by Jack Terral
Khohollah was not intimidated by the officer, who was one rank above him. "Our opponents are from the strongest nation in the world, Sharlaskar" he protested, addressing the general by his rank in Farsi. "We are not dealing with Pashtun villagers out there. The enemy can keep whatever level of intensity they desire with the ease of raising or lowering flames under a boiling pot. Their supply lines are unlimited and filled with everything they want or need."
"I am well aware of your opponents in this struggle, Satrip" General Mandji said, returning the form of address. "What you must keep foremost in your mind is that the nation cannot afford a defeat in this operation. If we are unable to establish a foothold past the international border, all our plans will fail."
Sikes was not impressed with Mandji. His instinctive feelings of superiority over Arabs and Iranians gave him a defiant attitude. "Let's get a bit logical about this, hey, Gen'ral? Wot we need is a bigger punch, yeah? More reinforcements straightaway, and that means no less than a hundred or so blokes to beef up our lines."
Mandji looked scornfully at the man he knew had deserted from his own army. "You are forgetting that at this time we must keep as low a profile as possible."
"Then give us seventy-five," Sikes insisted. "But no less than that."
Sikes' attitude emboldened Khadid. The Iranian captain interjected, "And we need mortars, Sharlaskar. The grenade launchers we have are little help in counterfire against the heavy machine guns the Americans now have."
"I am not so sure of that," General Mandji said. "The last time the Americans attacked you, they parachuted behind your fortifications. And they were able to penetrate your positions with ease."
"I beg your pardon, sir," Sikes said. "It wasn't easy for 'em. Not for one bluddy second it wasn't. We fought back hard." He patted his arm in the sling. "I didn't get this for having tea with 'em, did I?"
"I have no doubt about your collective bravery, Major Sikes," General Mandji said.
"Well, that's good to know," Sikes said. "Anyhow, if we'd had more men, we could've covered our back door, but it just wasn't possible to keep an eye on them bastards over across the valley with so few while trying to repel a surprise attack."
Khohollah decided that he had better take over the conversation, since Sikes could easily upset Mandji. The Brit didn't realize that he could be dragged from the office and taken to a firing squad with just a snap of the general's fingers. The brigadier spoke in a calmer tone. "It is in my opinion that we are reaching the limit of our ability to continue our mission under the present circumstances, Sharlaskar. I say this respectfully, and it is my ardent hope that you take my statement seriously. I offer it as both a tactical and a strategic revelation as a professional soldier and a general officer."
Mandji nodded and took a deep breath of frustration. He sank into thought, and the three visitors knew he was considering the big picture of both their mission and how it would affect Iran's imperial ambitions. He finally sighed, raised his eyebrows, and spoke in a much softer voice.
"You have made your point, gentlemen," the general said. "It may surprise you to know that at the meeting of the General Staff two days ago, we discussed the possibility that it was time to change our objectives there on the border. Your candid statements this morning have shown that we must go in a different direction in this initial phase of the invasion of Afghanistan."
Sikes started to speak, but Khohollah put his hand on his arm to stop him. Then the brigadier turned to the major general. "We are anxious to hear what you will expect of us, Sharlaskar."
Mandji leaned forward. "We are going to pull all the stops out now. The velvet gloves are going to be taken off, and we'll hit the Americans so unexpectedly and hard they will be sent reeling. Arrangements have been made for close air support to back you up. Additionally, there will be a heavy armor punch, complete with tanks and self-propelled artillery. All that will be followed by platoons of infantry fighting vehicles filled with brave Iranian soldiers." He now leaned back and smiled. "Within seventy-two hours of that big push, we will be halfway across Afghanistan, and the government there will sue for peace while the Pashtuns flock to our colors."
Khohollah chuckled. "And our terms will include kicking the Americans and other coalition forces out of the country, na, Sharlaskar?"
"Exactly," Mandji said. "It will take at least a month for all preparations to be made. In the meantime, you will go completely defensive. Be on your guard for more attacks. We will send you another fifty men and some mortars. But do not make any aggressive moves. Use your additional personnel and weapons to mount a strong, unyielding defense. You must hold that fortress! It will be an anchor around which the invasion will flow." He studied their reaction to the news, liking what he saw. "You are dismissed. Transportation has already been arranged to take you back to the Afghanistan border."
The three officers of the Zaheya snapped-to and saluted.
.
BONHOMME RICHARD CLUB
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
11 AUGUST 2130 HOURS
NOT even the oldest members of the club knew why it had been named after John Paul Jones' famous Revolutionary War ship. Various rumors and conjecturing had gone on for decades until the passing of time made the point moot. For more than two centuries the social group had been a little-known part of life in old Arlington, where it was organized by well-to-do merchants, politicians, and military and naval officers, along with other notables who used the facilities to draw off and be among their peers in society. The club was so exclusive that only members and the staff were allowed into the building. Later, as politics and commerce became more complicated, members were allowed to invite associates for clandestine sessions regarding their various political and commercial concerns. Small rooms were made available for these meetings, where a good number of consequential agreements and deals had been made.
The club had been at its present location near the Potomac River since 1856, and as the world entered the twenty-first century, it remained restricted but without regard to race or religion. The membership, however, was still made up of important, influential men who wielded power and wealth.
DR. Carl Joplin, in the company of Mr. Saviz Kahnani from the Iranian Embassy, walked from the cab up to the steps leading into the club. Jacob the doorman opened the glassed-in portals. The African-American wore a rather unique garb that had been traditional for the greeters at Bonhomme Richard since the 1890s. It consisted of a top hat, a bright red, gold-trimmed jacket, and navy blue trousers with a wide red stripe down the outside of each leg. The hot summer weather did not disturb Jacob, since he stayed inside the air-conditioned foyer and peered through the glass door for arriving members. When he spotted the two diplomats, he stepped out to hold the door open for them.
"Good evening, Dr. Joplin."
"Hello, Jacob," Joplin said, gesturing to Kahnani to go in ahead of him. When they entered the lobby, Joplin stopped by the desk to check in. The clerk, a dignified sixty-year-old with thick white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, informed Dr. Joplin that his reserved conference room on the second floor was waiting for him.
Joplin took the lead, and Kahnani followed him up a flight of stairs. From there they went down a long hallway to a spot where a door stood open. When they entered the fourteen-by-fifteen-foot room, they saw a couple of plush leather chairs with a small table between them. The American had already called in to make sure a pot of fresh coffee and a selection of pastries were waiting. Each man served himself in turn, then sat down to sip the coffee and enjoy sweet rolls, making light conversation.
Saviz Kahnani was the Iranian charge d'affaires, who represented his ambassador on special occasions. He, like Joplin, was one of those silent gentlemen who worked behind the scenes on delicate matters of international diplomacy. This very late get-together was one of those situations.
After a quarter hour of chitchat and munching, the Iranian looked quizzically at his American host, saying, "Well, well. What occasion has bro
ught us together this evening, Carl?"
"A discussion regarding that little situation on the Iran-Afghanistan border seems to be in order," Joplin replied.
Kahnani smiled and nodded. "Why aren't I surprised?"
"Why indeed?" Joplin replied. "The confrontations there, while deadly and explosive, seem to be going nowhere for everyone involved. Don't you think?"
Kahnani only shrugged.
"My government believes it is time to come up with a solution that will save face for everyone concerned," Joplin said.
"Make me trust you, Carl."
"I'll do my best, Saviz. We are at a stalemate. Neither side is going to come out ahead in this thing. Why keep it up?" He was aware that for the Iranian to agree, his government would have to give up their Persian Empire project. The President and the Secretary of State had sent Joplin without really expecting the Iranians to go for a cease-fire, but thought that the meeting would be a good opportunity for them to start giving it serious consideration.
"Perhaps if the Americans and their coalition friends agreed to pull out of Afghanistan, my government would consider what you're proposing," Kahnani said.
"That can't be done," Joplin replied.
"Then we have no reason to consider the proposal," Kahnani responded, telling a lie in the diplomatic sense. "We do not find ourselves in agreement regarding a stalemate."
"Then there's something else to consider," Joplin said. He reached for the coffeepot. "Care for another cup, Saviz?"
"Thank you, Carl," Kahnani said. He watched Joplin refill the cup, then asked, "What is this 'something else' that must be considered?"
"The Israelis might decide to interfere," Joplin said, setting the pot down.
"They would only interfere if they had America's approval," Kahnani said.
"Not necessarily," Carl stated. "They have had their backs up about the Hezbollah for quite some time now. And that includes the support the group receives from Iran."
"Mmm," Kahnani mused. "Well, dear Carl, I have no authority to make a deal with you this evening. However, I shall pass on your suggestions to my ambassador, who will then take them to Tehran."
That was exactly what Joplin expected, but something in Kahnani's tone of voice disturbed the veteran diplomat. It was an implication that a nasty surprise was in store for the Americans. Joplin kept his face inscrutable as he said, "Tell your ambassador not to fail to mention the Israelis."
"As you wish."
CHAPTER 17
GNB STUDIOS
WASHINGTON, D. C.
22 AUGUST 2245 HOURS
DIRK Wallenger sat in his dressing room, the makeup for that evening's show freshly applied by a young intern working at the studio for the summer. The newscaster's tie was correct, and his jacket was over the back of his chair and ready to slip into when he was summoned to the set. Everything was ready for the upcoming broadcast of confessing his error to the public. Some of the crew, in fact, were looking forward to it with a certain amount of unrestrained glee. The newscaster could be an arrogant, demanding ass at times.
Wallenger stared at himself in the mirror as he sank into a mood of self-reflection. Don Allen's censure of the story of the prisoner of war had actually hurt his feelings more than angered him. He had to admit that Don was absolutely correct. He had been so anxious to strike a blow for his own political and philosophical causes that he had broadcast a falsehood fed to him by people wanting to have their sham propaganda over national TV. And to make things worse, he had even put an additional slant on it.
Wallenger now realized that he had gotten a bad perspective on the story because of his passionate hatred of authority in general and politicians in particular. When they conducted war-justified of not--his basic attitudes warped his self-control. Although he abhorred armed conflict, he really wasn't a pacifist and saw no sense in being one. Pacifism would work only if every person on the planet felt that way. But that would never be, since there were always sons of bitches such as the Taliban, Nazis, or Communists who were more than ready and willing to shove their agenda of conquest and domination down the throats of the populations they wished to control. And there were never problems for the despots to get enough followers for them to get the job done.
In truth, Wallenger wasn't surprised about the war against the militant groups of Islam. They were asking for it since 9/11, not to mention the crimes committed in Madrid and London. Those episodes had been as stupid as the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Not only were the Islamic fundamentalists going to be stomped out of existence, but other Muslims who had failed to loudly and publicly condemn the zealots would end up paying a high price as well. Wallenger's problem was that he let his dislike of politicians and financiers such as his father get mixed up in some of the most important areas of his life. He knew he had to stop being a mere commentator on the war and get out there where it was happening to develop a more realistic attitude about the fighting and the people actually doing it. That would be a great way of developing a logical understanding of the process.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror again, noting the fatigue and sadness in his face. He decided what he needed was to go over to Virginia that weekend for some cross-country horse riding. That was one physical activity he was damn good at.
"Mr. Wallenger!"
The voice startled him, and Wallenger spun around. He saw Fred, the floor director, standing in the dressing room door with clipboard in hand. "Mr. Wallenger, it's time for you to come out to the set."
"Thanks, Fred."
Wallenger slipped into his jacket and grabbed his script, walking out of the room and down the hall. When he stepped onto the set, he saw Don Allen standing by the cameras. Allen came over to him. "How are you feeling, Dirk?"
"Okay," Wallenger said. "Don't worry. I'll do exactly as Brice said. But at the end of crying mea culpa, I have an announcement to make. I want you to pay close attention to it and acquiesce to what I plan to do."
"Now just a minute!" Allen said, walking toward the news desk at the journalist's side. "What is on your mind?"
Wallenger sat down. "You just listen."
"I'm warning you, Dirk. Any smart-ass action on your part could mean the absolute end of your career as a news-man."
"Quiet!" Fred hollered loudly. He looked at Wallenger. "Five, four, three, two, one, go!"
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Wallenger said the as the red light lit up on the center camera. "This is Dirk Wallenger with the news." He paused for a quick moment, then turned his eyes directly into the lens. "One of the most nutritious meals--spiritually nutritious, that is--is humble pie. And I am about to consume a great, big heaping dish of that bittersweet food."
Don Allen felt a little better, but he was still worried about what would be said at the end of the spiel.
"I made a mistake," Wallenger said. "A big mistake by journalistic standards. I inadvertently was given some erroneous information by a previously unimpeachable source and broadcast it to you without properly determining its veracity. The story to which I am referring is the one regarding a wounded Arab prisoner of war who was shot to death by his American captors. I informed you that they did this because they did not wish to be burdened with carrying him to a place where he could receive medical treatment for his injuries.
"The story is not true.
"The prisoner in question was indeed killed. But he was not wounded. In fact, he was in perfect health and attempting to escape. He was running away and refused to respond to orders to halt and ran into a rocky area, where he was bitten by a poisonous cobra snake. Unfortunately, the U. S. Navy SEALs who had captured him were unable to save his life because of a lack of proper medical supplies. He died from the reptile's bite rather than being summarily executed. Thus there was no violation of the Geneva Convention. No war crime was committed in this instance. It was a terribly unfortunate misadventure brought on the prisoner by his own actions.
"I apologize to you for my error and I promise
you most sincerely and solemnly that I will never--never--repeat such misconduct. I consider it a sacred trust to get you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in my broadcasts. I shall be most diligent in following this self-appointed requisite in the future. I can only humbly beg you to keep your faith in me. I was wrong. And I am sorry for it.
"However, let me emphasize that my deep disapproval of the conduct of this war and the individuals in our national government who are mismanaging it continues unabated and stronger than ever. It is because of their incompetent arrogance and self-absorption that situations such as the faulty passing of information occur. They have, in fact, set up an environment of half-truths, outright lies, and other deceptions to cover up their errors in management and judgment in their so-called leadership in this tragedy in the Middle East."
Don Allen now breathed easier, but he felt a twinge of nervousness when Wallenger looked straight at him.
"Therefore," Wallenger continued, "rather than gather my news here in Washington, I intend to travel to the war zone, to be embedded with one of our fighting units. I will never again rely on what others tell me. I will report back to you from the battlefields and the field hospitals to give you the unvarnished truth of what is going on in that hellhole our government has created."
Fred the floor manager announced, "Fade to commercial! Three minutes!"
Allen walked over to the news desk. "Well done, Dirk. Are you serious about wanting to go to Iraq and/or Afghanistan?"
"That is my request, Don."
"Granted."
.
BALTSCHUG-KEMPINSKI HOTEL
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
25 AUGUST 2300 HOURS
THE hotel's luxury suites at its front corner looked out over the Moscow River, giving a magnificent view of the Kremlin. The red star mounted above the structure glowed a bright scarlet over the walls as Dr. Carl Joplin sipped coffee and gazed at the sight. It made him think of Josef Stalin and his cruel domination over the large populace of the now-defunct U. S. S. R. He thought of purges, arrests in the middle of the night, the Gulag with its myriad of death camps, and other horrible features of the despot's reign of terror. Somehow that historical knowledge gave not only the Kremlin but also the nearby St. Basil's Cathedral an aura of evil and hopelessness.
