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

by Ted Halstead

  The President shrugged. “I’ve always thought an FSB Director must be…ruthless. But putting the same agents into Afghanistan so soon after Pakistan? On the other hand, we certainly want as few people as possible to know anything about this.”

  “Precisely, Mr. President. And who knows? They may get lucky.”

  Smyslov and the President smiled at each other.

  Creech Air Force Base, Nevada

  Air Force Lt. Colonel Emmanuel Wainwright was not happy. Far from being unusual, for years, it had been Manny’s natural state.

  He had never cared for either Emmanuel or Manny. He liked the call sign his Air Force Academy classmates awarded him, Weasel, even less.

  After a promising early start, over the past decade, his career progress had first slowed and then stalled. Now only one more performance review stood between Wainwright and compulsory retirement.

  With two children in college and a hefty mortgage payment due every month, Wainwright had no idea how he could pay his bills if he was forced out of the only job he’d ever had.

  For most pilots like Wainwright, the answer would have been easy. Go to work flying for an airline. Though not impossible, that choice had been made much more difficult by his decision years ago to make the career switch from manned to unmanned aircraft.

  Wainwright had seen the move as the best way to restart his slow career progress. Instead, it had stalled it completely.

  The problem was simple. Early in Wainwright’s career as a pilot, he had been judged strictly by his skills in the air, and in fact, he was a natural aviator.

  When he was promoted to command over other pilots, though, he needed a completely different set of skills. That Wainwright didn’t have.

  However, Wainwright refused to believe that lack of what his evaluations called “leadership ability” was the problem. Instead, he thought he was being held back by the increasing emphasis on drones by the Air Force. So, he switched to that field.

  It turned out that Wainwright’s friction with the young drone operators was even worse than with his fellow pilots. Rather than providing a restart, his career stalled altogether.

  Worse, years out of the cockpit put Wainwright at a disadvantage in the fierce competition for pilot positions with the airlines flying out of Las Vegas’ McCarran Airport. His mortgage was more than his house was now worth. So, if the Air Force made him retire, he would have to compete for a job at that sole airport.

  The truth was, Wainwright didn’t blame the airlines for preferring the many Air Force pilots with much more recent experience, including some who were leaving the service after one or two tours and so were far younger.

  Retraining a military pilot to fly a commercial jet cost airlines serious money. Why spend it on a pilot who hadn’t flown in years, and who didn’t have many flying years left?

  Wainwright had pulled every string he had left to get the job he had now, commanding drone operations at Creech Air Force Base. He believed his best chance of getting promoted was, above all, to avoid serious errors being made by anyone under his command. That meant doing things by the book.

  The officer standing at attention in front of him, Captain Josh Pettigrew, embodied everything Wainwright hated. Pettigrew had spent most of his time in the Air Force as an NCO. Then he had been accepted to Officer Candidate School (OCS).

  So, not an Air Force Academy graduate. For Wainwright, strike one.

  Pettigrew had been forced on Wainwright as his deputy over his preferred candidate for the position. Strike two.

  Pettigrew’s performance file had redactions during the time he served in Korea and Saudi Arabia, so on paper, he was largely an unknown quantity.

  Wainwright had spoken to his few remaining friends about Pettigrew’s career. Twice he had been told bluntly to stop asking if he knew what was good for him.

  The third time Wainwright was told that Pettigrew had broken every rule in the book in Korea but that he had escaped punishment because of his successful performance in combat.

  The same friend told him that nobody would talk on the record about Pettigrew’s time in Saudi Arabia. But there was a rumor that the Commander in Chief himself had ordered Pettigrew’s assignment to OCS, and then seen to his subsequent promotion to Captain. No doubt, friends in high places had also landed Pettigrew his job as Wainwright’s deputy.

  That much was a rumor. Wainwright’s friend said he knew for a fact that the General in command of U.S. forces in Saudi Arabia had been relieved and subsequently forcibly retired because of Pettigrew.

  But he didn’t know why.

  At that point, Wainwright had heard more than enough. A very emphatic strike three.

  Keeping his expression as neutral as possible, Wainwright welcomed Pettigrew to the base and told him the high priority he placed on following all Air Force rules and regulations to the exact letter. Wainwright also encouraged Pettigrew to see him if he was ever in doubt on that point.

  Pettigrew had said he understood, looked forward to serving under Wainwright’s command, saluted and left. On the surface, it seemed everything Wainwright had been told was wrong.

  Wainwright was willing to bet it would be just days until his friend was proved right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hattar Industrial Estate, Pakistan

  Colonel Azita Kamar knew in her bones that this search was taking too long, as she stood watching one of her teams knocking down yet another warehouse door. She didn’t need the increasingly agitated Senior Technician Nasir Cheema at her elbow to tell her so.

  But Nasir didn’t seem to understand this.

  “By now, he’s had time to remove at least one of the warheads. He’s probably working on the second one right now,” Nasir said. It was clear from his expression that he imagined the process underway while he spoke.

  Partly to distract Nasir and partly from genuine curiosity, Azita asked, “How exactly will Ibrahim remove the warheads?”

  Nasir shrugged. “They are designed for easy removal if you know what you’re doing. And Ibrahim does. Most of our missiles are designed to fit either conventional or nuclear warheads to keep the Indians guessing. We switch out the warheads from time to time for the same reason—to make it that much harder for the Indian enemy to know which missiles are worth targeting.”

  Azita frowned. “It all sounds very complicated. Is it really necessary?”

  Nasir’s head bobbed up and down emphatically. “Oh, yes. India has far more nuclear weapons than we do and is building more faster than we can. If we don’t use every trick in the book, pretty soon you and I will be speaking Hindi.”

  Azita arched one eyebrow upwards but said nothing in response.

  Another thought occurred to her, one she knew Nasir wouldn’t like.

  “What could Ibrahim do to speed up the warhead removal process?”

  Nasir frowned. “Well, if he had space, he could put hoists on both sides of the TEL and remove two missiles at a time. But he would need a lot of help. Plus, he’d have to have trained at least one person up to his level of competence in missile handling and warhead removal. No easy task.”

  Then he gnawed on his lower lip. “But if anyone could manage the task, it would be Ibrahim.”

  Azita nodded. “What are we looking for, then?”

  “The bigger the building, the better for Ibrahim. If he has two hoists and two crews, one on each side of the TELs for missile removal, plus men ready to start removing warheads two at a time as soon as the missiles are out of the tubes, he’s going to need…a lot of room.”

  Azita grabbed her radio and walked away from Nasir, speaking rapidly. A few minutes later, she was back and gestured for Nasir to sit in her car as she started its engine.

  “I’ve put the search priority on the largest buildings here, instead of trying to search for any building Ibrahim could be using more methodically. We’re going to gamble that he’s trying to remove the warheads two at a time,” Azita said.

  Nasir shook his head.
“If that’s what he’s doing, he could be almost done removing all four warheads by now.”

  Azita didn’t respond, but instead asked, “You’ve told us that we should avoid firing near the end of the TEL furthest from the driver’s cab since that’s the end holding the warhead. Any other area we should avoid?”

  Nasir’s eyes widened. “Yes, yes! Avoid hitting the TEL’s fuel tank, below the driver’s cab. We wanted to armor it, but couldn’t because of the weight.”

  Azita nodded. “The biggest building here is occupied by a cement factory, and their main warehouse door is wide open, so we can see that’s all it is. We’re now arriving at the second largest. It’s locked up tight, and nobody’s answering their phone.”

  Then Azita grinned fiercely. “We’re not going to knock.”

  The Talha armored personnel carrier Azita had requested nearly an hour before had finally arrived. She had been told by the officer in charge not to expect it sooner since its top speed was only forty kilometers per hour.

  However, what the APC lacked in speed it made up for in sheer mass. Since the Talha weighed over twelve tons fully loaded, the warehouse door would be…no real obstacle.

  Azita walked up to the squad leader and passed on Nasir’s warning about the TEL’s fuel tank. The caution was quickly conveyed, and the APC rolled towards the warehouse door at its top speed.

  The door crumpled like tinfoil.

  Inside it was the TEL, two hoists, and four missiles laid out on makeshift tables. Azita could immediately see that all four were missing their warheads.

  There were also over a dozen men inside, who had been preparing to leave. Besides several who had been knocked flat by the collapsed warehouse door.

  Azita’s troops gave the men no chance to reach their weapons. None of the Taliban tried to surrender.

  Minutes later, the Taliban fighters were all either dead or injured. Azita had ambulances ready for the injured, which included only a single one of her soldiers.

  Azita would question the Taliban survivors, but based on her past experiences doubted she would learn anything worthwhile. The Taliban were big believers in giving information only to those needing to know it. And even those who knew something would die rather than betray their “brothers.”

  Azita spoke rapidly into her radio and then gestured for Nasir to exit her car, where she had told him to stay during the assault.

  “Based on what you told me before about the size of the warhead, I’ve told my men to search all vehicles trying to leave this industrial park the size of a large van or a truck of any size. Do you agree?”

  Nasir stared at the warehouse interior and nodded miserably. “They have all four warheads! Will you be able to find them all?”

  Azita shook her head. “I doubt it. I didn’t have enough men even to attempt blocking all the roads leading out of this industrial park as well as search it. All we can do is try.”

  Creech Air Force Base, Nevada

  Air Force Lt. Colonel Emmanuel Wainwright handed the folder across the desk to Captain Josh Pettigrew. As always, he kept his subordinate standing in front of him. Best to remind junior officers who was in charge, he thought.

  And that went double for this jumped-up NCO, he thought.

  “I want to stress how important this mission is, Captain,” Wainwright said. “This is the first time we’ve ever had intelligence on Mullah Abdul Zahed’s location in time to send in a team to capture him. I’ve already personally briefed the airman who will pilot the drone for this mission.”

  Pettigrew nodded impassively, but in fact, he was surprised. Usually, he would have briefed the drone pilot. But Wainwright certainly had the right to do so if he wished.

  Wainwright continued, “I want you to oversee this mission, and make sure everything is done by the book. Now, you supervised the loadout for the drone we’ll be using. Is everything in order and ready for mission success?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pettigrew said. He couldn’t resist adding, “Mullah Abdul Zahed, sir. The only member of the deposed Taliban government still active in the field. How good do you think the intel is that says he’ll still be there when we arrive?”

  In spite of himself, Wainwright was impressed. He hadn’t known offhand who Mullah Abdul Zahed was, and he’d been dealing with Afghanistan a lot longer than Pettigrew.

  Well, time to impress this Captain.

  “One detail you won’t find in this file is that our intel source has been proven reliable before. He’s already given us the location of a couple of lower-level Taliban leaders, and each time they checked out. I guess now he’s looking for a bigger payday,” Wainwright concluded with satisfaction.

  “Yes, sir,” Pettigrew said, while thinking to himself that this all sounded too good to be true. He had an immediate mental image of a fat, juicy worm wriggling on a sharp, shiny metal hook.

  “Dismissed, Captain,” Wainwright said.

  Pettigrew collected the mission file from the top of Wainwright’s desk, saluted, and left.

  Chapter Fifteen

  201st Military Base, Tajikistan

  Colonel Igor Bronstein’s three guests barely fit in his small soundproofed office. He handed Anatoly Grishkov, Mikhail Vasilyev, and Neda Rhahbar each a slim folder.

  “I have been ordered to do three things. The first is for all of you. I am to pass on congratulations from your superiors for whatever you did during your mission. The second is for you, Grishkov. You are reminded that you are an FSB agent, not a medic,” Bronstein said, shaking his head.

  Grishkov shrugged, while Vasilyev and Neda both smiled with obvious amusement.

  Bronstein expected no explanation and didn’t get one.

  “Finally, I have briefing materials for you on a new mission. Pakistani authorities are searching intensively for the four stolen nuclear warheads and may still recover some or all of them.”

  Bronstein paused and looked at them thoughtfully.

  “However, if it appears the Taliban have taken them into Afghanistan, we have offered to work with the Americans to locate the warheads and either recover or destroy them.”

  The reactions on the three faces in front of him ranged from “concern” to “dismay.”

  “Before we continue, review the briefing materials in your folders. Vasilyev, one marked detail was provided only to you and me. It is up to you to decide whether the mission requires you to share it with the others on your team.”

  Bronstein stood, opened his office door, and pointed to a vacant desk in the base Operations Center that surrounded his soundproofed office.

  “When you are ready with your questions, let me know.”

  With that, Bronstein left and closed the door behind him.

  It didn’t take them long to read through the slim folders. Grishkov was the first to speak.

  “OK, I’ll admit I was wrong, and we did make a difference in Pakistan. But Afghanistan is another matter. The Americans may have fewer troops there than they used to, but the three of us can’t do anything they could do as well or better.”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Normally, I’d say you’re right. But we’ll have two things the Americans don’t. Experts in Moscow have analyzed that map you found, and they show the routes the Taliban are planning to use to transport the weapons to their targets. Also, we have technology the Americans lack.”

  Grishkov grunted. “I suppose this is the part you’re not supposed to tell us?”

  Vasilyev shrugged.

  “Remember, Colonel Bronstein said it was up to me. I’ve decided you both need to know.”

  Pointing at Grishkov, he said, “You will recall the drone that covered you when you were in Afghanistan. The same drone will be fitted with an equipment package that gives us the ability to detect radioactivity to help locate the stolen warheads.”

  Neda frowned. “I’m sorry, but are you sure that the Americans don’t have the same or better technology? No offense, but isn’t their scientific equipment generally better than what is pr
oduced in Russia?”

  Vasilyev nodded. “I had the same reaction. However, in this case, we pulled ahead years ago, thanks to superior motivation. Chernobyl was not our only nuclear accident. Also, in several instances, our nuclear weapons were…not where they were supposed to be. So, we put more resources into this technology than the Americans, and came up with better equipment as a result.”

  Vasilyev paused. “And it’s worth remembering that for many years we were the only country able to get American astronauts into space. It’s not enough to have a theoretical capability. You must also make the right decisions, and set the right priorities, to get the proper result.”

  Grishkov shook his head. “So why not simply hand over what we learned from the map and what we will learn from the drone to the Americans?”

  Vasilyev shrugged. “I’ve just explained that this tracking technology is one of the few areas where we have an advantage over the Americans. The technology is highly classified, and will certainly not be shared with the Americans or anyone else.”

  Grishkov looked stubborn. “OK, so what about the map?”

  Vasilyev nodded. “Moscow may rethink that decision if the Taliban can bring more than one warhead out of Pakistan. For now, as you saw from the briefing papers, we have asked the Americans to let us operate in coordination with their special forces, with the understanding that we will inform them if we locate a stolen warhead.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Grishkov said. “Something else is going on here we’re not being told about.”

  Neda nodded in agreement but said nothing.

  Vasilyev looked at both of them and then said with quiet exasperation, “I’ve told you everything I know. Do you want me to guess?”

  Grishkov made a “give it to me” gesture with his hands that brought a smile from Neda.

  “Very well. I think Moscow would like very much for us to get the credit for saving Kabul from a Taliban nuclear weapon. We’ve talked before about Afghanistan’s fantastic mineral wealth. Russia has one other card to play in the competition to extract those minerals.”