Comfort & Affliction
by M. F. Frosolono
© Copyright 2015 by M. F. Frosolono
ISBN 978-1-94019-262-8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
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DEDICATION
Prof. Franz Joseph Kovar impressed two great ideas upon me in his Philosophy class when I was a senior at LaGrange College, a United Methodist-supported institution: (1) The quality of the questions we ask determines the quality of the answers we obtain and (2) Always ask questions and always question answers. Accordingly, in that spirit, I dedicate Comfort and Affliction to all my brothers and sisters, especially those in faith communities, who struggle to ask questions that provide meaningful answers to the problems we face today.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
15 May 2010
Thirteen men, bearded and dressed in the long shirts and baggy pants common to Pashtun males, strode determinedly along the narrow road to the broad summit of a mountain on the Afghanistan border, adjacent to the Waziristan tribal frontier in Pakistan. The first man, a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter than most of his companions, was at the front of the group. Each of the other twelve men led a heavily laden pack mule. Tubular launchers and bags of rocket-propelled grenades were strapped across the packs. The men carried assault rifles and wore vests crammed with magazines. The group paused before entering an abandoned fort at the summit.
“Let’s bed down for the night and get ready for the cold temperatures,” Eric Jameson said. His voice sounded clear and without distortion in the tiny receivers each man wore in one ear. The men followed him into the fort, where the walls and internal structures appeared in good condition. Eric hoped the roof was as substantial as the thick walls of the fortification.
“Everybody locked and loaded?” Eric asked, once the men had assumed their positions around the walls of the fort with weapons and ammunition nearby. “Ready for action,” each man answered in turn through the small microphones near their mouths.
“Let’s eat, Eric said. ”Watch for movement on the road; keep your night vision equipment handy.” The men removed Meals Ready to Eat packages from one of the mule packs.
By prearranged assignment, two-man teams stood watch in two-hour segments. Although Eric commanded the group, he and Master Sergeant Tom Brockman took their turns for the watch. Brockman had the major responsibility for communications within the group and with the base command. Abdul, the group’s Afghani guide and interpreter, came to Eric as dawn broke. “Major Jameson, I’ll scout ahead on the road to see if anyone approaches our position.”
“Be careful. We don’t want to alert anyone to our presence.”
“Of course, Major. I’ll return soon.”
“Let’s get out of this native dress and into our battle rattle,” Eric said over frequency two. The team opened the packs to reveal U.S. Army uniforms, armored vests, and an arsenal of various weapons and ammunition.
Brockman asked Eric, “Sir, will you admit the intelligence weenies correctly predicted what would happen?”
“Sure. For once, they made the right call.”
“Let’s hope they’re also correct about the person coming down the trail this morning.”
“Seeing’s believing. If Haqqani shows, we’ll give him a warm welcome.”
Brockman pointed to the lightening sky. “Looks like the weather prognosticators may have made a bad call.”
Clouds obscured much of the sky. If bad weather developed, the team could be deprived of air support from Air Force jets and Army helicopter gunships, and forced to fight without it. “Well, we gotta do what we gotta do,” Eric said in his best Rambo imitation over the comm net.
“Hooah!” The rest of the team responded with the pervasive Army slang for Heard, Understood, Acknowledged.
“You want the Claymores positioned now, Major?” Wes Howard, the team’s primary weapons officer, asked.
“As soon as possible.”
Sergeants Howard and Aaron Kleinerman left the fort. Over the next half hour, they concealed Claymore mines to fire across both sides of the road leading to the fort.
“Major,” Sergeant Rodney Kirkwood said. “Three hostiles approaching from the north under a white flag.”
“All right,” Eric said. “Everybody maintain your positions and watch what’s happening in your sector. We don’t want any nasties sneaking up on us.” Eric trained his binoculars on the approaching three men. One of them was Abdul, carrying the white flag.
The three men, armed only with holstered pistols, walked to within twenty-five meters of the fort. Abdul then came closer to the walls. “Major Jameson, these men wish to speak with you. They agree not to harm you or your men while you talk.”
Eric told the team, “I’m going out. Sergeants Brockman and Howard, cover me. Sight on Abdul’s companions. I’ll take care of Abdul.”
Eric left his weapons, except for his own M-9 pistol and combat knife, at his fighting position. He walked unhurriedly to within arm’s reach of the men, who tried to hide their discomfort at his proximity.
“What can I do for you?” Eric asked.
The man on Eric’s right wore a Pakistani Army uniform without insignia. “Major Jameson, aren’t you rather senior to be on this fool’s mission?”
Eric had already identified the second man, the person the team wanted to apprehend or kill. Within seconds, the photographic image of the Pakistani officer came to Eric from briefings he had attended. “I like to be wher
e the action takes place.” Eric laughed. “Why have you left Inter-Service Intelligence headquarters, Colonel Khalil? You don’t have the reputation for getting yourself directly involved in combat operations.”
Khalil tried to hide his surprise with a smirk. “You’re on the sovereign territory of Pakistan without authorization. Surrender your weapons and we won’t kill you.”
“I think not. We’re on the border at an abandoned customs post. We have Afghani governmental permission to be here.”
“The government of Afghanistan does not exercise authority here.”
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Ridiculous.”
“I’m not discussing the issue any further. You give us the terrorist at your side, the man we came for, and we’ll go back into Afghanistan.”
The tall, fierce-looking man at Khalil’s right side smiled. “You know who I am, infidel?”
“Maulavi Syed Haqqani, the Haqqani network’s operations officer in Afghanistan.”
“I see you’re well-informed about some things,” Haqqani said.
Eric spat at Khalil’s feet. “In contrast to you, we have an excellent intelligence service. Care to speculate how we knew you were coming into our ambush?”
“I don’t care what you know, you bastard spawn of a pig sow and a dog,” Haqqani snarled.
Khalil motioned for Haqqani to be silent. “Let’s dispense with the posturing, Major Jameson.”
“Suits me.”
“The important issue in this discussion concerns what we can do to you and your men, if you don’t surrender.”
Eric saw a crowd of men massing at the point where the road curved to the right. Brockman announced in Eric’s ear, “Major, looks like approximately twenty Pakistani soldiers and two-hundred ragheads bunched together at three-hundred meters. Maybe a show of force?” Brockman gave a soft chuckle.
“Colonel Khalil, we’ve come a long way for the terrorist at your side,” Eric said. “We won’t leave until we have him alive or dead; it doesn’t matter to us. Don’t get in our way.”
“The arrogance of you American pigs never ceases to amaze me,” Haqqani spat out.
“It isn’t arrogance, if we can do what we say we will. Your best bet to stay alive is to come with us. Cooperate and we may not send you to Gitmo or turn you over to the Israelis.”
Trying to hide his increasing anger, Haqqani asked, “Do you know the fable about the hunter who chased the tiger until the tiger caught him?”
“Who’s the tiger here? You’re missing the fundamental idea, if you think you’ve lured an elite U.S. Army team into an ambush.”
“Really? Why don’t you inform us about this fundamental idea?”
“My comrades and I are the tigers, not you and your sorry excuses for fighters.”
Khalil glared at Eric. “I have over two hundred men with me. You’re vastly outnumbered.”
“Doesn’t seem like a fair fight, does it?”
“No,” Khalil said. “You might as well surrender now. We may show mercy to your men.”
“I’m not impressed,” Eric said.
Khalil pointed to the sky. “With this wind and the clouds about to envelop the mountain, your air forces won’t be able to help you. You’ll be at our mercy.”
“You still don’t get the picture, Khalil.” Eric showed further disrespect by omitting Khalil’s military title. “We’re twelve men, which amounts to maybe ten to fifteen of your guys for each of us to kill. You’re at a disadvantage. We won’t even break out into a sweat.”
“You truly are arrogant.”
“See, here’s the situation. I figure your squad of Pakistani soldiers won’t put up much of a fight. After all, the Indians have beaten your army into the ground on three occasions. You Pakis aren’t warriors—you simply talk big and believe in conspiracy theories.” Eric saw his words were having the desired effect on Khalil. “As for the bigger group of ragheads with this Da Dammay zo at your side, they’d rather plant improvised explosive devices than stand and fight.” Eric applied a Pashtu phrase roughly translated as son of a whore. “You don’t stand a chance.”
Anger distorted Khalil and Haqqani’s faces. Eric, with lightning-fast speed, used his left hand to grab Haqqani’s blouse and pull the insurgent away from Khalil. Eric spun Haqqani around and quickly put a left-handed chokehold on the terrorist. Eric withdrew his pistol from the holster at his hip and drove the weapon’s barrel into Haqqani’s mouth, breaking several teeth. Haqqani writhed and flailed his arms. “Want me to press harder, maybe fire off a round?” Eric asked. Haqqani gave up the struggle. “Light up Khalil,” Eric commanded through the comm net.
Khalil went for the pistol at his side. Eric never loosened his grip on Haqqani. “Khalil, before you attempt to shoot me, you might look at the two red dots on your chest.” The Pakistani looked confused.
Two red dots from the laser sights on Brockman and Howard’s rifles held steady on Khalil’s chest. “Lost your courage?” Eric asked, sarcasm coloring his voice. “Holster your pistol before I lose my patience and have you blown to hell.”
Khalil, eyes blazing, complied.
“Go back to your sorry excuses for soldiers. This raghead now belongs to the U.S. Army.”
“You’ll never leave the fort alive.”
“Come and get us, if you think you’re man enough.” Eric shot Abdul in his right knee. The man fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Eric spat on Khalil’s boots before wrenching Haqqani around to face the fort. Eric relentlessly propelled his captive forward, keeping his chokehold and pistol in place on the blue-faced man who struggled to breathe. Eric looked back at Khalil. “Stay where you are until I get this piece of garbage into the fort. Then run back to your men with your tail between your legs like a vomit-eating dog. Be assured my men will keep you in their sights.”
Eric pushed Haqqani into the fort and spoke to Sergeant Brad Dawson, who functioned as the team’s medical corpsman. “Tie up this raghead and put him to sleep. I don’t want to hear his ranting and raving.”
“Yes, sir,” Dawson replied, his pistol trained on Haqqani. “Glad to oblige.”
“Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cut off his balls.”
“Before or after I put him to sleep?”
“Afterwards. We’re not cruel.”
Dawson, much as he had done as an all-conference tackle in college, hit the protesting Haqqani solidly on his chin with a right forearm. “Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll cut off your balls while you’re awake.” Dawson injected the barely conscious Haqqani with a powerful sedative and tied him up. “He isn’t going anywhere, at least not for the next twelve hours.”
Eric told the team, “The ragheads will be coming soon.”
Howard asked, “Major, you want the Barrett?” Howard referred to the Army’s .50-caliber sniper rifle with a stated effective range of 1,800 meters.
Although all members of the team cross-trained in each other’s specialties, Eric was considered the best marksman. “Yes. Sergeant Brockman can spot for me and keep the comm net going.”
Eric spoke next to Sergeant Nathan Morse, whose six-foot-six-inch height and three-hundred-pound muscular body dwarfed even his. “Sergeant Morse, you and Sergeant Smith get the Gus into position.” Eric indicated the Carl Gustaf 84 mm recoilless rifle, a weapon that gave squads and other small units a tremendous firepower. “Load flechette shells.” Eric referred to lethal dart-like munitions fired from the Gus.
“On the way, Major,” Sergeant Morse answered. “I can hardly wait for the blood-letting to begin.” Shortly after the newly formed team’s first battle behind enemy lines in Bosnia, Sergeant Morse had revealed he was gay. During this battle, Sergeant Morse killed several opponents in vicious hand-to-hand fighting. Morse cited his combat performance to dispel the widespread fallacy suggesting homosexuals lacked a killer instinct. He pointed out that he had never put a sexual move on any of the team. “You guys are my brot
hers, not my type.” In the rough and ready camaraderie of the team, someone had given Morse the nickname, “Precious,” an appellation used strictly within the team in the absence of outsiders.
Eric saw Abdul struggle to stand up on one leg. “I’m not through with you,” Eric said, and fired a single round. The .50-caliber bullet blew off Abdul’s left leg at the knee. Abdul, screaming in agony, fell to the ground.
“You going to finish him off, Major, or do you want one of us to put him away?” Brockman asked.
“Let the traitor suffer,” Eric said. “He’ll bleed to death in a few minutes.”
Brockman had his spotter scope trained on the bend in the road. “Hostile stepping out from behind some rocks at the curve. You want him?”
“Let’s wait.”
The lone figure raised an AK-47and fired a prolonged burst. The bullets silenced Abdul.
“An angel of mercy,” Eric said, “although no good deed should go unpunished.” He fired the Barrett and the man fell dead.
“Sir, you are a wicked, wicked man,” Brockman laughed over the cheers from the other Americans.”
“We got their attention, didn’t we?”
“No doubt about it.” Brockman took the spotter scope from his eye. “Base on the line for you, Major.”
Eric switched off the microphone for the local comm net and spoke directly into the second microphone at his throat. “Apocalypse Six.”
“Buckshot.”
“You heard what’s going down?”
“Loud and clear. How long can you hold without air support?”
“Until the ragheads bring some heavy guns to the mountain top or our ammunition gives out. We brought a lot.”
“Good. Looks like you’re going to be socked in for a while.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Our Pakistani allies have their underwear twisted up their rectums. Seems as if they don’t like your team being on their territory,” Buckshot said.
“The Pakis give a new meaning to the idea of mendacity. I wish our enlightened national commanders would give the Air Force orders to nuke ’em back into the Stone Age.”
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