Seals (2005) s-1

by Jack Terral

  .

  0945 HOURS LOCAL

  THE white Toyota van covered in dust was preceded by a small Russian UAZ sedan. The two vehicles pulled into the village, turning into the small community square. Three elderly farmers sat on benches by the well, looking impassively as the visitors came to a halt next to them.

  Four heavily armed men stepped from the sedan, holding American M-16 rifles at the ready. They were obviously city fellows, a bit soft and dressed a little too fancy for the countryside. These bodyguards looked around at the mud huts, then one of them nodded to his companions in the van. The two young men in the vehicle got out and walked up to the old men at the well.

  "Asalaam aleikum," one greeted politely. He was wearing slacks and a white dress shirt opened at the collar. "We wish to speak to your head man, if we may."

  The farmers made no reply, but stood up and walked away from the well, toward the nearest hut. As soon as they entered and closed the doors, gunshots detonated from nearby buildings with a deafening rapidity. The four armed bodyguards were caught in a murderous crossfire that pummeled them to the ground, leaving them sprawled in the undignified positions of sudden violent death. The other two visitors looked up in terror as Kharani and a half dozen gunmen stepped into view from their hidden firing positions around the huts.

  "Put your hands up!" Kharani growled.

  As the frightened men obeyed, two of the mujahideen went forward and roughly searched them for weapons, punctuating the procedure with sharp kicks and punches. Kharani walked over to the van and looked inside. A briefcase lay between the seats, and he reached in and grabbed it. He unbuckled the flap and looked inside. It was crammed with illustrated pamphlets and printed posters for placing on walls. He walked over to the prisoners.

  "What is this all about?" he asked.

  The man who seemed to be the senior of the two spoke in a quaking voice. "They are information about how to vote. The people in this area missed the last election."

  "And what exactly were you going to do with this information on how to vote?" Kharani asked. "The people here do not want to vote."

  "Uh . . . uh, Allah protect me!" the man stammered. Kharani swung his gaze to the younger man. "Answer my question!"

  "To teach the people how to vote."

  "I see," Kharani said. "It seems you are unwanted intruders within our land. We do not like people to bother our farmers."

  The first man found his tongue and spoke rapidly in a beseeching tone of voice. "We are officials of the government! They will ransom us! Do you understand? You will be paid much money to give us our freedom."

  "That is correct," the second agreed. "You should not kill us.

  "Why not?" Kharani asked mockingly, though he knew that Warlord Durtami had every intention of obtaining money for their release.

  "Please, sir! We both have families!" the older man said, beginning to weep. "We are Muslims! Followers of Islam."

  Kharani turned to his men and barked short, terse orders. One man ran to the sedan and got in while another took the driver's seat in the van. The prisoners were pushed and bullied into the back of the vehicle while Kharani and the remainder of the men joined them.

  The two vehicles sped from the village and out to the dirt road, turning in the direction of the warlord's compound. The three old farmers came out and gazed at the sight of the four corpses. The dead had to be taken care of properly, since they were Muslims. The Holy Koran forbade leaving the bodies of the faithful unburied to be eaten by jackals and vultures.

  .

  MUJAHIDEEN PATROL

  EAST RIDGE

  1400 HOURS LOCAL

  THE patrol was made up of a half dozen of the youngest mujahideen in the compound. This was more of a training mission than an actual reconnaissance patrol, and they had been sent out on their own to see if they could find any sign of the infidel interlopers who had proven so deadly. The senior men of the warlord's band were certain the attackers had drawn off and concealed themselves on the other mountain. This little excursion would be good for the kids without putting them in any real danger.

  The boys laughed and shouted threats to the enemy, waving their weapons above their heads as they pranced around on their way up the rocky slope. Several wore green headbands with white lettering in Arabic that read "Maut-laKafir"--"Death to Infidels," while others said "Ash Tawil al Jihad"--"Long Live the Holy War."

  This was going to be a great day. They were away from the strictness of the instructors for a few hours and had even been given some rice and wheat cakes, with cold tea to wash it all down. With luck they might run into the skulking cowards who had been brazen enough to enter the domains of Warlord Durtami. What an honor for them if they found the infidels and killed them all. .

  The lead boy, a sixteen-year-old, sped up to race the others to the top of the mountain. "I shall be the first to glory!" he shouted as a challenge to his comrades. He had just begun to gain speed when a shot echoed from somewhere, sending a bullet that struck him just below his right eye. His face caved in as the back of his head blew out, spewing brains and blood in one instantaneous millisecond of horror. He fell back on his buttocks, appearing to sit down on a boulder, then rolled to the side.

  An instant later, two more of the boys spun under the impact of body shots, slumping down to the rock-strewn terrain.

  The last three snapped out of the shock of the moment as they quickly got behind the sparse concealment of some thorn bushes. Two of them fired back some useless, unaimed shots while their buddy squatted in terror.

  It was suddenly quiet, the only sound being the moaning of a dying young mujahideen up a bit higher on the mountain. The two active survivors stood up and moved upward toward the summit, pumping out quick bursts from their AK-47s. The sound of the M-203's firing was masked by the noise of their own shooting, and the kids failed to note the HE grenade falling toward them. It struck a waist-high boulder and exploded, shredding them with shrapnel, as they buckled under the multiple impacts of white hot metal pellets.

  The last rookie, panicked into insanity, leaped up and began running down the slope toward the valley floor. He didn't quite make four full strides before a 5.56-millimeter round hit him between the shoulder blades. He tumbled face-first onto a spread of small stones. The neophyte mujahideen raised his head just in time for one more bullet to split his skull.

  Bravo Fire Team, led by Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, came out of their ambush site, gazing down at the destruction they had blasted into the small patrol. Chad Murchison shook his head at the stupidity of the dead fighters. "It appears that we ruined their whole day."

  "Let's go see if there's anything useful on them dumb shits," the senior chief said.

  They made their way down to the corpses and stopped, shocked at the youth of their victims. "Uff da! " Gutsy Olson said, falling back into a Norwegian-American expression. "I thought they was just nuts the way they were singing and yelling. It never dawned on me they was a bunch of idiot kids."

  Connie Concord, holding his combination M-16 and M203, rolled one over. "There ain't any sense in searching these guys, Senior Chief. Nobody is gonna give 'em anything important to tote around."

  "You're right:' Dawkins agreed. "The sound of our shooting irons is gonna attract attention. We better pull back."

  "Well, the Skipper said he wants to keep the sons of bitches off balance," Concord said. "Mission accomplished for today?'

  The Bravos turned and followed their fire team leader back up the mountain.

  .

  WARLORD COMPOUND

  1800 HOURS LOCAL

  WARLORD Ayyub Durtami seethed in silence, ignoring his tea. Across the table from him Ahmet Kharani kept his eyes averted. This was a dangerous time. Even though he had brought back two valuable hostages that would net them a million afghanis, his chief was in a black mood. When Durtami finally spoke, his voice was low in a subdued fury.

  "Just before you arrived, I was told that six of our youngest fighters we
re discovered slaughtered," the warlord said. "We heard the firing and I sent some men to investigate. It was a massacre."

  "I was not aware of that," Kharani said.

  "This was supposed to be a pleasant outing for the lads:' Durtami said. "The instructors let them go up onto the mountain ridge to have some fun after weeks of hard training. They were obviously victims of some vicious treachery by an older, more experienced enemy."

  "Are you going to punish the instructors?" Kharani asked. He knew the men were probably fearfully anticipating certain death for the mishap.

  But Durtami shook his head. "We have done this a dozen times to reward youngsters who have been training hard. Today was a most unusual event."

  Kharani was relieved by this uncharacteristic mercy. One of his cousins was among the instructor cadre of the warlord's small army.

  "It is now obvious that numerous enemies have invaded my fiefdom," Durtami said. "Perhaps they are Americans."

  "It is possible," Kharani said. "And I think they are here to stay awhile. There is only one place for them to remain out of sight. They must be skulking atop the far mountain from here:'

  "I agree. But they could be anyplace up there. The entire ridge is a natural fortress."

  "What about your brother-in-law Hassan Khamami? Does he not number mortars in his arsenal?"

  "Au," Durtami replied affirmatively. "He has a large cache of weaponry. Some of his arsenal is new."

  "Ask Khamami to help you, Amir," Kharani suggested. "With mortars we could shell that mountain from one end to the other."

  "My brother-in-law would want too much money," Durtami said.

  "With the ransom money for the two hostages you would get enough to refill your war treasury very quickly," Kharani said.

  Durtami looked over at his second-in-command and smiled. "You are most clever, Brother Ahmet. In fact, you are so intelligent that at times you make me nervous."

  "I desire only to serve you with loyalty, Amir," Kharani said, humbling himself. To be too assertive could lead to a summary execution as a serious potential threat to the warlord's leadership.

  "Make arrangements to send a message to Khamami." "I will take care of it, Amir."

  Chapter 6

  STATE DEPARTMENT

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  10 AUGUST

  1400 HOURS LOCAL

  IN the complicated environment of international diplomacy, there is a clandestine segment of most proceedings that only a few insiders know about. The talented people of these secret negotiations are known outwardly as undersecretaries, envoys or attaches in their various state departments or foreign offices. But whatever the official title, they perform their surreptitious tasks in two phases; the first is "preparation" and the second is "wrapping up." The former paves the way to concurrence and the latter assures that the deals and treaties thus parleyed to conclusion are put into effect.

  These anonymous negotiators are polite and sophisticated but speak among themselves in an open, candid manner that only people with proverbial "thick hides" can tolerate. If some of their exchanges of ideas were made public, the citizens of their respective nations would be outraged by much of the give-and-take aspects of the haggling. Their conferences get down to the nitty-gritty. Threats are made, warnings issued, concessions granted and agreements struck that are either happily or rationally accepted.

  The bottom line is that solid covenants are made.

  One of the world's best and most effective of these diplomats was an African-American undersecretary of the United States State Department by the name of Carl Joplin. The tall, slim man with a gentle voice came from Baltimore, Maryland, and was the forty-year-old son of a father who was a retired janitor and a mother who was still employed as a licensed vocational nurse in a local hospital. The couple had worked hard all their lives to maintain a steadfast home life for their family, at times juggling their regular jobs with additional part-time employment when the bills piled up. When it came to their children, they deemphasized sports, pushing the value of education to the four offspring, and each youngster recognized and appreciated these high standards. All obtained college degrees with the full scholarships they earned through scholastic excellence. Carl, the youngest, continued his education, obtaining a PhD in political science at Maryland State University.

  Joplin was a soft spoken man with an unusual insight into other human beings. Even in the earliest stages of his career, he'd demonstrated an uncanny ability to negotiate, knowing just how to convince a stubborn foreign counterpart that going along with the United States' side of an issue was not only in his nation's best interest but would benefit him personally as well. Joplin flattered, cajoled and demanded, while seeming not to. Consequently, he ended up with a reputation of being able to score diplomatic coups when the need for getting the American point of view across was the most critical.

  NOW, in the meeting room just off his personal office, Joplin sat across the table from Zaid Aburrani, a special envoy from Afghanistan. He and Aburrani had known each other for three years, and though they were not close friends, they each felt respect and even a bit of affection for the other. The main subject of their undercover meetings was the thorny issue of warlords in Aburrani's native country. The Afghan had come to Washington from Kabul to discuss what he termed a "sensitive" and "judicious" issue. As usual, neither man had an attending stenographer or maintained personal notes. They kept the gist of their conversational exchange in their heads.

  Joplin settled back in his chair and smiled. "I was most pleased yesterday when they informed me of your coming, Zaid. I don't believe we've seen each other for at least six months or so."

  "I am happy for this opportunity to visit you, Carl," Aburrani replied. "There is much satisfaction when problems are solved, and we have been most fortunate in that process."

  "Ah!" Joplin said. "You said 'problems.' Does that mean there are some difficulties we must address today?"

  "What else?" Aburrani replied with a laugh. "At least there is only one issue for this particular session. As you know we had excellent results in our first national elections. However, there are still a great many problems to solve. Some of the more isolated areas of Afghanistan still resist the process. It is one of those two steps forward, one step back situations." He laughed. "It is like you Americans say. `The faster I go, the behinder I get.' "

  "I know the feeling," Joplin said, smiling. "Tell me, Zaid, does the big issue here today involve the warlords?"

  "I fear so," Aburrani said. "It pains me to have to bring up our old friend Ayyub Durtami again."

  Joplin chuckled. "An old friend, is he? That is one man I would like to have out of my life."

  "I am in complete accord with you," Aburrani said. "For the past month we have been sending teams out into the countryside to address the question of elections with our rural populations. They show videotapes, pass out literature and give little talks. When that is done, they register their audiences as voters, then move on to the next village on their route."

  "Has this friend of ours interfered with that?"

  "Indeed," the Afghan said sadly. "We sent a two-man team into his territory, and their bodyguards were ambushed. Our agents were taken prisoner and are now being held for ransom. I fear the problem has been dropped into my lap."

  "You have my sympathy," Joplin said sincerely. "At best, relations and negotiations with warlords are illogical and confusing. They are erratic, impetuous fellows who tend to be quite dangerous. That's what makes it so difficult to control opium poppy production."

  "That is not all the warlords' fault, Carl," Aburrani said. "The poor farmers are mired in poverty. They can make as much as ten times the income from poppies than from normal crops. And they can plant two crops a year."

  "It sounds as if you are defending the growing of opium poppies, Zaid."

  "Not at all, Carl," Aburrani said. "I detest the scourge of heroin as much as any civilized man."

  "Well," Joplin said, "
let's turn our conversation back to the warlords."

  "I think I may have an advantage in this particular situation," Aburrani said. "That is why I have come to you. Our intelligence services tell us that apparently there is a special operations group in Durtami's fiefdom, and they have been rather rude to him."

  Joplin laughed aloud. "Rude? I can only imagine what you mean by that understated remark."

  Aburrani smiled. "It is estimated that Durtami's difficulties with the invaders have resulted in somewhere between a dozen to two dozen of his men killed. And it is presumed the attackers are American."

  "As of this moment I am completely in the dark about anything going on in that part of Afghanistan," Joplin admitted. "What exactly do you wish me to do?"

  "I must negotiate with Durtami for the release of the hostages," Aburrani explained. "I can only be successful by paying a hefty ransom for those poor fellows. That means that Durtami wins." He leaned forward, a look of pleading on his face. "But if there is an American special operations team over there, perhaps they could rescue the prisoners. That would embarrass the warlord and diminish his reputation."

  "I can certainly see the advantage in that:' Joplin said.

  "I am scheduled to visit him on the fifteenth of this month," Aburrani said. "I will not give in to his demands. Consequently, I will return to Kabul without the hostages. Of course Durtami will look forward to my return, thinking he has put me in a position where I must pay even more ransom than he initially demanded. However, if the hostages are rescued by a raid in the meantime, it will show up his shortcomings to his men. It might even encourage one of them to try to take over the group. If that brings about infighting, then Durtami might be forced to look to the central government for support. And voila! as the French say, he becomes a good citizen and patriot."

  "As I said, I am not sure if there is a special operations team in that area or not," Joplin said. "But the information you've been given indicates there is. I will visit my contacts in SOLS and see what can be arranged. I'll send the information to you by diplomatic courier."

  Aburrani stood up and leaned across the table, offering his hand. "Thank you, Carl. I shall await your message." Joplin got to his feet and shook hands with his guest.