Yes, Caldwell replied. They are former convicts of a Soviet Army prison that had been established in that country during the Reds' glory days. He was a man obviously in excellent physical condition, mentally alert and harboring a streak of meanness just under the surface. Most of them were either lifers or condemned to executions that were never carried out.
Why the hell not? Leroux asked. Were the sentences commuted?
It was a typical glitch of the gigantic Communist bureaucracy, Caldwell explained. The paperwork to send them to the place was never followed up with orders to shoot the rotten bastards. So when the Soviet Union came apart at the seams, nobody knew what to do with them. Requests to transport them back to Russia by the new Tajik government fell through the cracks or went unanswered.
Leroux displayed his lopsided grin. So what happened? One day somebody forgot to lock the front gate and the sons of bitches just walked out?
Something like that, Caldwell said. The prison population was run as a gang during their incarceration and continued in that manner after their release. They couldn't return to Russia without proper passports or ID, so they formed into a gangster band and raided across the border into Afghanistan. As ex-soldiers they're pretty formidable, and now have a town all their own up in the Kangal Mountains.
Carey nodded. That was what Brannigan needed to know. A Pashtun village was wiped out a while back, and there was some confusion as to whether some of the raiders were Russians or Tajiks.
Actually, Caldwell said, the ex-convicts subdued the local bandits. Now they claim the Kangal Mountains and Pranistay Steppes as their turf.
Berringer, ever the intelligence officer, asked, Are the Russians independent?
Caldwell shook his head. They have contacts with the local crime syndicate in the city of Khorugh. I'm pretty sure they receive instructions from the big boss whose name is Akloschenko. I've yet to determine if that's a permanent arrangement or just temporary for special jobs.
Do you have a mole somewhere in that mess? Berringer asked.
No, Caldwell replied. I've been working hard on that for the past two years. So far all I've been able to develop is underworld informers. And they're not always reliable.
Tell me something, Leroux said. Have you been turning in INTREPs on this situation to your bosses in the CIA?
Of course I have, Caldwell said, irritated by the insinuation that he had been sloppy in his work.
Then why the fuck wasn't it shared? Leroux snapped.
How the fuck should I know why the fuck it wasn't shared? Caldwell shot back. Goddamn it! I'm over there in that fucking place with no backup, trying to organize a net, and get pulled out to come over to this shit-eating ship to answer a bunch of stupid questions while I got more important things to do.
Leroux, who was never upset by a busy man having good reason to lose his temper, calmly asked, If we saw that you got a Russian speaker, could you get him inserted into that bandit gang?
He'd have to be a native, Caldwell answered. And be able to fit in perfectly. One little slip and he'd be dead meat.
Shit! Leroux cursed.
Wait a minute! Carey exclaimed, suddenly having an idea. I know the perfect guy.
.
28 OCTOBER
0845 HOURS
THE LSPO used the standard arm-and-hand signals as he brought the Super Stallion chopper in for a landing on the Combs' helicopter pad. The aircraft settled down only long enough for a lone figure to leap off to the deck before the pilot revved back up into the sky.
Petty Officer Second Class Andy Malachenko of Branni-gan's Brigands, wearing a rucksack on his back, an M16 rifle over his shoulder, and carrying a seabag, walked over to the superstructure where Commander Tom Carey and Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer waited for him. The two officers greeted the SEAL, then led him into the interior of the ship for a quick trip belowdecks where they went directly to General Leroux's bailiwick.
When they reached the general's office, Malachenko left his gear outside the door but kept his weapon over his shoulder as he followed his escorts into the interior. Besides Leroux, the CIA operative Spencer Caldwell was seated at one side of the compartment. The general waved away the navy personnel's salutes. No time for bullshit protocol. Who's this guy?
The one I told you about, sir, Carey said. He's the man we need for that special assignment.
He looks alright, Leroux said. He spoke directly to Malachenko. This guy beside me has some questions for you.
Yes, sir, Malachenko replied suspiciously.
Caldwell asked, Vi gavarit pa'Ruski?
Malachenko replied in Russian, saying, Yes. I speak Russian.
You are obviously quite fluent in the language, Caldwell remarked. No trace of an American accent.
I was born in Russia, sir, Malachenko said, sticking to the language. I grew up speaking Russian before I learned English in the States.
What brought you to America, Malachenko? Caldwell inquired.
My parents immigrated in 1994 when I was ten, he answered. We lived in Brighton Beach, New York. That's where I learned English.
Did you continue to speak Russian in your home?
Yes, sir. As a matter of fact the whole neighborhood spoke it. Most of the stores had Russian language signs. But us kids picked up English real quick in school, and since we learned early in life, none of us have Russian accents. It's easy when you're young.
Caldwell glanced at Leroux, going back to English. He'll have to be brought up to date on the latest slang. And, of course, he'll need a cover story.
Malachenko was slightly alarmed. What the hell is going on?
Leroux leaned back in his chair. Tell me something, Malachenko. We need a Russian-speaking volunteer to go on a dangerous mission that may last a few months. You will also be exposed to the constant danger of being compromised. If that happened, you would be shot immediately if not sooner if you're lucky. In the event your luck had run out, they would make the execution a three- or four-day celebration. What do you say?
Sure, sir. What do you want me to do?
We need you to infiltrate a Russian criminal gang up there in the Kangal Mountains that border the current OA where your detachment is stationed.
Malachenko chuckled. How about that!
Leroux gave the SEAL a close study. I believe you're one of Brannigan's bunch. Is that so?
I sure am, sir.
The general laughed aloud. Well, there's no doubt you're a damn good man. I'll let Caldwell explain the mission to you.
It isn't real complicated, Caldwell said. And I'll be your asset since I'm assigned to the area. You will enter Tajikistan in the guise of a guy on the run from the Russian law. Documents will be made available to back up your operational role. Your first port of call will be the city of Khorugh. That's where you'll be able to 'run into' some of the local Mafia types. You give them your cover story and they'll see that you link up with the gangsters living in the mountains. From that point on, you get all the intel possible on the group to include their purposes, intentions for the immediate future, and methods of operation. Then exfiltrate back to your guys on the Pranistay Steppes. Depending on what you're able to learn, action will be taken to eliminate that threat.
We think they were the ones who massacred a whole village of people, sir, Malachenko said. It was enough to make you sick.
Then you realize fully who you're dealing with, Caldwell said.
There was some Pashtuns with them, Malachenko added. You can't trust nobody out there.
Well, that goes to show how hairy your mission is gonna be, Leroux remarked dryly.
Malachenko showed a grin of resignation. Hell! If I ever have an easy mission, I'll prob'ly drop dead from shock and surprise.
.
PRANISTAY STEPPES
1045 HOURS
ENSIGN Orlando Taylor and his entire Second Assault Section held their horses to a walk across the open country in a column formation. Chinar, the young interpreter, rode beside him, while Do
ug MacTavish, the SAW gunner, was close behind. Dave Leibowitz was up forward on point, and his teammate Bruno Puglisi was the Tail-End-Charlie, charged with security at the rear. Delta Fire Team furnished two flankers Guy Devereaux on the left and Chad Murchison on the right as the section continued on their patrol mission of observance and exploration in that area of the OA.
The terrain over which they traveled was mostly flat, but the evenness was broken here and there with slight dips and small streams that had to be crossed. The weather was chilly and everyone noticed that the snow on the highest peaks of the Kangal Mountains had increased over the previous few days. The SEALs wore field jackets, but had not buttoned the hoods on just yet, nor were any gloves in evidence among the riders. Chad Murchison, born and raised in Massachusetts, found the lower temperature invigorating. He was hoping that if it snowed on the steppes perhaps they could get some cross-country skiing in. As he continued the slow ride on the flank, Chad kept his eyes on the horizon from the right front all the way around to the right rear. So far there was nothing but an empty horizon beneath a bleak prewinter sky.
Then he sighted a line of horsemen.
Brigand Two, he said, raising Taylor on the LASH. There's a half dozen riders at four o'clock. He put his binoculars to his eyes and studied the strangers for a moment. They're Pashtuns.
Roger, Taylor said, acknowledging the information. All hands! Right flank, march!
The section wheeled their horses directly to the right, forming into a skirmish line. Chad was now in the direct front, nearest the strangers. He was quickly joined by Chinar, and they led the way toward the unknown riders.
The Pashtuns now sighted them, and all removed their AK-47 rifles from their shoulders. Chinar glanced at Chad. We must hold up our empty hands and show that we have no unfriendly intentions. Taylor ordered everyone to halt, while the duo continued drawing closer.
Munzh yu melgerane we are friends! Chinar shouted.
Suddenly a pair of shots came from the Pashtuns, splitting the air above Chad and Chinar's heads. Chad immediately pulled his M16 from the saddle scabbard and shot back. Taylor ordered the rest of the section into a gallop, yelling over the LASH. Return fire!
It was impossible to aim properly at a full gallop, and all the rounds flew harmlessly through the air. The Pashtuns responded by turning away, pounding across the steppes with the SEALs in pursuit. The chase went on for almost a quarter of an hour before the natives charged into a gully. At that point they halted, dismounted, and took up positions with their assault rifle muzzles pointed at the Americans.
Cease fire! Taylor said after noticing the Pashtuns were not shooting at them. Halt!
After stopping, the SEALs swung from their saddles, turning the reins over to a previously appointed horse handler team made up of Pech Pecheur, Doug MacTavish, and Arnie Bernardi. The remainder of the SEALs moved forward in a skirmish line, ready to respond to any hostile action taken by the Pashtuns. After a couple of moments a shout could be heard, and Chinar spoke into his LASH to Taylor. They are calling for us to identify ourselves.
Tell 'em who we are, Taylor instructed.
Munzh yu Amrikayi payra! Chinar yelled, identifying the SEALs as an American patrol. This was followed by a couple of exchanges between the Pashtuns and the interpreter. Chinar informed Taylor they would be coming out and not to shoot.
Within ten minutes both groups were together, and the meeting resulted in Chinar explaining that the Pashtuns thought the SEALs were Tajik bandits or Taliban. This was followed by apologies all around, and the ensign gave the natives permission to continue across the steppes after they explained they were a hunting party.
When the Pashtuns rode off, Taylor expressed relief that none had been killed. This would have been catastrophic and set our efforts here back, he said.
I don't know, Chinar said. Those men are from the Bhittani tribe and they are bitter enemies of my clan. I think they became friendly when they saw we outnumbered them. If not, we would have ended up like the Swatis who were massacred.
Taylor frowned. Do you think those guys had anything to do with that?
If not, they certainly knew about it before it happened, Chinar said.
The two fire team leaders, Gutsy Olson and Connie Concord, looked at each other. Gutsy slung his M16 over his shoulder, saying, I got a feeling that the situation out here is gonna start deteriorating real fast real soon.
Connie shrugged. Tell me something I don't already know.
Chapter 11
SHELOR FIELD
30 OCTOBER
SPENCER Caldwell, the CIA operative working a highly dangerous solo assignment in Tajikistan, had become something of an expert on the Russian Mafia and its fellow travelers. The first thing he learned was that they were not an independent crime organization that worked alone, but were made up of numerous syndicates with their own agendas and goals. When he was given the task of preparing SEAL petty officer Andrei Malachenko to infiltrate the gangs in Tajikistan, he began the orientation by explaining they were multilayered loose groups. The one the SEAL would concentrate on was run by a conniving ex-Soviet bureaucrat named Aleksander Akloschenko who was more or less sponsoring a group of ex-military convicts in a project to wrest control of the opium poppy harvest from Awalmir Khan, the principal warlord on the Pranistay Steppes. And since it was the convicts Brannigan's Brigands had to deal with, the best way for Andy to reach them would be through an initial contact with Akloschenko's organization.
The exchange of ideas and suggestions between Andy and Caldwell was a valuable learning experience for both men. They agreed that Andy should avoid making any contact with Caldwell, who would be returning to Khorugh before Andy was inserted into the mission. The CIA operative, who had built up his own cover as a freelance archaeologist, had worked himself into a position where he was able to wander around the area without arousing suspicion. Caldwell coldly explained that if Andy suddenly showed up unexpectedly on his doorstep, the operative would send him away or worse.
.
0100 HOURS
PETTY Officer Second Class Andy Malachenko wore a jump helmet as well as a parka and coveralls over civilian clothing of a heavy shirt, wool trousers, and hiking boots. Additionally he packed a Tokarev automatic pistol with shoulder holster for both protection and appearance. Now, in the dim overhead lights of the SEALs' hangar, he struggled into the RAPS for the HALO insertion he was to make into Tajikistan in a few short hours.
A Russian fur cap was stuffed into the jacket pocket for use after his parachute entry into the mission. And, rather than a rucksack, he was jumping with a relatively small sport backpack in which he carried extra clothing, magazines and ammunition for the pistol, and 300,000 rubles in cash that amounted to about $10,000 American. An entrenching tool to bury the helmet, coveralls, and RAPS was to be attached to the backpack, then discarded by tossing it somewhere into the brush after use.
The last item of his mission inventory was a forged passport made out in the name of Jan Kowalski as a preliminary cover. This was an obvious forgery meant to be discovered, at which time he would produce another ID document that indicated he had been born Mikhail Molotosky in Moscow, where he was involved in various criminal activities.
The DZ he would be using was several kilometers outside Khorugh. After landing and disposing of his equipment, he was to walk to the city and make his way into a Russian neighborhood called Krasgorod by the locals. Once there, he would find a bar called the Domashni Tavern that was a hangout for the local Russian Mafia, where he was to make inquiries about a fellow named Ivan Karlovich Gelshenov. Spencer Caldwell was aware that Gelshenov was found murdered in that same neighborhood six months earlier, so Andy's claim of knowing him could not be disproved.
Andy had been given the two cover stories by Caldwell to present when he first made contact with the Russian gangsters. The first was purposefully designed to be extremely weak and easy to see through. The SEAL was to say that he had come to Tajikistan in o
rder to find work as an automobile mechanic. That would make little sense to anyone familiar with the high unemployment rate in the country. The criminals would be immediately suspicious and certain to suspect him of some underhanded dealing. However, Andy was to stick to the story stubbornly, while insisting on seeing Gelshenov.
At that point he would be taken to see his friend. However, there was no doubt that the gangsters would actually escort him to a special place for a more thorough examination. This, of course, would include a vigorous punching around. The SEAL was to take all he could stand, being careful not to sustain any serious injuries, then admit that he was fleeing from the Moscow police who wanted to question him regarding extortion and protection shakedowns of local kiosks. He was to also reveal that he had spent three years in the Army, serving in a motorized infantry regiment stationed near Saint Petersburg.
.
SOUTHWEST TAJIKISTAN
0445 HOURS
THE hum of the aircraft's engine had faded away in the dark sky as Andy's feet hit the ground with a slight crackling sound. The mountain meadow chosen as his DZ was covered with a thin sheet of ice, and the SEAL appreciated the warmth provided by the thick down parka and the heavy sweater beneath it. He dumped the harness after loosening the chest strap and the waistband, standing still for a moment in the surreal windless environment. This area was desolation pure and simple, making Andy suddenly feel isolated and lonely. Being on his own is tough for a man who normally depends on teamwork with trusted buddies to get assigned missions done. It was obvious to the SEAL that he would have to adapt to a new mind-set if he was going to succeed on this latest operation.
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