by L. J. Martin
"Hot? It's seventy eight here with a nice ocean breeze."
"Go sit on your thumb."
And we ring off.
Life gets a little more complicated, but then it always does when you're going into a mission. You can never-never-never plan for everything, and even if you do, the circumstance always changes.
We set down at our predetermined quadrant and are quickly cut loose from the choppers and wave goodbye to the crews.
6
We head due west over a small rise and I spot a truck on the road they call a highway, A62, a mile distant. We'll stay on A62 until we find our Haji’s village, our guide and terp, then head for the weeds. However, if the rest of the country is as pool table flat as what I'm now observing you couldn't hide a billiard ball unless you could find a badger hole. The largest bush in sight is the size of a basketball. A windblown, stark, uninviting landscape with not even a buzzard to break the monotony. I've done lots of recon of the target via Google Earth, and photos provided by Commander Scroder show the country around the Zazai compound, thank God there're some low hills and ravines.
Hank, Skip and I take the lead, test the radios, and call, "Dirt Dog, Sand Hog here, you copy?"
"Copy," comes right back.
"Remember, keep at least a two hundred yard spread. I'll be looking for our guide and terp in about ten clicks. It’ll be a little village on the east side of the highway, a click toward the mountains. Don't crowd us, even then, but come up to a hundred yards and set up in case we have to make a quick exit."
"10-4," TooBad comes back."
And we’re off.
Hank drives and I continue reading up on the area, while Skip takes the elevated gunner's seat…even though we haven’t mounted the 50 cal M2HB yet.
To the south and east is country in which I’d much rather be operating. The Hindu Kush is a magnificent mountain range separating Afghanistan, Pakistan and Tajikistan, rising to twenty five thousand feet in a couple of places. As we move out of this flat we’ll be going into rougher terrain that reminds me of parts of New Mexico and Arizona, only instead of Mesquite and cactus this country is covered with wild pistachio trees, and more predominately, desert sedge. I have to smile as I love pistachios, but I imagine late summer is harvest time, if you can even eat the wild variety.
There’s meat in them thar hills as well: Asian wild ass known as Kulan; goitered gazelle; striped hyena, not that I can imagine eating one of the filthy creatures; and even some leopard who might just eat us given the chance, as would a few wolf ranging about. There are also a small number of endangered wild sheep. Like most arid regions there are ground squirrels and voles, and unlike our deserts, hamsters.
Of more concern are two varieties of cobras, two of pit vipers, and some krait. Not to mention black widows, tarantulas, and a half dozen varieties of scorpions. One must remember to shake out one's boots, should one take time to take one's boots off…which I doubt.
It goes without saying that the most dangerous critters in the area are two legged.
It’s an uninviting place; not for the weak of heart.
We haven’t been on the highway—two lanes, potholed—for more than four clicks. We’ve passed only a civilian three wheeler, which is a motorcycle with a cargo box on the back, and a tanker truck, when Hank reaches over and slaps me on the thigh. "We should have set up the fifty."
I look up from my reading to see a military sand-colored Land Rover, followed my an older MRAP, Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle, a truck, bearing down on us from the opposite direction. No telling how many of these vehicles were left behind when we exited from the country. Billions of dollars worth.
"Give them a wave as we pass," I suggest.
"We should have set up the fifty," Skip grouses.
"We have two loaded LAW’s on the rack, four RPG’s in the back and more frigging fighting gear than half the ANA."
"Yeah," Hank says with a guffaw, "we’re a regular fucking bomb on wheels."
They come even with us and we see the land cruiser has two guys in the back seat who are covered with gold braid.
Hank waves and does not get a return greeting, just a stare as we pass. Dirt Dog is the planned two hundred yards on our six, and they, too, wave as the ANA passes.
"Fuck, they’re pulling over," Hank observes in the small side rear view.
"Turning around?" I ask.
"Nope, just pulling over, so far."
"The instant we get out of sight, break left into the desert. We can rough it the rest of the way."
"Yeah, and even a blind man could track these hard self-sealing deep-tread tires in this desert."
"You got a better idea?"
"Yeah, let’s kick it in the ass. If that was brass in the back seat, they ain’t gonna get into any engagement, and that MRAP couldn’t catch us on a bet. Let’s just haul ass."
"You can’t out run radios."
"I’ll split the dif with you, bossman. Let’s haul ass for three or four clicks, looking for a good place to split from the highway. That should put us within a click or two of your village."
"Kick it up to eighty or so, and I’ll keep my eyes peeled for a spot to ditch this piece of crap road."
And he does, and Dirt Dog seems to get the idea and maintains the distance, only dropping back another hundred yards.
I’m happy to note that the country is rising and falling much more, offering some cover with the horizons only a half mile or so. In the distance I see a wadi working its way out of the hills to the west. "If there’s a bridge over that ravine about a half mile ahead, break right and see if we can get down in the bottom and go under the bridge to the east."
"You got it."
I grab the radio. "Dirt Dog, we’re going off road in a half mile or so. Roger that?"
"Roger," Killer Carlos answers. Then he adds, "You did see those boys in the military rigs...they were eyeballing us like bulls at bastard calves."
"I did. But they didn’t follow, did they?"
"The truck was making a turn, the last I saw."
"Fuck. Move it so we can get out of sight."
"10-4"
I’m not thrilled. A firefight with the ANA was not on my agenda.
One of the problems with Afghanistan is knowing who the enemy is. ANA is not always what it seems to be. Allegations of gross misconduct against parts of the ANA have been made time and time again, in fact a shadowy group who were recruited and trained by U.S. Special Forces are widely thought of as nothing more than bandits who raid in the night, and many have become private forces, some even hired back by the remaining force of U.S. Troops, now only ten thousand strong.
Like us, now that we’re working for Blackthorn, the rogue ANA troops are on their own, and answerable only to their bosses and driven by money rather than a flag.
All that said, I have no interest in engaging with legitimate Afghan forces and killing some guy or guys who are merely obeying their country’s orders. We could be damned if we do and damned, or worse, if we don’t.
It’s a coin toss.
The railway is seen occasionally to the east of the highway and as we get ready to swing off the road and down into the wadi—the bridge is over twenty feet above its bottom—I can see the railroad bridge over the same ravine only three hundred yards to the east.
Hank must have had some time in dune buggies and is not at all bashful about nosing it over a very steep incline, so steep I’m wondering if we’re going to ass end it.
"Oh, fuck!" Skip yells as we can’t see he bottom.
But we don’t ass end and we only have a bone-jarring bottom out and then kick up a cloud of dirt before she levels out. He spins the wheel and we’re under the bridge and headed east. There’s no mirror on my side and we’re so loaded down I can’t see past the elevated seat in the rear—the gunner’s perch—and yell at him, "Dirt Dog?"
"They are down and on our ass."
"Cool."
Just as we go under the railroad bridge
, on the fly, I see the MRAP, hauling ass, pass over the highway bridge, headed south.
Now, if they just didn’t see us, or our tracks, in the wadi.
7
A hundred yards past the railroad we find a slope we can ascend, and do so. Dirt Dog is right on our butts as we kick dirt and rock all over them, but since we're dodging the ANA, I don't complain nor do they.
Looking back to see if the MRAP has tried to follow, I see that the railroad bed is six or eight feet above the desert floor and I can’t see the highway in the distance. Good news as it will hide us and will lead us to the village where Emir, our Afghan guide and terp should join up.
In the information Scroder has provided I see that Emir, who remains un-named in anything written that might be captured by the bad guys, was employed by the embassy in Kabul, the capitol, and, presumably by the CIA, while we were rummaging around the country before the big pull out. He was a spy and brought us lots of valuable intel…of course he was well paid to do so. I have a wad of Afghani cash three inches thick to lay on him, half when we meet up, half when we part ways. He’s to be trusted, or so the agency boys claim.
And I will trust him, up to a point. Of course there are times I don't trust the CIA or any of the acronyms.
We’ll see.
If we get to him.
We're only on a two track beside the railroad track for a couple of clicks when we come upon a small herd of goats and a young boy in Salwar kameez—baggy cotton trousers—and the thick brimmed wool hat common among Afghanis. I have to laugh as he’s wearing a way-to-big Stone’s t-shirt with Mick’s lips in bright red—judging by the wear, a long ago gift from some grunt. He's not armed, except with a long walking stick. He's looking at us with wide eyes as I'm sure he's never seen a DPV.
Hank slides to a stop and the goats scatter. I leap out and say, "Salaam alaikum," and put my right hand over my heart, and guess my pronunciation of the typical Afghan greeting is proper as he replies.
"Wa’alaikum salaam." He mimics my hand over heart.
I start asking him some questions, then hear a familiar sound in the distance, and grab the radio. "Dirt Dog, get the tarp on." And I grab our camo tarp from the back of the DPV and yell at Hank and Skip. "Cover up, chopper coming."
And they help me get the DPV under cover. I glance to the rear, and Dirt Dog is following suit.
The boy continues to stare in some wonder, as he moves around trying to collect his goats.
We hide under the tarp, but I position myself on one side and Hank on the other so we can watch both ways for the bird. Sure as hell, it’s an ANA chopper, an older model Apache, but with rocket pods…another of the many gifts from our taxpayers. He’s ranging back and forth over the highway. We’re a half-mile to the east of the highway and two hundred yards east of the railroad, and he passes by without spotting us. I’m wondering if the brass in the Land Rover and the MRAP have sic’d them on us.
I guess we’ll never know, then my sat phone vibrates and I grab it out of the 30 round clip pouch where I have it stowed.
"Yo," I answer.
"Lot’s of chatter on the internet coming from the Zazai compound. Seems they got a call from some ANA friends who spotted a strange sight…a pair of wild vehicles like the U. S. Special Forces used to use."
"Imagine that," I reply.
"Imagine this, we routed an email through Kabul informing them of an ANA operation in the area, using such vehicles, and signing it as if it was from the Afghani Intelligence Service. Don’t know if it will work, but it was the best we could come up with."
"An ANA chopper just overflew us, ranging back and forth as if it was hunting, but we covered up and they kept going."
"Cool, fool. Keep your heads down."
"Roger that. Keep watching our six."
"Wish I was there."
"I’m glad you’re out there in hyperspace."
And we sign off.
As we’re uncovering the DPV’s, the wop wop of the chopper again rings across the desert, and we reverse our effort and cover up again. Only this time he passes in a straight line, barreling by as if they’re late for tea.
Again we uncover and, as soon as we have the tarp stowed, I walk over to the boy and greet him again. "Salaam alaikum."
And he again replies, "Wa’alaikum salaam."
"Emir? Kwala?" I ask, and he points to the southeast.
I wish I could ask him how far, but spread my hands and point. He’s a sharp kid, and points to the sun, indicating a couple of inches at arm length, which I suspect means a short time and fairly close by. I dig a hard candy out of my webbing and hand it over and get a smile which is a testimony to Afghan’s lack of dentists, and return the smile and wave. And we’re off in the direction he’s pointed, almost due southeast. In minutes we see a settlement of mud huts a half mile away, and I grab the radio. "Dirt Dog, let’s mount our fifties. You guys set up where you can get the best look-see at the village, break out your Barrett and somebody tend the LAWS, I don’t expect trouble, but want you on the hunt for it."
"10-4," TooBad comes back and they break due east toward a high spot only three hundred yards northeast of the village. We keep heading straight for it.
As we approach, I see women in flowing dresses and hijab’s—head-scarfs—gathering children and herding them into huts. By the time we’re fifty yards away three men move forward. Two of them carry AK-47’s, which are as common in Afghanistan as cell phones on a New York city street. I leave Hank and the DPV at 30 yards and exit alone, with nothing more than my Glock in its drop-hip holster. I reach into the rear of the DPV and into a side panel where some of the items on my list are stowed, pocketing a half dozen, and walk forward, stopping at ten yards where I greet them.
"Salaam alaikum," with a bow of the head and my right hand over my heart.
They are a serious looking bunch and smiles are as absent as paved roads, but they return the greeting and I move closer.
"Malik, lutfan?" I ask, "The village leader please," and the man in the center places a hand over his heart.
"Emir?" I ask. And the older of the three, the leader who’s unarmed, nods, and waves me to follow.
He leads me to the largest of the huts, this one partially constructed of the same lava stone that dots the desert. I enter through a goat hair woven cloth door covering and see four other older men sitting on rugs. Only the eldest of the three who’ve greeted me enters the hut, the two with the AK’s stay outside, flanking the door. The one who’s greeted me motions me to join them, and in seconds I’m seated on the rugs and handed a cup of steaming tea—not my choice of beverage as it’s probably approaching a hundred twenty degrees in the hut. But I take it and give the boy who hands it a smile and nod.
They eye me and one of them speaks, so rapidly I don’t make out a word, so I pull my little Pushtu-English dictionary from my vest pocket and ask, "Emir, please."
They chatter among themselves and snap some instructions to the boy, who’s remained standing, and he hurries from the hut.
We sip our tea in silence, and in less than a minute light floods the hut again, and a fairly tall Afghani with unusual gray eyes enters. "Blackthorn?" he asks, and I rise.
"Mike Reardon, Blackthorn," I reply.
He gives me a long hug, a sign of respect in Afghanistan, and the others seem to relax. He chatters to them and they actually smile. He waves me back down and I plop down cross-legged as if I were in a Wyoming teepee.
He places a hand on my shoulder, and explains. "It would be considered rude if you didn’t relax and enjoy tea and the hospitality of the village elders." His English is nearly perfect.
"No problem. I’m enjoying it," I lie.
We make nice for a few minutes, Emir exchanging comments between us, until I finish my tea, then I rise and dig into my pocket and pull out five little Leatherman tools in their leather pouches, and hand one to each elder. Now I get real smiles. One of them walks to a corner of the hut and returns with a handsome b
lanket, a patoo, which is worn over the shoulders.
It’s my turn to smile and nod, and I place my hand over my heart. "Wa’alaikum salaam," I say, and turn to Emir. "Can we leave now?"
"Yes, I’ll make your goodbyes." He chatters a moment, then we walk out. All five of the elders follow us to the edge of the kwala—the Afghan compound—and wave goodbye.
I mount up and stand beside Skip who’s on the elevated gunner’s perch and give Emir my passenger seat. Grabbing my handheld, I call Dog Dirt. "We’re out of here." Then I turn to Emir. "Directions?"
"Due east to the wide wadi. You have something for me, please?"
"A pile of Afghani, half now, half when we finish. It's stowed below. I'll dig it out the next time we stop."
He nods, seemingly satisfied.
And I tell Dirt Dog. "Due east, let’s reform at two hundred yards. We’ll lead, you track us."
And we’re off for our rendezvous with Mullah Zazai and his boys.
I hope they don’t know we’re coming.
8
Emir does little more than point until we reach the wadi, almost a mile wide and flat sand. It’s obviously a flooded wash at some time of the year, and my maps say it leads all the way north to the Amu Darya.
"How far to Zazai?" I ask.
"Twenty kilometers. We will turn up out of the wadi in twelve or so."
We travel on, making good time on the hard sand. I estimate the distance, then ask again. "How far to the turn out."
"A kilometer or two."
"Hank, stop." And he does. I walk back out of earshot of the DPV and note that Dirt Dog has stopped also, maintaining the two hundred yards.
So I use the radio. "Dirt Dog, I want you to stash your extras somewhere they won’t be found. I’m not too excited about my passenger knowing where, so let us get out of sight, then I want you to catch up and he’ll mount up with you and one of you guys pile in with us. Then we’ll cache our extras."
"10-4," comes back, and I return to the DPV. "Hank, haul ass."
