The End of America’s War in Afghanistan (The Russian Agents Book 3)

by Ted Halstead

  The End of America’s War

  in Afghanistan

  Ted Halstead

  Copyright © 2020 by Ted Halstead

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Books by Ted Halstead:

  The Second Korean War (2018)

  The Saudi-Iranian War (2019)

  The End of America’s War in Afghanistan (2020)

  All three books, including this one, are set in a fictional near future. Some events described have happened, and others have not.

  For example, American troops did leave Iraq, only to return several years later. American troops did not leave Afghanistan, only to return later.

  Yet.

  To my wife Saadia, for her love and support over more than thirty years.

  To my son Adam, for his love and the highest compliment an author can receive- “You wrote this?”

  To my daughter Mariam, for her continued love and encouragement.

  To my father Frank, for his love and for repeatedly prodding me to finally finish my first book.

  To my mother Shirley, for her love and support.

  To my granddaughter Fiona, for always making me smile.

  All characters are listed on the very last page, because that’s where I think the list is easiest to find for quick reference.

  Chapter One

  Karachi, Pakistan

  The bomber’s boss had told him to do precisely what Mullah Abdul Zahed said.

  The problem was, he didn’t like anything he was being told to do.

  Mamnoon Sahar prided himself on targeting only enemies of the Taliban. Well, one woman targeted in this job was indeed married to a Pakistani soldier.

  But that soldier was stationed here in Karachi on the Arabian Sea coast, about as far from fighting the Taliban as he could get and still be in Pakistan.

  Plus, he was an ordinary enlisted man, not even an officer.

  Even worse, Abdul had told him to make sure the bomb didn’t go off when the soldier was home.

  Then, Abdul had insisted the bomb had to destroy the neighboring house as well. The bomber had checked, and the man in that household was an auto mechanic.

  So, he would be killing two women, nine children, and a man who fixed cars.

  Enough was enough. Either Mamnoon got the explanation Abdul had so far refused to provide, or he wouldn’t do the job, no matter what his boss said.

  Mamnoon looked at Abdul doubtfully. He wore the usual low white turban and had a matching full white beard to go with it. Abdul’s face was lined and worn, as was to be expected of the last living member of the Taliban government that had ruled Afghanistan during the years before the Americans came.

  His friends and his many enemies would agree Mamnoon was a dangerous man, both with a bomb and a blade. Thin and wiry, he stayed clean-shaven so he could move freely in parts of Pakistan where a full beard on a young man might attract unwanted attention.

  Mamnoon had taken on many men who wished to kill him, and he was still here.

  This old cleric should pose no challenge. But something about him made Mamnoon nervous.

  No matter, Mamnoon decided. He had lived by certain principles for many years. He wasn’t going to throw them away for this old man, cleric or no.

  “You realize what you are asking me to do will kill many innocents, women and children. The number of deaths will draw a great deal of police and maybe even military attention to my work,” Mamnoon said.

  Abdul nodded. “Can you make the explosions look like an accident, as we discussed?”

  “Well, yes,” Mamnoon replied. “The compressed gas bottle used to provide fuel for cooking is just outside the soldier’s home, as usual. The idiots who designed the neighbor’s house you also wish targeted, placed the kitchen so that it is nearly adjacent to the one in the soldier’s home. So, the gas bottle for one home is only a couple of meters away from the other.”

  Mamnoon paused. “But you knew this when you asked that I target both homes.”

  Abdul shrugged but said nothing.

  “So, my question to you is simple. Why do these people need to die?” Mamnoon asked.

  Abdul pursed his lips and considered his reply. Finally, he said, “One of them has betrayed the Taliban. The others must die so that if somehow it is discovered this was no accident, it will be more difficult to focus the investigation on our real target.”

  Mamnoon frowned, and considered Abdul’s answer. He knew it was the best he would get.

  Just as he was about to tell Abdul it wasn’t good enough, the cleric lifted one finger.

  “Before you reply, Mamnoon Sahar, know that I wish you and your family in Rawalpindi nothing but the best of good fortune. However, if this mission is not a success, I have many followers who would be sorely disappointed.”

  Mamnoon did his best to keep his expression impassive, which was difficult when he felt as though he’d just been punched in the gut.

  His boss would have never told Abdul his actual name. It was his most carefully guarded secret.

  Well, next to his family’s location.

  The fact that Abdul knew both meant he indeed had no choice, especially after that business about “his followers.” Abdul was telling Mamnoon that killing him wouldn’t solve his problem.

  Worse, now Mamnoon knew he risked being eliminated along with his family as soon as he finished this job.

  The only way Mamnoon could see to avoid that was doing this job so well that Abdul would see him as worth keeping alive.

  His instincts had been right. This old cleric was a threat, and if he wasn’t managed correctly could end up killing him and his entire family.

  All this flashed through Mamnoon’s thoughts in an instant.

  Aloud, he said, “I understand. I will set the charges.”

  Mamnoon had a van with the removable logo of a gas cylinder company, and work clothing with the same logo.

  He need not have bothered. No one challenged him or took any notice of the time Mamnoon spent next to the first cylinder, and then the other.

  Mamnoon next drove the van two blocks away to a small parking garage, and when he was sure he was unobserved, removed the logo from the side of the van. Then he pulled the logo patch from his shirt. Both went deep into a fetid dumpster behind the garage.

  Next, Mamnoon walked the short distance back to the small neighborhood mosque where he and Abdul were staying. As a cleric, Abdul’s right to stay there overnight was a given, and the same went for his young “servant.”

  Abdul and Mamnoon took turns standing watch. Their small room had a window that let them observe both homes.

  Mamnoon sighed internally. He knew that if this mosque had not been handy, Abdul would have found another way.

  But he was certain without asking that Abdul saw the mosque’s location as yet another sign that he was doing God’s work.

  As it turned out, they didn’t have to wait long. Only a few hours after Mamnoon had set the charges, the last person being targeted in the two homes arrived, probably just in time for the evening meal.

  The auto mechanic.

  Abdul was the one who saw him arrive. He nodded towards the radio detonator Mamnoon had attached to his belt, and said, “It is time.”

  Mamnoon pressed the button.

  The resulting explosion was not only incredibly loud. It shook the small mosque hard enoug
h that for a moment, Mamnoon feared he had done his job too well.

  But only for a moment. The shaking stopped, and the mosque was still there. There were no cracks or other damage Mamnoon could see, at least in their room.

  Probably the best indicator was that the glass in the room’s only window was unbroken.

  Abdul went to it and looked down the street.

  Mamnoon didn’t like the look of the smile that spread across Abdul’s face.

  Abdul turned to Mamnoon, who thought to himself that he liked the unholy gleam in Abdul’s eyes even less than his smile.

  Abdul’s happiness came from the fact that with the illumination provided by the fires, even in the night, he could see that both homes had been completely leveled.

  “Excellent work! Tell me, how did you do it with such small explosive charges?” Abdul asked.

  Mamnoon kept reminding himself that his safety, and more importantly, his family’s, depended on keeping Abdul happy.

  Abdul had insisted on seeing the explosive charges Mamnoon planned to use, probably because he knew their residue would be the most definite sign that the explosions had been no accident.

  “I added compressed gas to both cylinders until they were not only full but slightly over-pressurized. Not enough for them to rupture, but enough that…well, you see the results. There shouldn’t be enough explosive residue left to be noticed, and the same should be true for the radio trigger receivers,” Mamnoon said.

  Not long ago, Mamnoon wouldn’t have been able to say that with such confidence. But the shrinking size of electrical and radio components in recent years had indeed been a blessing for men like Mamnoon.

  “It’s not often that my expectations are not only met, but exceeded. Tomorrow you will go with me to another job. I will tell you more about it on the way. For now, we should both get some sleep,” Abdul said.

  Mamnoon nodded and went to one of the two small cots. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard Abdul say softly, “Now that you have proven yourself, I will tell you that you are playing a part in a great plan. One that has been many years in the making, and that has much time still left to go. But at its end, the Americans will be forced to leave Afghanistan forever.”

  Mamnoon gave the only reply possible before turning over to sleep. “God be praised,” he said.

  Mamnoon’s last thought before he fell asleep was that his skills had bought him and his family a reprieve.

  He wondered how long it would last.

  Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK), Pakistan

  Mullah Abdul Zahed pounded his right hand on the carved wooden table that dominated the room so hard the men sitting next to him involuntarily jerked from the sound.

  “This plan is the only way we will get the Americans out of Afghanistan and Pakistan for good, and it will only happen if you give me the men and weapons I need! You all know me, and you know I would never say this if it were not true!”

  The room was large, but it was still packed with leaders from both the Afghan Taliban, which included Abdul, as well as Pakistan’s Tehrik-i-Taliban (TTP). Such meetings were extremely rare because of the danger of drone strikes, but Abdul’s demands were so high that every Taliban leader involved insisted on hearing the reason for them personally.

  Abdul had thought he could convince the others based on his considerable reputation. After all, he was the last surviving member of the Taliban government that had ruled Afghanistan until 2001.

  Looking at the faces of the men around him, though, Abdul could see his reputation alone wouldn’t be enough.

  Abdul wasn’t surprised that the next man to speak was Khaksar Wasiq from the Pakistani TTP. He had known coming into the meeting that Khaksar, as the head of the largest TTP faction, would be the least enthusiastic about committing his resources to an attack he could only watch from a distance.

  Khaksar was at least as old as Abdul, but his hair and beard were still jet black, with only a few strands of grey. Thickly and powerfully built, he looked like an aging wrestler. It had been years since he had participated in an attack against the Americans, but he still kept saying he planned to lead his men into battle at least one more time.

  “We know you believe what you’ve said is true. But you are asking for our best, most experienced fighters, and all of our most advanced heavy weapons. If your attack fails, it may be years before we can mount a meaningful offensive in either Afghanistan or Pakistan.”

  Khaksar paused. “You have said you cannot tell us the details of the attack or even its goal because word might reach the enemy. I understand this. But you must tell us something that will help us understand why this is a risk worth taking. For example, you said we wouldn’t believe how long you have been planning this attack. How long, exactly?”

  Abdul was seething, but he knew he couldn’t just refuse to answer. Once he opened the door, though….

  Looking at the faces around him, Abdul could see he had no choice.

  “Since 2002,” Abdul said flatly.

  Looking at the varying expressions of shock around the table, Abdul experienced some satisfaction but knew more questions would follow.

  Khaksar nodded. “Many here were only children then. If you first planned it so long ago, surely others were involved as well?”

  Abdul knew where he was headed, and decided to answer first since it would do Khaksar no good. Abdul quickly rattled off three names.

  Khaksar looked grim and responded, “All great men, who died many years ago. Yet all three were known to at least one of us.”

  Khaksar then pointed at two men from the Afghan Taliban, as well as one from the Pakistani TTP. All three nodded.

  Khaksar then turned back to Abdul. “So, you can’t share the details of the attack with all of us. But the four of us knew the men who planned it with you. Tell us, and the others here will accept our decision if we agree to proceed.”

  Both Abdul and Khaksar could see that many of the other leaders were not, in fact, happy with their exclusion. But everyone could see it was the best solution.

  And no one was eager to linger in this meeting spot a minute longer than necessary.

  Quickly, the other leaders filed out until only Abdul, Khaksar, and the other three leaders remained.

  Abdul scowled and shook his head. “First, you have to remember how bad it was when the Americans and their allies first came in 2001. We thought we could crush the Northern Alliance traitors with tanks left over from the Russian occupation before the Americans arrived in real numbers. Then, a handful of their ‘Special Forces’ soldiers hid and used lasers to guide bombs to our tanks. Many of our best-trained men died for nothing.”

  Abdul sat quietly for a moment, clearly collecting his thoughts.

  “Then, at the end of 2001, there was the battle at Tora Bora. The Americans dropped bombs containing seven thousand kilos of explosives they called ‘daisy cutters.’ The bombs came down for days, and then their soldiers followed. More good men gone.”

  Khaksar nodded. “I talked to one of the men who fled Tora Bora with Bin Laden. He said the bombs sounded like the end of the world.”

  Abdul shrugged. “Yet worse was to come. In early 2002 what the enemy called ‘Operation Anaconda.’ We lost hundreds of our best men. Hardly any enemy were killed. In fact, the enemy competed to set records over the greatest distance they could kill us.”

  Khaksar shook his head sympathetically. “The Americans have been difficult opponents for many years.”

  Abdul glared back. “The two snipers setting records for killing our men at distances of over two kilometers were Canadian!”

  Khaksar winced but said nothing, and the other three Taliban leaders silently shook their heads.

  Abdul sighed. “I could go on. American paratroopers dropped onto one of our fortresses at night, killing or capturing every one of our men. Their casualties? One sprained an ankle. You start to see why we were ready to think about a new approach.”

  Khaksar shrugged and nodded, but asked no
thing. It was apparent he had decided to let Abdul tell the story his way.

  Abdul looked thoughtful and then continued. “Continuing to resist the foreign invaders was never a question. We beat the British, and we beat the Russians. Every great empire has believed they could rule us, but all have failed. These invaders would be defeated as well.”

  All the other men present nodded. There was very little every man who called himself Taliban could agree on without question. What Abdul had just said might have been its sum total.

  Abdul scowled. “But, how long would victory take? After the wars that brought American troops to Germany, Japan, and Korea, they stayed for over half a century. Yes, we would keep fighting even then. But what would Afghanistan look like after generations of American occupation?”

  Khaksar stirred, and it looked like he was about to object, but then he settled back and remained quiet.

  Abdul smiled grimly. “You were going to talk about Vietnam. Yes, indeed, Americans were there in real numbers for only about a decade before they abandoned the fight. And there were clear similarities between that conflict and ours. A superpower that risked turning the population against it when its massive firepower inevitably killed civilians. A nearby country where freedom fighters could find sanctuary. Other countries secretly willing to help them.”

  The other men all smiled and nodded, but were also clearly puzzled. Why give up hope that they could have the same success as the Vietnamese?

  Shaking his head, Abdul said quietly, “Nearly sixty thousand Americans died in combat in Vietnam. We have not killed even three thousand, in over twenty years of fighting. But that is not the greatest difference between the two wars.”

  Looking each of the other men in the eye, Abdul said, “Every American who came to fight us in Afghanistan was a volunteer. And none of them have forgotten the crimes of that madman Bin Laden that brought them here.”

  Now several of the other men looked displeased but said nothing.

  Abdul nodded and said, “Yes, I know many of you have been taught that the attacks on the Americans in 2001 were a great victory. But all they accomplished was to kill people in planes and buildings who had nothing to do with us, and to leave the country fielding the most powerful military on earth with an endless appetite for revenge.”