Combat Alley (2007)

by Jack - Seals 06 Terral

  What's that?

  Perhaps the other convicts would not accept Surov as their leader, Marvesky said. If you had Yarkov removed and put Surov in his place, those guys might decide to kill him.

  Akloschenko laughed. Back in the old Soviet bureaucracy we would classify that as an adjustment of personnel status.

  Chapter 7

  SEALs BIVOUAC

  20 OCTOBER

  1000 HOURS

  DIRK Wallenger used the notes he had made during the taping at the Janoon village to write out his latest presentation for broadcast. Since he would be unable to make a voice-over on the scenes he would have to rely on the editing people back in the Washington studio to match up his spiel with the correct sound bites. This unconventional method would have been irritating enough to the micromanaging journalist, but he also had to rely on unscheduled resupply flights to get his tapes back to Shelor Field for mailing to the States. That was one problem he hadn't envisioned when he first decided to get imbedded with a combat unit.

  Now, fifty meters away from camp, Wallenger waited as Eddie lifted his camera into position. Okay, Dirk.

  Right. Five ... Four... three... Two... One... Greetings from somewhere in Afghanistan, Wallenger began. The SEAL detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands is now on the ground and running, or perhaps I should say 'galloping' straight into their mission that has been dubbed Operation Combat Alley. Yesterday we went to a Pashtun village to become acquainted with the local natives, and had the very real pleasure of making friends with a group of exotic people who have inhabited this part of the world for eons. The Pashtuns are fascinating, and just happen to be the largest tribal society in the world today. Their actual origins are obscure and they refer to legends to mark the beginning of their existence, mingling historical fact with myth. They are a passionate people who do not hesitate to turn to violence to deal with disagreements with not only outsiders but their own kind within their many clans. Here, in this part of Afghanistan, there are seven tribes who share a history of peace and war in which temporary alliances and hostilities have whirled and mingled throughout their existence. He stopped speaking to refer to his notes.

  Eddie relaxed, taking the camera from his shoulder. Man, oh man! I can't wait to see these tapes.

  They'll have been broadcast many weeks before we get to see the final results of our efforts, Wallenger said. Okay. Let's roll again. He waited for the cameraman to get ready, then immediately took up where he left off. The Pashtuns live by a series of codes that reflect a male-dominated society. This set of laws demands that they be hospitable to strangers as well as strictly observant to matters of honor. This latter edict is what seems to lead to most of the violence in their lives, and informed sources here have told me that, for the most part, this involves matters between the sexes. Any disrespect to a woman, which can include even a casual glance, demands that the males of the family retaliate immediately and fiercely to maintain their honor. Note that I said their honor, not her honor. If a woman of their family engages in sinful conduct, she will be murdered by male relatives in an act termed an 'honor killing.'Accordingly, a woman who is raped must produce witnesses to testify that she resisted the assault with all her strength, or she too will be slain or ordered executed by a Muslim judge. Strangely enough, killings because of male-female issues do not have to be revenged. And, speaking of revenge, when custom demands it, the Pashtuns respond accordingly, setting up vendettas that can go on for generations. On a somewhat more civilized side, if a Pashtun submits himself to the mercy of another, begs to be forgiven for some wrong while humbling himself completely, the subject of his pleas is not only required to grant the requests but is expected to be generous about it. Go figure.

  Eddie stopped taping as Wallenger signaled him to stop. I can make a few additional notes on this background shit to tape later. I must find the stuff I wrote about Doc treating that guy's cut arm. He fumbled through his papers. Ah! Here it is. Ready to go?

  You bet.

  The SEAL you see coming out of the hut with the injured man is Hospital Corpsman James Bradley, who is called 'Doc' by his comrades in arms. The village chief requested medical aid for this fellow being carried on the pallet, who had cut himself badly while butchering a goat. As you see, Corpsman Bradley has begun treating the man. This is a lifesaving situation, ladies and gentlemen, since the arm is infected and would eventually fester into full-blown gangrene. That, of course, means the patient would have died unless someone amputated the arm. That is hardly a surgical procedure that could be performed satisfactorily in this wilderness. What we are witnessing here is an unselfish act of kindness of one human being to another; in this case an American serviceman is ministering to a primitive Pashtun, literally saving his life before our eyes. Cut, Eddie.

  That was good, Dirk.

  Right, he said absentmindedly while he turned to his notes again. I'll do the sign-off now, then tomorrow I want to embellish some of this. Okay, here we go.

  I'm ready, Eddie announced.

  ... Four... Five ... And so, ladies and gentlemen, you can see it's not all killing and maiming out here. Within the violence of war are small acts of kindness and charity that might be taken for granted back home, but are ever so meaningful out here on the war front. These incidents are like a few bright stars in a bleakly dark night. This is Dirk Wallenger, somewhere in Afghanistan, wishing you peace in a world gone mad. Cut!

  This is getting better all the time, Eddie said. I'd be willing to bet your 'Somewhere in the War' series is going to get you not only an Emmy but a Pulitzer too, Dirk, if you also write a book. Think about making guest appearances on talk shows.

  Wallenger smiled with pleasure at the thought. And I, of course, will remember my intrepid cameraman when I accept my accolades, kudos, and praises.

  Your gratitude warms the cockles of my heart, Eddie said with a chuckle, knowing that as soon as they returned stateside, he would fade into obscurity in the same proportion that Wallenger's fame would grow.

  As they walked back to the bivouac, Wallenger glanced over to see a couple of the SEALs giving their horses some exercise out in the open. Say, Eddie, do you suppose these guys were part of that massacre of those Brazilian villagers down in South America a year or so ago?

  I don't know, Eddie said. I remember your report, but I wasn't down there with you.

  Jim Cruiser did make that remark about Doc Bradley helping a sick child in South America, Wallenger reminded him.

  He sure did, Eddie replied.

  The thing kind of blew over, but it was obvious that someone massacred a village of men, women, and children in cold blood, Wallenger said. While I was at the scene, I interviewed a guy who claimed to be a witness. He said his wife and kids were shot down by American Green Berets during a dawn raid. He claimed the perpetrators included African and blond men who spoke English.

  I saw the photographs you brought back, Eddie said. Those were dead civilians, no doubt. And, like you said, included women and kids. I recall there was a lot of rioting down there in South America when the story came out.

  They found the guy I interviewed later in the uniform of a Fascist revolutionary army, Wallenger said. He had been killed in a battle and was pretty torn up. But he seemed to be the same guy.

  Sometimes a corpse is hard to identify, Eddie pointed out. Especially if a violent death is involved. So there's always the chance it was somebody else.

  Well, I'll tell you something, Wallenger said as they neared the bivouac. I'm going to snoop around and make some innocent-sounding inquiries among these Brigands.

  It could amount to a significant scoop, Eddie opined.

  .

  THE SWATI VILLAGE

  1530 HOURS

  THE men of the hamlet had armed themselves to the extent that they wore extra bandoleers of magazines for their AK-47s crisscrossed over their torsos. Each weapon was fully locked and loaded with one round in the chamber. The women and children were inside the huts, lying on the floor
, while a few of the bolder boys peered from the windows. The fighting men were unable to determine the exact number of weapon-toting unfriendlies approaching their community from off the steppes, but it was obvious the intruders badly outnumbered the locals.

  The group of outsiders, made up of fifty Russians and seventy-five Pashtuns from the Mahsud tribe, came to within fifty meters of the village, forming a semicircle that covered it on three sides. Valentin Surov, accompanied by a Mahsud war leader named Dagar, rode forward to within twenty meters of the Swati community. The Russian called out, Salamat osey! We would speak with your malik!

  What do you want to talk about? came a shout from the interior of the hamlet.

  It is too important to bellow back and forth about, Surov said. My friend Dagar and I will come closer to you. You will see we mean no harm because if there is trouble we will be the first to die.

  A few minutes passed, then two elderly men appeared from the mud buildings and advanced ten meters toward the visitors. Surov and Dagar rode forward, then halted and dismounted, holding the reins of their horses. Dagar knew both of the Swatis. He pointed to one, That is Abasin, the malik, he said to Surov. Now he indicated the other. And that is Tolwak, a molla.

  Surov displayed a friendly smile. We are here on behalf of Luka Yarkov, our chief. Yarkov has great affection for all Pashtun people, and that includes the Swatis. He is going to take over the selling of the entire opium poppy crop of the Pranistay Steppes. To show his respect for your tribe and all the tribes, he is going to pay you one and a half times the price that Awalmir of the Yousafzai paid you in the past. He is most generous, is he not?

  Abasin ignored the remarks. You Russians stole five of our women and girls. You must pay us for them.

  I speak of a subject more important than females, Surov said. This is a big thing that Yarkov does. Awalmir trembles in his hut, afraid of Yarkov. Already we have made alliances with the Mahsud, Kharoti, Bhittani, and Ghilzai tribes.

  We want to be paid for the five women, Abasin insisted. You must pay us one thousand afghanis for each one.

  Surov frowned in anger. Do not be disrespectful. Yarkov has more than three hundred men. You don't seem to realize that he is a khan.

  Tolwak, the clergyman, glared furiously at Dagar. You have taken sides with an infidel against true believers of Islam.

  Dagar grinned. Are you deaf, old man? Did you not hear what Surov said? His words are not idle boasting. There are four tribes of the faithful already joined together to sell their harvests to Yarkov.

  We will not speak of anything until the Russians pay us five thousand afghanis, Abasin insisted. You cannot take women and expect to get away with it.

  Yarkov will not give you a single afghani for all the Swati women in the world, Surov snarled. And if you choose not to sell us your poppy harvest, we will take it from you.

  You will take nothing from us! Abasin snapped. If you want crops from our tribal fields, you will have to fight for them!

  Then we will kill you all, Surov threatened. And leave your pretty women alive so that we can take our pleasure with them.

  Listen to him, Dagar said. Surov speaks the truth. Already five of your women will burn in hell forever for fornicating with the infidels. Do you want more to spend eternity in the fires of hell?

  You have much to lose, Surov said. We will go now. You think over the offer and be grateful for Yarkov's generosity. We will return for your friendship or your lives and pretty women.

  Abasin and Tolwak stood silently as the two swung themselves back up into their saddles, then wheeled around and galloped back to rejoin their friends.

  .

  LOGOVISHCHYEH, TAJIKISTAN

  1800 HOURS

  YARKOV and his underbosses had gathered once again in his large domicile for a strategy meeting. This time they had company: Pavel Marvesky from Khorugh was in attendance. They were well aware of the importance of the man closest to the Big Boss making a personal visit to their home base.

  A fire, built by Gabina, crackled in the hearth while several bottles of vodka recently retrieved from the freezer were sitting in an ice bucket in the middle of the table. Gabina had spent the afternoon preparing samosas and pakoras for snacks. Yarkov was in a good mood. The girl worked alone serving him and his guests because Zainba had begun menstruating. The gang leader was glad she hadn't ended up pregnant.

  Now the five Russians drank toasts to their motherland, each other, and the boss of all bosses, Aleksander Akloschenko. With the cold vodka in their bellies, they consumed a couple of the snacks each before settling down to business. Marvesky, as a courtesy, allowed Yarkov to open the informal proceedings.

  Alright, brothers, Yarkov said, wiping at the crumbs in his beard. We are honored to have Pavel Dimitrovich Marvesky come to visit Logovishchyeh. And without further delay, I invite him to address us as to his purpose for the journey from modern Khorugh to our primitive little town.

  Thank you, Luka Ivanovich, Marvesky said. He chuckled. Do not worry, brothers, I will not be here boring you for long. He waited for the polite laughter to die down. I wish I had been with you during the visit to the villages. It would be most convenient for me to actually get a look at the Pranistay Steppes. But, at any rate, I am only here to get the latest news to take back to the Big Boss. And I am ready to hear how things are progressing in the plan to take over the harvest.

  Everything goes well, Yarkov informed him. We now have the four strongest tribes on our side. I followed the Big Boss's instructions and promised them one and a half times the usual price. That was enough to make our offer more interesting to most, and they quickly abandoned Awalmir Yousafzai completely.

  Where were you earlier today when I arrived? Marvesky asked.

  We paid a visit to the weakest tribe on the steppes, Yarkov answered. But they refused our offer. Instead they want us to submit an honor payment of five thousand afghanis to them for some women we took last year.

  That seems strange to me, Marvesky remarked. I admit I know little about these damned Pashtuns. Why would money compensate them for the loss of female relatives?

  Surov interjected, According to their religion, the women are disgraced because of having been fucked by us. Thus, they want an honor payment to satisfy their dignity. On the other hand, if we returned to the women to the villages, the bastards would murder them as if they were sick lambs.

  That is true, little Fedor Grabvosky said. They believe these women have sinned and will go to hell.

  Marvesky was confused. But they were kidnapped and raped. It was not the women's fault. He suddenly laughed. And I know they didn't fall in love with you ugly lugs, so they probably fought like hell when you laid hands on them.

  Oh, yes, Aleksei Barkyev, the largest of the underbosses, said. But once they're beaten up and given a damn good screwing, their fighting spirit evaporates like piss on a hot stove. In their minds, they have lost everything by then. They are doomed both on earth and in the hereafter.

  Well, I know the Big Boss is not going to want any 'honor payments' made to those bumpkins. It would be a sign of weakness. And he will not tolerate their refusal to join us either. I am sure you know what that means.

  Of course, Yarkov said. We must make an example of them to convince the other tribes of the wisdom of joining us.

  How many tribes still remain obstinate? Marvesky asked.

  Counting the Swatis, there are three, Surov answered. The Janoons and the Yousafzais. The last two have the most people, and we are taking the poppy business away from the warlord of the Yousafzais.

  Then wipe out the Swatis, Marvesky said. If they're a small group, their poppy fields can be divided up among our allied tribes. He poured more vodka into his glass. Remember we will eventually expand to other areas and other tribes, so don't leave a man, woman, or child alive. You must make a strong impression that will become well known throughout all Pashtun groups in Afghanistan. He noticed one of the snack dishes was empty. Are there more?

>   Of course, Pavel Dimitrovich, Yarkov said. He turned his head toward the other room. Gabina! More samosas!

  Chapter 8

  OUTSKIRTS OF THE SWATI VILLAGE

  22 OCTOBER

  0430 HOURS

  IGOR Tchaikurov had been a member of the Spetsnaz Special Operations Detachment of the Soviet KGB Border Guards before running afoul of the law. The elite unit he belonged to performed some of the most daring and clandestine duties for the Communist regime in operations along the entirety of its immense border. Tchaikurov was among the best in the dark missions and was a career warrant officer until his sentence for murder that brought about his incarceration in the military prison in Tajikistan. Although condemned to be shot, he languished like all the others awaiting capital punishment, enduring more than a decade of brutal confinement.

  Tchaikurov had killed a fellow soldier because of an infatuation with the man's wife. She was blond, pretty, and desirable, and Tchaikurov was having an affair with her. He reasoned that by ridding her of the husband, the woman would be his alone. It turned out he was only one of a trio of lovers whose attentions she enjoyed while her husband was away patrolling isolated areas of the international border. After learning of the competition, he killed her too. Unfortunately he had been spotted entering her apartment by neighbors in the crowded building.