Anatoly didn’t flinch. “Oh. Jim, really,” he said. “We could never do anything like that. The consequences would be too—how shall I put it— expensive for us. We stand to lose too much. This material you mentioned, it is extremely dangerous. We cannot allow it to be given to anyone: especially not the Vietnamese. Why should we? No one will produce such a rocket, or evidence, because there is none.”
He was good. He spoke with a straight face and even some passion as he was lying through his teeth.
“Well, Anatoly,” Coyne said. “ It’s only a matter of time. “
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Communism is dead,” Coyne said. “Finished. Communism is dead, Anatoly,” the ballsy Coyne said. “Russia itself is a contradiction of the ‘workers’ paradise.’ If Marxism were paradise, workers wouldn’t be in the streets of Warsaw. If it were paradise why would anyone want to leave?”
He didn’t let up. “Your ‘client states,’ such as Poland. Cuba, Angola, Nicaragua, Laos and Vietnam, are literally on the edge of bankruptcy. The false economic and ideological principles upon which your nation is based might best serve as models of mismanagement.”
Still cool, Anatoly lit a cigarette.
Coyne still did not let up. “The anachronisms of Marx no longer appeal to the unaligned peoples of the Third World. They are now well aware of the internal and external conditions imposed by the acceptance of the ‘Gospel According to Moscow.’ They need only take a look at the condition of your ‘clients.’ The ideal of ‘sovietism’ is a fraud. It’s all over. I hope Brezhnev has a sense of humor.”
Anatoly was still unruffled. The Thai spook behind Anatoly laughed to himself and played with his ice-cream sundae.
“Jim, you needn’t take this all so personally,” Anatoly said. “I wouldn’t want to have you arrested for anti-Soviet acts.”
“We’re in Thailand, Anatoly, remember? Not Kabul or Moscow,” Coyne goaded him on.
“We’ve just come from Afghanistan, Anatoly,” I joined in. “You’re in deep shit. Excuse me.” I wandered off in search of the men’s room.
“Changing tapes?” Anatoly asked Coyne.
I had had enough of this bull. I thanked him for the lunch when I came back. We parted, went out to the loud streets of Bangkok, flagged down a taxi and Coyne ordered the cabbie to make a U-turn and get us the hell out of there. He cornered the cab on two wheels, heading back to the apartment.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I ‘helped’ some Bulgarian diplomat ‘defect’ from his consulate in Chicago?” I asked Coyne. He raised his eyebrows indicating he wanted to hear more.
“Some bozo undersecretary of the Bulgarian consulate in Chicago writes me a letter, on their stationery, requesting all these technical weapons manuals, right? Well, I wrote back and thanked him for his letter. ‘But,’ I said, ‘I cannot assist you in the ways you’ve mentioned. If you are serious about defecting to the United States, however, I suggest you contact so-and-so at the State Department for further information, etc. etc.’ He’s now probably picking potatoes in a windy field in Poland somewhere.”
We arrived at the apartment.
I invited Coyne to go to the American Embassy with me. “No, thanks,” he said and got out of the cab. “I’ve had enough spooks for one day.”
I came back from the embassy, changed into my jogging gear preparing for my daily run, and found Coyne in the hotel pool.
“I was at the Embassy, right? Somebody made a crack about AnatoIy Korolev, as an aside. I said, ‘Who’s this Anatoly Korolev?’ They didn’t want to tell me. Finally, one guy warned me never to go near him. He wouldn’t tell me who Korolev was, only that he was ‘brilliant. The Kiss of Death. Maybe one of the few men authorized to use the big sleep as a bargaining chip.’ He told me I was probably already being watched, only I’d never know it. It was perfect. I ran out into the streets. The thought of Anatoly watching me had made me very happy. I was in a Cold War movie. Only it was real.”
Coyne later asked a friend whether he knew the Russian diplomat.
“You mean ‘Jaws,’“ the friend told Coyne. “Sure, everyone knows what he’s up to, but nobody’s said so in print. He’s very good at what he does, you know; that’s why we call him Jaws.” Coyne then asked what would happen once the article was published. “Two things,” the friend said. “One, Jaws will probably be reassigned; the KGB is humorless, you know. And, two, what happens to you will be another story.”
Korolov left Bangkok three days after the issue of SOF blowing his cover appeared on the newsstands. I never heard from or about him again.
Coyne is currently working in Bangkok, three decades later.
18
AFGHANISTAN, ROUND ONE:
TRUMPING THE CIA
At Christmastime in 1979 the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan, inadvertently biting off more than they could chew, just like other superpowers before them and since. The ensuing jihad, or holy war, was a confusing mixture of history and present Afghan problems. The war’s general purpose, both the tribal and political factions in Peshwar, Pakistan agreed, was to rid Afghanistan of Russians. Each group seemed to be going in a different direction, however, and Western observers were left confused and frustrated. To understand the complex war fought against the Soviet Union, the Mujahideen who fought it, and why all help from soldiers of fortune, even if offered for free, was steadfastly refused, one must go back more than 2,300 years in Afghan history.
In Afghanistan the basis for fighting is centuries old. Most Afghan dealings with other cultures, particularly since their acceptance of Islam in the 10th century, have centered on war. These wars have included everything from family feuds to repelling various invaders. When there was no “real war” to be found, these fierce people took just as much pleasure in fighting each other. Even without a holy war against the Russians, the Afghans would be happy to fight them because it is good sport.
Because Afghans have spent generations fighting in holy wars, local brush wars and national wars, each family, each generation, has its own history of glory. The jihad, for many of the Afghan men, was a chance to expand that glory. By appealing to their religious devotion, their sense of injustice over the destruction of Korans, mosques, the murder of women and children and the bombing of villages, the groups in Peshawar had a bottomless well of manpower. Their only real shortage was weapons.
There was no death for the Afghan fighters in battle. Because they became Mujahideen, or holy warriors, they already had their Islamic last rites and believed themselves to be dead. When they do die in battle they are accepted into heaven by Muhammad, they live forever and their graves become shrines.
Mului Lalai Up Din, military commander of the largest faction of the Hezbi-Islami of Afghanistan (one of the half-dozen groups operating with political offices in Peshawar, Pakistan) pointed out that for every Mujahideen killed by the Russians, “ten more will rise in his place.” This might sound like spiritual blustering to Westerners until one witnesses the fever pitch of Mujahideen leaving Pakistan’s tribal areas for Afghanistan and listens to the tales of glory surrounding Mujahideen who have fallen in battle. New recruits, when they hear these stories, leave the refugee camps around Peshawar to join the fight.
The seeds of this jihad were first sown two decades before the war when many of the Mujahideen political leaders began to denounce the communists then active in Afghanistan.
Shortly after the coup that led to the first communist regime, these political and spiritual leaders were able to whip up an anti-communist fever among the people, leading to the first phase of the Russo-Afghan war. Though composed of disparate tribes, the Mujahideen had a common bond in their desire to establish an Islamic state.
BRINGING OUT A RUSSIAN AK-74 FOR THE CIA
In late October 1979, I was having dinner in a Chinese restaurant with a successful but low profile international arms dealer after attending a day at the Association of the U.S Army annual meeting in Washington D.C. Whi
le shoveling in some tasty Moo Goo Gai Pan, not surprisingly, talk turned to the subject of small arms.
“You know, Brown,” the slightly built, blue-eyed, blond, mysterious arms dealer smiled and spoke in a hushed tone, “Rumors in U.S. Army technical intelligence circles have it that the Russians have developed a new assault rifle to replace the AK-47, along with a new cartridge. Rumor also has it that the Russkies will be, naturally, issuing it to their elite units.”
I pondered this for a moment and said, “Hmm, well, if it’s better than the AK-47, that will be something.”
He went on to say, “I’ll pay $10,000 for one of them. But I’m more curious about the round itself. Rumor Control theorizes that the ammo could include a new flechette, an armor-piercing round, a hollow point and a tracer round. Do you think SOF could get some of the ammo and/or one of the rifles?”
No Western intelligence agency—including the CIA—had been able to procure the weapon, designated the AK-74, or the round, even though the weapon had been issued to elite Russian units four years previously.
“Sounds like a project for SOF” I joked. “But even if we found one, how could we get it out of Pakistan and into the U.S.?” The arms dealer, who is now retired, had prepared himself for the question, “You get one and I’ll send a man to Pakistan who will bring it out and into the U.S.” He didn’t elaborate. I knew enough about the international arms trade to know that international arms dealers, at least the successful ones, developed their own little local underground networks in third world countries that knew which government officials to bribe or pay off.
On 24 December of that year, the Russians invaded Afghanistan. Various news media reported that Russian airborne units were involved in the fighting. I thought about my conversation with the arms dealer, which at that moment seemed like one of those coincidences that proved to be much more than chance. I figured, “If Russian paratroopers are involved, they are probably equipped with this new assault rifle. And no matter how good they are and how bad the Afghans are, sooner or later they are going to lose some of these weapons to their opponents.”
Bob Poos, a type-A personality, small, wiry, veteran foreign correspondent, with sky blue piercing eyes that saw through everything and everyone and who had worked for the AP for fourteen years, was my Managing Editor at the time. Poos had done a tour as a combat correspondent in Vietnam and was known as one of the few reporters who was actually out in the field as opposed to most who got their news in some bar in Saigon. After that he was bureau chief in Tokyo for a year and his next step up the promotion ladder was as bureau chief in New Dehli. His gut told him that he had best fly to India and check it out before he accepted the position, which he did on his own nickel. He flew to India, spent one day, was disgusted by the filth and backwardness, and flew back the next day refusing the assignment. That was the end of his AP career. Poos, hard-driving and full of piss and vinegar, who had first made his bones as a Marine who had walked out of the Chosin Reservoir during the Korean “Police Action,” was always looking for a good story laced with adventure; a scoop. I had just cooked one up for him.
Poos was goose hunting with Galen Geer, a recently discharged Army vet, who had a tour in Nam and Korea under his belt and who had written a couple of articles for SOF.
Poos got in touch with Geer: “Are you interested in going to Afghanistan?” Geer, who jokingly takes great pride in claiming he was the only automotive mechanic in Vietnam, whereas everyone else was with the SEALs, LRRPs, Special Forces, SOG, Marine Recon, saving villages singlehandedly, was taken somewhat aback.
“Huh?” he replied, “Yeah,” Poos continued. “A dual-mission—assess how the war is going and bring out an AK-74 and whatever else is lying about that looks interesting. And it would be cool if you could do it before the CIA does.”
“Yeah, why not. I’ve never been to Afghanistan—another war to cover. Builds my resume,” Geer, so typical of the Vietnam Vets that could not fit into the normal humdrum routine, jumped at the chance.
As I mentioned earlier, I figured that since Russian paratroopers were in action during the overthrow of the Afghan government in December 1979, some of the never before seen AK-74’s would have been lost in combat to the Afghans. The arms dealer refused to advance front money to purchase the new rifle, so once again it was SOF on its own.
THE MYSTERY BULLET OF AFGHANISTAN
Galen Geer’s April 1980 mission was SOF’s first surreptitious jaunt into Afghanistan. His trip paved the way for us to go back.
He set out on an 11-day cross-country trek to track down and bring out the Soviets’ mysterious new AK-74 rifle round. He developed an insightful characterization of the Afghans and met with a lot of freedom fighters, some of whom the U.S. later faced as formidable Taliban enemies after 9-11. Afghanistan at the time was probably the same as it was a thousand years ago and will probably not change much in the next thousand years.
“For 10 days I trudged through the blazing sun,” sad Geer, “my eyes sunburned so badly that they dried up and the crusted film had to be peeled away like a layer of shed skin. I had followed the trail of the mystery bullet of Afghanistan—the ComBloc 5.45x39mm round for the AK-74 assault rifle. I had stumbled across two deserts and climbed two mountain ranges. I had run the gauntlet of Soviet MiGs and helicopter gunships. From one Mujahideen stronghold to the next, I had wandered through Paktia Province trying to find that damned bullet. Now I had it. All I had to do was get it to the United States—half a world away.”
His biggest concern was the KGB. If Ivan got wind of his mission, he would be nailed. So he decided it was too dangerous to stop and best to pull a 3 6-hour marathon walk.
“As I rounded the bend in the canyon, the smell of dead camels, killed by Soviet aircraft earlier that day and already stinking in the desert sun, assaulted my sense. Pulling our shirts up over our noses, my Mujahideen companions and I walked past, reminding me once again of war’s trail of death and decay,” Galen said.
The Mujahideen are skilled fighting men, acclimated to the nomadic life in the unforgiving mountainous terrain. They somehow manage to hydrate from one carefully hidden water hole to the next, or to a village that could provide grub.
“We learned the same survival techniques, but with a lot of guidance from our toughened guides. After a few hours of steady, uphill trudging, we would find a small mountain teahouse where we took a break and drank their re-hydration concoction of choice: super sweetened tea, sometimes with naan—a dry wheat bread. The teahouses, like rest stops along our highways, have served countless caravans plodding through the deserts and mountains for centuries,” Galen recalled.
“A full day’s march begins before dawn. As soon as the morning’s prayers are over, the Afghans drink a few cups of tea, tear off a few hunks of bread, then gather together their weapons and what little equipment might be carried on camels or donkeys. Then they move out.
“The Mujahideen took small, slow, methodical steps in an unchanging rhythm to conserve energy and moisture in the blazing sun. Unless we learned to match our steps to theirs we would either lag behind or lose them. Through rain or snow, mountains or hills or on flatland, they wore leather sandals, baggy pants cinched up with a rope, a loose-fitting shirt and turban, and carried a blanket over their shoulder that served as a bedroll at night and camouflage during the day when Soviet choppers passed overhead. Each man carried his own weapon—anything from a World War II Russian pistol to a captured AK-74. The most ammunition carried by a single man was 50 rounds. Most had from 20 to 30 rounds at any one time. Their range of weapons included shotguns, ancient Chinese machine guns and British Enfields. A standard weapon was the Afghan dagger, a wicked-looking blade with camel-bone handle that is curled at the end.
“These same men who cherish the small things in life and demand little by way of physical luxury, ferociously and mercilessly executed all Russians they captured, then chopped up their bodies with hatchets and knives. In their simple, unassuming way, the Mujahi
deen held the Russian bear at bay,” Galen observed.
GALEN GETS HIS ROUNDS
After Geer spent 11 days in Afghanistan, going for longer and farther than any Western reporter could boast at that time, he called SOF with an update: “Yes I’ve got the ammo but the gun is going to cost $25,000—$ 5,000 to buy three AK-47s to use to trade for the weapon . . . and $10,000 for the guy to bring it out.” SOF wasn’t about to front the money as we didn’t know this Afghan from Adam. We made a frantic call to the arms dealer who at that time was in Santiago, Chile. The wily bastard agreed only to front $2,500 and another $7,500 when the weapon was delivered. Since we sure as hell weren’t going to come up with the additional funds, we decided to keep in touch with the contact in Pakistan, who would attempt to get the weapon out of Afghanistan. If he did, then we would decide what course of action to follow.
By this time, we had developed a full-blown case of SOF paranoia. We’d been having a lot of international phone and cable traffic, which was by no means secure. What if the CIA found out that SOF could do what they could not? Humiliated, would they confiscate the ammo at U.S. Customs? We would have photos but no hard evidence.
Solution? Have Geer smuggle the ammo to Seoul, Korea, to await further instructions. Poos would link up with Geer, take some of the ammo and stand by to see if Geer got through U.S. Customs. It is illegal to bring ammunition into the U.S. even if you declare it, so it’d be confiscated. So they give you a receipt, big deal! The likelihood of getting it back was between zero and nil.
Either customs was waiting for Geer or he fit a “stop” profile. His luggage was thoroughly searched and 23 rounds were confiscated and a receipt was given. Incidentally, we never did find out what customs did with those rounds, though we speculate they had no idea what they had, and therefore made no attempt to forward them to the CIA or the Pentagon. No doubt they were thrown into some “confiscated items” dust bin where they may well remain today. Poos returned a couple of days later and received the same treatment. But somehow he managed to get two of the rounds past customs.
I Am Soldier of Fortune Page 23
