Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “We are here to gather funds for our tribe and for the Al Qaeda cells that we support,” Turabi said in a low voice. “If he is offering money, we should take it.”

  “I said shut up, Colonel. Now,” Zarazi ordered.

  “I am authorized to pay you one hundred thousand dollars in gold bullion if you agree not to move any farther west,” Rizov said. He still had his tanker’s helmet on, but Turabi could tell by his expression and by his tone of voice that he had indeed heard Zarazi’s angry comment and was pleased that they were arguing. “A helicopter from Ashkhabad will deliver another two hundred thousand dollars in gold to the town of Mukry, on the Afghan border south of Gaurdak. You may even have the helicopter to transport the gold out.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars just to hold our position?” Turabi exclaimed to Zarazi. “Offer to do it for five hundred thousand, Wakil, and it’s a deal.”

  “I said be quiet,” Zarazi snapped.

  “We’ll take two hundred thousand now, and three hundred thousand when we reach Mukry!” Turabi shouted to the Russian. “All in gold bullion. If we see anyone but you, the deal is off and we will lay siege to Chärjew.”

  “I warned you, Turabi . . . !”

  “Done!” Rizov shouted back. “I have fifteen kilos of gold bullion on board right here. Stand by, and I will unload it.” Rizov motioned to someone inside the armored personnel carrier, and soon a young soldier carried what looked like a steel footlocker out of the APC and started walking toward Zarazi’s vehicle.

  Orazov was visibly shaking in excitement. “General, let me go get the money,” he said. “When I bring it back, let’s kill that bastard and take his APC.” He leaped off the APC and headed for the steel case.

  “Stay where you are, Orazov,” Turabi said. “Can’t you smell a trap?”

  “A trap?”

  “Do you really think the Turkmen carry fifteen kilos of gold around in military vehicles, you fucking idiot?” Turabi asked. “It’s a trap.”

  The Turkmen soldier carried the steel case several meters in front of his APC, then laid it on the highway, undid the latch, opened it, and stood up. Turabi could see something sparkly inside. “There’s your down payment,” Rizov shouted, “and that is also the line over which you may not cross. The deal is off if you move past that box.” He gave an order, and the soldier started heading back to his APC.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Turabi said. “Now, if your man there would be so kind as to dump the contents of the box on the pavement?”

  “Excuse me, sir?” Rizov asked. He barked another order, and the soldier started running back to the APC.

  Turabi reached over to the twenty-three-millimeter cannon beside him, cocked the action, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The steel box jumped and danced on the pavement—and then a gush of thick white gas began to stream out of the shattered steel box.

  “Gas!” Orazov screamed. “They booby-trapped that case!”

  “Get us out of here!” Zarazi shouted. As Turabi laid down machine-gun fire on the Turkmen APC, the driver threw the transmission into reverse, and they roared backward. The gas was spreading quickly, probably with some sort of aerosol propellant to disperse it faster.

  The Turkmen soldier was hit in the leg by Turabi’s machine-gun fire, and he pitched forward, screaming in pain. Rizov’s APC was in full reverse by now, too. Soon the white gas reached the soldier—and within seconds he was flopping and writhing on the ground like a fish caught in a gill net. Just when Turabi thought he was going to break his neck with the force of his convulsions, he lay still. “Allah have mercy . . . !”

  “I don’t think we’ll be facing any untrained Turkmen border guards or conscripts from here on out,” Wakil Zarazi said as they roared away from the area. “The Russians play to win.”

  They soon found out that the artillery batteries set up at Khodzhayli Airport southeast of Chärjew were not fakes when the barrage started, just after midnight. The attack was initiated with strings of starburst illuminators over their positions, followed by rounds that appeared to miss them by very wide margins. “Good thing the Turkmen can’t shoot,” someone remarked.

  “Have you never seen an artillery attack before?” Zarazi said. “The illuminators were dead-on. If they fired standard rounds, we’d have been chewed up pretty bad. The rounds that are falling short are not high explosives—they are seeding the area with mines.”

  “Mines?”

  “Antivehicle and antipersonnel mines,” Zarazi said. “They are surrounding our positions very well, even to our rear. If we panic and move without sweeping our escape paths, we’ll blow ourselves up. The shelling will start within a few minutes, and they’ll be very accurate, I assure you.”

  “I hope Turabi is in position,” Aman Orazov muttered. He had volunteered for the mission that Turabi had been sent on. He was still in shock from being duped so easily by the Turkmen, and now he was smarting from not being chosen to lead this raid. “If he fails, we’re going to have a very, very long night.”

  Turabi and his light-infantry platoons had departed immediately after the attempted Russian nerve-gas attack, driving light vehicles across the rocky sands toward Chärjew, spread out on either side of the highway.

  They first investigated the small airfield at Chauder, but it had been recently abandoned—no doubt the Russians thought it would be the first to fall—and moved back to a more defensible position. Turabi ordered a second security company to move forward, search for mines and booby traps, and take the airfield.

  Their first firefight was with a Turkmen security platoon at a power substation northeast of Sayat, and it was here that the Taliban fighters first learned what the Turkmen army was really made of. Although outnumbered three to one, the Turkmen held on to that tiny five-acre substation as if it were the birthplace of the prophet Muhammad. The fighting lasted almost a half hour. Turabi lost five men and had three wounded, including himself—a ricocheting bullet, mostly spent, hit him on the cheek, causing him to momentarily lose vision in his left eye.

  He could not afford to take any more losses like that tonight, Turabi thought ruefully. He left the remnants of one decimated platoon behind to tend to the wounded, called for replacements, slapped a fresh bandage on his cheek, and moved on.

  They quickly approached the airfield at Khodzhayli, skirting the village of Sakar and then fanning out for their assault. Turabi stationed mortar squads east and west of the airport, then split up his platoons, forming a semicircle southwest of the airfield. The plan was to have his mortar platoons start walking in mortar rounds and then have his rifle and machine-gun platoons pick off any security teams and any other targets of opportunity. Turabi knew he was outnumbered, so his objective wasn’t to attack the artillery-battery security forces; all he had to do was prevent the security teams from closing in to the mortar teams until they could knock out or disrupt the fire batteries and then cover their escape.

  Like most plans, Turabi’s didn’t survive first contact.

  The eastern mortar platoon managed to set up just a few dozen meters from a Turkmen machine-gun squad that was either sleeping or just not paying attention, so as soon as the first mortar was launched, the platoon was under fire. Instantly, Turabi was laying in only half the number of rounds he thought necessary to take out the artillery site, and his team was under attack. His men started engaging the Turkmen security forces right away, and soon the mortar platoon was able to resume firing, but just thirty seconds into their operation the entire Turkmen army was converging on them. The Turkmen defenders were using troops in “spider holes” to spread their forces out more and keep them out of the line of fire—as soon as a soldier reported contact, a nearby machine-gun nest behind him opened fire over his head. As long as the soldier did not stick more than his head, shoulders, and rifle out of the hole, he was safe.

  “Use your smoke! Use your smoke!” Turabi shouted on the radio. Their smoke grenades were very effective—the smoke hung close to the ground, obscuri
ng the Turkmen’s sight. Finding the spider holes turned out to be relatively easy: The Turkmen had dug them in an almost perfect circle, so once one of Turabi’s men made contact, all they had to do was search left and right for another hole. But the machine-gun fire, although not accurate—the gunner could not see his target, although he knew they were out there—was devastating. One by one his men were going down, usually clipped in the upper thigh or near the waist by big twenty-three-millimeter shells. The screams of his own men, dying and maimed, started to engulf him. Surrounded by smoke, sand, stones, and dead comrades, Turabi felt disorganized, disoriented, and helpless—but he kept on moving forward.

  He practically fell into a spider hole, plopping right down onto the headless body of a Turkmen soldier. He scrambled out of the blood and gore, keeping down below the rim of the hole while machine-gun fire zinged all around him. He reloaded and checked his ammo—just four magazines left, plus his sidearm with two extra mags. He had used up over half his ammo already, and they hadn’t hit one thing at the airport. Turabi had to assume, since he was frugal with his ammo, that his men were probably much lower. Once he used up another mag, he decided, they would pull back. This attack was going nowhere.

  Then he saw it: a field telephone, a simple, old-style crank-and-talk box. The Turkmen soldiers didn’t even have radios out here! Turabi found the dead soldier’s headphones, rubbed the blood and brains out of the ear cups, and put them on.

  He was desperate—he could think of only one thing to try. He cranked the phone and, summoning all his Russian-language skills, pressed the talk button and shouted, “Astanavleevat’sya! Eta vazmooteeteel’no!” he shouted, doing his best impersonation of a pissed-off Russian officer. “Who in hell are you shooting at?”

  Someone responded, in even worse Russian than his.

  “I cannot understand you!”

  “Sir, there are intruders in the perimeter!” the Turkmen soldier said in terrible Russian.

  “I hope to hell you haven’t attacked my security detail returning from patrol!” Turabi shouted, trying to run his words together to make it sound more authentic. “Now I want every one of you to get up out of those damned holes, without your weapon, and search for the wounded! I am sending trucks out to assist. If you come out of your holes with your weapons, you’re likely to be shot by my men—or your own! Now, get moving!”

  “Da, tovarisch,” the soldier responded. He heard frantic calls in Turkmen broadcast on the phone. Turabi peeked out of his hole—and sure enough the Turkmen soldiers were standing up and searching the ground around them with big, boxlike flashlights. Hold your fire, damn it, Turabi silently ordered his men as he pulled his pistol out of his holster, hold your fire. . . .

  They did. And then as if by another silent command, shots rang out all around him all at once, and the Turkmen soldiers fell.

  “Viper team, Alpha, report,” Turabi radioed.

  “East One point secure, three down.”

  “Center One point secure, four down.”

  “West One point secure, three down.”

  One by one, each of the platoons reported in. The east mortar platoon, the only one attacked as soon as it started launching rounds, suffered the worst casualties. Only two of the twelve members survived, and they had lost all their tubes and mortar rounds. Out of almost a hundred men who attacked the airport, they had lost thirty-one—but they had killed over a hundred Turkmen soldiers.

  “What are we going to do now, Colonel?” Turabi’s second in command said. “More Turkmen security forces will be on their way any moment.”

  “We’re not going to wait for them,” Turabi said. A few soldiers hung their heads—in exhaustion or shame, it was hard to tell. “We’re going to take those artillery batteries. Have everyone find a Turkmen uniform and weapon, and get ready to move.”

  About thirty minutes before sunrise, General Zarazi himself strode into the communications center. Captain Aman Orazov put down a pair of headphones and met the general. “Well?” Zarazi asked.

  “Still no contact with Colonel Turabi,” Orazov said. “Khamsa Company has not had contact with Turabi either since they took up positions at the power substation north of Chauder.”

  “The last report was Turabi’s company making contact at Khodzhayli?”

  “Yes, sir,” Orazov replied. “Several platoons encountered a dug-in company-size security force surrounding the airport. Looks like the colonel marched right into an ambush. Their forces were of equal size, but Turabi lost several men at the substation, so he was undermanned.” He paused, then said, “I should have led that force, sir. I know my country’s tactics. I could have gotten around a simple spider-hole security perimeter. And getting ambushed by a couple scout platoons at that substation—how could he let that happen? He couldn’t see a force that size in a small, enclosed area?”

  “This was not Turabi’s shining moment,” Zarazi had to admit.

  “The colonel is very good at smash-and-grab, small-unit guerrilla tactics against paramilitary forces, sir, but conducting a raid with a company-size force against army regulars is another matter,” Orazov said. “Turabi’s company may have been wiped out completely. We should consider the very great possibility that some of our men, perhaps even the colonel himself, will have been captured. If that is so, they will use unspeakable methods to extract information from them. We must assume that the Russians and Turkmen know our current position, manpower, and order of battle.”

  Zarazi turned away and stared into a corner of the communications tent. “We . . . we must make preparations to shift forces . . . move forward, perhaps to Chauder. . . .”

  “We do need to shift positions, sir, but we should not go forward—we need to retreat,” Orazov said. “Those men at Chauder and at the substation are dead when the Turkmen begin their counterattack. We should pull back to Esenmengli—”

  “Esenmengli? That’s . . . that’s seventy kilometers!”

  “We have no choice, sir!” Orazov said. “Turabi has failed, and his failure has stalled our entire offensive. We can’t afford to waste time crossing the river to Imeni Kalinina. If we’re caught while we’re crossing, we’ll be slaughtered. The only stronghold on this side of the river we can retreat to is Esenmengli.”

  Zarazi turned and straightened his shoulders. “Very well—Major,” he said. “Deploy security forces along the river to assist in the withdrawal of our remaining forces at Chauder. Then give the order to move quickly to Esenmengli.”

  “Yes, sir,” Orazov said proudly. “Once we are secure, sir, I will be honored to lead the men in a new offensive. Just give the order, sir.”

  “I am disappointed in Turabi,” Zarazi muttered. “He has proven himself a good fighter in the past, but it should have been obvious to me that his heart was not in this campaign. My friendship for him blinded me to the reality of the situation.”

  “The deficiency was in Turabi, sir, not you,” Orazov said. “But the battle is not yet lost. We can still—”

  At that moment they heard a loud boom! off in the distance, followed by several more in rapid succession.

  “Artillery!” Orazov screamed. “The Turkmen artillery positions at Khodzhayli—they started up again! This can only be a prelude to a full-scale attack on our position! We need to get out of here!”

  “Launch the attack helicopters! Commence attacking the artillery positions and any advancing armor immediately with everything we’ve got!” Zarazi shouted. “Notify all battalions to prepare to repel attack!” Just then he stopped and listened. He could hear the artillery pieces booming in the distance—but no rounds had fallen yet. “What is going on? Whose artillery is that?”

  Orazov picked up the headphones again to listen to the reports coming in from their security patrols and scouts. His eyes widened in surprise a few moments later.

  “What is it, Major?”

  “The scout helicopters report the artillery units at Khodzhayli are . . . they are firing toward Chärjew!” Orazov exc
laimed. “The scouts report heavy aircraft losses and heavy bombardment of armor-marshaling areas at Chärjew Airport. They report—” He paused, listening intently. “Sir, Turkmen infantry units are in full retreat! Entire companies . . . no, entire battalions!—are evacuating north into Farab and Imeni Stalina . . . some reportedly even crossing the border into Uzbekistan!”

  He listened further, his eyes flickering in dejection. He removed the headphones and handed them to Zarazi. “It’s Colonel Turabi, sir. He is requesting that all available fighting forces be moved up immediately—to Khodzhayli. He is at the airport now and has it under his control. He expects to have the airport at Chärjew under his control by the time our forces reach Khodzhayli. City officials, TransCal executives, and Colonel Borokov, the Russian in charge of the garrison, have already been in contact with him, asking for terms.”

  Zarazi rushed out of the communications tent to issue orders to his troops, leaving Orazov behind. The other men in the tent looked at the Turkmen turncoat, and he could see the accusations in their eyes: You are the coward here, Orazov, not Turabi. Jalaluddin Turabi had just proved he was worthy of respect and admiration. All they were showing Orazov now was contempt.

  There was only one way to win General Wakil Zarazi’s trust back, Orazov decided—get rid of Jalaluddin Turabi.

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, RUSSIAN FEDERATION

  That morning

  “It is confirmed, sir,” Army General Nikolai Stepashin, commander of the Ministry of State Security of the Russian Federation and the Commonwealth of Independent States, reported as he strode into the president’s office. The president of the Russian Federation was on the speakerphone and scowled as the intelligence chief spoke. “The city of Chärjew is in the hands of the Taliban insurgents as we speak.”

  “Finally you confirm what I have been telling you for days now, Mr. President!” cried the voice on the other end of the phone, belonging to the president of the Republic of Turkmenistan, Kurban Gurizev. “And I’m telling you now, they are marching on the city of Mary. They’ll be there in less than three days. I need help to crush these Taliban bastards, Mr. President, and I need it now!”