So he doesn’t know Pashtun. Good. Miller translated.
“I wanted to see you with my own eyes,” Amadullah said.
“Here I am, then. I wish I could have seen your country fifty years ago, when there wasn’t a war. When we could have met in your home and feasted like men instead of hiding here like beasts.”
“I don’t know anything about you. Not even your name. You know my name and I don’t know yours.”
“My name wouldn’t mean anything to you. I’m not famous like you.”
“Still I need a name for you.”
“Call me Stan, then.”
Amadullah considered. “It will do. Tell me why you’ve done all this, at least. You’re a believer?”
“A Muslim?” A gray smile crossed Stan’s face. “No.”
“For money, then?”
“The money’s nice, but not the main reason.”
“Then why?”
“I’m tired, that’s all.” Stan tipped his head up, directing his explanation to the heavens. “The agency I work for, it’s corrupt. My country, my government, this whole war, corrupt, corrupt, corrupt. We tell you we’ve got the answers, but we don’t have anything at all. We lie to ourselves as much as everyone else. It’s time for us to leave here, leave you alone.”
“What do you think,” Amadullah said to Miller, when he’d finished translating. “Is he telling the truth?”
Miller was surprised Amadullah had asked his opinion. “I don’t know why he’d lie. Maybe there’s more to it, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Did he say anything to you about it?”
“I told you. He treats me as a courier. Nothing more.”
“Ask him, then, why he’s brought us here.”
Stan smiled, a real smile this time, when he heard the question. He led them to his horse, a thick-legged white stallion tied to a mulberry tree. A white wool blanket was draped over the horse’s flanks. Stan pulled off the blanket with a magician’s flourish, revealing twin boxes. They were about six feet long, a foot square, and covered with Cyrillic lettering.
“You know these?”
“SAMs,” Amadullah said in English. “Russian Stingers.”
“A new model. SA-24s. The Russians started making them about three years ago. The Russian Army says these can take out a Black Hawk, and I think they’re right. Especially if I give them some help. You think you might have use for these, Amadullah?”
Amadullah grinned.
“Now I’m going to tell you something,” Stan said. “The director of the CIA is coming to Afghanistan soon. In only a few days. And American politicians, too. Important ones.”
“You’re certain of this.”
“Yes. I’ll have their flight schedule.”
Amadullah tapped one of the steel boxes. “And what do you want for this?”
“Nothing. It’s a gift.”
“I don’t like that sort of gift. Not even stones are free, we Pashtuns say.”
“All right, Amadullah. If you insist, you can give me something in return. Information. Tell me, have any Americans come to see you recently?”
“Aside from this one, no.” Amadullah spit green spit at Miller’s feet.
“Anyone else? Has anyone come to Balochistan? Not necessarily American.”
Amadullah pursed his lips. “Almost two weeks ago, yes. But he was Saudi. He wanted to help fund the jihad. These men appear every so often. They never make any trouble. If they do, we send them home. One way or another.”
“You’re sure he was Saudi.”
“He had a Saudi passport. He came for a day and left.”
Stan reached into his pocket, handed Amadullah an envelope. Amadullah flicked it open with his dirty yellow thumbnail, extracted a photo. He looked it over, grunted in surprise, handed it to Miller.
The photo showed a tall man, handsome and square shouldered. He had wavy brown hair and a crooked smile that was more lips than teeth. Miller didn’t recognize him.
“This is the Saudi. How did you know?” Amadullah said.
“That’s John Wells. One of our agents.”
“He wasn’t American. He couldn’t have been. He spoke Arabic, Pashtun. And he killed four men. Troublemakers. Enemies of my tribe.”
“Sounds like Wells. What did you tell him?”
Amadullah chapped a new plug of tobacco in his mouth. Buying time, Miller thought. “Nothing. I didn’t trust him.”
“Did you give him any phone numbers or e-mail addresses?”
Amadullah nodded slowly.
“Destroy all those phones. Burn them and then burn the ashes and then drop them off the side of a mountain. Never use any of those e-mails again. Destroy all the computers where you’ve ever checked those e-mails. And probably plan to move.”
“The computers, too? My new Apple from Dubai.”
“All of it. Did you tell him about me?”
“No.”
“This is important, Amadullah. That we’d been in contact? Anything?”
“No. I swear to Allah.”
“Did you tell him about the drugs?”
“I told him that we sold drugs to Americans, nothing more.”
“Did you tell him what unit?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him about Daood?”
“No, but one of my nephews did.”
“But no,” Miller said in English, pretending to translate. “I didn’t tell him about Daood. And he didn’t know anything about Daood.”
Miller did not want Stan to hear that John Wells knew his name. He was as certain of that as he’d ever been of anything.
STAN WAS QUIET. His dead blue eyes shifted from Amadullah to Miller. In the silence, Miller heard the wind rustling down the mountain. “You think I don’t speak Pashtun?” Stan said to Miller. In Pashtun.
Stan pulled his pistol. “On your knees, hands behind your back.” Miller had looked at pistols before. He’d pulled them himself. An occupational hazard of the drug business. Usually folks were playing, showing off. This time, Miller felt a sick certainty that Stan would blow his brains out. He went to his knees, feeling the stones scrape his shins through the thin fabric of his gown.
“What did you tell Wells about Daood?” Stan said to Amadullah.
In answer, Amadullah swung his rifle toward Stan. Miller kept his breathing steady. Maybe they’ll kill each other and I’ll walk away.
But Stan said, “I’m no danger to you, Amadullah. We’re partners.” He pulled the magazine from his pistol and dropped it. It clapped against the stone and skittered away. “Just one round in the chamber. For him, if we decide so.”
Amadullah lowered his AK. Miller felt his hope fade.
“What did you tell Wells?” Stan said again.
“Nothing. In truth, my nephew Jaji mentioned Daood to this man Wells, that’s all. Then Wells asked me about Daood and I told him it wasn’t his business.”
“See,” Miller said. “Wells doesn’t know anything about me. You know how many guys are named Daood in Pakistan?”
Stan turned toward Miller. “Has he tried to contact you? Don’t lie.”
“No. I swear. I promise, if he finds me, I won’t say a word. Anyway, Stan, I don’t even know your name, your real name, I mean.” Miller was sputtering, trying to find the magic words.
“You promise.”
“I promise. I’m sorry I didn’t translate right, I should have told you what Amadullah said, but I thought—”
“I know what you thought. If it makes you feel any better, Daood, I probably would have had to kill you anyway. Now that Amadullah and I have gotten to know each other, you’re a liability.”
“Wait. If I hear Wells is after me, I’ll let you know. That way, you’ll have some warning. Besides, if I disappear, my wives will look for me. I’m more useful to you alive.”
For a moment, Miller thought his offer might work. Then Amadullah walked next to Stan, and together they looked down at Miller. Judges from hell.
> “The Russians, when they came here, they had a saying,” Amadullah said. “Death solves all problems. No man, no problem.”
“From Stalin originally,” Stan said. “He had another saying, too. The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of one million is a statistic.”
“I think this one wouldn’t even be a tragedy.” Amadullah pointed his AK toward Miller, and Miller knew the time for begging was done. He had to distract them long enough to get to a horse. He looked down, saw two gray rocks on the stone slab in front of him. One was as big as a cell phone, the other an oversize egg. His best chance. Only chance. They could quote Stalin all they liked. Miller would stick with 2Pac.
Wonder how I live with five shots /
Niggas is hard to kill on my block.
“Let me pray, then. Please.” Miller began to murmur the first surah of the Quran. Bismillahi-rahmani-rahim . . . All the time he’d spent infiltrating mosques had taught him the words.
He leaned forward, and as his head touched the stony ground he grabbed the rocks, the bigger in his right, the smaller in his left. He came up throwing, aiming a sharp sidearm right that caught Amadullah on his left cheek. Amadullah grunted and twisted away and fired high. The shots cut rock from the slab behind Miller.
With his left hand, Miller threw the smaller rock at Stan’s chest. It caught him full in the stomach. Stan grunted and fired low and wide. The round sliced across Miller’s right biceps, doing no real damage. Stan cursed and bent over, looking for the magazine he’d dropped.
Miller stood and ran for the big white horse. He didn’t want to go back the way he’d come, not with Amadullah’s son waiting for him. Anyway, the stallion looked fast.
Behind him he heard the stutter of metal on metal and wondered whether Amadullah’s AK had jammed. He heard Amadullah curse and knew it had.
Miller reached the stallion and pulled the reins from the mulberry tree and jumped onto its back. But this horse was taller than the filly he’d ridden, and stronger, and didn’t like him. Miller found himself sprawled across the saddle, perpendicular to the stallion’s body, the missile boxes pressing into his legs and chest. The horse neighed and tossed his head in the air and stepped sideways.
Miller grabbed the stallion’s reins and pulled himself around until he faced forward. Somehow he kicked his right foot and then his left into the stirrups. Blood trickled down his arm onto the stallion’s back. Behind him, Miller heard the hard snap of a 9-millimeter magazine being jammed into a pistol.
Miller pushed his legs into the horse’s heavy flanks. “Go!” he yelled. The stallion took a half step forward and he slapped its neck with his right hand. Miracle of miracles, the stupid thing started to trot. Miller ducked low and slid his arms around the stallion’s neck. He wondered whether Stan would shoot his own horse. If he could get out of the clearing, they’d have to chase him—
He heard three shots, loud and close. The stallion whinnied and jumped and reared up. Miller grabbed at the reins and tried to hang on, but his feet slid out of the stirrups and—
He fell, landing on his right shoulder. He heard as much as felt his collarbone crack. When he tried to sit up, a highway of fire flew down his arm and across his chest. He knew he should run, but instead slipped onto his left side and cradled his right arm in his left. Stan grabbed the horse. Amadullah walked over to Miller and grabbed his right arm and tugged. The pain was so intense that Miller couldn’t even scream. He must have passed out for a few seconds, because when he opened his eyes Amadullah and Stan stood in front of him. Miller felt the blood trickling down his skull and getting caught in his hair, and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe 2Pac wasn’t the best role model. Considering he got gunned down when he was twenty-five. Miller smirked.
Stan knelt down and looked at Miller. Miller raised his head to make eye contact, an effort that sent a shiver of agony through Miller’s arm. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. If I think you’re not telling the truth, I’m going to let Amadullah do what he likes with you. Did John Wells ever call you, e-mail you, anything?”
“No. I swear.”
Stan looked at him with those cold blue eyes and finally nodded. Miller bit his tongue so he wouldn’t beg, and Stan put his pistol under Miller’s chin. Miller closed his eyes and tried to pray again, for real this time. But it was no good. He couldn’t remember the words, Arabic wasn’t his language and had never been, and he’d never been the churchy type anyway. All he could think of was Biggie Smalls, Tupac Amaru Shakur’s Brooklyn twin, standing onstage, a microphone to his mouth, singing, Biggie Biggie Biggie, can’t you see—
And Stan squeezed the trigger.
19
FORWARD OPERATING BASE JACKSON
T
he soldiers formed neat lines on the airfield, a camouflage rectangle of men and women fifty wide, forty deep. About two thousand soldiers in all, half the brigade. Wells looked them over from a makeshift wooden stage, as Colonel Sean Brown, the base commander, stepped to the podium.
“Soldiers of the 7th Strykers, I have the pleasure of introducing John Wells. I’m sure all of you remember how he stopped the attack on Times Square a few years back. Took a bullet doing it. What you may not know is that Mr. Wells spent years in Afghanistan both before and after September eleventh. He knows the Taliban and al-Qaeda from the inside out. He’s a hero, plain and simple. Join me in giving a Dragon’s roar to Mr. Wells.”
ARRANGING THE SPEECH at FOB Jackson proved easy. The Strykers had turned into the Army’s ugly and unloved stepchild. Their soldiers ranked last on the list for everything, including celebrity visits. Wells wasn’t Carrie Underwood, but he was better than nothing. Colonel Brown was happy to have him.
“Why don’t you come in two days?” Brown said. “We can have dinner and I’ll give you a tactical briefing. You can talk the next afternoon. I’ll make sure the whole base shows, bring in the guys from the outposts, too.”
The night before he arrived, Shafer filled him in on the brigade’s records. “They’re spread pretty thin, across eastern Kandahar and Zabul. They spend a lot of their time playing defense, having to react.”
“You see any specific platoons or companies that I should focus on?”
“One or two, sure.”
Wells waited for more, but Shafer stayed quiet. “Gonna tell me which ones?”
“I’d rather not, not right away. Better for you to give this speech fresh.”
“What if the company’s on patrol when I get there, doesn’t even hear what I’m saying?”
“Let’s try it my way first. I have a feeling about this. Let them come to you.”
“And a speech is going to make them do that?”
“If it’s the right speech.”
The next afternoon, Wells rolled out of Kandahar with a platoon Colonel Brown sent to pick him up. At the base, Brown waited. He had a ropy neck and a strong handshake. He led Wells to the brigade’s Combat Operations Center, a house-size wooden building surrounded by satellite dishes and filled with high-res flat-screen monitors. His office had four laptops and three corkboards covered with maps and Excel spreadsheets and letters to and from the Pentagon. Even without fighting the Taliban, running a brigade was a full-time job.
“Looks like you have a lot of downtime.”
“You should have seen it before we got organized. Coffee?” Brown had an expensive coffeemaker on his desk, well away from the laptops. “My wife sent me this thing and I’ve finally learned how to use it.”
Wells nodded, and Brown poured them two cups. “You came a long way to see us.”
“Hadn’t been here in a while. I missed it.”
“And has it changed?”
“I think I have. Maybe I’m just older.”
“I don’t think any of us thought this war would last this long.”
“Except the Taliban.”
“True enough. You enjoy your first Stryker ride?”
“I guess you get used to not having windows after
a while.”
“Not everybody. I suspect the next generation, if there is a next generation, will have that V-shaped hull that you see on the new trucks, the Cougars and the Gators. Turns out that’s a pretty good way to keep guys alive.”
“How’s morale?”
“I assume we’re just talking. This isn’t going into a report.”
Wells nodded.
“It’s been a long tour and the guys are ready for it to be over. In just the last two months, we’ve had three guys evaced to Landstuhl for mental health problems. Lot of home-life stress. At least a hundred divorces.”
“Are you in line with other brigades?”
“Little bit worse. This tour hasn’t been great for my career. No way around the fact that these vehicles we ride in are not ideal. Compared to a Humvee, you can argue for them. Okay, they’re not as maneuverable, but they’re better armored and they carry a whole squad. But the debate isn’t Stryker versus Humvee anymore. It’s Stryker versus MRAP. MRAPs have as much armor as the Stryker and the safer hull design. And they’re more maneuverable than Strykers, too. And cheaper. So all the Stryker really gives us is the chance to put a whole squad in a single vehicle, instead of two or three. Which is nice when we come out under fire. But mostly we don’t.”
“And the guys know it.”
“Doesn’t take long to figure out. So that’s bad for morale. And they hear about the Marines fighting in Helmand and the airborne getting busy in western Kandahar and they know that we’ve been stuck off to the side driving Highway 1. That said, I believe we’ve done a solid job here, given the constraints. We’ve kept the highway clean. We’ve found tons of caches. We’ve supported the ANA and ANP.” The Afghan Army and police. “Have we degraded the Taliban directly as much as I’d like? No, but we’ve been directed to keep civilian casualties to a minimum and that hurts our ability to engage. We leave the high-value targets to SF, and those guys operate independently.”
The Shadow Patrol Page 23
