by Jack Terral
The changeover from the HK-416s was not because of any inferior characteristics of those weapons. This was something Brannigan had to do if he wanted to add the half-dozen grenade launchers to his arsenal.
With those logistical issues dealt with, the Brigands turned to keeping tuned up and ready to respond to any combat situation that might arise in the OA. They performed rigorous PT and ten-kilometer runs every morning before chow. After eating, they headed for the desert to conduct combat drill, while every third night was spent in mock war against each other to sharpen their night-fighting skills. Interspersed with this were live-fire exercises and a friendly competition on a hastily laid-out KD range to see which guys were the best shots. This latter activity was always won hands down by Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski. Both were naturally accurate shooters. And that was the main reason they were issued the sniper rifles with scopes. No one else came close to the accuracy they demonstrated with the weapons. Puglisi shrugged it off, saying, Me and my buddy Joe are natural-born hit men. Guys like us are just blessed with certain talents.
The routine was demanding and exhausting, and Petty Officer Chad Murchison summed up everyone's feelings one evening while the detachment was enjoying some well-deserved cold beers after a long, energy-sapping day. My mood will be most jocund when we're back in combat and can enjoy a bit of enervation.
Yeah, Puglisi said. Me too. Then he leaned over to Miskoski and whispered, What the fuck did he say?
He was telling us how he felt, Miskoski said in a low voice. Ol' Chad is something-or-other about combat where he'll be something-or-other while he's enjoying himself.
Oh, yeah, Puglisi said. That's what I thought he said.
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PASHTUN STRONGHOLD
GHARAWDARA HIGHLANDS
1000 HOURS
THE Pashtun lookout on the mountaintop had spotted the small column of men wending their way up the trail toward the natural fortress. He was not alarmed by the sight as he studied them through his Soviet field glasses. The newcomers were expected and, in fact, would be joining the rebel group as permanent residents and fighters. He turned to the Iranian Special Forces officer sitting nearby on a rock. They are in view, effendi.
Captain Naser Khadid got up and walked over to the man, pulling his own binoculars from the case on his belt to study the sight below. Ho, I can see the Angrez who leads them.
They are dressed like Arabs, the lookout said, still studying the men moving slowly toward them.
That is because they are Arabs, Khadid said. Give the signal that they are in sight and all is well.
The lookout picked up a large Soviet banner lying at his feet. The red color was fading with age, but still made a dandy signal flag. He waved it back and forth to catch the attention of another guard farther down on the other side of the mountain. This was a prearranged procedure that would alert the stronghold that the anticipated reinforcements had arrived. Although the Pashtuns had field telephones and radios, they used flags near their home area for security reasons. Telephones required the laying of wires that intruders might discover, and radio transmissions could easily be picked up and the source located by electronic warfare elements of unfriendly intruders, such as the Afghan Army and Coalition forces. For this reason only, the Iranian SF officer Khadid operated a radio, but he neither transmitted nor received long enough to allow vectoring on his exact location.
CAPTAIN Arsalaan Sikes walked directly behind the Pashtun guide who led them upward along the steep, rocky path toward their destination. His twenty Arab mujahideen the survivors of the two battles with the Americans on the desert followed, their AK-47s at the ready as the highly disciplined men maintained alertness in their assigned areas of observation. Everyone was loaded down with a heavily laden rucksack, extra ammunition, and web gear. Under those circumstances, the trip was arduous and demanding, but Sikes had always maintained a strong daily PT program for his unit. This activity consisted of demanding calisthenics and punishing five-mile runs. He would have liked to have been able to use weight training as well, but Brigadier Khohollah's TA didn't include barbells and/or dumbbells. At any rate, his men were in as superb physical condition as any unit in the British Army except, perhaps, the SAS.
Sikes glanced back past Warrant Officer Shafaqat Hashiri at the men. He was pleased by their appearance. They showed no signs of suffering under the stress of the march, and they seemed enthused about this new phase in their jihad. The fact that they were going into a new aggressive stage of fighting took a lot of the sting out of the ass-kicking they got earlier from the Americans.
When they reached the top of the hill, Sikes saw both the lookout and Iranian officer. The latter stepped forward with his hand outstretched. We have been waiting for you, Captain Sikes. I am Captain Khadid, Iranian Special Forces.
Right, Sikes said. Brigadier Khohollah told me you was the bloke I was to see when I got here.
Come on, Khadid said. I shall take you down to meet the Pashtun leader. You will be pleased to learn that he speaks excellent English. By the way, they are serving Iran, but Pashtuns will always be Pashtuns no matter what. Certain sensitive situations can always arise most unexpectedly. You will find it wise to be diplomatic at all times.
I understand.
YAMA Orakzai, the Pashtun leader, was on a walking tour of the stronghold, making the usual inspection he did three or four times a week. His deputy, Khusahal Shinwari, walked at his side. They had gone first to the fighting positions to make sure the hand-constructed rock fortifications were still in place and any necessary camouflage was being maintained. They found the mujahideen manning the sites all well armed with extra bandoliers of ammunition along with sets of three Soviet RGD-5 defensive hand grenades. The men on duty were, as always, very diligent in their vigilance. This was not only from a sense of duty, but because their wives and children were nearby.
Now, with the defenses checked out, the two men strolled through the living areas to see how the wives and children were getting along. Besides caves, there were simple, traditional houses skillfully constructed of rock in which families lived along a sunken area below the grottos. At that time of the year, cooking was done outside and now, as was customary in the morning, the women were beginning preparation of midday meals. Orakzai and Shinwari responded to the females' friendly greetings with polite nods and big smiles.
Shinwari leaned toward Orakzai, speaking under his breath. You must admit our women are indeed beautiful, are they not, wror?
Ho! Orakzai agreed enthusiastically. But I would hate to be a wounded enemy who fell into their hands.
Surely, Allah has a special place in Paradise for those wretches the women would dispatch into eternity in the slow, painful manner they prefer.
Orakzai laughed. Perhaps even infidels who die under their knives are also allowed in Paradise, na?
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1130 HOURS
ARSALAAN Sikes's men, winded and tired, settled down along the mountainside next to the Pashtuns' main cave. Some unveiled women had brought them hot coffee and samosas fried pastry pies filled with spiced vegetables for refreshments. The Arabs, as good Muslims, politely kept their eyes from their hostesses' faces while being served, even though the women gazed in curiosity at their keffiyehs and uniforms.
Captains Arsalaan Sikes and Naser Khadid were conducted into the cave's interior by a Pashtun guard. They were taken back to the chamber where Yama Orakzai maintained both his living area and headquarters. He was seated on a carpet-covered chair, and did not get up when Sikes presented himself with a proper British salute and stomping of his boots.
Cap'n Sikes reporting!
We have no ranks, Sikes, Orakzai said while displaying a friendly smile. We are all wruna brothers here. He nodded to Khadid. Hello, wror.
Hello, Orakzai Mesher, Khadid said. He turned to Sikes. This is the Pashtun leader. His name is Yama Orakzai. However, as a sign of respect, his followers refer to him as Orakzai Mesher. It identifies him as the leader.
Right, Sikes said. I'm right pleased to make your acquaintance, Orakzai Mesher. Me lads call me Sikes Bey, yeah? I reckon that makes me a leader too.
I am familiar with the term, Orakzai said. I shall see to it that my people show you that respect.
Now, I appreciate that, Sikes said. I'm hoping the day will come when I got enough men under me command to be called Sikes Pasha.
You are indeed an ambitious man, Sikes Bey, Orakzai said. You are obviously not an American. I had many dealings with the CIA and am familiar with their pattern of speech. What would be your nationality?
I'm British, but I've converted to Islam and I speak Arabic. I took the name Arsalaan. They tell me it means lionhearted. I kept me family name.
Why did you not care to switch to one in Arabic? Orakzai asked.
I got a score to settle, Sikes said. I was in the British Army, see? I was a good soldier and they was gonna make me an officer, but not in the regiment I wanted. They said I wasn't the right social type. I want 'em to hear me name and know they made one great big fucking mistake by the snobby way they treated me.
I understand, the Pashtun said, thinking the Brits were as profane as the Yanks. My people have a long history of fighting the British. We have tales of long ago when some came over to our side and joined us. They also converted to Islam. Several became great leaders.
I'm glad to hear that, Sikes said. But I ain't surprised they changed sides like me, yeah? The old class system is alive and well in some places, hey? It ain't fair to keep good men down.
I have been informed that you brought twenty fighters with you, Orakzai said. You understand you will be under my command.
I got no problem with that, Orakzai Mesher. And me and the lads is ready for action.
Excellent! Most of our activities involve getting opium poppy powder through Afghanistan and Iran into Turkey, Orakzai said. But now and then, we ambush Afghan Army motor patrols in the passes through these mountains.
I'd like to show me stuff if you'd let me have a go, Sikes said.
I shall do just that, Sikes Bey, Orakzai said. It is my intention to send my number-one man, Khushahal Shinwari, along with you. He can take you to a good place where the Afghans drive by regularly.
I shall go along too, Khadid said, then added, With your permission.
Of course, Orakzai said. He emitted a loud whistle that brought the guard in. Go fetch Shinwari. Tell him I want to speak with him. As soon as the man left, Orakzai turned his attention back to Sikes. Take a seat, if you please. We shall have some refreshments while we discuss your coming battle.
.
THE SPINDRIFTS, RHODE ISLAND
26 APRIL
0600 HOURS
PENNY Brubaker had been awake for more than two hours, sitting in the east wing guest room as she gazed out over Narragansett Bay, still wrapped in the early morning fog. She was visiting her maiden aunt Beatrice Brubaker, who had the estate in the exclusive neighborhood known locally as the Spindrifts. Many wealthy New England families had been spending the warmest months of the year in that area for over a century. Each summer since the 1880s, the mothers and children would be taken down to their luxurious summer homes by husbands and fathers. As soon as the spouses and offspring were settled, the males would hie back to Boston to tend to business and mistresses.
Now, with other places beckoning to families for their vacations, only the eldest members of these moneyed dynasties visited the Spindrifts. Aunt Beatrice was one of those who never lost her fondness for the old place. It was five years ago when she decided to leave Boston and make the spot her permanent home. However, she kept the guest facilities available for any Brubaker kin who wished to visit.
Penny, enduring delayed-stress syndrome, was now taking advantage of that standing offer.
WHEN Penny Brubaker returned to the States from Afghanistan, she had resigned from service in the UN, wanting only to let that part of her life drift away into distant memory, and the sooner the better. She immediately went on a shopping spree that covered both Boston and New York City as she revamped her wardrobe and prepared to return to her former life.
She contacted old girlfriends to get back into the party scene, but the young woman found out that her experiences overseas had left her much like a soldier lately returned from war. She had seen too much of the world's worst circumstances not to have it affect her. The young people her age seemed immature and blissfully ignorant of real life. Penny watched her female friends flirt in singles bars as the guys tried to impress them and pick them up. The would-be suitors complimented them, bought them drinks, and did their best to win them over, using gentle persuasion and as much charm as they could muster.
Penny remembered a refugee camp in the Sudan where Arab raiders and plunderers would come into an area looking for women. Their victims had no choice but to carefully lay their infants aside, hoping the children would not be harmed. Then they were forced to submit to gang rape through entire nights before being allowed to return to the miserable shelters awaiting them in the crude bivouacs. No coquetry and sexy teasing as in big-city bars occurred out in that awful desert. Nor were the men's advances refused. Such effrontery would result in a severe beating at the least, and death at the most.
Penny was not favorably impressed with the young men in the dating game either. They seemed shallow, their lives pointless and self-absorbed, as if the world had been created for their enjoyment and benefit. Most were yuppie types working in white-collar jobs with exaggerated feelings about their real worth. When she compared them with Chad Murchison and his SEAL buddies, they came up woefully short. Nor did they measure up to the men working in the UNREO camps who didn't earn much money but made important contributions to the betterment of the world while putting up with crude conditions and extreme danger.
Penny finally became so disgusted with the singles scene that when she wished to go out for an evening's entertainment, she contacted one of the loan officers who worked in her family's bank. He was a very nice fellow by the name of Henry who was gay. He was willing to take her out now and then for dinner and dancing, and she didn't have to worry about him making any moves on her.
NOW Penny turned from the window and went back to the bed, crawling under the covers. Constant thinking about Chad had caused her so much distress and heartache that she had finally escaped the hectic activities of Boston to find some peace and solitude at Aunt Beatrice's place in the Spindrifts. She had written him a letter, but he had not yet answered it.
Because of her return to America, Penny now understood Chad a lot better. There was absolutely no way he would fit back into his former life even if he lived to be a hundred. The old Chad was gone forever, and she realized she loved this new Chad a lot more than the former. Eventually, he would return to the SEALs' home base in California when his overseas tour was completed.
And Penny Brubaker would be there waiting for him.
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GHARAWDARA HIGHLANDS
27 APRIL
0915 HOURS
THE Afghan Army convoy of four Volkswagen 183 Iltis light utility vehicles rolled along the road that cut through the mountain pass. The commander was a young junior lieutenant by the name of Khalili who was riding in the second vehicle. He was twenty years old, eager, good-humored, and always volunteered for this assignment on a patrol into the Gharawdara Highlands. It was good to get out of the garrison, and sometimes the Pashtuns would spring a hasty ambush on them. There was always lots of shooting, ricochets zinging off into the air, and yelling as the convoy rushed through the fusillades. But there had never been any casualties on either side, and it was no more than a very exciting game. He even loved writing home about it, exaggerating the adventure to make his parents think he was a real warrior.
The enemy generally made the attacks in the morning, as if anxious to get them over with before going back to their hideout higher up in the mountains. Khalili had been making the run for almost a year now, and they had never been hit
on the way back to the garrison, although sometimes Pashtuns would be sighted looking down on them. During those instances, his soldiers exchanged shouted insults with the observers.
Now, on a pleasant morning, the junior lieutenant and his vehicles entered the fighting zone, and everyone looked eagerly upward to see if they could catch sight of the Pashtuns. Usually, a silly, grinning face could be spotted peeking over a boulder, or a flash of sunlight would sparkle for an instant off someone's weapon.
However, after ten minutes of travel, there was no sign of ambushers. Khalili sighed, gazing at the lead vehicle ahead, the dust from the road whipping up into the air from its tires. The young lieutenant spoke to his driver. It appears we will have a boring trip this time. Nothing is going to happen. Hech!
The soldier laughed. Perhaps the Pashtuns were garm for their women, eh? They didn't want to climb out of their fleabitten blankets.
Khalili laughed too. So they stayed in their flea-bitten blankets with their flea-bitten wives. Khanda dar!
Another five minutes passed; then suddenly, the vehicle ahead rocked and the engine came to a stop. Steam and smoke came from under the hood. The sound of firing from above could be heard as the two men bailed out of their now-burning car. They had gone only a half-dozen running steps toward Khalil's vehicle when they buckled and stumbled, falling to the ground in bloody heaps.
Cold fear gripped Khalili. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Speed up! Zut shodan! Get us through this area!
The driver hit the accelerator and the Volkswagen leaped forward. They went only fifteen meters when they began receiving fire, not from above, but from the front. Several mujahideen were alongside the road, using boulders for cover. They had sealed in the front of the ambush site. The last thing Khalili and his driver saw was the windshield smash as dozens of slugs ripped into the interior of the small truck.
The sergeant in the last vehicle saw that the other three were now shot to pieces. He tried to maintain his calm in spite of the terror that gripped him. Bar gashtan! he said loudly. Turn around! Let's get out of here!
