by Jack Terral
What? Bangash exclaimed with a laugh. What's this 'Pasha' shit? Are you the great British raj commanding your faithful little wogs?
Me responsibilities with Orakzai Mesher give me the right to that title, mate, Sikes said testily. Besides commanding the field forces for him, I got me twenty Arab fighters that I brung with me, hey? And let me tell you something for nothing, yeah? Them blokes is disciplined fighting men, thanks to me. I sharpened them up almost as good as UK soljers, and they're me elite troops.
Hey, chill out, Sikes! Bangash said. Whatever you do is cool, okay? It doesn't matter a damn to me if you want to be called Your Royal Highness. I run the dope from Afghanistan and across Iran into Turkey. And that's all I do. If you want to play soldier boy, go right ahead. But I'm not going to call you 'Pasha.'
I was in the Royal Regiment of Dragoons, Sikes said coldly. I left them and my country 'cause they didn't give me the respect I deserved.
Believe me, Bangash said. I don't want any trouble.
Let us all calm down now, Orakzai said. He looked at Sikes. You are going on the next opium run with Husay. It will be a good experience for you, and you will meet the man who supplies us with arms and ammunition.
That wouldn't be a Mr. Harry Turpin, would it? Sikes asked. I already know him from Iran.
Bangash laughed. You know Harry, huh? Hey, he's a cool old dude. I hope to hell I got his moxie when I'm his age. He's still a bad-ass. The old guy still likes to get out and into the middle of things.
Orakzai smiled at Sikes. I am sure you will be pleased to see your old friend when you get to Turkey.
Right, Sikes said. Pass me one of them samosas, will you Bangash?
I'd be glad to, Bangash said, reaching for the bowl. Here you go Sikes.
Chapter 18
THE OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
14 MAY
1930 HOURS
I apologize to everyone for summoning you at this late hour, Arlene Entienne, the President's Chief of Staff, said. Unperturbed by the time of the meeting, the members of the Lamp Committee had taken seats in the hastily arranged semicircle of chairs facing the large desk. As soon as everyone was settled and attentive, Entienne turned to the Chief Executive. And I beg your pardon in particular, Mr. President. But when Edgar called me with this latest intelligence, I felt it required immediate assessment, then a quick decision.
The President smiled good-naturedly. That's perfectly alright, Arlene. All I was going to do this weekend was unwind at Camp David after this previous two weeks of banging heads with Congress over immigration reform.
Edgar Watson of the CIA was not a man with a sense of humor, nor was he tuned in much on the art of repartee; thus, he failed to note the lightness in the exchange between the Chief Executive and Entienne. I assure you, Mr. President, that this intelligence is the sort that merits instantaneous reaction.
Carl Joplin and Colonel John Turnbull looked at each other with mutual grins, noting Watson's lack of social graces. Like most people in the intelligence community, his thought processes were coldly logical, almost plodding in the analysis of what went on around him. Turnbull always got a kick out of putting in a dig at the somber CIA man. Relax, Watson, no-body's upset with you, said the colonel.
Watson frowned at Turnbull, who he didn't like very much. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. At any rate, earlier today we received word of another transmission from Aladdin to our Middle East monitoring station. He has sent the exact coordinates of the route taken by the opium smugglers who are engaged in Operation Persian Empire.
Turnbull, clad in the civvies he was wearing when summoned to the White House, sat with his legs extended, his bad ankle crossed over the uninjured one. Has this info been properly evaluated, Watson?
Of course it has! Watson snapped. Do you think I'm going to contact the President's Chief of Staff and recommend a meeting over some iffy data? The Agency's best minds have studied this latest transmission as well as all others, and they have judged the whole group to be worthy of consideration.
I don't hear the word 'trust' in there, Turnbull said.
Before Watson could talk back, Joplin displayed his diplomatic skills. Listen, everybody, this is not the time for nitpicking and fault-finding. At some point, we must have enough confidence in each other's ability and opinions to move forward. Nay-saying in a case like this can only bring about delays that may cause irreparable harm. And that goes double for intentional sarcasm.
Listen, Carl, Turnbull said, I've been on the ground as a grunt, see? And I want to make sure that Entienne quickly interrupted. The CIA recommends this intelligence be taken seriously. That is all we need to consider.
And it will be taken seriously, the President said, irritated. Please continue, Edgar.
Thank you, Mr. President, the CIA man said. This opium-smuggling route is financing the Iranians big-time in their efforts to take over all insurgencies in the Middle East. Every single, solitary run brings more funds into their coffers. That means weaponry, ammunition, supplies, recruitment, and all other aspects of their program for making war.
Would you say they have a monopoly in the Afghan poppy-smuggling scene? Joplin asked.
Damn near, Watson answered. It's only a matter of time before they'll be pulling in millions of dollars each and every month of the year.
The President leaned forward in his chair. I'm going to save a lot of time for everybody this evening. I am issuing a vocal executive order at this very moment; are you ready? Attack that route and put an end to the smuggling. Any questions? No? Good! Do those things that you do the best to bring this intolerable situation under control. He stood up. I'm off to Camp David.
After the Chief Executive left, Turnbull got to his feet. I'm going to have to go to my office to get the President's mandate into effect. He nodded to Watson. Do you have the maps, satellite photos, and other stuff I need to kick through the system?
It's all right here in my briefcase, Watson replied.
Then you and I better get over to the Pentagon, Turnbull said. It looks like we'll have to drive. I came over here in my POV. He looked at Entienne. I was just about to sit down to dinner when you called, so I didn't have time to arrange for transportation.
You can put in a travel voucher, John, Entienne said.
Will you sign it?
Probably not, she replied.
Watson laughed, showing uncharacteristic humor. Hell! I did come over from my office. I have an Agency car outside. He glanced at Turnbull. You lead, I'll follow. And don't worry. The CIA has parking spaces at the Pentagon. So in case you have to park out at the curb somewhere, I can take you in.
I have my own personal spot, Turnbull said, determined to top the other guy.
Joplin watched them leave, then turned to Entienne. Can you believe that we're in the middle of a situation that threatens world peace, and there're two guys involved in this complicated process who are trying to top each other over where they're going to park their cars?
Fun and games among the alpha males, Entienne said. Let's go down to my office, Carl. You and I have our own chores in this Persian Empire shit.
Tsk! Tsk! Joplin said. That's no way for a lady to talk.
If I were a lady, I wouldn't be in this job. C'mon!
.
OPERATIONAL AREA
SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN DESERT
15 MAY
1045 HOURS
OPERATION Rolling Thunder had ground down to a dull routine of predictable repetition, useless effort, and a mind-set of unending boredom. It seemed to Brannigan's Brigands that they had gone from the tedium of shipboard life aboard the USS Dan Daly to a short spate of excitement, then had been tossed into a stagnant period filled with dreary terrain and small foreign people who did not like them very much.
The principal duty now assigned them was to take the DPVs out on patrols across the desert, for no other apparent reason than to burn fuel between stopping at villages to make fruit
less searches for hidden weapons caches. A reason for this grind was hinted at from the USS Combs after Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan sent a scathing transmission to Commander Tom Carey, bitching about how Operation Rolling Thunder had evolved into a make-work situation. Carey replied that the former warlord in the OA might have been neutralized almost a year earlier, but it was still necessary to continually check up on him and his followers. Carey's message ended with a strong hint for the Brigands and Brannigan in particular to follow orders even if they flew out a window.
Now, after two solid hours of travel, all six vehicles pulled into a small Tajic village they had visited a half-dozen times.
Another procedure they followed was having the Alpha Two vehicle with Connie Concord, Mike Assad, and Dave Leibowitz scope out the area before the detachment actually drove into the vicinity. Afghanistan was a place of nasty surprises where a population friendly one day might turn vicious the next. It only took the Odd Couple five minutes to determine no danger lurked among the huts.
The SEALs had made calls on that community and other similar ones so many times that they had managed to pick up a bit of the Dari language. Their accents elicited polite laughter from the natives, but the Brigands spoke loudly and boldly, feeling as if the less than dozen words they knew made them bi- or multilingual.
As the DPVs came to a stop, all the village kids came running and yelling in anticipation of goodies. Bruno Puglisi had a box of candy purchased at the Shelor Field BX. He stepped down to the ground from the vehicle, shouting at the top of his voice. Hey, you atfal! he yelled out. Get over here damn zut shodan! Chop! Chop! I got zyad candy for you. He began tossing the sweets up into the air, and the kids started a mini-riot of energetic bumping and shoving as they scrambled for the goodies. The adult males, as usual, were the only grownups outside, and they grinned at the sight, each hoping his own children would get plenty to share with the household.
The village chief, an old guy the Brigands had nicknamed Captain, walked onto the scene. He displayed a wide smile and salaamed to Brannigan. Hello, Boss. How are you?
I'm fine, Captain, Brannigan replied.
Me too, the old man said. I am being very fine. Excellent. That is how I am being. His real name was Mohammed Ghani, and his age appeared to be anywhere between forty and ninety-nine. He spoke a strange brand of English, having picked it up in Pakistan, where it is a quasi-official language. Captain had left the village as a young man, snuck across the Pakistani border, and made his way to the capital city of Islamabad. He found low-paying, dirty work at first, toiling as a common laborer until a Pakistani friend steered him to a job in a rather excellent hotel called the Diplomat. He began as a bellboy, but after a few years of loyal and efficient service was named the bell captain. This was where the SEALs got their nickname for him.
Brannigan shook Captain's hand. Have you and your people been good? You don't have guns or anything like that since we were here last.
Oh, no, Boss, Captain said. We are good people here. Yes, sir!
The warlord hasn't brought you anything to hide for him, has he?
Captain shook his head. I am not seeing him for many months now. You are too strong for him, Boss. Ha! Ha! Maybe you are scaring him.
The Brigands had made a couple of rough searches of the village houses in the past, finding a couple of AK-47s and ammunition. Since there wasn't a large cache of arms, it was obvious the inhabitants weren't dealing in weapons or hiding any for Taliban insurgents, so Brannigan did no more than confiscate the arms. He left the single-shot rifles mostly tooled for the British Enfield .303-caliber since the men needed them for hunting.
You stay good, Captain, Brannigan said. He nodded a good-bye to the headman, then turned to walk back to the detachment. He gestured to Senior Chief Dawkins, and the old salt left where he was standing by the Charlie One vehicle and strolled over to Captain. Hello, Cap'n. You listen to me dihyan, eh? Boss Brannigan he tells us no search your ghar too much this time because we no find much. I tell him that's not a good idea. I tell him I think you hide weapons bohut weapons so we should make another search. But he said no.
Boss Brannigan is a good man, Captain said. He is knowing we do not make lies here. We are good people bohut good people!
Don't bullshit me, Cap'n! Dawkins said. He always played the bad guy during visits, to keep the locals off balance. His normal expression was a scowl, and he was good in the part.
Oh, I am not bullshitting, Captain insisted.
We have machines that can find weapons, Dawkins said. We move the machine across the ground or the floor in a house. If there are weapons, the machines tell us. They say beep, beep, beep!
Captain laughed. You are pagal in the head, Buford. Machines cannot speak.
These can, Dawkins insisted. Maybe we'll bring some back with us the next time.
Oh, you are not having to do that, Captain said. We are good people.
Well, we'll see about that, Dawkins said. He heard Brannigan call out his name, and he turned to see the Skipper motioning him to return to Charlie One. He turned his gaze back to Captain, giving the Tajic a warning glare. You're gonna remember what I told you, sahi?
Of course, Buford, Captain said, already waving. Xuda hafiz!
Xudafiz, Dawkins replied, corrupting the Dari words for good-bye.
Within minutes, the SEALs were in their vehicles and speeding away from the village into the desert. They headed in a generally northwestern direction at a gas-saving thirty-five miles per hour toward the next village on their patrol. After they went about ten miles, Frank Gomez's voice came over the LASH headset. Skipper, I just got a transmission over the Shadowfire. We're supposed to return to Shelor Field by the quickest route. Carey and Berringer are waiting for us there.
Good deal! interjected Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser. As Sherlock Holmes would say, 'The game's afoot!'
Brannigan turned the wheel, whipping the DPV toward a southeastern route as his men followed.
.
THE OPIUM TRAIL
AFGHANISTAN
16 MAY
NOON
THE farmers who cultivated and harvested the opium poppies did so for very good economic reasons. If they planted the usual crops wheat, barley, and corn each family would earn the equivalent of approximately 150 American dollars per year. But the plants from which heroin is made afforded the cultivators 64,500 afghani annually, which translated into 1500 American dollars per year for the average family. It was not surprising that this tenfold advantage in cash encouraged them to cultivate and process the poppies. The growers drew the juice from the unripe seeds of the plants, and air-dried it until it formed into a thick gum. Further drying of this gum resulted in a powder for the final product that was sold.
The farmers' customers were the smugglers who paid them cash for the illicit crops. They took care of the transport to the rendezvous site, to be loaded onto trucks for delivery to the Iranian-Turkish border, to be sold yet again. This time, the transfer of the product was to other illicit entrepreneurs who would see the powder got to the right people. These gangsters were from the criminal organizations who had the means to process it into heroin for the markets of the West.
The cultivators loved this arrangement, and were deeply grateful for the opportunity to make so much money. It was easy, fast work without the backbreaking struggle of plowing and harvesting grain crops. These planters considered opiates a blessing from Allah. And if the stuff trapped infidels in the hell of addiction, so much the better. That was what the Nonbelievers of Western civilization deserved.
SURPRISE and astonishment registered on the expressive face of Archibald Sikes Pasha when the donkey train from the stronghold reached its destination. He, Naser Khadid, Malyar Lodhi, Jandol Kakar, and a couple of dozen mujahideen came down from the Gharawdara Highlands onto the plains after several grueling hours of foot travel under the direction of Husay Bangash. Within a quarter of an hour of trekking across the desert, the travelers reached th
e rendezvous point. This was where the caravans formed up to take opium shipments out of Afghanistan, across Iran, and into Turkey.
In Sikes' mind he had pictured a crude bivouac with more donkeys or maybe camels gathered around an oasis of some sort. Instead, he saw a small cluster of buildings around which were parked six modern military trucks and a dozen civilian pickups that had machine guns mounted on top of the cabs.
Khadid glanced at his English companion, grinning in delight. This is not what you were expecting, was it, Sikes Pasha?
Not by a bluddy long shot, Sikes remarked. He glanced at some more military vehicles on the other side of the buildings. Who're them blokes over there then?
Afghan Army officers, Khadid explained. Their units bring the stuff this far, then we'll put it on those trucks which belong to the Iranian Army, by the way and take it the rest of the way to Turkey.
Now that makes me nervous, Sikes said. I ambushed an Afghan motor patrol, remember?
The multiple conspiracies going on in modern Afghanistan create a bewildering pattern of inconsistencies, Khadid explained. These Afghan soldiers are not concerned about what you've done or where you've been.
That's a relief, Sikes said. Now wot about them civilian trucks?
Those are Toyota pickups that have been fixed up with machine guns, Khadid said. The weapons are most excellent German MG-3 seven-point-six-two-millimeters that have proven very dependable in the past.
I wouldn't think those would be necessary, Sikes remarked. It looks like the law is on the smugglers' side in this operation.
Kakar interjected himself into the conversation. Our opponents are other smugglers. Rivals, actually.
Who're the brave lads that handle the German machine guns?
Iranian soldiers, Khadid replied. They have already proven themselves in some rather large battles in the past. We have to be prepared for the worst. By the way, we'll be riding in the cabs of the pickups during the journey. The mujahideen will be in the Iranian vehicles.
