by Joe Nobody
About then, a white SUV pulled up with lettering on the door indicating it belonged to the United Nations Reconstruction Council. The blue and white colors of the international organization rounded out its branding. After an exchange verifying who was who, Bishop hopped in the front seat and shook hands with his driver.
Mike Wagner was a Canadian from the Toronto area, and immediately came across as a hard ass. After one of the shortest handshakes Bishop had ever experienced, the man immediately announced he was in charge of the operation and made it absolutely clear that Bishop reported to him. He smugly informed Bishop of his credentials, having been a member of the Régiment d'Opérations Spéciales du Canada, which was French for the Canadian Special Forces. Bishop had worked with his share of Canadians and respected them. Almost every one of them would use the English name for this, that, or the other, but every now and then, Bishop would come across a guy who wanted to speak French just to be elitist. Bishop started to ask the man if Wagner was a French name, but decided against it.
As they made their way out into the Afghan countryside, Bishop was absorbed in the sights, sounds, and smells of a new place. His fascination with foreign lands had always been a weakness while working at HBR. A good security man observes and analyzes his surroundings, which is different than gawking around like a tourist, he reminded himself.
Five mostly silent and extremely bumpy hours later, the SUV stopped at a remote Afghan farmhouse, complete with crude fences fashioned out of local stones and two animals that somewhat resembled cows. Bishop was shown to an outbuilding, which served the dual purpose of being a barn and barracks. Inside he met the rest of the team.
All seven of the gentlemen looked to be hard cases. Most were in their late 30s or early 40s, and all gave the impression of being in excellent physical condition. As Bishop ran the reception line, his handshake was met with single names and single syllable greetings. “Hey. Todd,” or “Hi. Jim,” filled the air for the next few minutes. Not a talkative bunch for sure, thought Bishop, maybe the food’s bad.
Mike Wagner appeared shortly after Bishop’s arrival and called the group together, reminding the team once again that he was formerly of the Régiment d'Opérations Spéciales du Canada. Bishop wondered if this pretentious fuck was going to initiate a wine tasting in the middle of the meeting. Additionally, Mr. Wagner left no doubt that he was the man in charge. What followed was basically a military briefing combined with a short lecture on how to interact with any locals who may wander by—the latter consisting solely of instruction to hide and stay out of sight until further notice.
A few minutes later, a man with a dark complexion joined the meeting and was introduced as Mr. Rostenphuse—the team’s Pakistani interpreter. The new arrival made the rounds, shaking hands and reintroducing himself in case anybody missed it the first time. The way he pronounced his name sounded like “rotten puss,” and Bishop knew immediately that that was what everyone was going to call him.
Weapons were issued next, and Bishop was surprised to find Russian equipment being passed out. AK47s were the norm, with two of the gentlemen being issued Dragunov sniper rifles. This didn’t make Bishop happy at all, but it was soon explained that any evidence left behind could not imply Western involvement. Russian weapons, ammunition, and equipment were the norm in the Afghan countryside. Even the load gear and boots were old Soviet surplus.
Next came the clothing, which was described as “Kamiz Shalwar,” or coat and trousers. The team members immediately set about changing out of their western duds.
Bishop starting wishing he had passed on this trip and had instead chosen reclining on that couch in the company shrink’s office. All of these guys seemed a little odd, and nobody had mentioned using the Russian weapons. When one of the other guys grumbled about his rifle, Mr. Wagner informed everyone that there would be a class in the morning to get everyone familiar with the weapons. Wow, Bishop thought sarcastically, we get a whole day to familiarize ourselves with a completely new blaster? How nice.
About the time the sun began to set, Rotten-puss brought out food, and the group sat around eating some sort of grilled red meat and rice. Hot, bitter tea was identified as the beverage, and everyone seemed hesitant to inquire about the origination of the entrée that completed the night’s menu. After the meal was finished, Wagner got down to operational business, laying out the details for the squad’s assignment.
The team would receive the coordinates of any opium caravan that was discovered in the area. They would immediately mount up and navigate to a position in front of the target to stage an ambush. Since roads were very limited and quite dangerous in this part of the country, Wagner stressed that everyone needed to be ready for some serious walking. Great, thought Bishop, give us new, poorly fitting boots, and then tell us we will have to hike halfway across the heart of Asia. I’m going to complain to my travel agent.
Wagner told everyone that he had an extensive supply of Russian explosives and mines. If things went according to plan, the detonations would eliminate the need for any shooting. Bishop wondered just how much ordnance this guy had, and even more importantly, he questioned the logistics of transporting massive amounts of fireworks to the ambush site. He decided to keep his mouth shut and just listen.
Wagner ended his briefing just as suddenly as he began. Bishop was really puzzled when the man did not ask for questions at the end. Evidently, Canucks had perfect hearing and clarity of mind, so they didn’t need to ask questions.
The team slept in the barn on military-issued folding cots adorned with scratchy, wool blankets. As everyone settled in, a few of the men began to talk, and Bishop received a basic understanding of why some of them had volunteered. One guy was a recently retired Army Ranger whose daughter died of a heroin overdose. He volunteered for payback—out of frustration that the government couldn’t and wouldn’t do much about the opium growing right under the boots of the US Army.
Another gentleman was a retired US Marine whose son, also a Marine, had been captured by the Taliban some months before. The devastated father had been in Afghanistan causing trouble at the US Embassy and gallivanting all over the country raising hell and looking for evidence of his son. For all his trouble, there was little he could do to accelerate the process, and he was looking for a way to gain a little control in his life.
One guy was like Bishop, it seemed. His boss had arranged his adventure based upon work-related issues. The man was a narcotics detective in Washington, DC. Reading between the lines, Bishop guessed he had been instructed to go let off some pressure, or he would be kicked off the force. Maybe he didn’t like head doctors either.
Some of the men didn’t disclose their background or reasoning, and Bishop decided to join that club.
The following morning was spent on weapons familiarization. The teams were driven to an even more remote area and issued ammunition to zero the Russian firearms. Bishop had fired an AK several times, but that had been some years ago. He didn’t care for the weapon for several reasons, but it was an effective battle rifle. His displeasure was mainly due to not having enough time to become “intimate” with a tool he was getting ready to fight with.
The rest of the first full day was spent adjusting load gear and clothing, as well as exchanging boots. A couple of the men needed different sizes in order for the disguises to be complete. Rotten-puss disappeared for a while and then returned with substitutes. That evening, Wagner wheeled in a dilapidated, old blackboard, complete with a single piece of chalk and a rag for an eraser. He began briefing the team on how the ambushes would be conducted.
Wagner claimed that the drug caravans moved in a single file formation due to the narrow mountain trails. He distributed pictures of a few examples, and the team members passed them around. The plan was simple. The team would arrive ahead of time and deploy in an L-shaped ambush, with explosives at the front. When the caravan reached the tripwire, the explosions would kill the personnel. The team would mop up, gather the contraban
d, and destroy it at another location. The drug lords would think that their convoy had been attacked by rival gangs or pirates.
Bishop sat on the ground, taking it all in. He watched without comment while Wagner drew little diagrams on the chalkboard and explained it all. Again, the man finished without taking questions. Bishop couldn’t let it go by a second time.
“Excuse me, Mike, but I have a few questions.”
Wagner looked up and seemed a bit annoyed, but nodded his head.
Bishop looked around at the team and then asked, “What kind of detonators do you have for the explosives?”
Wagner curtly responded, “We’ll deploy tripwires across the trail.”
Bishop was growing very weary of Mike. The man hadn’t answered his question. “You don’t have any sort of remote detonation? What if the lead elements of the caravan discover the tripwires? What if they have scouts ahead of the main body, and those guys set off the ambush?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bishop could see several heads nodding in support of his inquiries. Wagner noticed it as well, and changed his tone. “We have to use what I’ve been issued. I’ll try and get some remote units, but this is all surplus Russian stuff, and there are limits as to what is available.”
Bishop was at his limit of patience and began rapid firing at the team leader. “How much of the explosive do you have? How much is it going to take to establish a kill zone the length of the convoys? How old is the explosive? Does it deteriorate over time like our C4? How are eight guys going to carry enough explosive halfway across this gawd-forsaken real estate? We are going to be hitting these guys on fairly flat land. How do we know they travel single file while on flat terrain?”
The barrage of questions got the others involved as well. Before Wagner could even begin to answer, the rest of the team began voicing their concerns. It was like a dam had burst, and the team leader became very frustrated. “No plan is perfect,” he said at one point, “but this is workable.”
Bishop didn’t think so. By the time the meeting was over, he and a couple of the other men were talking about aborting the effort. Some of the talk was just letting off steam, but Bishop seriously doubted that this operation was going to work. He couldn’t fault Wagner. The guy was obviously a professional with a lot of experience. Unlike most US forces, many military organizations didn’t have practically unlimited resources and learned to adapt with less than optimum equipment. This methodology, however, often resulted in higher causalities, and Bishop didn’t want to be a casualty.
Band-Aids were in short supply by the end of the third day. Badly fitting boots were mostly to blame. The situation became so bad that Wagner finally capitulated and let all those who had something other than US military issue boots revert back to their original footwear. Bishop wore expensive hiking boots and welcomed discarding the poorly made and designed Soviet models. One man grumbled that the entire restriction was silly, as he had seen hundreds of pairs of US Army boots for sale in a Kabul market. Anyone could buy just about anything in Afghanistan, so footprints meant nothing.
Early on the fourth day, Wagner woke everyone up before dawn and said he had received the team's first assignment. Despite misgivings about the overall tactics, the team hustled and was ready to go in short order. Three white UN marked SUVs left the farmhouse just as the sun was rising in the east. They drove through low foothills and rocky, desert terrain for four hours. Wagner was using a GPS in the lead vehicle, and eventually the small convoy arrived at the jump-off point. Each man had been issued 10 pounds of the oily, Russian explosive plus several magazines for his weapon. Water, a NATO entrenching tool, small medical kit, walkie-talkie with an earpiece, and two protein bars rounded out the kits. Bishop had his knife and survival net along with a few other items packed away in the old, poorly fitting, Soviet load gear.
The team formed up and began trekking across the Afghan countryside. It wasn’t incredibly difficult walking, and that was probably a good thing. Most of the team wasn’t acclimated to the altitude, and the progress was slow.
They finally reached a crest, and everyone studied the trail below. The ambush site was quickly agreed upon, and the men scrambled down the hillside to set up their individual components of the trap. Bishop was impressed with the other team members and their professionalism. Less than an hour later, everything was in place, and the men took up their positions, ready and waiting for the fly to enter the spider’s web.
The fly never showed up.
After waiting almost six hours, water was beginning to run low, aggravation was tracking high, and it was getting dark. Wagner finally relented, and the team meandered back to the waiting SUVs. The drive back to the farmhouse was exceptionally quiet. Bishop was actually glad nothing had happened. The exercise had given the team a little practice, and they would be better the next time. He didn’t mind the dry run at all.
On day six, they received the next report of a caravan. The same basic process was repeated, only this time, they couldn’t find the trail. After scouring several kilometers of Afghan foothills, Wagner finally agreed to abort. The tired bunch of men headed “over the river and through the woods to the farmhouse”—grumbling the entire way.
On the way back to their wheeled transport, Bishop made a rare, public comment. “I hope we don’t walk into a US Army ambush dressed in these clothes and carrying these weapons. I bet they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. If there’s anyone left to answer those questions, that is.”
While the remark generated several chuckles and one “No shit,” the concept struck a nerve with the team. While the SUV commandeered the rocky countryside, military fashion and outfitting was the primary topic of conversation. Wagner was asked if there were any way to let the big Army know where the team was operating, as none of the men wanted to make the trip home in a body bag, the victim of fratricide. His curt reply consisted only of “I’ll check on it.”
The next day, Wagner and Rotten-puss left the team behind at dawn, driving off in one of the vehicles. Bishop was sorely tempted to hotwire one of the other SUVs and head back to the airport to hitch a ride out. He visualized making his report while standing in front of the colonel and quickly decided to stay put.
Wagner returned that night and called everyone together. He said that the team would be provided with more detailed, satellite intelligence and guidance from now on. He claimed that those footing the bill for the operation understood the situation and had pledged to make improvements. Bishop asked about the remote detonators and was given a dirty look followed closely by, “We’re working on it.”
Early on day eight, the team received another “mount up” order, and again the three SUVs charged through the desert. The location given was far more accurate, and they found the trail after only two hours of walking. The problem this time was the terrain, as there was no good place in sight to set up the ambush. Wagner was becoming impatient and needed results. He ordered the ambush anyway, and the team set about improvising.
Two hours later, Bishop spotted a line of pack animals moving along the trail. He watched with nervous anticipation as the convoy approached the kill zone. By all measures, this was a smallish caravan with only five horses, a short line of pack animals, and approximately 12 armed men.
The ambush had been staged at the bottom of a small dip in the trail. The 10 members of the team were spread along one side of the path, ready to rise up and shoot after the explosives detonated. Bishop was positioned right in the middle of the kill zone, lying prone behind a small pile of loose gravel. It was far from good cover, but this location didn’t provide any better options.
There was a single man carrying an AK at the point of the caravan, closely followed by the mule team. All of the men were armed, and they looked like a serious bunch of characters. Their tunics were dusty, as were their lengthy beards. Bishop could hear the escorts talking among themselves, and at one point even caught a short cackle of laughter. His earpiece came to life with Wagner’s v
oice broadcasting the unnecessary reminder, “Everybody wait until they hit the tripwire.”
A few moments later, the point man did just that, stepping on a wire that was connected to four clusters of explosives rigged for simultaneous detonation. Bishop realized something had gone wrong before he even looked up. Instead of a roaring blast and shower of rocks, there had only been a meek little boom and unimpressive puff of smoke. When Bishop chanced a glance below, he saw the majority of the Afghans below standing around in shock at the explosion. Only one of the four clusters discharged, killing just the point man and the lead animal.
The men below were recovering quickly. Bishop started shooting.
The sons of Afghanistan had suffered through years of warfare and were known for their bravery. Growing up amidst conflict results in more than just intestinal fortitude, as people develop fast reaction times and recover quickly from explosions, gunshots, and other actions associated with battle. The men guarding the caravan were no exception.
Their first reaction was to hug the earth, followed all too quickly by shooting back. The gunfire spooked the horses, causing the beasts to rear skyward, brandishing flared nostrils and wild eyes. The combination of dust, smoke, panicked animals and a terrible position resulted in Bishop having poor target acquisition while producing ineffective fire. He had to settle for a couple of quick, three-round bursts from the AK, aiming at any movement that caught his attention. Evidently, the return fire from below was louder and more concentrated because the horses ran away from their former masters and up the incline. The charging animals only added to the confusion and multiplied Bishop’s problems.
For some reason, Bishop couldn’t bring himself to aim at the animals and tried to shoot around them. The Afghans probably knew this would happen because they seized that brief period of Bishop’s hesitation to gather their wits, and then began charging up the hill behind the horseflesh line of cannon fodder. It was pure coincidence that the easiest route uphill led directly at Bishop. All of a sudden, he was dodging sharp hooves as well as a significant volume of incoming lead.
