“I’ll take your opinion under advisement,” Elizabeth said. Then, she added, “Now, please have Sergeant York prepared for a little chat. I’ll be alone with him. Michael, my senior techie, will be outside the door along with your guards . . . just in case something happens. That make you happy?”
“It makes me worried,” Kline said.
“No need to be worried, I’ll be just fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, General, I have much to do.
Kline extended his hand by habit, attempting to shake the woman’s hand once more, saying, “It was nice to meet you and I hope—”
But before he could finish, Elizabeth had turned and walked from the room.
No goodbye, no handshake, not even a nod. She merely left the room, her own mind whirling, her thoughts already on the next task. It was in Elizabeth’s nature to cut to the point, to not bullshit, to remain focused.
And most importantly, Elizabeth strived for one thing: To accomplish her mission.
35
Everyone on the base had been scrambling the past three weeks. They knew something was amiss, a rumor floating around that a team of Delta went missing.
Some had seen the lone survivor.
Some had even heard his words.
Utter nonsense, most believed.
Most, but not all.
It must have been important, for the base had been under constant scrutiny ever since. Corporals were assholes to Privates, Sergeants were assholes to Corporals. The officers were uptight, everything they did, they did wrong it seemed.
Over the weeks, cars came and went. C130s, Apaches. They saw generals, politicians, and civilians. Most were ushered away quickly, most had an entourage of private security and personal aides.
Important people.
The base was tense, but to make matters worse, conflict in the area seemed to rise. They were under bombardment a few times a day. Nothing they couldn’t handle, but it seemed the Taliban knew they were flustered, deciding to take advantage of that.
The men and women were overworked, scrutinized, could do nothing right.
Fights were common.
Epic screams from officers to enlisted men.
Lots of PT.
Lots.
It was midday, warm. The guards at the front entrance to the base had seen the civilian Lear Jet fly overhead, seen it land. It was probably a twelve-seater, most likely carrying more important people. Who they were was anyone’s guess. Didn’t matter to the guards, they’d seen many. They watched from a distance as Elizabeth and Reynolds were ushered to Kline’s offices.
Things had begun to calm in the past days, slowly but surely going back to normal. Less intruders to their routine, less chaos. The Marines guarding the entrance felt the pressure like everyone else, perhaps a bit more considering they were in charge of security.
The voice of a man surprised them.
“How’s it going, boys?”
The man didn’t come from within the base. Quite the opposite. He simply appeared outside, standing on the horizontal metal bar, right in front of the sign telling the proper check in procedures, and the results of an unannounced approach.
This man, whoever he was, seemed to have appeared from nowhere. No vehicle in sight, and the guards’ line of sight was far.
And he had an AK-47 on his shoulder.
“Hey, what the hell!” a Marine called out. He raised his M16, saying, “Keep that rifle on your shoulder or I’ll pump three into you. Got it?”
“Got it, friend,” the man replied. He added, “Not looking for trouble, and my hands are right where you can see them.”
“Keep your movements slow,” the Marine warned, flexing, pulling in M16 into his shoulder even tighter.
“Indeed,” the man replied.
Three came from the left side, two in a tower above looked down, another two watching from inside a booth. Eight total, eyes wide, shocked this man was standing in front of them. Everyone rose the barrels of their rifles.
“The sign clearly says you’re to park way back there and wait for our arrival,” the Marine said, a troubled look on his face.
“Ah, yes, I can see that. Thing is, I don’t have a car. It doesn’t clarify anything about pedestrians.”
Stranger to the Marines was the look on the man’s face. He had the look of one who’d just gotten out of bed with a beautiful woman. A wide, inviting smile, smug and humorous at the same time. It was quite the opposite to the downright frowns from the MPs.
Another growled at the stranger, “Where did ya come from and what are ya doing here?”
“Ah, well . . . I was sent here. Just like you guys I suppose. I came from,” he turned, looking off in the distance and slowly pointing, “from that way. East, I believe.”
“That’s north,” the Marine corrected.
“Oh, I see,” the man replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m awful with directions.”
“You’re supposed to be here?” the first Marine asked.
“I am. Thing is, I wouldn’t want to reach for my identification and get shot. I hear Marines are pretty good with their rifles, that right?”
“Fuck yeah we are,” the Marine replied.
“Well, if you’d kindly relax your trigger fingers, I’d be happy to produce it.”
“You do that,” said another voice. Another man appeared, now the count was nine. This was a Marine Sergeant who looked like he meant business. He was square, had the look of an angry pit bull. “You show it nice and slow and tell us who you are.”
The man did as he was told, careful to reach into his pocket with only one hand, slowly pulling out a card. “Here,” he offered, extending his hand. “Got everything on it you need there, buddy.”
“All right, you just stand tight while we check you out,” the Sergeant said. He nodded to his men, who spread out, still pointing their rifles toward the man, covering the Sergeant as he neared. Once close enough he reached out and took the ID, stepping back as if the man had the plague. His eyes went to the card for a moment, then handed it back to a Private. “Check it out,” he ordered.
The Private did as he was told as the Sergeant continued glaring at the man.
“While he’s checking your entry status, I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Where’s your vehicle?” the Sergeant asked.
“Just my two legs, Sarge.”
The fact this man recognized his rank eased the Sergeant, though only a little. “No car? Out here?”
“Oh, I had one. Broke down a ways back,” the man pointed, this time toward the west. “That way, I think. I’m not all that great with engines, so figured I’d walk the rest of the way. Nice day, I needed the exercise.”
“How far?” the Sergeant questioned.
The man thought for a moment, then said, “Best guess, ten, maybe twelve miles.”
“That’s pretty far,” the Sergeant replied, unbelieving.
“I guess. You’re welcome to it if you know anything about engines. You won’t find much value in it, though. Just another piece of junk jeep. I’d imagine it’s forty years old.”
“I see . . .” the Sergeant trailed off for a moment. Something about this man didn’t fit, something was off about him. “Tell you what, give me the exact location and we’ll send a team to retrieve it for you.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s not much left anymore.”
“If it broke down, I doubt any Afghani stole it,” the Sergeant said. He was attempting to catch the man in a lie, and perhaps he just had. “Unless, of course, you don’t really have a jeep out there.”
“I appreciate the offer,” the man said, “but there’s really no need. But I do appreciate the help, friend.” His face beamed again, a wide smile spreading across it. The man’s teeth were pearly white, his hair straight, blonde, a few inches in length. His skin was tan, and by the looks of him, he seemed fit and quite capable.
“Listen here, we don’t know who you are. And sneaking up on our p
ost like that, it almost got you shot,” the Sergeant replied.
“I appreciate that you didn’t. And as for the jeep, I’ll be happy to tell you the location, but you won’t find much left.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I blew the fucking thing up,” the man said with a chuckle.
Before the Sergeant could respond, the Private came running up. He turned to the Sergeant, handing back the card.
“Well? He good?” the Sergeant asked.
“Yeah, Sarge, he’s good. Cleared to enter and then some. Top level security clearance. Zulu Seven.”
“Well shit,” the Sergeant muttered. He looked down at the identification, thumbing it over, then looking back up to the man. “You do know it’s not smart to walk up on a base like that, right?”
“But I was invited,” he replied.
“I’m not sure if you’re being funny or not, but you have a rifle slung across your shoulder. We didn’t even see you coming, which makes matters worse.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” the man said, still grinning.
The Sergeant couldn’t understand what this man’s deal was. Why was he smiling? What was so funny?
“What I meant was, we could have put you down like a fucking dog. And you know what? General Kline wouldn’t have minded. At best, we’d get bitched at for the extra paperwork.” The Sergeant held a permanent frown, a grimace that tightened his face, gritted his teeth.
“Well, that’d be a damn shame if you had,” the man replied. “I figured the shirt would be a giveaway.”
“To what?”
“That I’m not Taliban. Doubt they wear Hawaiian shirts.”
The Sergeant shook his head, frustrated. This man showed no respect for them, no fear of the eight. This made him wonder who this fellow could be, for most would have been scared shitless. The man was polite and cordial, even attempting humor. The smile seemed genuine, almost as if this man enjoyed being here. He sighed, then the Sergeant looked down to the ID card again, asking the Private, “You sure it’s good?”
“Ran it three times, Sergeant. He’s not on the itinerary, but he’s allowed in.”
“Guess I’ve seen it all now. Generals, CIA, private contractors. But this takes the cake. They don’t usually dress like you do, and sure as hell don’t arrive without transportation. Why aren’t you on our entry sheet?” the Sergeant asked the man.
“Couldn’t tell ya.”
“Well, I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but you’re cleared to go in.”
“And I didn’t even get shot,” the man replied. “Looking like a good day so far now, isn’t it fellows?”
They all nodded strangely at him.
“You might have a few problems coming in here like that, cleared or not,” the Sergeant said, looking the man over.
“Oh?” the man asked curiously. “Why’s that?”
“Dressed the way you are, firstly,” the Sergeant warned.
“I forgot my BDUs,” the man replied. “Besides, this is my favorite shirt.” He grinned at the Sergeant. He wore a typical white and blue Hawaiian pattern shirt, the kind that could be purchased on any corner store near a beach full of stoners and surfers. He wore khaki shorts, and of all things, sandals upon his feet.
“Well, I’m just warning you that what you’re wearing might get you in some trouble,” the Sergeant said. “Now . . .” the Marine paused, looking back down to the ID, then up and saying, “you know, I didn’t get your name.”
“I’m Stan,” the stranger said, the smile still wide as he extended out his hand in a friendly manner. “It’s nice to meet you, Sergeant,” he said.
The Marine took his hand by habit, shaking it.
“Well, Stan, here’s your ID back,” the Marine said. “Welcome to Khost.”
36
All nine Marines relaxed—somewhat. Perhaps it was confirmation of the man’s clearance, perhaps his demeanor. His attitude and friendly nature caught them off guard, even lightened their mood a little. This didn’t keep them from watching him closely, but their rifles slowly lowered, their bodies less tense.
The Sergeant continued, his tone a bit more casual. He was perhaps amused a bit, wondering how this situation would work out. “Well, Stan, it’s like this. The base commander is a man named Kline. A three star General, I’ll add. Kinda a big shot, if you know what I mean.”
“He’s important. Got it,” the man noted.
“Well, I can promise you this. General Kline wouldn’t take kindly to your, um, appearance. I’d venture a wild guess that none of the officers here will. Even the civilians dress up nice. Suit and tie sorta thing.”
“Well, they must not know much about fashion. Hawaiian shirts are the in thing,” the man joked. “Besides, it’s too hot for a suit.”
The Sergeant actually laughed. It had been a boring day, a tense few weeks, and something about this man brought a moment of normalcy. The man made him curious, this Stan guy, dressed in his Hawaiian shirt and shorts, his AK-47 rifle with EoTech sights slung across his back as casually as a walking stick.
“Well, perhaps they don’t know fashion, but there are still dress codes here. If General Kline saw you, he’d think you were mocking him.”
“It’s just the way I dress.”
“There’s no beaches here.”
“So I hear,” the man replied.
“All right, just don’t say you weren’t warned,” the Sergeant said. “Don’t know who you are, but I hope you’re important. Otherwise, some snot-nosed officer trying to make a name for himself will sure as hell give you grief.”
“I doubt that,” the man replied.
The Sergeant grinned, beginning to figure it out. “I’d ask who you are or who you’re with, but I’d guess you wouldn’t tell me, so I won’t try.”
“Probably smart.”
“There’s been lots of comings and goings lately—that’s the reason we didn’t shoot ya. Figured some civilian contractor that got lost. Shit, who knows these days.”
“Again, glad it didn’t go down that way. Lots of ladies who’d be angry if you killed me.” The man winked, grinning again.
“Ha!” the Sergeant chuckled. “Well, good luck then, Stan. You’re cleared to enter the base. Just watch out for the officers until you find a suitable change of clothes. Otherwise, expect some trouble.”
The man’s grin broadened. And he didn’t leave, instead taking a moment to look up into the hot skies, look out to the rough terrain. He lingered, as if wanting more dialogue. It was as if he understood these Marines, as if he were one of them in a way.
What was it with that smile? What was so funny?
Why would a man be so happy to be here?
“In all honesty, I’ve been a bit bored lately,” the man named Stan said. He looked past the gate, into the wide open base. It was large, a jet currently landing, an Apache attack helicopter taking off in the distance. “Had a long drive, ya know. Came from Kabul, and that piece of shit jeep wouldn’t do over forty. Roads suck here, too. But you know this.”
“So you weren’t lying about the jeep?” the Sergeant asked.
“Hell no. Piece of shit.”
“And you drove from Kabul? Alone?”
“Sure did. Like I said, pretty uneventful . . . except when it broke down, that wasn’t fun.”
“I suppose not. Take any fire?” the Sergeant asked. He was astonished. This man had traveled where no man ought to alone, and by his accent, the Marine could tell he was indeed an American.
“Oh, I did while I was checking under the hood. Like I said, I’m not all that great with engines.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“Four? And you made it out alive, eh?”
“Unless you’re talking to a ghost, Sarge. Sure did. But the rest of the walk wasn’t so bad. Nobody tried to kill me at least. Like I said, it’s been a bit boring lately.”
The Sergeant was beginning to like this man.
All the Marines were.
“Well, I’d say you’re lucky. Lots of ragheads in Khost. It’s the hottest region in Afghanistan.”
“I think I heard something about that,” the man said as if trying to remember being told such.
“Ha, I hope you’re kidding. You’d better be prepared if you’re going to go outside these walls. Shit, Taliban everywhere. IEDs on the roads, ambushes. We catch fire a few times a day, man. Like I said, it’s the hottest region in this fucking war.”
“And that is why I wore my shorts,” the man said.
All nine Marines broke into laughter—the man was funny—and if his story was straight, they respected him. Not a single one of them would be caught out alone.
Not in Khost.
“I guess so,” the Sergeant said. There was something about this guy that the seasoned Marine couldn’t place. Who’d travel here alone? he wondered. “Well, keep your head down if you go out again. I’ll admit, you got the slip on us. Didn’t see you until it was too late,” he glanced around at his men. “We need to work on that.”
“Don’t worry about it. Won’t say a word. You guys are probably overworked, and shit happens. You’re doing just fine,” the man assured.
“We’re usually ready,” the Sergeant continued. He felt as if he needed to explain why they hadn’t seen him. “Shit, we get hit heavy sometimes, especially these last few weeks.”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh, like I said, lots of people coming and going. You can’t hide it, helicopters and planes taking off and landing. It’s obvious to them, and for some reason, when we’re active, they’re active. They travel in packs too, though usually we keep ’em pretty far away.”
The man turned, looking in the distance. “I’d say what, five hundred meters?”
“Yeah, that’s about where we see ’em.”
“Allowed to engage that far out?”
“No. Not unless they fire, or we get visual from a helicopter. This base is so busy, you never know who’s coming in.”
“Yeah, there’s some politics that go along with that,” the man stated.
“Yes, there sure are,” the Sergeant agreed.
Khost Page 14