Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan

by Eric Meyer

  * * *

  They drove for three hours before finally reaching the first sign of civilization. A rusting metal sign hung on a tree branch announced a small bar that served coffee. It was no Starbucks. A ramshackle wooden shed at the side of the track, with a wisp of smoke spiraling out of the chimney, suggesting it would at least be warm. They both knew the stench would be something else. A telephone line was strung from sagging posts along the side of the track, which was interesting.

  "They have a gas pump," Greg pointed out, "We should take the opportunity to fill up."

  "Coffee first," Stoner insisted, "I feel like shit after that journey, and my head is still killing me."

  "You should scale back the booze."

  "Booze is what I need, although I doubt they'll have anything on offer in this turd pit."

  They were both right and wrong. The stench was as they'd expected, like the rear end of a dead goat. The man behind the bar passed him a chipped mug of strong, sweet coffee, and produced a bottle of brandy. Stoner nodded, and he poured a hefty slug into his mug. Greg shook his head. He may have turned his back on Islam, but he wanted to make sure he had a clear head for what lay ahead of them. He stood next to the log fire blazing in the hearth.

  The barman was fat, enormously fat. His multiple chins displayed a straggly beard growth. This was in contrast to the top of his head, which was as bald as a billiard ball. His face displayed so many layers of fat his eyes were like two chips of marble sunk into the gap below his forehead. His small mouth looked greedy, and his clothes were as expected. Either his business made little profit, or spending money on a new wardrobe was not his number one priority.

  "We are looking for directions," Stoner said to him.

  He didn't answer at first. Instead, he put the bottle away and snarled an order at a woman who was scrubbing the bar counter at the other end. She was only identifiable as a woman because of her blue burqa. She replied to him in Pashtu, at which he waddled toward her and slammed a hard blow on her covered head with his pudgy hand. Then he waddled back to them.

  "Directions?" His eyes had narrowed even more, if that was possible. The woman in the burqa threw them a glance, and the four men sitting in the bar, staring into the mugs of strong coffee, went silent. The atmosphere was tense.

  "The Torgan Valley. We are friends of Massoud, on our way to discuss business. How do we get there?"

  The barman sighed, and he held his hands wide, palms up. "Sadly, you are too late. Massoud left the Torgan Valley several weeks ago. Wherever you've come from, your journey is for nothing."

  The four men appeared to relax, and two of them smiled at each other as they sipped their coffee

  "You're not serious? How could he leave, he owns a score of plantations in the region? He couldn't just up and leave them unguarded."

  The barman shook his head. "They are not unguarded, but Massoud left the area, and some say he has taken premises in Loman, or maybe Ghazni. Whichever, he is no longer in the Torgan Valley."

  "Shit!" Greg exclaimed, "All for nothing."

  Stoner nodded. "It sure looks that way. We'll ask around and try to pinpoint his exact whereabouts." He walked over to the four men. "Any of you guys know where Massoud went to?"

  They stared back at him blankly, and he shouted to the barman to ask them in whichever dialect they spoke. He shouted a few words, and one of them replied.

  "He says he bought a place ten kilometers north-east of Loman. That's where you'll find him."

  "Thanks."

  He put a few coins on the bar and a five-dollar bill on the table in front of the man who'd spoken. He didn't acknowledge it and just stared into Stoner's eyes. His gaze was unfriendly. Not like a man to whom he'd just given a week's wages. Greg asked the barman for gas, and the man shouted an order at the woman in the blue burqa. She disappeared through a back door, and he told them to drive around back, where she'd fill up the tank and they'd pay for what they wanted. They thanked him and walked out.

  "All for nothing," Stoner said. His voice was savage.

  "Why? We'll just drive to Loman and do what we came to do."

  He laughed at Greg. "You're not serious? Those guys in there would lie to their own mothers. I'm not surprised Massoud moved his operation. These drug people are always shifting to new locations to avoid the cops. There's no way he's where they said he is. If they say he's in Loman, it means he's about one hundred klicks in the opposite direction. Sangar, Ghazni, Gardez, could be any of them. We have to turn back, and I'll talk to some of my sources in Jbad to find out exactly where he's gone. Fuck it."

  He drove around to the single, rusting pump. The yard was a mess of litter, bottles, broken furniture, and rotting vegetables. It stank almost as bad as inside the bar. The woman was waiting for them, and they drew up to the pump. Stoner climbed out.

  "Fill her up, regular unleaded."

  "We only have the one grade."

  "We'll take it."

  She inclined her head, opened the cap, pushed in the nozzle, and started pumping by hand, pulling a lever backward and forwards. Greg went forward to take it off her.

  "No ma'am, I'll do that for you."

  She refused to let go of the lever. "That's very kind, but my employer insists I pump the gas myself. He's frightened the customers may cheat him. You will pay in cash when I'm finished?"

  "Cash, yeah. No problem."

  As she pulled the lever backward and forward, she glanced at the door. It was closed. She stared at Stoner.

  "You're looking for Massoud."

  "That's right, Ma'am."

  "I can help you. I know where he is."

  "You do?"

  They both stared at her. The woman's appearance was not unusual, not in a land of universal poverty and squalor. The burqa she wore was stained and torn, and she looked like a beggar. Her voice was something different. She spoke English flawlessly, and with an educated accent. Whatever she was, she was no bar help.

  "Yes, I can take you to him. He is not far away. The men inside were…"

  She stopped, and the hand that was pumping gas disappeared inside her burqa.

  Stoner mumbled, "Shit!"

  When the hand reappeared, it was clutching a pistol, as if she'd performed some kind of magic trick. It was no ordinary pistol, but a big, old-fashioned revolver. He didn't recognize it, but Greg muttered, "Christ, it's a Nagant 1895."

  Both men slowly raise their hands. The barrel was pointed at them, and although the weapon may have been old and worn, they had no doubt it would still fire. Stoner tried his infallible smile.

  "Ma'am, if we have offended you in any way, we apologize. There's no way we meant it. Come on, we can be friends." He looked at Greg. "What the hell did we do?"

  "Beats me, it looks like she fooled us. Maybe she's working for Massoud."

  They waited. She waited, but for what they couldn't work out. Stoner tried again. "Look, why don't you..."

  The two explosions were loud, echoing around the stinking yard. He waited for the agonizing pain of the bullet when it entered his body. He'd been shot before. He knew it took a short time before the numbing impact turned to agony. Yet there was no impact. Greg was still standing next to him. All they heard was a cry from behind them, and the sound of a body crashing to the floor.

  He turned around fast, and a man was lying on the ground with blood pouring from his head. It was the same guy he'd given the five dollars in return for the supposed whereabouts of Massoud. He'd dropped a scratched and battered M-16 to the ground, and there was little doubt as to his intentions.

  As they turned back to the woman, she said, "He came out to kill you. The others will be here soon. You will have to kill them all."

  "My pleasure," he smiled as he dragged out the two Desert Eagles. At the same time, Greg's Stechkin had appeared in a movement that was almost imperceptible. The rear door to the bar burst open, and four men strolled out, the fat barman, together with the other three men who'd been drinking coffee. The fat ma
n was unarmed, while the other three men had picked up the AK-47s, without which no Afghan was properly dressed.

  Their mouths dropped open. They'd come out expecting to see the two strangers lying dead or dying on the ground. For a second, they failed to comprehend what had gone wrong. For two men with automatics ready in their hands, a second is a lifetime. Stoner's Desert Eagles boomed four times, and Greg's Stechkin cracked out three shots. The sound of gunshots echoed around the yard and the surrounding hills, and then everything went quiet.

  Greg walked forward and picked up the weapons they'd dropped. Stoner turned around and regarded the woman. She still held the old, rusted Nagant revolver, and a tiny wisp of smoke was curling out of the barrel. The barrel that was still pointed in their direction.

  "Ma'am, you can put the gun down. It's all over."

  She jerked, as if she'd just come out of a daze. She lowered the barrel but kept the weapon in her hand.

  "Of course, I'm so sorry."

  "No need to apologize. You saved our asses back there. We'd have been dead meat. What was it, a robbery?"

  She shook her head. "It was no robbery. Massoud pays these men to keep a watch for strangers, especially strangers who ask after his whereabouts."

  "So, he is still in the Torgan Valley?"

  "Yes. One moment, there's something I have to do."

  She put her hands down to the hem of the burqa and pulled it off her body. Underneath, she wore a coarse cotton dress, or maybe it was a shift. The garment was as stained and torn as the burqa, but now her face was exposed. He could see those sloe eyes were huge and liquid, fiery. Yet the real shock was her age.

  Imprisoned in the burqa, scrubbing the bar counter, he'd assumed her to be some withered crone. Nothing could be further from the truth. She was in her late twenties, was his best guess, and her smooth, oval face was unusually clear of the pockmarks of disease, in a country where disease was the norm. The only mark was a harsh weal, almost certainly given to her by the fat barman. Her body was slim and erect; when beneath the shapeless blue sack it had appeared to be shapeless and bulky. He said the first thing that came to his mind.

  "You don't look like a bar help."

  Her lips formed a slight smile. "Perhaps not, but for the past two and a half years that's what I've been. My name is Marina Tanai. I used to be a surgeon in Ghazni. I'd just qualified and taken up my first post when the Taliban returned. They were furious because the hospital I worked in employed both men and women, and treated men and women. There was little segregation," her smile became a bitter expression, "You can imagine how they felt about that situation. The Taliban commander said it was an insult to Allah."

  "They closed you down?"

  Her eyes were far away, and for a few seconds she didn't answer. At last, she focused and went on. "They surrounded the building and fired RPG rockets at us. The patients and staff had no time to escape, and most died in the wreckage. I imagine their bodies are still there. It was my misfortune to survive."

  "I don't get it," Stoner said, "You're alive, how is that a misfortune?"

  She grimaced. "Because that commander found me and declared me his property. He dragged me back to his headquarters and for a month, he raped me continually. Ever since, I've been damaged goods."

  She stopped, and with an effort collected herself. "After a month, he found a girl who was younger and prettier, and threw me out. No one wanted me; I had no money, no home, nothing. They were all dead. Since then, I've survived by working in this stinking place as nothing more than a slave. The only good thing was the owner is gay, otherwise that pig would have ravaged me morning and night."

  "Surely you could have run away?"

  Her expression was as cold as the thin layer of snow on the surrounding hills. "Run away, to where? Don't you understand? This is Afghanistan. As far as the local people are concerned, I was no better than a whore. The only thing that has kept me going has been the thought of one day seeing him dead. It is why I kept this revolver. I stole it from a man who was drunk in the bar one night."

  Stoner nodded. He knew the rest of it. "This man who destroyed the hospital and raped you..."

  "It was Massoud."

  He just nodded.

  Who else could it be? If you are looking for the number one Islamic psycho rapist in the Ghazni area, you don't need to look further.

  "What's his other name? Massoud, isn't that a family name?"

  "No one knows where he came from, only that when he appeared, he called himself by a single name, Massoud. A bit like the Prophet, Muhammad."

  "So I guess he doesn't have any problems with low self-esteem."

  "No."

  "You said you could take us to him. Now these guys are dead, does the offer still stand? I mean, you could escape now, and there's probably enough money inside the bar to set yourself up somewhere."

  "The offer stands. It stands until I see him dead."

  "In that case, it's a deal. It would be best if we make it look as if they had a falling out and killed each other. We'll arrange the bodies, and then drive on to the Torgan Valley."

  The girl looked at the sky and shook her head. "At this time of year, darkness comes early. It would be stupid to go in now. Better to stay overnight and leave in the morning. Otherwise, you won't be able to see his sentries. They could pick you off long before you reached the main house."

  He gave it some thought, but it made sense. He looked at Greg. "Let's do it. I guess we'll have to stay inside the bar and put up with the stink. We’ll leave the bodies outside and arrange them before we go."

  He started toward the door, but Marina called out, "Someone's coming. It could be one of Massoud's people. I can see the dust trail in the distance."

  "We'll go inside," he said quickly, "They won't know what's happened, and we can take them when they come through the door."

  They went inside, and both men checked the loads in their pistols. Greg brought in the rifles from the Wrangler, poked the barrel of his Dragunov through the window, and focused through the scope.

  "Jesus Christ, I don't believe it."

  "What is it? Trouble?"

  "Not trouble. Ahmed."

  Stoner sighed with exasperation. "The little bastard, he found the key and followed us. I told him to go home."

  "Who is Ahmed?" the girl asked him.

  He explained about the boy, how he was following them to locate the man who'd murdered his father. "I've tried to get rid of him, but he doesn't understand the meaning of 'go home.' I guess I'll have to try something different."

  "He did bail us out a couple of times," Greg pointed out.

  "It makes no difference. He's a kid; he should be at home with his family."

  "He doesn't have a family. Not a Ma and Pa, and he said his sisters want justice for their father."

  "I don't give a shit. He goes home."

  He helped himself to coffee that was still warm and topped it up with a hefty helping of brandy. Greg and Marina watched the tractor approach. It stopped outside. The boy switched off the engine and came in with Archer at his heels. While the dog bounded over to his master and attempted to devour him, he was all smiles.

  "I knew you were here. I saw your vehicle outside. It's very cold, is there any chance of something hot? Coffee or soup, perhaps?"

  "I'll get you some soup."

  He smiled his thanks to Marina as she bustled behind the bar and lit the propane stove. She came back a few minutes later with a bowl of something hot. The two men looked at each other. It may well have been soup, but nothing like they'd ever tasted, probably a combination of rancid vegetables and road kill. Ahmed gave her a grateful look and began spooning it into his mouth. She watched him with that avid look only a female can give a child, a kind of warm compassion. Maybe it was a display of her maternal instinct. Whatever, it was clear they'd already started to bond.

  Stoner sat on his own, sipping his fortified coffee. When the boy had finished eating, Marina brought him a selection of s
mall cakes. He wolfed them down, and it was obvious he hadn't eaten in a long time. She noticed and brought him more cakes, which went down the same way. When he'd finished, he wiped his face and gave her a beaming smile.

  "That was wonderful. You are a very kind lady."

  She smiled back, and Stoner shuddered.

  I don't need this. None of us do.

  Finally, he stood up. "You have to go back, you know that, kid. You can't come with us."

  "But…"

  "No."

  "I thought he bailed you out more than once. He deserves more than a straight no," she said. Her voice sounded vehement, and there was no trace of the burqa-clad slave they'd encountered little more than an hour before.

  "She's got a point," Greg said, "He can't come with us, there's no question. If anything happened to him, I couldn't face his sisters and tell them they'd lost their brother as well as their father. It's obvious he's not going to give up, so why don't we compromise? Find some way he could help us, without risking his neck going into Massoud's lair."

  Stoner shook his head, climbed to his feet, and walked out the back door. Past the bodies, rapidly cooling on the ground, he strolled over to a pile of rocks. Hundreds of small pebbles lay around the base, and one by one, he picked them up and threw them at the rusting bar sign out on the track.

  He turned as Marina came up behind him, and then threw another stone.

  "You know your trouble?"

  He checked the next throw and turned to her. "No, and I don't want to know."

  "You're a good man, doing your best to pretend to be bad."

  "Is that right? You've known me for how long, about an hour? In that time, you've come up with some kind of an in-depth psych profile. That's very clever. It's also bullshit. You don't know me."

  She came up to him and put her right hand up to his face. "Why do you pretend? You're not the kind of man to beat up on a child."

  He put his hand up and pushed hers away. "You think I'm beating up on him? I'm trying to save the kid’s skin."

  "No. I listened to what was said and talked to Greg. You know, we all know, the boy has made a vow to his dead father. With the full support of his sisters, he will take revenge for his father. Even if it means dying in the attempt."

  "He probably will."

  "Perhaps. However, here in Afghanistan at his age, and with his responsibilities, he's a man, entitled to make up his own mind. If that leads to his death, so be it. Better than living the rest of his life with the knowledge he broke his vow."

  Stoner kept shaking his head, but inside, he was rocked. Somehow, she'd seen right through him.

  How could she do that? Is it some kind of a woman thing? Or is she just special?

  She put her hand back on his face, and when he didn't pull away, she put her other hand behind his shoulder and pulled him close. Their faces were only inches away, and she stared up at him.

  "Give him a chance, Stoner. He deserves that. Find a compromise that allows him to keep his vow, and in his father's memory. Something that may not take him into harm's way."

  He enjoyed her touch, the feel of her warm, soft skin, even her smell. Somehow through her torture and tribulation, she'd managed to keep herself clean, and she smelled fresh and young. Against his better judgment, he said, "I'll think about it."

  He had an overpowering urge to kiss those firm and inviting lips, but he thought better of it. She wasn't Anahita back at Ma Kelly's. Despite her terrible ordeal, she was something special, a young surgeon, clever, qualified, and more than capable to survive against all the odds. He looked up as a renewed flurry of snow came down, and he realized how cold it was. As she raised her hand, the sleeve of her shift fell back, and he could see goose pimples on her skin.

  "We need to go inside. The snow is getting bad."

  She seemed reluctant to end their conversation, but when he strode back through the door, she followed him in. Ahmed looked up. He'd somehow found a loaf of stale bread and was still eating. Greg was behind the bar. He'd fired up the propane stove again and was brewing a fresh pot of coffee.

  "Ahmed, I need a word with you."

  "Yes, Mr. Stoner. Please, don't send me back. I'll do anything to help you. All you have to do is name it."

  "Yeah, there may be something. If we can come to an agreement, would you keep to it? I'd want your solemn promise."

  "Yes, of course."

  He nodded. "Very well, here's the deal. There's no way you're coming into the Torgan Valley with us." He held up his hand to forestall the inevitable protest, "No, that's final. But what I do want you to do is watch our six."

  "Your six? I don't understand."

  He explained the meaning of a rearguard. He glanced at Marina. "I guess that telephone line runs as far as Massoud's place, is that right? I doubt there's a cell service around here. If he uses this place to warn him of trouble, there has to be a way to communicate."

  She nodded. "Yes, it's connected to the telephone service and terminates at Massoud's place."

  He nodded. "Ahmed, you'll stay here, and put the tractor out of sight around the back. We'll have to hide the bodies, and you'll say the owner of the bar was called to go see Massoud, so he asked you to look after the business. Could you do that?"

  "But why?"

  "Because we'll be exposed when we go in there."

  "Exposed?"

  "To an attack from behind. There're just two of us, me and Greg. We'll have all our attention on the enemies facing us. If someone came in from behind, we’ll be dead. If you stay here and watch the approaches to the Torgan Valley, you can warn us. As soon as we get in there, we'll connect to the telephone line and disconnect it from the main house. If anyone comes along, you call us."

  The boy didn't answer at first. He thought long and hard, and they could see the battle he was having inside. He'd made a vow, and he had to work out if by staying at the bar to 'watch their six' would amount to keeping the vow. Finally, he nodded.

  "I will do it. I will watch your six. If anyone comes along, I will call you. I also have my father's Kalashnikov, so if I think they are a threat, I will shoot them dead."

  When he'd finished speaking, Archer barked, as if in approval. Marina smiled. "You be careful with that gun. If you shoot at someone, they are liable to shoot back."

  "That's the theory," Stoner mumbled.

  Outside, the light had faded, and the girl turned up the butane lamps. The squalor of the bar had disappeared with the end of the day, and the cozy glow of the lamps and the log fire gave it something of a cheerful rustic appearance. The stench was unchanged. Stoner found the bottle, took a swig, and pulled a face.

  "Without the coffee, this stuff tastes like shit."

  He threw it in the fire and slumped on a chair. Marina went back behind the counter and began preparing a meal. How she managed it they'd never know, but she was able to produce sufficient spices to add to the pot to overcome the smell. Almost. She brought them a bowl of stew each, and they gulped it down with alacrity. The meat was tough, but the taste was better than he'd known in a long time. He put his plate down and looked at her.

  "That was excellent, what was in it?"

  "Goat."

  He pulled a face.

  But what the hell! Meat is meat, and besides, tomorrow morning we’ll be facing heavy odds. The chances are we’ve just eaten our last meal. Isn't a condemned man entitled to something like that?

  The evening drew on, and Marina showed them where they would sleep. There was no separate room; the premises consisted of the single room for the bar. The bathroom, such as it was, consisted of lean to shack at the side.

  "I'll go check the Jeep," Greg said, "I want to make sure we're not about to drive into another ditch covered by the snow when we leave in the morning."

  He gave the other man a significant look, which was ignored.

  "I'll come with you and cover the tractor," Ahmed added, "Those old gas engines can be difficult to start if they become damp. I have an o
ld canvas under the seat to protect it from the snow melt."

  They left the bar, and Archer ran behind them. The door banged shut. Why it happened, Stoner didn't know, but he glanced at the ‘I'm not here, I'm unavailable girl’ and saw her staring at him.

  "What?"

  She gave him a gentle smile. "It's nothing really. Except, this is the first time in a long time I've been alone with a man who wasn't a stinking pig."

  "You don't know me yet. Give it time, you may change your mind."

  She shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't know your first name, what is it?"

  He shrugged. "Rafe."

  "Rafe, that's a nice name. Is it short for something or a nickname?"

  He grimaced. "I guess this no reason you shouldn't know. It's short for Raffaello."

  "Raffaello? What kind of a name is that?"

  "My mother was an art major, and she was into this Renaissance stuff. You've heard of Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino?" She gave him a blank look; so he went on to explain. This was Afghanistan, after all, hardly the cultural capital of the southern hemisphere.

  "He was known as Raphael, an Italian painter of the High Renaissance. Alongside Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, he was one of the greats. Did a lot of work in the Vatican in Rome, and even painted an entire room which became known as the Raphael Room."

  "So he was pretty good?"

  He chuckled. "Yeah, he was pretty good. Maybe one day I'll take you to Rome and show you. It'll blow your mind."

  She fixed him with strong gaze. "You would take me to Rome? After everything you know about me?"

  He returned the look. Keeping his voice calm he said, "Yeah, I’d take you to Rome."

  There was a kind of spell between them, and for several minutes neither of them spoke until the door burst open. The two came back, bringing with them a chill blast and a flurry of snow.

  "We're cool," Greg said, "I turned the Wrangler so the wheels are pointing slightly downhill and in the direction of the Torgan Valley."

  "I've moved the tractor around back and covered the engine," Ahmed added, "It is out of sight for when I have to watch your six."

  "Yeah, that's great, kid," Stoner said. He was careful not to look at her. She busied herself with clearing away the remnants of their meal.

  When it was time to turn in, Greg said he would take the first watch at the window. He looked at the other man. "I reckon two on and two off should do it. It's almost 22.00. I'll give you a call at midnight."

  "Roger that."

  He settled himself in a chair so he could see out. Stoner lay down on the threadbare rug and covered himself with a thin blanket Marina had given him. She settled the boy on a makeshift cot, covering him with a blanket and animal furs, and he soon fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Only then did she lie down herself. She was close enough for Stoner to smell the fragrance of her body, and he caught himself wondering what she would be like in bed.

  A firebrand, probably, at least I hope so.

  He was almost as exhausted as the boy, and he began to doze but came awake when he heard Marina talking softly to Greg.

  "Why are you doing this?" she murmured, "Risking your life going after such a dangerous man?"

  "It's complicated."

  "Is it for money?"

  "Not really, no."

  "Then why?"

  He heard Greg murmur to her how it was the only way he could safeguard his wife. That Massoud was the spider in the center of a web, a web that extended to Sardar Khan, the man who'd killed Ghulam Durani, and the Imam, Sheikh Habib Daud, who controlled everything in the town close to where he had his farm."

  "Why is an Imam any threat to you?"

  At first, Greg didn't reply. Admitting to apostasy inside Afghanistan was tantamount to putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger. But there was something about this girl that made him want to confide in her. He explained about their disavowal of Islam and their conversion to Christianity.

  "I hate them."

  "Christians?"

  "Muslims. I hate them for their bloodthirsty cruelty, for the way they treat women as worthless slaves. Your wife was happy to become a Christian?"

  "Very happy."

  "That's good. Tell me about Stoner's wife."

  "He doesn't have one."

  The room was silent.