Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan

by Eric Meyer

  * * *

  Blum slowed the GAZ and heard the engine coughing and misfiring, as he eased off the pedal.

  Even though it was a piece of junk, he'd come to like its quirks and insisted they were part of the jeep's character. He'd never admit to another soul that the Russian made GAZ was anything less than perfect. It was pride, a kind of nod to the land of his ancestors. Even so, it was no wonder the Soviets never got anywhere in this godforsaken country. Nor in their own country, come to that.

  Would I ever travel to the land of my father? No way. Afghanistan is a shithole, true, but why swap one shithole for another?

  His neighbors, the Duranis, were still trying to fix that old museum piece of a tractor. He knew they’d have done better to sell it for scrap and buy a couple of bullocks to pull their plow. A pity, they were good, hardworking folk, and despite their extreme poverty, he’d eaten many meals under their roof. He stopped next to the silent tractor.

  “Hi, Ghulam. Hello, Ahmed. I see that heap of bolts is giving you trouble. Anything I can do to help. I could take you in tow if you want.”

  The answer was what he'd expected. Old man Durani was proud, an Afghan of the old school.

  “We can manage, my son and me. Nevertheless, thank you, Greg. You must call around for dinner tonight, you and your wife Faria.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I have a job to do, and I’ll be away for several nights. I’ll call and see you when I get back. If the engine still won't start, maybe you’ll take me up on that tow.”

  Durani smiled. “Maybe you’ll take me up on that dinner.”

  Both men smiled, and he gave them a friendly wave as he drove away. He liked the family, as did his wife Faria. A meal in their house was always entertaining, particularly talking with the kid, Ahmed. He was sharp and clever, and read books constantly so he’d know what was going on in the world. Not a boy you could fool easily. Yet he was never boastful about his learning, quite the opposite.

  As he drove away, he thought about the coming job. His father had trained him to be quick and expert in all aspects of fighting. Fists, boots, knives, guns, you name it, and he knew how to use it. He’d need his expertise on this job. The son of a drug warlord who’d raped and murdered the daughter of a local judge. The judge was weary of the corrupt Afghan cops, and he knew the perpetrator would never see the inside of a courtroom. The warlord was rich and powerful, and he’d either bribe or murder any witnesses who came forward.

  The judge knew Greg Blum from when he'd appeared in his court, falsely accused of theft. The accuser was a dopehead, trying to persuade the judge to make him pay restitution so he could feed his habit. The judge took less than five minutes to dismiss the case. However, while giving evidence, the junkie let slip Greg's ‘other’ activities. He denied it all, naturally. Although it was too late, the judge stored it away in his keen brain. He contacted Greg to deal with the matter of his daughter’s murderer.

  Greg Blum wasn't his first choice. Another expat lived in the nearby city of Jalalabad, another fixer, a man named Rafe Stoner. A former Navy SEAL, Stoner left the service and settled in Afghanistan. People described him as someone who'd lost his way and couldn't go home. He was a man who people said had 'gone native.' A man who saw something in the country; maybe it was the wide-open spaces, or the thrill of living on a knife-edge. Perhaps Stoner was one of those men who couldn't hang up his guns; there were plenty like him in Afghanistan. A born adventurer, in a country where there was never any shortage of adventure.

  Like Greg, he hired out his services to those who needed his expertise. Unlike Greg, who settled local disputes for people he knew, Stoner had a reputation as a gunslinger. His reputation was also as a man who guaranteed a result, no matter who the target. He was very expensive, available to the highest bidder, a bounty hunter and a killer, so they said. No one ever knew for sure the extent of his activities. Greg knew him from years back, when their interests coincided and he helped him track down a wanted killer. For a short time, they became friends. Until both men dated the same girl. In the end, the beautiful and gamine Faria chose and married Blum, much to Stoner's bitter anger. They never spoke again.

  The judge found dealing with Stoner too difficult and expensive. He made a deal with Greg, and money had changed hands. Half in advance, half when he'd completed the job. They shook, and he began to seek out the target. He found him the day before, and today, he’d head into bandit country and either bring him back or kill him. Justice could be brutally direct in Afghanistan. With luck, he’d finish the job and be home by the evening.

  He returned to the small house he shared with his pretty wife Faria. She was waiting outside to greet him, her pretty Afghan face creased with a worried frown. His dog, Archer, was sitting beside her. He was large even for a German Shepherd, with a glossy black coat highlighted by a golden blaze beneath each ear, and golden socks. As he switched off the GAZ and ran up to her, the dog's tail wagged and he barked for joy. The German Shepherd turned up at Greg's door one day, looking for scraps. He'd given him a meal, and the dog never left. He liked the thought of Archer watching over his wife while he was away, and besides, he'd grown very fond of him.

  He discovered the dog's name by chance when a passing American patrol recognized him as a military dog and stopped outside the house. They were wary, assuming he'd stolen the animal, and cocked their weapons before they started to ask questions.

  "Where'd you get the German Shepherd, buddy?"

  He'd explained it was a stray. They used a portable scanner to read his chip, and called it in. When the reply came through, they relaxed. The owner, a Marine Master Sergeant, had gone home and the dog had strayed, so there was no one to claim him. They told him his name was Archer.

  "Why Archer?" he asked the officer.

  The man smiled. "Yeah, I wondered that, too, so I asked them the same question. They said if you gave him a scent, he'd go straight to the target, just like an arrow or a guided missile. Doesn't matter how far the distance, fifty meters or fifty kilometers. That dog always gets his man. You're a lucky guy. For some reason, he chose you for his new owner. I can see he's happy, so I guess there's no way he'll go with anyone else."

  He chose me? Why?

  Archer had stayed. He patted the dog’s head and kissed his wife. Her face was somber. “What is it, Faria? What’s the problem? You don't look happy."

  As he spoke, he embraced her. She was still young, in her mid-twenties, dark haired, with coffee colored skin, slim and pretty. As beautiful as the day they’d married in the local mosque, four years before. She'd refused to wear the burqa, despite pressure from the Imams. Instead, she wore a flimsy scarf over her hair, just enough to satisfy the lunatic religious fringe. They were still childless, a fact that caused her endless concern. Afghan mothers raised their daughters to regard childbearing as their most important function, after absolute obedience to their husband.

  “It’s the Sheikh. He came round again. I think he suspects.”

  Greg felt his anger grow, and the dog growled, sensing his emotion. “Are you sure? We haven’t given him any reason to suspect anything.”

  “He came this morning and asked questions. Why I haven’t born any children, and why we haven’t been to the mosque? I told him we’d been busy with the farm, and we're concerned to put by enough food and fuel to last the winter. I don’t think he believed me, and he said we should visit the mosque."

  "Was that all?"

  "No. He asked me about the purpose of our visits to Jalalabad.”

  Greg looked at the huge pile of logs ready to warm the house through the cold months. He'd bought them from a merchant. There was enough to warm three houses, probably. They walked inside, and there were sacks of grain leaning against the wall, piled high to the rafters. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the polished wood furniture was an obvious sign they possessed more money than the average small farmer did, enough to provoke envy.

  Fuck him.

  Their pos
sessions were not Sheikh Daud’s business. Neither were their stores of food and fuel. Their visits to Jalalabad were something else, something he could make his business if he found out the truth. Unbeknown to anyone, he and Faria made a decision shortly after their marriage, a decision that would put them in mortal danger for as long as they lived in Afghanistan. Sickened by the casual, everyday cruelties they encountered, cruelties inflicted by Muslims, husband and wife decided enough was enough. The religion of Islam was the root cause of the worst of the brutality, particularly against women. One day, they watched yet another woman beaten almost to death for talking back to her husband. On that day, they quietly ceased to regard themselves as Muslims.

  Even more serious, and much more dangerous, Greg felt the need to return to the religion of his father. Aleksey Blum was a Christian when he arrived in Afghanistan, a lieutenant in command of a Spetsnaz squad. As a convert, he brought Greg up as a Muslim, and he’d stayed a Muslim. His wife, Faria, was a Muslim, until they had enough of the medieval barbarity. Their next step was the most dangerous.

  His wife agreed with him it was time to pledge allegiance to a more forgiving God. They traveled to Kabul and entered the diplomatic enclave. It was the site of the only legally recognized Christian church in Afghanistan. In a joyous ceremony, the priest baptized them into their new faith. Twice a year, for the major religious festivals of Christmas and Easter, they journeyed in secret to Kabul to celebrate Mass. On other occasions, they traveled to Jalalabad, where an illegal Christian church existed in a room over a storefront. It was anonymous, the windows nailed shut, and the glass painted black to prevent prying eyes from seeing inside. They had no illusions about the terrible fate that awaited them if Sheikh Daud discovered the truth. Nonetheless, they had managed to keep their secret, until now.

  "What if he finds out?"

  He pondered that thought for a moment. If Sheikh Daud ever confirmed the truth about their apostasy, and their subsequent conversion to Christianity, his response would be immediate. He'd call for a death sentence on both of them, and Afghan law would allow him to execute them. He held her in his hands and looked into her eyes. She'd tilted her head back to stared back at him, for she was six inches shorter than he was. He could see her dark, moist eyes filled with trust. A trust he wouldn't break.

  "I don't believe he will find out. It's highly unlikely anyone in the Christian community would open their mouth. It would mean certain death for them as well as us."

  She wasn't satisfied. "But, what if it did happen?"

  She’s right. It could happen.

  He made up his mind; there was only one place to go. One man he could trust, the American, Rafe Stoner. Even though they disliked each other, after the falling out over Faria. He wondered if he'd agree to help in the event Sheikh Daud unleashed his hounds of hell on him and Faria.

  Yes, for her sake, he probably would. At least, I hope so.

  Whether he'd be able to stem the tide of religious fanaticism was another matter. His reputation with a gun was fearsome, but he was only one man. The only way to find out was to go and talk to him. He was under no illusions about the kind of trouble they'd face if Daud uncovered the truth. Armed Islamist fanatics would come to the farm and drag them away to the execution ground. Their only defense would be to meet guns with guns, violence with violence. They'd need Stoner. Greg was handy with a gun and used his skills to keep him and Faria in some comfort. Rafe Stoner was something different; an elemental force, a stone killer, so they said.

  The American was still unmarried and ran a small business trading used and surplus machinery. It almost certainly ran at a loss, but it was enough to persuade the authorities he was a legitimate businessman. He lived over a brothel, a whorehouse, and some said he was the part owner. There was little doubt he earned more from the part share in a whorehouse than he did selling rusty old machinery and spare parts.

  It was his other business that Greg was convinced earned him the most money. The rumors were he took on contracts for powerful men in Kabul. Stoner would bring in high profile runaway felons. Kill them if required. The assassination of certain opium barons was reputed to pay his biggest salary check. His activities enabled Kabul to profess to be working to defeat the drug problem. As a result, they could claim increasing sums of money from the West to finance their supposed war on drugs.

  The American conducted his business affairs behind a shadowy curtain of legend and rumor. On occasion, he'd bring back a high profile wanted man to face justice, when the politicians wanted to make a point. The murder of a policeman or a public official was serious enough to require public punishment. It was always the death sentence. Afghanistan was like the Old West, in terms of the justice system, except the Old West never suffered the extent of violence, bigotry, and brutality that blighted the country.

  He realized she was waiting for his reply. "I'll call Stoner."

  He felt her shudder beneath his hands. "Do you think he could help us?"

  He thought about Stoner. He'd been a Navy SEAL during the war between the NATO alliance and the Taliban. Even in an elite outfit like the SEALS, his reputation was legendary. Outwardly a scrawny man, a little over five feet nine inches tall, he looked anything but special, other than his clothes. He always wore black pants, shirts, boots, coats, and even an old black fatigue cap.

  Black, the color of the Angel of Death, or is it the Grim Reaper? Does it make any difference?

  Years ago when they were out drinking with Faria, he'd seen him react to a threat with incredible speed. An Afghan had tried to massage her breasts, and inside of a couple of seconds, he was nursing two broken arms. It would be a long time before he abused a girl like that again. Yet the man came after him the following day seeking revenge, bringing along his brother armed with an AK-47 and a gut full of hate. They found the bodies several days later, shot full of holes, with much of the flesh picked clean by predators. If anyone thought to question Stoner, they wisely kept it to themselves.

  Stoner was much in demand in a country where the ability to kill a man, or several men, and get away undetected was much admired. He was still single, so probably he'd never gotten over Faria. Greg frowned; the old rivalry still smarted, even though he'd won.

  How will the man who lost feel about it? I'd prefer to stay away from the American, but I have no choice.

  "I'll go talk to him tomorrow. Yes, I think he could help us, but I'm not sure if he'll want to. I'll do my best."

  He thought again about the mysterious Rafe Stoner. He'd heard people describe him as a likeable rogue. He wasn't too sure about that description. He was a rogue, no question. Problem was, he didn't like the man, not one bit. Besides, he knew the feeling was mutual.