Withers grinned. “Which is most of the time around here.”
“This happen often?” I asked.
“You mean the Taliban attacks?” When I nodded, Withers said, “Three, four times a week. Fortunately, the Talibs ain’t the world’s greatest marksmen. We take them pretty much in stride, but yeah, we’re vulnerable to that sort of stuff, no question.”
Making a show of glancing around the small room, I said, “We noticed.”
“I’m glad you made it. We expected you two hours ago.” When I flashed a questioning frown, Withers said, “Jones thinks it’s a waste of time.” To Haji, Withers said, “He had to talk you into it, right?” He grinned. “Last night, no one seemed keen to make the trip here. Can’t say I blame anyone. Duty here ain’t easy.” When I asked Withers where the other COPs were, he said, “They been closing. Only one other COP in the Pech Valley now besides Franklin. We got the word out that you guys want to talk with some elders in the village. They agreed, so there’ll be a shura later.” He took a quick swallow from the bottle. “You ready to move out tonight?”
I said we were.
Then he pointed at a map that lay under a heavy layer of glass on top of his desk. “You wanna know where we are, this is us. Here’s Nangalam. The village where you meet Shergaz is here. It’s real small. And this road here runs alongside a stream for a ways. Then you head off in this direction. One of our people, Sergeant Malley, has already set up a shura for tonight, 2030 hours.”
Withers said, “Be ready to travel at 1845. That’ll give you enough time. You’ll have an escort.”
I said, “What was it that happened last year that got everybody so hot and bothered? I heard there was a village that was very anti-American.”
“One of the firebrands in the village was shot. No one knows who shot him. It wasn’t one of us. I wasn’t here at the time.”
I said, “From what I heard, it caused a big ruckus in the village. Was it a Talib who killed this guy?”
“Unlikely,” Withers said. “The guy was very anti-American. He’d been giving speeches in the mosque, getting people riled up . . .”
I said, “The fact he was anti-American wouldn’t be a reason to shoot him. Or would it?”
“It’d be a reason for one of us to shoot him, but that’s not what happened. Anyway, you’re not going there. Hopefully, it’s pretty much blown over.” Withers shrugged.
“Are our soldiers here trigger happy?” Haji asked. “Shoot-first, ask-questions-later types?”
Withers smiled. “We’re all like that, trigger happy. If you’re not like that when you arrive, you become like that pretty fast. Or else.”
We didn’t need to ask what Withers meant by “or else.” I saw that Haji had turned a shade paler than usual. I could see that he sensed trouble—and was now probably wishing he hadn’t signed on for this expedition.
CHAPTER 12
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2013
ANY KIND OF lights on a COP are a no-no. The Talibs are all over, and you don’t want to make the installation an easier target than it already is. After getting in, we’d found a couple of spare mattresses and were able to sack out for an hour. At a few minutes after 1800 we were making our way across the installation to Captain Withers’ office, both of us using green flashlights to light the way and carrying half-loaded rucksacks. My M9 was holstered. I was wearing my body armor, had two bottles of water, a pair of NVGs, some MREs, a change of underwear, and a sleeping bag in my rucksack. I also had five packs of hundred-dollar bills, ten bills in each pack.
Haji was carrying the same, minus a weapon and minus the cash.
In the office Withers pointed to a map on the wall, showing the COP and also showing the hamlet.
“It’s a no-brainer. Straight ahead, no more than two miles into the village. We do it all the time. I’ve been in touch with the people there, and Shergaz will be expecting you. A couple of his people will meet you just outside the hamlet. There’s only one road in and out. They’re holding a shura. What you two guys want to do is talk with Shergaz privately. From what I understand, it’ll be pretty much yes or no, and it depends to what extent he knows Abdul Sakhi. A couple of grand is a lot of loot to these people.”
According to Withers, the path we’d take first would lead into a wider footpath, which was used by the locals to reach the river. On the far bank we’d pass a food market. Because of heavy local traffic, that stretch of the road was unlikely to have an IED anywhere along it. Up to that point, though, we had to be careful and, according to Withers, the two soldiers out in front were the best they had at detecting IEDs.
In Withers’ office I shook hands with Sully and Mackey, the squad leader and assistant squad leader who would take us the whole way. Outside, I said hello to Jeremy, Danny, and Buzz, the other three troopers. Each of us had his face smeared with grease, and we wore NVGs.
The air was cold and a solid blanket of clouds blocked out the stars. We left the COP in the company of the five soldiers, two single-file maybe ten meters in front of us, three more bringing up the rear. On the donkey path, which would take us into the wider road, it was slow going, with the two guys in front having to test the ground pretty much foot by foot. Making it more difficult was the terrain, which was hilly and rocky the whole way.
It took a while, but we made it to the wider road without any problem—and without any IEDs blowing up in our faces. Until now, we’d been in heavy brush on a five-foot-wide path.
When we moved out of the heavy brush, we found ourselves on a dirt road, and one that was considerably wider than the donkey trail we had been on. Here, the going was easier.
“This is where Buzz and I leave you,” Jeremy said. He pointed off into the darkness. “There shouldn’t be any problem from here on in. Sully and Mack can take you the rest of the way. Danny will be behind you, just in case. It’s about a mile, maybe a little more.”
We thanked them for getting us this far, and the five of us set off in the direction of the little village. It was still slow going, and in the darkness you couldn’t see your hand in front of you. The road, which was maybe ten feet wide, was hilly and turned one way and then the other. With dense underbrush growing close to both sides of the road, I was having difficulty getting my bearings. The only sounds were our boots grinding on the trail.
As we walked, I was aware of the silence. I reached down to touch my M9, which I had in a holster on my right hip.
After we’d gone roughly two hundred meters, me first and Haji fifteen feet behind me, I heard the sounds of a scuffle in front of me, but even with my NVGs on, I couldn’t see much. Sully, who was in front of us, called out, then began cursing, and then I heard Mackey, who was with Sully and about twenty feet in front of us, also shouting. I had my M9 in my hand, and then I heard Haji start shouting.
“Alex, look out! They’re trying to—” Haji was cut short in mid-sentence. I turned but saw only moving forms, definitely not clearly enough to fire my weapon. Suddenly, two dark figures plunged out of the underbrush, and one was holding my right arm. I managed to break his hold, but before I could fire someone tackled me. I still had my weapon, but I didn’t want to fire into the darkness, fearful that I’d hit Mackey or Sully.
Danny and Haji were involved in a scuffle, but I couldn’t see what was happening. And then a couple more guys were on top of me, keeping me on the ground. I got off two wild shots before the weapon was knocked from my hand. I heard another shot up front.
With the thick brush alongside the trail, they’d been able to get real close, and it was all over within seconds. I didn’t know how many they were, but there had to be ten or more. I was on my stomach, and my face was being forced down so hard I was eating dirt. After pounding the weapon out of my hand, two of them kept me pinned while one of them pulled my head back, and someone else jammed a hood down over my head. Then my wrists were forced together, and I felt my hands being tied with some kind of tape.
There were shouted Pashto commands, and I assumed someone
was telling me to get on my feet. A guy kept shoving me and saying something in an angry tone, his mouth just inches from my ear. I didn’t understand the words, but it didn’t require a genius to know he wanted me moving faster. The hood prevented me from seeing where I was going and who these guys were. Then I stumbled, and that brought some more angry shouts from my new friends. One of them gave me a couple of angry kicks before dragging me back to my feet.
As we went, someone behind kept pushing me, and at some point someone else grabbed hold of my belt and pulled me, trying to get me to move faster. Branches slapped against the hood. Besides the two guys moving me along, there were other people in the group, but I couldn’t tell how many.
I wondered what had happened to the other soldiers, Sully, Danny, and Mack. Most of all, I wondered about Haji. I had heard half-a-dozen shots, and I was hoping no one had been killed.
I did my best to try and recall the map I’d studied before we left the COP, trying to figure where we might be headed. The road would have taken us into the hamlet where the shura was supposed to take place, so I figured we were now going someplace else. I hoped we weren’t going to the village Withers told me about, where they hate Americans. At the same time I knew there weren’t that many other villages around here.
We ploughed through brush and went up and down hills, and I figured we walked for an hour before we stopped. I thought we might be in a small clearing, but with the hood on I couldn’t be sure. I assumed we were out in the middle of nowhere, some godforsaken corner of the Pech Valley, which is enormous. Since no one yet knew we were missing, no one would know where to search when they eventually found out. Although I did my best not to think in those terms, it dawned on me that our situation was pretty close to hopeless.
I felt someone patting me down. The Beretta was long gone along with my rucksack with the money. Whoever it was, he went through my pockets, emptying them of everything. Just to let me know we weren’t among friends, he slugged me, once in the face and once in the solar plexus. I hit the ground hard.
“Thanks, pal. Maybe I can do something for you sometime.”
I lay there for maybe ten minutes. Then I heard an automobile engine. I was yanked onto my feet, and then shoved into a vehicle, probably a van, where I ended up lying on the floor. The driver ground the gears before we lurched forward. Then the engine conked out. In Afghanistan, driver’s licenses are optional.
We finally started moving. By the time the vehicle halted, I’d lost track of time. We could have been riding for twenty minutes or two hours. I only knew I ached all over.
They dragged me out of the vehicle and pushed me along until we reached a building. After being shoved through some rooms, I was on some narrow stone steps. Because I was still wearing the hood, I missed a step and tumbled down the rest of the way, headfirst. When I was back on my feet, a guy shoved me into a corner and snatched off the hood. Another guy with an AK-47 in his hands silently watched. He had a beard and was wearing a turban, and his dumb expression imprinted itself on my memory. The first guy ripped the tape off my hands and then fastened them together with a chain. There was some kind of pipe running along the wall about a foot from the ground, and he fastened the chain around that.
When I tried asking in English where we were and whether I could speak with the American Embassy in Kabul, I never completed the sentence. I got a fist square in the mouth, probably from the same guy who’d slugged me before. I took that as a less than gentle hint that I wasn’t supposed to talk. To say this situation was not good was the understatement of the year.
A few minutes later I was aware of more people coming in from outside. There was a brief exchange of conversation, and I thought I recognized Haji’s voice.
By this time, my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. The guy wore a shalwar kameez, the standard dress around here. He might have been in his thirties but he was probably younger. People age quickly in this country.
He pointed to himself and said something I didn’t understand. Haji asked him something. After a brief conversation with Haji, he left.
Whenever you’re taken prisoner, you can at least be sure things can’t get much worse. Chained to a pipe in the cellar of a stone hut in the boondocks of Afghanistan, I had an idea that I’d reached the absolute low point in my life. I also had an idea that the next twenty-four hours were going to be the most miserable day I’d ever experienced.
The only light came in through a small window high on the wall. Haji was about ten feet away, but I could barely see him. Like me, he was chained to the pipe running along the wall. “What was that all about?” I said.
Haji said, “He told us he is a proud member of the Taliban. He also said that they’re going to behead us when the executioner gets here.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“He said sometime tomorrow. He didn’t know exactly when.”
I said, “Let’s hope he runs into heavy traffic on the way over.”
CHAPTER 13
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 2013
EARLY THE FOLLOWING morning a teenaged boy came in to tend to us. When he saw us, he shook his head. I couldn’t blame him. After giving each of us a cup of water and an orange, he exchanged a few words with Haji. With my hands chained, I accidentally spilled most of the water, and I got mad because of my clumsiness. But I ate the orange, rind and all.
With the kid gone, I asked Haji what he’d learned.
“He said the elders of the tribe hate Americans because of something that happened here last year.”
“Did he say a mullah was killed?”
“Yes, he did. That’s why they’re going to turn us over to the executioner. We’re in the wrong village. The boy also said the executioner is an important person in the Taliban. And he wants to have us beheaded publicly.”
I was silent after that, wondering why this situation didn’t seem to make much sense. Haji was hardly talking, and I had an idea I knew what he was thinking. If it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t be in this mess. I was the one who wanted to follow up on the Abdul Sakhi lead.
The building we were in was made of stone. There was distant noise, and the sound of people moving around. I had an idea there were rooms on the first floor, and from the sound of people’s voices, I assumed people slept in them at night. Our cell had a pile of useless furniture piled in one corner and all kinds of junk in the other. It had a dirt floor and one heavy door. The small window was just big enough to let in some sunlight. With the chains wound around the pipe, I assumed this place was used as a jail, a place where the locals kept their bad actors on ice.
About once every hour a guard carrying an AK-47 would enter, look things over, and leave. I assumed he was a Talib, and Haji never spoke with him.
During the late afternoon the kid came back in and gave each of us half a bottle of water. You can’t drink the water in Afghanistan, so I figured we had a choice between dying from being beheaded or dying from dysentery. I took a couple of sips and hoped for the best.
When you’re a prisoner you have time to think about things—and to go over what you would have done differently. Wanda had been right when she said I was making a big mistake by going on this expedition. She’d poo-pooed the idea of my being loyal to Pete. My meeting with Jerry now seemed to have taken place so long ago and so far away, it seemed to have been in another lifetime on another planet.
Being chained up here for ten hours felt like two weeks. Something else that was strange was that Haji and I had so little to say to one another. But maybe it wasn’t so strange. What was there to say? I assumed that the Taliban had somehow gotten word of our little expedition and the fact I had five grand in my rucksack. Whoever the executioner was, he clearly had a grudge against Americans.
Time dragged, and I suppose from time to time I dozed.
Through the small window I could see the arrival of darkness. Whoever the guy was, he was supposed to arrive any time now. Did that mean we had just a few more hours to
live? Eight? Seven? Six?
Maybe less. Maybe he’d already arrived, and was out there honing his axe.
I did my best to force all those depressing thoughts from my mind. I thought of all the things I might have accomplished in my life but didn’t. Number one on the list was marrying Irmie.
The one thought I couldn’t force out of my mind was the realization that none of this had to have happened. I could have told Jerry Shenlee “no” easily enough. I could have said I couldn’t leave my business. I could have said I had wedding plans. I could have said my fiancée didn’t want me to leave. I could have said I didn’t want to go back to Afghanistan. I could have dreamed up any number of reasons for staying at home.
I could even have said that my days working “special ops” were over. Why didn’t I? Strangely, I wasn’t sure of the answer to that question.
Maybe the time I should have said “no” was that long-ago day at Fort Bragg when the intelligence recruiter said he saw in me something different, a quality that makes good case officers. It went beyond just an ability to keep whatever happened to myself. He described it as a different way of thinking—an ability to find my way out of impossible situations and solve tough problems in my own way.
Remembering his words, I smiled to myself. Those are qualities I could definitely use at this moment.
The truth was, though, that over the years when I hadn’t been smart, I’d been lucky. I hated to have to admit it, but it was true. I’d been in any number of situations and on any number of missions that could have ended differently. All those crazy helicopter rides, clandestine meetings, face-to-face encounters with desperate individuals—not to mention the trips into Iron Curtain countries with a false passport and visa and the countless attempts to recruit agents for our side. One of the craziest took place in a Black Sea hotel room, a place from which I had no business escaping but somehow did. Another was a series of incidents that began with a visit to an East German chess club. And then there was the “hand-holding”—the constant reassurances to agents that they were doing the right thing after they’d made the irreversible fateful decision.
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