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

by Ted Halstead

  Also, Abdul explained, Hashmat would have a chance to atone for his betrayal and go to God with a clean conscience. Hashmat would play the part of Abdul, and serve as bait for the trap. A trap that, once it snapped shut on the Americans, would also immediately send Hashmat to God’s judgment as a hero.

  Abdul was careful to praise the men that Hashmat would hand over to the Americans, telling him how much he regretted having to lose them and that he wished there was another way.

  Abdul had selected Hashmat’s victims carefully from among men who he knew to be opposed to his vision, but who had not spoken openly against him. After all, Hashmat might be feeble, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Abdul had one other ingenious twist to his scheme. Someone had to take the blame for the betrayals. Those selected to do so came from the same group—opposed to Abdul, but not vocally so.

  How to lay the blame at their feet? Here Abdul’s experience with moving money, which dated back to his days in the Taliban government, indeed came in handy.

  Abdul had given Hashmat instructions on how the Americans were to send payment for information leading to the capture of his opponents. He told Hashmat that the money would go to finance Taliban operations.

  And in a way, it did.

  All of the men he had selected as victims had ties to Afghanistan’s foreign export of narcotics. Since Abdul was known to view the drug trade as at best a necessary evil, this was one of the reasons many Taliban leaders opposed him.

  It meant, though, that these men all had foreign bank accounts they could access online.

  Ordinarily, Abdul had little time or patience for dealing with technology. When it came to money, he made an exception.

  With the financial transactions the Americans had carried out to reward Hashmat’s betrayals, Abdul knew precisely how such a payment would look online. Merely getting the account numbers of his victims was easy since, in theory, the money in those accounts was supposed to be available to finance Taliban operations.

  Removing money from those accounts required passwords that Abdul didn’t have.

  But no password was required to send money to the accounts. For someone with Abdul’s years of experience, it was child’s play to set up a payment account that would make it look like the Americans had sent the money.

  After all, Abdul said to himself with a chuckle, in a sense they had.

  Abdul had only one real worry about the entire plan. That Hashmat would drop dead before he could be used as bait for the Americans.

  Happily, it was now time to spring the trap, and Hashmat was still alive.

  Abdul smiled. He knew the Americans could send a different Seal team, or what they called Rangers.

  But for the critical targets, like Osama bin Laden, they always sent the best. And the last remaining member of the old Taliban government counted as “really important.”

  It would be very satisfying to see the Americans get tricked and trapped for a change.

  201st Military Base, Tajikistan

  Anatoly Grishkov nodded his thanks to the young lieutenant who punched in the code that opened the door to the base’s Operations Center. Once he entered, he was struck by the contrast between the blazing heat outside and the chilly air in the Op Center. The contrast was sharp as well between the dazzling sunshine outside and the dim interior, punctuated here and there by glowing LED screens.

  A figure immediately moved towards him through the gloom with an outstretched hand. “Captain Igor Bronstein. I am the only one on base who knows about your mission, and I intend to keep it that way. Let’s talk,” he said, gesturing towards an office. Though small, Grishkov could see through its open door that the office had been soundproofed.

  Bronstein shut the door behind them and said, “I understand you have to leave immediately. I’d ask how your flight was, but having flown a MiG-31 myself know the answer.”

  Grishkov grunted, and said, “Fast.”

  Bronstein laughed. “Yes. And for your mission, that counted for far more than comfort. Now, let me tell you about my role.”

  Bronstein pulled out a slim folder and passed it across the desk to Grishkov. The first picture in it Grishkov recognized as a type of drone, though not one he’d ever seen. He then asked, “Is this what will be protecting me during my meeting in Afghanistan?”

  “Yes,” Bronstein nodded, “Also, you are looking at its operator. This drone is the Okhotnik, which the Americans call Hunter. A total of three exist, so your mission must have a high priority indeed. I must warn you that all three are still considered prototypes. Though they have performed well in testing so far, equipment failure either on or after takeoff is a possibility, and there is no backup for the Okhotnik stationed here.”

  Grishkov nodded his understanding. “Payload?” he asked.

  Bronstein smiled. “The next photo.”

  The photo showed a missile, with essential details displayed at the bottom. One figure made Grishkov frown.

  “This missile carries a two hundred fifty kilogram warhead?” Grishkov asked.

  “Correct,” Bronstein replied. “The Okhotnik will carry two KH-38MLE missiles on this mission. It is half the size of the maximum dual-missile cargo because I want to give you some chance of surviving its use against your enemies. However, you will still need to keep some distance between you and your attackers for its use to be practical.”

  Grishkov grunted. “No chance of loading anything smaller?”

  Bronstein shook his head. “No, for two reasons. First, nothing smaller has been tested for use in the Okhotnik. It was designed for ground attack, not close air support of ground forces. Second, nothing smaller has the range we need.”

  “Why does the range matter? Won’t the drone be flying overhead?” Grishkov asked.

  Now Bronstein looked uncomfortable. “Well, no. The Americans keep a close watch on the skies over Afghanistan. Our standing orders do not allow us to operate drones there, both to avoid diplomatic complications and to safeguard our equipment, which the Americans would not hesitate to shoot down.”

  Grishkov stared at Bronstein, not sure whether to be angry or astonished. “Then how is this drone going to protect me?”

  Bronstein quickly nodded. “Yes, let me explain. The missile has an operational range of forty kilometers, well within striking distance for your meeting location about thirty kilometers inside Afghanistan. We have been operating our Okhotnik near the Afghan border for months now, and expect no reaction to its use today from the Americans.”

  Grishkov scowled. “And how will this drone monitor the situation at the meeting spot from thirty kilometers away?”

  “It won’t,” Bronstein said with a shrug. “You will signal that you need assistance with this radio transmitter,” he said, handling Grishkov a small metal box with an antenna and a large red button.

  Grishkov shook his head. “How can the drone fire on a target successfully from so far away?”

  Bronstein smiled. “Not as hard as you might think. You will provide the initial bearing with your radio signal. A laser signal that you transmit will then provide the missile terminal guidance to the actual target.”

  Bronstein then handed Grishkov another small metal box, this one with a black button and a glass emitter lens at one end.

  Grishkov nodded. “Yes, I used similar devices in Chechnya when we were coordinating airstrikes.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bronstein said, tapping a bulky folder in front of him. “I read your file, or at least what I could through all the recent redactions.”

  “How long will I have to illuminate the target? Which will probably not be holding still, and is likely to be shooting at me?” Grishkov asked.

  “Not long,” Bronstein replied. “The KH-38MLE flies at Mach 2.2, and so will be on your target very quickly.”

  Grishkov was still visibly unenthusiastic but finally shrugged.

  “Good,” Bronstein said, obviously eager to move on from the topic. “Now, let’s talk about the man who wi
ll accompany you to this meeting,” he said, gesturing for Grishkov to move on to the next photo.

  The bearded, graying face that glared out from the photo was not one Grishkov was excited about as a traveling companion, as his expression made plain.

  Bronstein laughed. “Yes, Amooz is not the most cheerful fellow you’ll ever meet. But he’s had a hard life even by Afghan standards. He worked with us as a teenager when we were in Afghanistan, and is one of the few men we’ve stayed in contact with since we left. He’s lost his entire family in the decades of fighting since then. Not even a cousin is left. For an Afghan, that guarantees you don’t wake up with a smile.”

  Grishkov was not reassured. “So, why should I trust this cheerful fellow?”

  “Because we are all he has left. And because we have kept our promises to him, while he has suffered repeated betrayal at the hands of his fellow Afghans,” Bronstein replied.

  “I’d still rather do without him,” Grishkov said flatly. “I can drive the truck, and I can follow a map. The meeting will be a simple exchange, for which I should need no help.”

  Bronstein shook his head. “You do need Amooz, for several reasons. First, the border guards know him, and they don’t know you. A bribe to let your truck pass the border is not enough. It has to be paid by someone they trust. Next, the meeting may not be as simple as you think, and though the file says the man you’ll meet speaks Russian and English, a translator may still be useful. Finally, if you do come under attack at some point, Amooz has proven he is a survivor. I know him, and would trust him to have my back.”

  He could see that the last point meant more to Grishkov than any of the others. “Very well,” Grishkov said. “If a Russian officer vouches for him, that’s good enough for me. How long before we can get underway?” Grishkov asked.

  “Immediately,” Bronstein replied. “I’d normally have insisted you get some rest and a decent meal after being catapulted across Russia in a MiG-31, but it seems there’s not a minute to waste. So, sandwiches are waiting for you in the front seat of the truck, and with luck, you’ll be able to doze a few minutes before you reach the border. I don’t know all the details of your mission, but enough to be sure it’s important,” he said, thrusting his hand across the desk. “Good luck.’

  “Thanks,” Grishkov said as he stood and shook Bronstein’s hand. “I’m pretty sure I’ll need it.”

  Chapter Six

  Approaching Tajik-Afghan Border

  Anatoly Grishkov looked at Amooz through half-closed eyes as the truck continued its bumpy, lurching way towards Afghanistan. He was exhausted, having had little luck trying to sleep in the MiG-31’s cockpit, and even less on roads that seemed to get worse the closer they came to Afghanistan.

  Amooz had said little, and at first, that had been fine with Grishkov as he tried to sleep. As the latest bounce brought his teeth together with a clack, though, he realized he really should sit up and learn something about his driver, translator, and—if things went wrong—fellow combatant.

  “So, you are the first Afghan I’ve met who has been with us since we had forces in Afghanistan in the 1980s,” Grishkov said, as neutrally as he could.

  Amooz glanced towards Grishkov expressionlessly. “Yes,” he said calmly. “I suppose you’re wondering why I supported the Russian forces.”

  Grishkov nodded.

  “Well, the last Afghan king was overthrown just six years before Russian forces arrived. His cousin took over, and the only change was that a different bunch of nobles continued to exploit the poor and uneducated, as they had done for centuries. You Russians said you’d gotten rid of your nobles, and could show us how to do it too. Or maybe I just heard what I wanted to hear,” Amooz said with a bitter smile.

  Grishkov shrugged. “When the Communist Party lost power, and the USSR collapsed, many hoped the grip of the party elite on wealth and privilege would disappear. However, many of the old elite were able to adapt very well to the new Russia.”

  “Good, you understand me,” Amooz said, nodding. “By the time I realized you Russians were in Afghanistan for your own purposes and had no real interest in us and our problems, it was too late. I have lost my family over decades of fighting. I have learned just three things over more than three decades.”

  Grishkov cocked his head, making it clear he was paying attention.

  “First, the Taliban are medieval barbarians, with whom there can be no negotiation. They are determined to impose their will on their women and on anyone in Afghanistan who is not from their Pashtun ethnic group, and will tolerate no foreign interference.”

  Grishkov nodded his understanding.

  “Second, the Americans are fools. They have cast their lot with the Afghan nobility, whether they realize it or not. Afghans will only fight to keep them in control of the major cities as long as the Americans are willing to pay, and to maintain enough troops here to keep their jet fighters, helicopters, and drones flying. I doubt they will stay here forever, and once they go, the Taliban will be back in Kabul in a matter of days.”

  Grishkov shrugged and nodded again.

  “Finally, when a man realizes everything he hoped for is beyond his reach, he’s left with just one thing. Honor. That’s why, Russian, you can count on me to get you to your meeting.”

  Grishkov was about to reply when the truck made a sharp turn on the road, and the Tajik border post was before them.

  “No matter what happens, keep quiet!” Amooz hissed in a fierce whisper.

  Grishkov sat still and looked straight ahead as their truck pulled up to the border crossing. Though he couldn’t follow their conversation in what Grishkov guessed was Tajik, Amooz seemed like a different person. Laughing and joking with the border guards, who he clearly knew, Amooz eventually slid an envelope through the truck’s window that quickly disappeared in the hands of the border post’s commander. Moments later, they were on their way.

  Once they turned around another bend in the winding road and were out of sight of the Tajik border post, Amooz pulled the truck off the road. Grishkov looked at him questioningly and got a fierce scowl in response.

  “Something’s wrong,” Amooz said flatly.

  Grishkov shrugged. “Everything seemed to go well, and they didn’t search the truck. What makes you think there’s a problem?”

  If anything, Amooz’ scowl deepened. “I didn’t like the smile Mahmoud had on his face when we left. It’s a smile you give when you know something the other person doesn’t.”

  Grishkov nodded. “I’m guessing Mahmoud is the border post commander?”

  Rather than answer, Amooz appeared to make a decision. “I’ll be able to see the Afghan border post from the top of that hill. At least we can find out what’s waiting for us. Stay here with the truck, and lift the hood. If anyone stops to help, tell them a tow truck is on the way. I won’t take long, so you probably won’t see anyone. We picked this route because it’s not too busy.”

  With that, Amooz pulled a pair of Komz 8x30 binoculars from the glove compartment. In response to Grishkov’s raised eyebrows, Amooz said, “I took these from a Russian officer who no longer needed them.”

  Grishkov nodded. Since they were about to be used in support of a Russian mission, he could hardly object. In fact, he found it oddly comforting that one of the highest quality items produced by the old USSR was about to help him reach his objective. Komz, like many Soviet enterprises, had significantly benefited from captured German equipment, technology, and even technicians.

  Grishkov thought to himself with a frown that the Soviet Union had paid dearly in blood for everything it took from the Germans. By the time he’d completed the thought, Amooz was out of sight.

  Lifting the truck’s hood, Grishkov looked down the road, which was as empty as Amooz had promised. Except for a few hills, the land around him was flat and featureless, with only occasional patches of grass and shrub punctuating long expanses of bare dirt and rock.

  Grishkov wiped his forehead with
his sleeve. Even at mid-morning, it was already a hot day under a clear blue sky.

  Amooz was true to his word, and before any other vehicle had appeared on the road was back. One look was all Grishkov needed to know the news wasn’t good.

  Climbing back into the truck Amooz nearly spat a single word, “Dushkas!”

  Grishkov frowned. More than one was very bad news. The DShK-1938/46 heavy machine gun fired 12.7mm x 108mm ammunition roughly equivalent to the American .50 caliber round at a rate of six hundred rounds a minute. Designed primarily as a weapon against low-flying aircraft and light armor, it would have no trouble chewing through their truck. Over a million had been produced, and it was very good at its job.

  Even worse, a poorly trained gunner only had to point a Dushka in the right direction inside a kilometer to be nearly sure of a hit with a target as large as a truck. A competent gunner could do even longer ranges.

  Grishkov knew that “Dushka” came from the acronym “DshK.” Anytime he thought about it, though, he couldn’t imagine a less fitting nickname for this killing machine than the Russian word meaning “Sweetie.”

  “How many?” Grishkov asked.

  “Two,” Amooz answered. “Two too many. One is pintle-mounted and static. The other is triple-mounted on a GAZ truck.”

  Grishkov nodded. “How many do they usually have?”

  Amooz just stared at him. “Do you think I’d be going anywhere near those by choice? They normally have zero Dushkas. Ordinarily, it looks like the Tajik border post we just passed, five or six soldiers with AK-74s, and nothing heavier. Those Dushkas are for us.”

  Grishkov grunted agreement. Bronstein might have been required to coordinate with the Tajik government, and someone there saw an opportunity. Or Bronstein had turned them in himself, in return for a cut of the millions in the truck. Thinking back on his encounter with Bronstein, Grishkov doubted that was the answer.

  Well, one way to find out for sure.

  Aloud, he said, “I’m going to take a look for myself. Stay here with the truck until I get back. And pass me those binoculars.”