by L. J. Martin
The bad news…they’re all near forty, on one side or the other, and that’s old timers for this kind of work.
Hank, Killer, TooBad, BeBe, Reardon and Pax bringing up the rear. Long in the tooth or not, I’d hate to have that bunch of reprobates hunting my hide.
Pax wanders in just before lunch while I’m at a small conference table in his office making up a list of wants. A short list as the commander knows his stuff. I know it’s Pax as he normally bounds up the stairs and this time it’s a clump clump stair at a time.
"What’s up?" he asks as he tops out.
"Got a gig and making up a list."
"Where we going?"
"We ain’t. You’re hanging around getting right."
"Fuck you. I’m back."
"No, you’re not back. I got plenty of help and I need you on the computers."
"So l can handle the computers…go fuck yourself, I'm going."
"I’m buying supper and bringing along a beautiful blonde, but not if you’re gonna give me a bad time all night."
He stares daggers at me. "I can whip your ass so I must not be in too bad shape."
"That’ll be the friggin’ day. How come you take the stairs one at a time?"
"What’s that got to do with anything?"
"It’s my gig, you ain’t going. Five of us are going, you’re gonna be the head shed, and you’re in for a sixth."
He stares at me for a long moment, then his look softens. "I’ll consider myself on standby. When you get your dumb ass in trouble, I’ll be the cavalry."
"Okay, but it’ll be a long ride. We’re going to Afghanistan."
"You and what Army?"
"Five of us, including Skip."
Again, it’s a long stare, then he shakes his head. "I dunno how to get closer, so I’ll go to Malta and Work out of Taj’s office."
"Okay, that’s a deal. You can fly as far as Italy with us."
Taj is ex-British Army, now a tech guy, who retired to Malta, and is perched in front of a bank of computer monitors in an apartment above the Citadel where he doesn’t have to pay much attention to the fact that he lost a leg and one kidney in Afghanistan. What Pax can’t do, Taj can, and vice versa. And Taj has three sons who are even better when they have time away from running one of Valetta’s most successful electronics stores.
We also have a cohort who's willing to do anything for a buck, Taj's cousin, Pauly Singh, in Mumbai. Pauly is not his real name, but his real name is something no red blooded American could possibly pronounce.
So we’ve got Afghanistan surrounded…of course both the Russians and the Americans have tried to handle the Afghanis, and have only proven that all the technology in the world can’t defeat a determined guerrilla foe, particularly one who’s been blinded all their lives by supposed martyrdom and the promise of seventy two virgins. Particularly one who can blend into a populace that we’re unwilling to kill. Vietnam should have been a lesson. Particularly, a lesson to those of us who have an administration who won’t truly wage war and who’s guided by politics.
I have a smattering of Najdi Arabic, and can find the bathroom in Russian, Farsi and French; Killer speaks Spanish and some French, not that we’ll need it; BeBe speaks some Russian and passable Pushtu, the language of most of Afghanistan, including the east where we’ll be heading. Let’s hope Commander Scroder finds us a good terp—interpreter—as we’ll be flying blind if not. Nobody will believe black BeBe is Afghani, no matter how accent free he speaks. I wish my old buddy Taj were with us as he’s fluent in Pushtu, Russian, Arabic and the primary languages of Mumbai, India…Hindi and Marathi, and can easily pass for a Pakistani…but he’s even more beat up than Pax.
Pax gets on the computer and starts the hours of research he’ll do prior to the time we roll the DPV’s into the hot zone. I want to know everything I can about Afghanistan in general and the border between it and Uzbekistan in particular. I won’t be able to get more specific until I meet up with Scroder and get briefed on the mission. Then we can go to work finding out all we can about the bad guys…and it’s a good thing Pax will be working beside Taj, who’s fluent in Pushtu, and even has some fluency in Chechen and its dozens of dialects.
In moments Pax hands me a print out of Pushtu terms and another of social do’s and don’ts in Afghan culture. Looks like we’ll leave the booze home and get used to drinking tea…if there will be any social interaction.
It’s a good thing we’re flying private all the way as I have some tricks I want to take. My quadcopter and GoPro cameras would work commercial, but my brand new .416 Barrett sniper rifle would not be welcome on United. The .416 has proven to be even more accurate than the .50 although I’ve only shot a dozen rounds out of her…but that was enough to decide she’s the baby for me. And I want that baby and a couple of hundred custom loaded rounds along.
Hank Hauser, Killer Carlos Juarez and Tobin TooBad Michaels are the first to arrive, having driven from L.A. and they come directly to Pax’s office. Pax suggests they leave Killer’s new Camaro—which was packed to the hilt with three big guys and three rucks—in his parking area behind his office while we’re on our mission.
I make reservations at The Golden Steer, one of Vegas’s oldest and most classic steakhouses for six, BeBe's joining us in Atlanta, and I talk Pax into picking Skip up at McCarran International with the excuse I have to go to my mini storage to put together my ruck and sack of goodies, which I do for a half hour. Then I haul ass to pick up the gorgeous Sophia McAmber at the Bellagio, hoping to beat the time of five other no-good hustlers.
Of course, I may be dreaming, as she’ll probably have nothing to do with any of us.
I call her from the lobby and she informs me she’ll meet me at the valet parking desk near the front door.
When she walks out, in a short simple black dress, five inch heels, and her long hair up…she stops traffic and leaves me tongue tied.
Her uncle is a lying son-of-a-bitch.
3
We get a prime corner booth that, with the addition of a chair, holds us all. As Sophia is introduced from man to man, it's obvious they are as tongue-tied as I, except for Pax who's always had the gift of gab with a woman.
Sophia has taken the only chair, but Pax, on the outside of the curve of the booth, stands and snaps at the others. "Give way boys, Miss McAmber get's the center as I can see she's a lady who needs protection."
Sophia gives him a rather hard look. "And why's that, Weatherwax?"
"Why, with a beauty like yours, every red blooded man in the world would die to abscond with you. It's our duty as the world's few remaining white hats to protect you with our lives."
And every man there smiles and nods.
"And besides," Pax continues, "we don't want you to be able to escape easily."
She laughs. "I have no desire to escape, at least not until I brief the lot of you. So move aside boys and I'll be the meat in the sandwich...so to speak."
And they all slide out and jump up and she can take either way in to the back. She laughs again, more earnestly, and it's a very pleasant sound.
If you've ever seen eaters, you'd still be amazed at what five guys can put away who are acting like it might be their last decent meal for a while...or maybe their last meal. And Skip eats enough for a squad.
Sophia makes small talk until she's finished with a salad. She abstains from dessert which all of us order. There's enough chocolate on the table to make Willy Wonka jealous.
"Gentlemen," she begins, "I presume you all understand this is for your ears only?" She waits until she gets an acknowledgement from each of us. Then turns to me. "You've only divulged the danger and the remuneration of this mission, I presume?"
"True, except to Pax who'll be our headquarters, our head shed, and will be setting up our communication and intel."
"Good. It's better no one knows our destination until we're on the final leg."
Hank Hausman speaks up. "How many legs are there."
Sh
e smiles. "More than a human, less than a centipede." Then continues. "You're final is in Afghanistan, where you'll have little support, and odds are, none from our military. This is a sub-rosa op, not sanctioned by our government."
This time it's Killer Carlos who asks, "Are we gonna be on an Interpol most wanted list when...and if...we complete?"
"There's not a civilized country in the world who won't endorse what you're doing."
Hank laughs. "They also endorse sacrificial lambs."
Sophia gets very serious. "This is very, very dangerous. And if any of you have doubts, now's the time to back out."
Every one of us shrugs like it's no big deal.
"Okay," she says, then reaches in her bag and pulls out four fat envelopes. "I'm keeping one of these for Gunter, and will give it to him in Atlanta...presuming he's going on with us." Then she hands one to everyone but me. "There's a cashiers check made out to cash in each of these envelopes in the amount of twenty five thousand. There’s also five thousand U.S. in Afghani currency…a pile, as you’ll see, each Afghani dollar is worth about a penny and a half. You’ll be carrying ten times the Amount the average Afghani makes a year, so you should be able to buy or bribe your way out of some trouble. By the way, baksheesh is Arabic for bribe and it’s not an insult in that part of the world. Consider the twenty five American an advance. If you have people or responsibilities here, take care of them tonight. We fly out early in the morning, four AM. I doubt if we'll be gone over two weeks, God willing."
Hank grouses, "Hey, how the hell can we take care of things between now and four AM. The banks are closed."
Pax jumps in. "Write your instructions and leave them with me. My people at the office will do exactly what you want done. I’ll personally guarantee it."
They all nod.
And I add my two cents, "Gentlemen, you want to have a clear mind at all times over there, so don’t leave any personal problems behind if there’s any way to avoid it."
"Okay, gentlemen," Sophia says, and reaches across the table and shakes hands with each of us, a good strong handshake for a lady. Then says, "The dinner check is on me, and I'm buying a round in the bar. I'd suggest we all hit the sack early. We've got a long flight tomorrow, more than a long day in the air, and there won't be any executive lounge breaks to rest up in. We’re private all the way."
It ends up to be three rounds and a lot of war stories, most of which I'd think are true. Every one of these guys has been under fire, all but one have taken lead or shrapnel. And they've got an interesting assortment of talents.
It turns out Tobin TooBad Michaels is a pilot and has flown a little bit of everything, including choppers. Killer Carlos Juarez is a demolitions expert, trained by Delta Force, and has done quite of bit of bomb disarmament. Every guy here has had parachute training. Skip, Pax and I as Recon Marines have nowhere near the intensive parachute or underwater training that the SEALs have, but enough to get us by if need be. And then there's BeBe, whose background I know something of. As a SEAL for a dozen years, BeBe has done it all, sea, air and land. And he has over forty sniper kills, some from Iraq and some from Afghanistan.
Like I said, I'd hate to have this bunch of hooligans after me, or even me after me.
I deliver Sophia back to the Bellagio, letting her out of my Vette at the front door. She does not invite me up to her room for a nightcap, so Commander Scroder’s admonitions are easily heeded...damn it. As I’ve been staying at Pax’s place since his last live-in left, I head there and happily not to my van, camper, or mini storage for an uncomfortable night's sleep.
We are all front and center at Atlantic Aviation at McCarran at or before four AM, and we’re pleased to see the promised Citation has been upgraded to a G4. We are going in style, with a lovely little flight attendant to accommodate almost all our needs. I say almost as she has about a dozen offers for other needs before we leave the ground, with all these animals wanting to join the mile high club. Sophia does suggest they mind their manners, and informs them the cute little blonde is a dead shot with the little Smith and Wesson she carries.
Most of them decide to sleep most of the way to Atlanta after that sincere warning. Pax has always been able to sleep anywhere, and I’m always jealous.
We pause only to refuel and load BeBe at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International and at its fixed base operator, Landmark Aviation. Air miles Atlanta to Rome are just over four thousand three hundred and the G4 has a range of four thousand five hundred…a little too close to call without an intermediate stop. So we set down at Lisbon, Portugal’s Portela airport, for refueling—just a hair over four thousand—and do not disembark or risk their custom’s interference.
I’m doubly surprised and worried when Portuguese customs officers, two of the three armed, approach the G4 while we’re being refueled.
They are not getting aboard—no matter what—as we’d all find ourselves in some cold dark dungeon as we have a half ton of illicit material in the cargo hold.
I’m even more surprised when Sophia leaps up and descends the ladder, flashes some paperwork at the uniformed officers, who study it diligently, then spin on their heels and leave.
She wanders back onboard and retakes her seat as if nothing happened. So I move to the front of the plane where she’s taken the first pair of seats behind the flight deck.
"Okay, tell me what went down out there?" I ask, plopping down beside her.
"I guess Portuguese custom officials appreciate a stylish lady when they see one."
"No doubt, but unless you were showing them naked pictures of the stylish lady, then it’s whatever you stuffed back in your briefcase that dissuaded them. So, which was it?"
"Sit down," she says, and pats the seat next to her. The rest of the boys are gathered at the back of the plane, surrounding Babs, the cute little blonde flight attendant, and even at that, Sophia speaks in a low voice. "Your ears only, scout’s honor?"
"Your wish is my command."
"I’m with the State Department and this plane has diplomatic immunity."
"I thought you said…."
"I said we are operating outside the purview of the government and we are, it just so happens I have access to lots of blank documents, and my uncle has been like a father to me for years. This is the only favor he’s ever asked."
"So we don’t really have any immunity?"
"Not a friggin’ smidgen. But what I’m carrying will work in Italy…. Uzbekistan may be another matter. Our treaties with the stans are a bit confusing. However, the docs I carry look official as hell and carry the seal of the U.S. Department of State."
"So, what’s your real job there?"
"I’m first assistant to the Undersecretary of Middle Eastern Commerce."
I have to laugh, and gain a smile from her. "So, you’re a glorified secretary?"
"Are you trying to insult me?" she asks, but she’s still smiling.
"No, ma’am. If what you’ve got in that bag of tricks works, then you're as good as the Secretary of State as far as I’m concerned…and way, way better looking."
"Well, it’s worked so far. Let’s hope we stay in the groove."
"From your lips to God’s ears."
"Rome next," she says, and leans her seat back. "I’m going to try and get a little more shut eye. The Italians, if they stick their nose in, may need a little more righteous indignation than the Portuguese did."
As I return to my seat, I have a new appreciation for Sophia.
Rome next, and Commander Thomas Scroder.
4
We’re twelve hours out of Atlanta when we begin our descent into Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci Fiumicino Airport. We deplaned and stretch, working the kinks out of our legs. I’m not altogether surprised when a crew begins unloading our gear from the G4 and hauls it to a nearby four engine turboprop, painted totally black, which I believe is of Russian origin. I start to wander that way, when a gruff voice yells at Pax, Skip and I as we’re saying our goodbyes. He’s off
to Malta from here.
"Hey, jarheads," and I turn to see the Commander, with his niece at his side, coming our way.
"You got us reservations at one of Rome’s finest trattorias I presume?" I ask as he pumps my hand.
"Fat friggin’ chance. I’ve got a box full of deli and we’re eating in that AN-10 on the way to a bumpy strip southwest of Tashkent."
Pax laughs. "I guess I’ll have to eat at Rome’s best for all of us."
Ignoring him, I turn to the commander. "You’re going?" I ask, sincerely surprised.
"As far as that bumpy strip. They don’t pay me nearly well enough to go back into that shithole of Muslim murdering motherfuckers where you’re going."
"Aw, the commander’s words of encouragement."
"Today’s your last easy day, jarhead."
Then the commander turns to Pax. "You’ll have to wait until Malta to chow down, you’ll be flying on so you don’t have to deal with Italian customs."
"All by myself in this beautiful G4 with its lovely flight attendant," he laughs, trying to rub in it, he pokes me in the ribs with an elbow.
"Ha," Scroder says, "the G4 is off to London with some of our people. We’ve got a Cessna 210 with an extra fuel bladder chartered to head south carrying you, with a hairy legged fat Italian pilot named Luigi."
Pax’s face falls and it’s my turn to laugh. "Semper Fi, fat man. Give Taj and his kids my regards. I know you love flying four or five hundred miles over water in a single engine. Hope you brought your water wings." It's my turn to laugh.
"Humph," Pax manages.
"Here," Scroder hands Pax a fat binder. "That’s everything we know about Zazia and Akhmed. They have a fairly sophisticated computer setup at the compound, but with lousy firewalls so you’ll have lots to work with."
