“No need, Jildiz. My country has been open about such matters with you. Everything you have said is true. We do have such concerns. China has become aggressive economically, technologically, and even militarily.” Keeping track of stresses between the U.S. Army and Central Asian countries was part of her job. As such she was privy to information she could not discuss with people shouldering less than one star on the uniform and the right security clearance. She knew of China’s action to down a U.S. military satellite. It went bad for China and very nearly went bad for the United States.
She sipped her drink to buy a moment of thought. “I believe your country needs us here to keep a balance in the region. There are new stresses between the Russians and the Chinese. Having an American air base between them can be useful.”
“Perhaps, but my country’s biggest need is money.” The words seemed to sadden her. “I dislike being so crass. We are not a greedy people. Kyrgyz and Uzbeks are a proud people used to making their own way through difficult times. Our history in the region dates 2,200 years, longer than Christianity. This is a difficult land. We have survived much but the world has changed. To remain a free republic we need outside help and we’re getting that from Russia and China. Russia is a trade partner and accounts for 44 percent of our trade; China is 15 percent of our trade. That means 60 percent of our trade involves just two countries. You may not like them, but they have helped us.”
The waiter brought the noodle and meat dish to the table but Amelia’s appetite was gone—even if the meat was beef and not horse.
After the waiter left, Amelia resumed the conversation. “Jildiz, are you saying your father’s government is wanting more than the $60 million we pay each year in rent for use of the airport at Manas?”
She looked sad. Amelia met with Jildiz several times after the topic of the air base closure first came up. Most of those were formal discussions, a couple were casual. Amelia had begun thinking of Jildiz as a friend, although she doubted they’d ever go shopping together.
It took a moment for Jildiz to answer. “I spoke with our president—my father—again this morning. He tells me the cabinet and the prime minister are pushing to accept the offer from the Chinese government. The $60 million your country pays is very much appreciated, but what is that compared to the billions the Chinese are offering?”
Amelia hated calling the annual payment “rent.” The money was demanded and the United States came very close to being evicted from the facility. Only money and a change to the name of the facility made it possible to stay the next few years.
Jildiz dished out the noodles and meat concoction. Amelia watched. This was going the wrong way. Kyrgyzstan was in trouble, more this last year than ever before. For years they suffered under a corrupt government until a rebellion brought an end to the administration. Riots in April of 2010 demonstrated how bad things had become. An interim government was able to settle the situation but most observers considered the country a powder keg ready to explode into civil war. Meklis Oskonbaeva, a former soccer player turned attorney turned politician, became the first president after the interim government. He was popular from his exploits on the soccer field decades before and now in his manner of governing. Even so, winning 76 percent of the vote didn’t guarantee peace in the government or in the land. He was a man leading his followers through a flood of gasoline with a lit match in his hand.
“Jildiz, surely you and your father know the air base is a sign of American and Kyrgyzstan cooperation and our determination to end terrorism in the world. By allowing us a base to move troops into and out of Afghanistan, countless lives have been saved. Your government—your people—are heroes. Sending us packing will say to the world you’ve given up on your commitment.”
Jildiz froze for a second then raised one finger. “Careful, Ms. Lennon. I will not tolerate attempts to intimidate me or play with my emotions. Ending our agreement on Manas says no such thing. Your country is winding down the war more and more every day. Soon, you’ll be gone. You will have no need for the base except to irritate the Russians and the Chinese.”
Amelia felt her face warm. She made a tactical mistake. “I worded that poorly, Jildiz. The world owes your country a debt of gratitude.”
“Gratitude won’t fix our economy or raise our people out of poverty.” She studied her food. Apparently she, too, had lost her appetite. “My father will be meeting with his key leaders and the prime minister. Prime Minister Sariev Dootkasy has made it clear he wants you off our airport. He believes the American presence is a destabilizing force. My father has not committed to that action, but . . .”
“But he’s leaning that direction.”
Jildiz shook her head. “He feels the pressure but he plans to argue your case.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
“Don’t be misled, Amelia. It’s not all about the base. The distance between him and the prime minister has grown. Dootkasy is driving a wedge between my father and his government. Manas is a sharp wedge.”
“I appreciate you being honest with me about this.” She took a bite of the meal. Besh barmak was definitely better with beef than horse.
“I didn’t want you to be surprised. My father will push for an extension of the agreement but he may fail.” She sipped her beer. “And to be candid, I think he’s making a mistake.”
“I wish I could change your mind, Jildiz. I know the people at the U.S. Embassy have been working with our Department of Defense and with our president. While there is a chance we might get more money, it won’t come near to what the Chinese have offered.”
“The Chinese have also indicated an interest in buying our treasury notes. That money will go a long way in helping us build a more vital infrastructure, roads, and job creation. I know this is unwanted news, but you have had a base in our country since 2001. No one expected you would need it for so long.” She picked up her glass of beer and stared at it but never brought it to her mouth. “We are at a breaking point. Civil war is just around the corner. Our unemployment is crippling. Our military wanes for lack of funding.”
“But your father still thinks keeping us at the base is a good idea?”
“For the moment. If it means losing his power and influence, if it means giving up his position, I think he’ll change his mind.”
“But it hasn’t come to that, Jildiz.”
The lawyer put her glass down. “It’s closer than you seem willing to believe.” She sighed. “There is a bond between us, Amelia. Perhaps that is why your government has placed you in the lead for these negotiations. Bond or no bond, I must advise my father based on what is best for our country and for him. I am sorry, but you should prepare your people for a change.”
Jildiz rose. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite. I should go.” She pulled a few bills from her purse and laid them on the table. Amelia let the woman walk from the room before she rose and exited the restaurant. She was facing an impossible situation but the optimist in her led her to believe the status quo would remain.
Amelia left the eatery emptier than when she arrived.
CHAPTER 3
J. J. STOOD AT the edge of the tarmac as the C-17 Globemaster taxied to the far end of the small Manas International Airport. The rear ramp lowered and soldiers, many weighed down by weariness, descended, their kit bags slung over shoulders. Some were completing their third or fourth tours of duty. Most had home to look forward to. Two didn’t.
Placing his hands behind his back, J. J. rocked on his heels and waited. Most soldiers were eager to leave the transport behind. J. J. had flown on many types of aircraft, few were comfortable. Twice he flew on business jets and even once on TP-01, the Mexican equivalent of Air Force One. That spoiled him.
Soldiers streamed by and J. J. scanned every face, interested in their expressions. Some smiled. Others walked with heads down. In his world there were only
two types of soldiers: wounded and those about to be wounded. Many of those injuries were invisible, shielded behind scalp and skull. Some saw things they would never forget; some did things they would never share.
J. J. saluted a pair of officers as they walked by. The men he looked for should be easy to find. One was five foot eleven, a Japanese-American; the other was a Samoan and a mountain of a man. He waited another few moments before two men appeared at the top of the ramp and started their descent to the tarmac. Watching them, J. J. could only think “Mutt and Jeff.”
The two exchanged a laugh and the big man slapped the smaller on the back, forcing him to take an extra step. They moved like two men who knew and respected each other. They spied him and changed their course. J. J. held his ground, letting the men come to him. It went against his nature. He was outgoing, out-spoken, a kidder, and quick to make friends. But that was before he became “Boss.” Now he felt the weighty mantle of leadership. He might have to order the two men walking his way to take action certain to leave them dead. He had no problem hearing and obeying those orders, but giving them was something very different. He was also insecure that one of the men carried the same rank and more seniority. The Army “frocked” him, giving him a higher rank and authority, but somehow it didn’t seem the same.
“You must be our welcoming party,” the Samoan said.
J. J. grinned. “I’m afraid it’s just a party of one for now.” He held out his hand. “J. J. Bartley, team leader.”
The Samoan cocked his head an inch as if he hadn’t heard correctly, then took the offered hand. “Aliki Urale. A pleasure.”
J. J. turned to the Japanese-American. “Mike Nagano. Thanks for inviting us to the lodge.”
For a moment J. J. was stunned not to hear an Asian accent, then reminded himself again: the man was a third-generation American, born and reared in San Francisco. “You’ll have to thank Colonel Mac for that. He did the selecting, but judging by your jackets, he made good choices. How was the flight?”
“Dreamy, but the stewardess was really ugly,” Aliki said.
Nagano shook his head. “Dude, that was no stewardess, that was the flight mechanic.” He spoke loudly and only after Aliki turned his way.
“That explains the five o’clock shadow.”
“Okay, gentlemen, now you’re just grossing me out. Let’s get back into military country.” He motioned to a Humvee waiting a short distance away.
The driver pulled from the tarmac and slowly moved along the road by the staging area where the Air Force parked a few billion dollars of aircraft. Kyrgyzstan and Russian commercial aircraft were kept in a separate area.
A few minutes later they were at Manas Air Base. Officially, the site bore the name of international airport but that was for PR reasons. Everyone on base used the older title. The old-timers sometimes called it Ganci Air Base, a name meant to honor New York Fire Chief Peter J. Ganci who died on September 11, 2001. Unfortunately, the U.S. Air Force had an “instruction” on the books forbiding the naming of any out-of-country air base after an American citizen.
“We’ll be meeting in the admin building.” J. J. gave them the room number. “You guys need to hit the latrine or grab a bite?”
Nagano answered. “I could use a few minutes.”
“Very good. Let’s meet in thirty.”
“Will do,” Nagano said. Aliki didn’t respond.
The conference room was small, able to seat only ten people, fifteen if they really liked each other. A conference table that looked like it saw action in WWII dominated the middle of the room. Padded folding chairs circled the piece of furniture. J. J. found the team waiting for him when he stepped through the door. They were laughing when he entered.
“Hey, Boss,” Pete Rasor said. “I see you got our newbies.”
“They’re not newbies, Pete. They have as much field time as we do. . . . Hey, what do you mean you see I got the newbies.”
Pete looked at the table. “Um, nothing, Boss. Just, um, a figure of speech. Yeah, that’s it, a figure of speech.”
“You know you blush when you lie, don’t you.” J. J. stepped to the head of the table. “Come clean.” Everyone looked at Crispin Collins, the junior member of the team and the surveillance man. “Don’t tell me.”
“I’m sorry, Boss, but some jet jockey bet me I couldn’t follow a man without being noticed.” A small control with a tiny video screen rested on the table.
“He recorded it too,” Pete said.
“Hey, shut up. I’m in deep here.”
Pete shrugged. “I told you not to do it.”
Crispin’s face drained. “No you didn’t. You jumped on the bet.”
Pete shrugged. “I think you misunderstood me.”
“You said you’d back me up if I got caught.”
“There’s your problem. You tend to believe me when I say such things.”
“Spill it,” J. J. said. “That’s an order.”
“And I had such a promising career.” Crispin reached for the controller and switched it on. “Get the window, Pete.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the one who gave me up, the least you can do is open the window.”
Pete grumbled but did as asked as Crispin worked the controls. A few moments later a tiny helicopter zipped into the room and settled on the table. It was black, flat, and had four tiny fan-like propellers in the corners. Crispin used a nano-helicopter while on mission in eastern Siberia a few months before. That one he had dubbed Voyager. Being more technically inclined than creative, the surveillance man christened this device Voyager II, and it was one of his show-and-tell items during his demonstration.
J. J. rubbed his eyes. “Did you record?”
“Will I be in more trouble if I say yes?”
“Answer the question, Crispin, or you’ll be riding on the wing when we fly home.”
“Okay, Boss. Anything you say.” He paused long enough to gulp. “Yes.”
“Let’s see it.”
Crispin pointed to a flat-screen television mounted to the wall near the head of the table. “Give me a second and I can set it up so it shows on the big monitor. I mean, if that would be a good thing.”
“Can you get ESPN?” Jose asked.
“That would take more work but I could try—”
“Back to the subject, Crispin.” J. J. tried to sound firm but struggled to keep a grin from erupting on his face.
Several minutes passed as Crispin tried to get his controller to share its stored video. The team made the work more difficult with constant harassment. J. J. almost felt guilty for the man. Almost.
Just as he finished, Nagano and Aliki walked in. All eyes went to them then settled on Aliki. They were used to having a big man on the team. Former assistant team leader Rich “Shaq” Harbison made football linemen look puny. Aliki was no smaller and maybe a dozen pounds heavier.
“Have a seat, gentlemen. You’re just in time for a little entertainment.”
“Ooh, I love a good movie,” Aliki said and took a chair at the end of the table. “What, no popcorn?”
Nagano settled in near the open window. J. J. saw him eye the four-inch square device on the table. “Remote control toy?”
“You’ll see,” J. J. said. He directed his attention to Crispin. “I’m growing old here.”
“Yes, Boss. I mean, no Boss, you’re not getting older. What I mean is . . .”
Pete roared with laughter. The two became friends on the last mission. Both were computer junkies. J. J. tried to follow one of their conversations once but could only hear, “Geek, geek, geek,” and “Nerd, nerd, nerd.”
“Let me make introductions while our former team member tries to redeem himself.” J. J. made sure there was enough humor in his tone so Crispin wouldn’t faint.
“Former?” said Crispin. “I am so misunderstood.”
“Okay guys, listen up. Joining our team are Sergeant First Class Mike Nagano and Master Sergeant Aliki Urale. Both have extensive field experience and served on a number of spec ops missions in Afghanistan and Iraq and a few other places we won’t talk about here. Mike goes by ‘Weps’ in the field; Aliki’s nick is ‘Joker.’”
Crispin perked up. “Jack Nicholson or Heath Ledger.” He looked at Aliki.
“What?”
“I mean Nicholson was a great Joker but Heath Ledger was brilliant and he was so ugly in that movie . . . not that you’re ugly. I’m not saying that. I just mean . . .”
“Hey Crispin,” J. J. said, “at this point a smart man would shut up.”
Mike answered for Aliki. “He didn’t get the nick from the movie. He’s called Joker because he likes bad jokes.”
“Really?” Pete said. “Like what?”
“Don’t ask,” Mike began.
Aliki rose to the occasion: “A man walks into a bar. Thunk. Ouch.” He leaned back in the chair.
The team stared at him for a few minutes. Jose was the first to speak. “Yep, that’s a bad joke alright. Can we send him back, Boss?”
“We put up with Shaq’s musicals, we can tolerate a few punny jokes.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Mike said. “I’ve heard them all and haven’t laughed yet.”
“I think I’ll just keep going,” J. J. said. “You’ve met Crispin Collins. He’s our surveillance guy. We call him ‘Hawkeye,’ when we’re being nice.”
“We call him other things too,” Pete said.
“And the comment belongs to Pete “Junior” Rasor, communications. Last, and sometimes least, is Jose ‘Doc’ Medina. When he’s not patching us up in the field, he’s home with his wife trying to build his own basketball team.”
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