Gringo Joe

by JD Davis

  Mel had been staring out the window, gazing toward the vineyard, never once looking at Joe. Finally, she exhaled and turned to face him.

  “And?” said Joe.

  “And now I’m pretty sure I’d rather work with Diva at the coffee shop than in some stuffy law firm whose arrogant partners will expect their new protégé to bill over sixty hours a week.”

  It was Joe’s turn to exhale, and he did so rather loudly.

  “Wow!” he said, staring into her anxious brown eyes. “You need to understand, Mel, I don’t think you have the temperament or experience necessary for the fast-paced life of a barista.”

  They both enjoyed a hardy and much needed laugh.

  “Mel, believe it or not I know a great deal about expectations and disappointing parents. I gave mine such a shock, I worried if they would ever talk to me again. However, parents get over stuff; it’s what they do. It sounds like you have a great family, but it also sounds as if you’ve been hoeing the same row for so long there couldn’t help but be expectations. Maybe no one, you included, stopped digging long enough to question what would happen once you got there. The way I see it, it doesn’t matter if you went to Stanford Law or some industrial school to be a welder. If you wake up one day and decide you don’t like welding, you can’t spend the rest of your life being miserable. As they say, just because you spent a lot of money on an ugly hat doesn’t mean you have to wear it forever.”

  They were both quiet for several minutes until Mel looked up with a somewhat serious glare.

  “Joe, I got that ball cap after watching the Giants beat the Dodgers in the summer of 2005. Moses Alou and J.T. Snow hit back-to-back homers and my dad bought me that cap, and I never really thought of it as ugly—really worn, but not ugly.”

  Joe lost the color in his face and his mouth dropped open as he made a lame attempt to explain it was simply a metaphor. Mel started laughing.

  “Gotcha!” she said. “That’s payback for your insensitive barista remark.”

  “Oh, man! You definitely got me.”

  After another laugh, the mood steadied a bit and Mel told Joe how much she appreciated him listening.

  “So, what are you going to do? If it’s not being an attorney, have you thought about a different career?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be an attorney per se. It’s the idea of working for a corporate firm either suing someone or designing mergers that put good folks out of work. I’m still thinking about it but whatever it is, it needs to be challenging and it’s got to be fun.”

  “Great idea,” said Joe. “And I can’t think of a better place to figure things out than a sleepy little town in rural Oregon. Which reminds me, about that dinner at the mayors—are you interested?”

  “Why not?” she said. “How could I pass on the opportunity to appear in public with Steelhead’s most eligible bachelor and disappoint all those hopeful matchmakers?”

  That seemed to embarrass Joe a little but Mel didn’t mind a bit.

  “If you’re sure you’re all right, I should get back and give Diva a break. I told her I would close tonight. Hope you don’t mind.”

  They walked down the stairs together to find Jose waiting for an opportunity to speak with Joe. When Joe introduced the two, Mel was caught off guard by Jose.

  “You are not only a beautiful lady,” he said. “You must be very special. This cabeza de calabaza—oh, I am sorry, it means pumpkin head—he never brings the girl here … sometimes, I wonder … you know … maybe he loco.”

  Joe looked at his shoes and Mel smiled, then took her cue and told them she needed to make a call.

  “Lo siento mi amigo. I do not mean to interrupt.”

  “You are never an interruption, Joe. What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, amigo. I saw the van again. I think this man is Mexican and maybe dangerous, no?”

  “Perhaps he is, but regardless, keep your eyes open and call me if he shows up again—okay, my friend?”

  The two men hugged and did the manly backslap thing and Joe walked to his car.

  “It was cold and foggy this morning, and now it’s so beautiful. Just look at those fluffy clouds and these beautiful rolling hills. I think you’re right, maybe it’s not a bad place to sort things out.”

  CHAPTER 7

  POPPYCOCK, PEEKABOO, AND THE POSSE

  Joe had requested and been granted five days of R&R for his team at Bagram AFB, in the Parwan Province of Afghanistan. In the last sixteen weeks, they had been in four different provinces and seven districts of Afghanistan. They had flown, driven, and walked a thousand miles, talked to dozens of poppy growers and tribal leaders, and they were tired and frustrated. The intel always looked good and prospects bright, but after the last dead end, Joe’s team was beginning to feel it had all been for naught. They took long hot showers and decided to take a break from each other. There was a movie theatre, a bowling alley, and numerous fast food restaurants. At eight o’clock, on his second night there, Joe walked into a pizza parlor for a late dinner and a cold beer. He placed his order, grabbed his Budweiser, and turned around to see three familiar faces smiling back at him. Liam, Doc, and Remi lifted their mugs and in unison yelled, “Cheers!”

  As he took his seat, he looked around and smiled.

  “Well, truth is I was wondering where you guys might be.”

  “What’s next, Joe?” asked Liam.

  “I have a teleconference with NSA tomorrow morning and I’m going to ask the same thing. I feel like their intel is either late, wrong, or we’re chasing ghosts.”

  “I figure words out,” said Doc. “We’ve covered a lot of ground, talked to enough people, and you have to believe the Taliban knows we’re looking. I think if something doesn’t break for us soon, we’re either going to get set up and killed, or continue to be the brunt of their jokes. Sometimes I picture the tribal leaders laughing at us around their campfires.”

  “What do you think, Remi?” asked Liam.

  “I like to bowl,” she replied.

  They finished off Joe’s pizza and got in thirty frames before calling it quits and losing five bucks each to Remi.

  It had been a while since Joe had spoken to Colonel Pike, much less seen his face.

  “How’s your team holding up, Chandler?”

  “We’re fine, Colonel; we needed a break but everyone’s healthy.”

  “That’s good to hear because I need you packed and ready to head out first thing tomorrow. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but we have some good intel and I want you to move on it.”

  Joe had heard the same thing from the districts of Panjwayi, Khanashin, Washir, and several more he couldn’t remember.

  “It’s good intel, Chandler; you need to move on this one.”

  Joe exhaled slowly and asked the colonel what he had.

  “We intercepted a cell phone conversation about a meeting in the Arghandab Valley two days from now. It was placed to an office in Kandahar, and the cell was a burner purchased in Tijuana, Mexico. We believe it’s reliable and we definitely want to move on it. Any questions?”

  “Arghandab Valley—that’s back down in the Zhari District, sir?”

  “We always thought Helmand and Kandahar were our best chances, but we just haven’t caught a break. Look, I know you must be frustrated but let’s check it out and hope for the best. I’ll find your team a ride back down to Kandahar and we’ll talk again tomorrow night. Pike out.”

  Joe found his team and gave them the good news, and they were just as excited as he was.

  Pike and Joe talked again and pinned down the coordinates of the farm. It bordered a river on its south side and butted up to a very small village to the west. Once Joe looked at it on a map, he realized he had been there and had probably been jerked around by the owner. Abdul-Ali was the tribal chief of the Ghilji, the dominant tribe in the district, and owned this particular twenty-acre poppy farm. Joe didn’t like him the first time they met, and knew the feeling was mutual.
When they had walked away, Doc said he smelled like Taliban.

  The mission was dubbed Poppycock; during communications, the NSA was Peekaboo, and Joe’s team was duly named the Posse. The small village was on the north side of the Arghandab River where, on the previous night, Joe and Doc had taken position inside an empty goat hut. Liam and Remi were across the river, dug in and well-camouflaged at 750 meters. The village made a semicircle facing the river, giving them a broad view of each hut. Three kilometers behind Liam and Remi was a road where a Humvee had dropped the team and left them to walk. The meeting was scheduled for 10:00 AM, but at 09:30 the powerful Aegis camera, mounted to the Predator drone hovering at 12,000 feet, was picking up no activity. At 09:40, that all changed.

  “Posse this is Peekaboo, do you copy?”

  “Roger that, Peekaboo, you are crystal clear,” responded Remi.

  “Posse, please be advised you have two inbound vehicles. One is a truck, six kilometers out, carrying two armed men in the back. We cannot confirm passengers inside, copy?”

  “Roger that, Peekaboo—one truck, three confirmed. Do you have an ETA, over?”

  “Peekaboo estimates arrival time of vehicle number one to be five minutes. Second vehicle is a sedan with two confirmed. ETA is ten minutes. Do you copy?”

  “Roger, Peekaboo. Please stand by.”

  “Joe, you have two vehicles inbound—number one is a truck with at least three confirmed, ETA is five minutes. Number two is a sedan with two confirmed, ETA ten minutes. Do you copy?”

  “Affirmative,” said Joe. “Notify the Calvary.”

  The Calvary referred to a UH-60 Black Hawk standing by at a small FOB only thirty klicks to the west.

  “Roger that. Calvary is hot on the pad.”

  “Peekaboo, the Posse requests fluid updates, over.”

  “Affirmative, Posse. We are all eyes.”

  Everyone could see the dust from the incoming truck less than 1000 meters away. Suddenly, a door opened and two armed men stepped out of a small building. They had long beards and looked very much like Taliban.

  “Where the hell did they come from?” whispered Doc.

  Joe responded by shaking his head. When the truck entered the center of the small village, the two men in the back jumped out and intently looked around. One said something to one of the men who had come out of the building; the man shook his head no. Then the passenger door of the truck opened and a small man wearing the traditional black garments of the Taliban stepped out. The man said nothing but looked very nervous as he surveyed the buildings. When he finally spoke, the two gunmen from the truck moved into the shadows and the others went inside the building.

  In less than two minutes, they could see the dust from the approaching sedan. Underneath the thick layer of Afghan dirt, it appeared to be the remains of what had once been a Mercedes 300 Diesel. Once it came to a stop, an older man with a big smile and arms flailing got out from behind the steering wheel.

  “Well, I’ll be…,” whispered Joe, who was looking through his binoculars.

  “Isn’t that our resident tribal chief, Abdul-Ali?”

  “I can’t believe it,” whispered Doc.

  The two waited patiently to see what would happen next. When the rear door of the vehicle opened, a Hispanic man wearing dark sunglasses and a natural silk sports coat emerged. He looked as though he might piss his pants at any moment. The door of the building opened slightly and an arm extended and waved the Mexican inside. When the chief tried to enter, the door slammed in his face. He muttered something about someone’s mother and a goat, and then walked into a small hut, sitting on stilts.

  “Remi, can Liam see the two men outside, over?”

  “Affirmative, clear line of fire.”

  “Okay, get the Calvary airborne. I don’t think this will take long, out.”

  “Posse, you have two children approaching the goat pen, over.”

  “Roger that, Peekaboo, I see them.”

  “Joe, you have company in thirty seconds—two children.”

  Two young boys came around the corner, laughing with sticks in their hands. Just inside the goat pen, one stopped to pee while the other pointed and laughed at his penis. Just as they were about to come face-to-face with two Americans, a woman yelled from another cracked door. One of the boys cursed the woman and the other laughed and clasped his hand over his mouth, but both turned and headed up the dusty path.

  Joe and Doc finally exhaled and looked back toward the houses. Soon, a door opened and a large woman with a niqab —a commonly worn veil over her face—stepped onto the porch, slapped one of the young boys on his ear, then dragged both inside and slammed the door. It appeared that several of the men from the tribe were out working in the fields, and the women were very uncomfortable with the presence of the unpredictable Taliban. Again, Remi’s satellite phone crackled.

  “Posse, this is the Calvary. We’re fifteen klicks out, please advise.”

  Remi relayed the info to Joe who asked that they hold their location and stand by.

  “Remi, this is about to get hot. Advise Liam that we want the Mexican and the chief alive; all others are targets. Do you copy?”

  “Roger that.”

  Joe turned to Doc, who had his HK416 aimed down the road.

  “Keep your eyes open and cover me. I’m going to the back of those buildings.”

  Doc nodded and looked back through his scope.

  “Remi: as soon as anyone steps out of that building, call in the Calvary and tell them to hover right above us. Advise that there are women and children in the buildings. When everyone is out, Liam has a green light, do you copy?”

  “Roger that.”

  Joe crawled out the back of the hut and ran around to the rear of the buildings, where no one on his team could see him. The meeting was in the third house down. As Joe crouched and made his way slowly past the first, a woman opened the back door of the second. She was holding a large bowl of some kind of liquid, which she heaved in Joe’s direction. When her eyes came up, she found herself staring at an American soldier, and she froze. Joe put his finger to his lips and walked directly to her. She wore a hijab but no veil. Her eyes were wide and she never took them off him. He herded her inside, being careful not to touch her, and then he closed the door. He pointed to the front and motioned for her to move. All Joe wanted to know was who else was in that house. There was a baby asleep on a blanket and the woman looked at her child, then at Joe, and began trembling. All Joe could do was to sign to her that he meant no harm. He reached down, picked up the sleeping baby and put it in her arms, then led her to the back where there was a small cookstove. He pointed to a corner and motioned for her to sit, and she did. Again, he put his fingers to his lips then went out the back door.

  The same time as Joe reached the meeting house, he heard the front door open and men talking. He quietly cracked opened the rear door and watched as two men stood. The first was an older man who looked battle-hardened and dangerous. The other looked more like a drugstore clerk who was playing dress-up. He was young and barely able to sprout the customary beard. The Mexican and Taliban leader remained on the rug, where they appeared to be engaged in a rather heated negotiation—both speaking broken English. Finally the haji and the Mexican shook hands and stood. As they were about to exit, someone outside yelled and pointed to the sky.

  That would be the Black Hawk, thought Joe.

  The hard-ass-looking Taliban turned to go back inside just as his head exploded. There was another pop from Liam’s sniper rifle; at the same time, the Black Hawk door gunner disintegrated a man pointing an AK47 in his direction. The Taliban leader, still inside, pulled a ten-inch knife from his belt and grabbed the Mexican by his hair. He screamed something about a traitor and yelled “Allahu Akbar!” as he pulled back his arm to slit the Mexican’s throat. His eyes were afire with rage and his teeth clinched in hatred when the 5.56 round from Joe’s HK entered his forehead. The knife fell to the ground and Joe took another step
forward to kill the last Taliban fighter in the room. The Mexican had fallen into a fetal position on the rug when the laser sight from Joe’s rifle found the last man’s head. He was crouched in a corner, unarmed, and Joe could not believe his ears.

  “Don’t shoot me, dude! Oh, my God, please don’t shoot me! I’m an American, bro … please don’t shoot.”

  “What the … American, did you say you were an American?”

  The young man put his hands over his ears and started freaking out, but Joe grabbed him by his collar and pulled him, face down, into the middle of the room. He put his boot on his back and forced him flat, next to the Mexican when Joe heard Remi yell his name.

  “In here!” he yelled. “Clear! I’m in here!”

  Remi, with water still dripping from her clothes, eased into the room and looked around. She was about to ask a question when they heard a three round burst of gunfire and a windshield explode. Both Remi and Joe whirled, dropped to a knee with guns up, as they heard Doc yell, “Clear!”

  The driver of the truck had never gotten out … and had been overlooked by everyone—everyone but Doc. The man grabbed a rifle from the floorboard and raised it to shoot Remi as she walked into the house. It had been a fatal decision.

  On Joe’s command, Remi radioed the Black Hawk to hover right above the river, keeping the M240 machine gun pointed toward the village, while they did a house-to-house search. Once Abdul-Ali, Bill—the American Jihadi—and the Mexican were all cuffed with zip ties, and the women and children were corralled by Remi, a second Black Hawk landed behind the building. Lieutenant Lee and five US Army Rangers hit the poppy fields. In about ten minutes, they walked in with a half dozen Afghan men who had been spotted by the first Black Hawk. They were hiding in the field, too afraid of the Taliban to try and protect their wives and children. One of the farmers hugged his wife—the one with the baby—then walked over and kicked Abdul-Ali in the ribs. Everyone watched and no one said a thing.