” Stan paused. “I talked with Page, but maybe you can get more out of him than I could.” After a brief pause, Stan said, “You know how Pete was. He didn’t always communicate well—and he could be tetchy at times.”
“Aren’t we all tetchy at times?”
Stan smiled. “I guess. It’s hard to see yourself the way others see you. Anyway, yeah, at times he was difficult. Whatever Pete was doing, the job had a lot of pressure. You’ll see that after you’ve been around for a while. We all feel it. We’ve got more people back in D.C. looking over our shoulders than you can shake a stick at.”
“How did it happen?”
Stan took a sip of cold coffee, gazed for a long moment at the cup, which was imprinted with the letters OEF and an American flag. “It was one of the Afghans, one of those who’ve been cleared to handle files and to work in Headquarters. I guess he knew some English. There aren’t that many.” When I only nodded, he continued to talk. “Somehow this character managed to carry a weapon into the building, an M9. He wasn’t supposed to have one, not on him anyway. One of Pete’s jobs was to keep track of financial stuff, whatever wasn’t right.”
“Who were his sources? Who was Pete talking to?”
“He spent a lot of time at the Embassy, I can tell you that.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to people investigating the bank fraud,” Stan said. “You know about the Kabul Bank?”
“I know it went bankrupt. Who’s doing the investigating?”
Stan seemed reluctant to talk all of a sudden. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice. “It’s very hush-hush. They’re people from the States trying to find out what happened. They’re called the Finance Cell. They won’t talk to anyone, not even to the diplomats at the Embassy.”
“But they talked to Pete?”
“I guess. For a time, he was at the Embassy every day. Sometimes he’d go into Kabul in the evenings.” Stan paused, then added, “He also spent time outside the country, flying here and there.”
“Who was he dealing with?”
“I’m not really sure. Didn’t the NSC guy fill you in on this sort of thing? On what Pete was doing?” When I shook my head, Stan’s face clouded over. He looked tired, as if he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time. Tours in Afghanistan can take a lot out of you, emotionally as well as physically. “I know what you’re thinking, Alex—that I should know more about what Pete was working on.” Stan pointed to his cluttered desk. “Right now I’m working on fifteen green-on-blues. Six took place right here in Kabul. Maybe you can cut us a little slack.”
“No problem, Stan.”
“Since they were alone in the room, we don’t know exactly how it was.”
“But you’re sure it was Nolda.”
“It must’ve been him. Everyone else in the building was accounted for. I can take you over, show you the office. Probably Pete was staring into his computer, and the Askar came up behind him, held the weapon against his head, and fired. We figure it must have been like that.”
“No one heard the shot?”
Stan shook his head. “Door was closed. Most people were on their lunch break. Scary, when you think about it. It was maybe ten or fifteen minutes before anyone realized Pete was dead. Before anyone could stop him, the guy was out of the building. Where he is now is anybody’s guess.”
“How did he get out of the area?”
“Like I say, some time went by before they found Pete’s body. The killer could have been anywhere in the city by then. We tightened up the checkpoints leaving the city, went over every vehicle leaving Kabul for the next three, four days with a fine-tooth comb. Searched every nook and cranny in the city.”
“Any pictures?”
“Yes and no. A lot aren’t that clear. The security camera wasn’t working that well. Don’t ask me why. Todd can fill you in on that better than me.”
“What can you tell me about this guy?”
“Name’s Baram Nolda. Born in Helmand Province, down south. Volunteered for the Army, got some training at Kandahar. Came up here, was in the 7th Guards. Ended up in Black Horse for more training. He could read a little, knew some English. Like I say, that’s what got him assigned to the Headquarters job.”
“Off the record, Stan. Any reason for this guy shooting Pete?”
“I can’t sleep at night, Alex, thinking about that. We’ve been trying to figure that out. Some of these characters are thin-skinned. Maybe Pete yelled at him. Told him to move his butt. Who knows? Pete could be difficult at times.”
I said, “What else do I need to know?”
“Well, Colonel Hansen, Pete’s wife, arrived. She came in on a flight from Ramstein two nights ago.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Okay, I guess. She’s mad as a nest of hornets. Says this never should have happened. She wants to find people to blame. She wants action. She wants us to nail her husband’s murderer ASAP.”
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