Early yesterday morning, some of my kinsmen went to deliver donkeys that had been sold to the Swatis, he began. When they arrived they found everybody dead.
Paywastun, Awalmir's chief lieutenant, looked over at Quajeer with his one good eye. A deep scar from a shrapnel wound ran down the left side of his face and the eye socket was no more than a small mound of disfigured flesh. What do you mean by everybody, brother?
Exactly as I have said, Quajeer said. Every man, woman, and child had been slain except for a young boy who had been missed by the murderers. The elderly and infants are among those martyred. I sent word about the massacre to the Americans who are encamped on our lands.
Awalmir was a green-eyed muscular man with a square jaw. He did not like foreigners. And what was the reaction of the infidels?
They went to investigate, Quajeer replied. They have a medical man with them. He treated the boy's wound where he had been choked with a rope or something.
Is he the one who bandaged Sangin's gash? Awalmir asked. Nothing that happened on the steppes got past him.
Yes. He is a black man and very skillful in the art of healing. Sangin is doing very well.
Let us return to the subject of the attack, Awalmir said. Is there anything else you can tell me about it?
There were two kinds of cartridge cases lying around the village, Quajeer said. One type was very small. I had never seen any like that. My kinsman Chinar, who is a guide for the Americans, brought me one. He reached inside his pukhoor and pulled out the brass tube. Here it is.
Awalmir examined the case. This is from those accursed Russians! I know all about those sons of Satan. Perhaps they are seeking vengeance because we defeated their invasion of our homeland. Or perhaps a few are with the Tajik bandits.
Mmm, Paywastun agreed. Perhaps they are not bandits. They could be soldiers using the bandits.
It is all very confusing, Awalmir complained.
One more thing, Quajeer said. Chinar looked around at the footprints. Among the marks of boots were many tsaplan. That means there were Pashtuns among the wazhunkan.
The Mahsuds! Awalmir said. Who else? The volatile man seethed for a moment, having trouble speaking in his rage, but after a few deep breaths he had his temper under control. We will take no action now. However, I will see to it that men will patrol and stand guard between our three villages.
We do that now with our own hamlets, Quajeer said. And the Americans are near us too.
Perhaps the Americans will deal with the murderers, Paywastun suggested.
Who knows? Awalmir commented. One way or the other we must observe badal in the name of our Swati brethren.
A gleam came into Paywastun's eye. Then we will have a war, will we not?
If Allah so wills it, Shamroz, the molla, interjected.
.
SEALs BIVOUAC
THE Brigands learned that the surviving boy's name was Emal and that he was twelve years old. Doc Bradley had cleaned and dressed his wound once more after they arrived in the bivouac from the Swati village. He had evidently turned slightly during the garroting, and that's what saved his life. Chinar had wanted to take him to the Janoons to live with a family there, but the youngster refused the offer. In his fear and grief he had seen Pashtuns as well as whom he perceived as Tajik bandits murder his people, and he was more at ease with the Americans. Doc was kind and gentle with his injury, and the others showed genuine friendliness and sympathy toward him. The Americans gave him a feeling of security as well as evidence that not everyone in the world was cruel and merciless.
.
1300 HOURS
THE entire detachment had finished tending to their mounts, breaking up hay bales, and putting on feed bags after taking the horses over to a nearby creek to be watered. The animals were now connected to the picket line as their riders gathered around the headquarters area to answer a pithy summons from the Skipper.
Now hear this, Brannigan said to the men who were grouped informally to his direct front. Some were sitting, others kneeling as they awaited the word from the Old Man. I've contacted the SFOB on the Combs that means Carey and Berringer and they've given us instructions to stay close to the bivouac here but maintain vigorous patrolling within the immediate area to maintain security.
Sir, Chad Murchison said, raising his hand. Do they have any cognition as to the identity of the depredators of the village?
Uh... Well... No, Brannigan said. He had to listen carefully to Murchison's novel way of speaking as did the rest of the Brigands. But they think there's a good chance it was the Taliban. Or perhaps Tajik bandits. Does that answer your question?
Yes, sir, Murchison said. Thank you, sir.
While we keep patrols out and about, Brannigan continued, we are to contact the two largest tribes on the steppes here. That would be the Yousafzai and the Mahsud. The idea is to establish friendly ties with them and get all the information we can as to what's going on around here.
Puglisi, who was chewing a hunk of MRE chocolate, asked, Can we be sure they'll be friendly toward us?
Brannigan glanced over at Chinar. What do you think?
They will be most suspicious, Chinar replied. However, I do not believe you will find them outright hostile. But the Yousafzai and Mahsud are bitter rivals and will hesitate to form any friendship with you when they discover you will be talking to both of them.
Who do you suggest we contact first? Brannigan asked.
The Yousafzai, Chinar answered. They and my tribe are very friendly.
At any rate we'll have to be diplomatic, Brannigan said. Carey gave me explicit orders that we are to assure all the Pashtuns here that we have no interest in their opium poppy crops. This is a blessing for the local farmers since they make a hell of a lot more money selling the powder from the plants than wheat or barley.
Sir, Ensign Orlando Taylor said. I have researched that subject, and it is indicated that the highest bidders for the narcotic are the Taliban. Surely we must make them understand we cannot tolerate that.
We'll try not to be so direct, Ensign, Brannigan said. We'll emphasize that the Taliban are bad people and shouldn't be dealt with. The Pashtuns around here aren't that fond of those religious nuts anyway.
Money talks, sir, Taylor reminded him.
You're right, Brannigan agreed. But we must emphasize the protection afforded the locals by the Coalition Forces in Afghanistan. And we've got good ol' Doc Bradley. He's our best ambassador of goodwill with his medical skills.
There's another angle, sir, Arnie Bernardi reminded him. What about hidden weapons and ammo?
We'll let that slide by, Brannigan said. Carey emphasized that we are not to interrogate or search the Pashtuns for arms, ammo, or other contraband. We are, in fact, gentleman, the good guys. He gave a concentrated glance at the tough, armed SEALs he was addressing. Well, fairly nice guys anyhow.
.
LOGOVISHCHYEH, TAJIKISTAN
2330 HOURS
PAVEL Marvesky, with Andrei Rogorov, his combination bodyguard and chauffeur assigned to him by Aleksander Akloschenko, used the illumination from the settlement's windows to light his way to his destination. When they reached the hut, Marvesky pounded on the door. Valentin Danielovich!
The door opened and Surov, clad in a thick robe, stood in the entrance with a glass of vodka in his hand. Music from the building's interior could be heard. Ah! It is you, Pavel Dimitrovich. Come in.
The bodyguard, a beefy man who barely acknowledged pain and completely disregarded any sort of physical discomfort, stayed outside in the night chill as Marvesky went into the domicile. Surov's woman, a sixteen-year-old named Aghala, was off to one side mixing dough for the next day's baking as the two Russians settled down. Surov's record player was an ancient hand-cranked model manufactured during the old Soviet days, and it played only 78-rpm recordings. He turned the machine off, then handed a glass and a bottle of vodka to his unexpected guest.
Was that Tamara Sinyavskaya on that last r
ecord? Marvesky asked.
Yes, Surov answered. She was singing 'Katyusha.' One of my favorites.
Ah, da, I know it well, Marvesky commented. But give me Alexei Martynov's rendition of 'Kalinka.' What memories are brought back by those old songs.
I feel closer to Russia when I listen to the Motherland's music. It soothes my troubled soul.
Marvesky took a deep swallow of vodka. Do you miss Russia much, Valentin Danielovich?
Surov nodded. There are times when I must confess to a feeling of deep sadness in my aching heart. Ah! How I miss the vibrancy of winter nights in Moscow. The Novaya Opera, Bolshoi Ballet, and concerts at the Tchaikovsky Hall. He sighed. I suppose I shall never enjoy those cultural venues again.
What would you think about the opportunity to return to your beloved Moscow?
Surov sensed a profound meaning behind the question, but he made an effort not to indicate any outright reaction to it. What a beautiful thought.
And what if you could return without having to worry about the authorities? Marvesky continued.
A wild dream, Surov said. I still have several years left on my sentence. Now he knew that Marvesky's visit was much more than a casual call at his home.
Your criminal records could be expunged under the right circumstances, Marvesky said. It would be ahem a matter of where your basic loyalties lay.
Surov poured himself another glass of vodka, then recharged his guest's drink. He slowly and thoughtfully set the bottle down on the table. My gratitude would be limitless, he said. In fact, I would kill for such a blessing in my wasted life. Sometimes my descent into this hell seems more a nightmare than reality.
Marvesky's voice was lowered as he said, I will discuss this subject with you later. He took a deep swallow of vodka, then leaned back in his chair, speaking in a normal tone. Let's hear another song, Valentin Danielovich.
Certainly! How about Podmoskovnite Vechera? Surov said. I have Vladimir Troshin's interpretation.
Udivitelnbiyeh wonderful! Marvesky exclaimed.
Surov put the record on, and both Russians sipped dreamily from their glasses as the sounds of the old melody filled the hut. Outside, the bodyguard Rogorov stood stoically in the cold, noting the sparse snowflakes that had begun to descend lightly over the Kangal Mountains.
.
YOUSAFZAI MAIN VILLAGE
25 OCTOBER
0930 HOURS
THE session was in the usual place preferred by the Awalmir Khan. He and his molla, Shamroz, sat on one side in the small clearing among the mana trees, facing their visitors. Chinar, the Janoon interpreter; Lieutenant Bill Brannigan, Lieutenant (JG) Jim Cruiser, and the hospital corpsman, Doc Bradley, sat opposite the Yousafzais. The mood of the session, while not obviously unfriendly, was formal and serious. Awalmir seemed suspicious of the Americans, and Shamroz was reserved and solemn.
Brannigan spoke through Chinar, saying, We bring you greetings as representatives of the American government here on the Pranistay Steppes. I also speak for the Coalition Forces who are dedicated to protecting you. This man on my right is my second in command. His name is Cruiser. This other man is our medical specialist, whose name is Doc.
Shamroz, also speaking through the interpreter, asked, Are you the one who treated the bad cut suffered by the Janoon brother?
Doc answered with an affirmative nod.
Brannigan continued, We are concerned about the horrible massacre in the Swati village. I took my men there and we saw the dead people. Do you have any idea who might have done this thing?
I know exactly who committed the atrocity, Awalmir replied in a cold voice. It was those demons from the Mahsud tribe. Also I would think the Kharotis, Bhittanis, and Ghilzais were there too. They did it with the Tajik bandits. And we think Russians also.
Brannigan's eyebrows raised. Could it be that Puglisi was right in his assumption that the former Soviet Union was involved? Who are these Russians?
Well, Awalmir said hesitantly, perhaps they were all Tajik bandits or even soldiers from their army. At any rate, whoever they are, we cannot know for sure. It is very difficult for us to get across the international border without having trouble with the authorities.
What do you know about the bandits in this area who may be Russians? Brannigan asked.
Nothing for certain, just suspicions, Awalmir replied. If there are any, someday we will catch them, but I fear it will be only a few at a time. He abruptly changed the subject. Are you going to destroy the next poppy crops?
Brannigan shook his head. No. My orders are to leave the harvest alone. Then he added, Unless the Taliban becomes involved.
Awalmir shrugged. We are not friends of the Taliban.
Shamroz leaned forward. Is this disregard of our harvests permanent?
I don't know, Brannigan answered truthfully.
What are you going to do about the ones who murdered the Swatis? Awalmir asked.
I am waiting for orders from my superiors, Brannigan said. But I know for sure we will be told to hunt them down and capture them for punishment.
What will you do with those that do not surrender? the Yousafzai khan asked.
We will kill them.
Russians and Pashtuns too?
All of them, Brannigan stated.
Even if some are Russians?
We will kill all of them, Brannigan repeated.
In that case, you are an enemy of my enemy, Awalmir said. I will help you in these coming battles. He looked at Chinar. I think the Janoons will help too.
Quajeer has already said he will join the fight, Chinar said.
Awalmir turned his attention back to Brannigan. When you have your orders you tell Quajeer and me. Then we will meet and decide what must be done. He stood up to signal he had no more to say.
At that point the meeting broke up and Chinar handled the protocol of parting, then the Americans went to their horses. Brannigan swung up into the saddle, glancing at Cruiser. The first thing I'm gonna do is contact the SFOB and tell Carey about those goddamn Russians.
As that old American saying goes, Cruiser said with a wry grin, 'the shit is about to hit the fan.'
Chapter 10
USS COMBS
SFOB
27 OCTOBER
BRIGADIER General Gregory Leroux, United States Army, was the angriest man in all of America's armed forces. He was a highly decorated Special Forces-, ranger-, parachutist-qualified graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York; holder of the combat infantryman's badge; an experienced combat leader of units from platoons to entire combined-arms brigades; and had been stuck aboard a United States Navy guided-missile destroyer where he was forced to direct special operations while confined within steel bulkheads in a clandestine headquarters belowdecks. The general swore if he ever found out who came up with the idea of establishing an undercover SFOB aboard a ship, he would wring the son of a bitch's neck.
It didn't matter to the general that this small headquarters was unique since, unlike other such directional centers, his responsibilities of command and control were for very highlevel, special operations far out of the norm. These missions called for an intense focus of effort and concentration with little outside interference. And that was the main reason for the isolation of a floating, movable operational base aboard a warship far from other administrative and logistical sites.
But what really bugged the old soldier was his constant exposure to naval terminology such as somebody replying aye, sir to his orders, having to call a floor a deck, a wall a bulkhead, a latrine a head, refer to left as port, right as starboard, front as fore, back as aft, and dozens of other terms. After being in the assignment for a month, he had posted a sign on the door leading to the compartments he used as offices:
WARNING! DO NOT USE SAILOR TALK PAST THIS POINT
The crew aboard the Combs returned the general's irritation in spades.
.
1515 HOURS
COMMANDER Tom Carey and Lieu
tenant Commander Ernest Berringer, naval operations and intelligence officers respectively, sat in chairs across the desk from General Leroux. Over to the side, occupying another piece of metal furniture, was a man who had just been introduced to them by Leroux. The stranger wore a battle dress uniform that bore no insignia of rank or military unit. This individual also sported a 9-millimeter Beretta automatic in a shoulder holster.
This was Spencer Caldwell, a CIA case worker stationed in Khorugh, Tajikistan, in a deep undercover assignment. He was about as happy as Leroux in regards to his present location. The unexpected summons that had brought him to his present physical locality was more than inconvenient; it was downright dangerous. He was one of those unknown entities in a shadow world of intrigue, adventure, danger, and dirty tricks that left the inept and/or unlucky extremely dead when misadventures occurred.
Now he and the two navy officers sat silently while Leroux perused a file of radio messages and INTSUMs from higher headquarters. Finally, the general took his glasses off and laid them down on his desk. He turned his eyes on Caldwell. What we need to know from you is if there are any fucking Russians up in those Kangal Mountains?
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