by J A Heaton
The headlamp on Misha’s head swept back and forth as he came into the tunnel towards Rustam.
Rustam crawled deeper into the tunnel and stopped to cover his ears.
He pressed the button, and the boom of the dynamite sent a shockwave through his body. He braced himself, waiting for the tunnel to collapse on him.
But no such collapse came. After the dust settled, Rustam felt nothing but darkness envelop him. He saw no light from the KGB officer. The blast had made the ceiling cave in, blocking the path. If he was lucky, the blast might have killed the KGB officer.
Rustam feared he had sealed his own fate, but he wouldn’t know until he found the end of the tunnel: either an exit or a dead end, at which he would slowly die, trapped under a mountain.
One. Nine. One. Seven, Rustam thought to himself as he crawled through the darkness.
Rustam couldn’t see one centimeter in front of himself. He decided to preserve the battery on his headlamp. The only good thing was that he couldn’t hear the KGB man on the other side of the rock blocking the cave. Misha must have figured there was no way Rustam could have survived. Even if the blast hadn’t killed him, it would be a few short days until Rustam would die of thirst in the darkness. If he found a source of moisture in the heart of the mountain, starvation would eventually catch up to him.
And so Rustam pressed on, on all fours, as he traveled deeper into the mountain, following the tunnel. Twice, he feared he had reached a dead end. But each time, he found another crevice he was able to squeeze through. It wasn’t long before he lost track of time. Thirst grew, along with hunger, but his drive for survival pushed him onward. His eyes had not encountered light in so long, and he grew increasingly frustrated that he could feel things, hear his scratching and crawling, and yet not see anything he was physically interacting with.
After a time Rustam was not able to measure, he slumped down and fell into a sleep. When he pulled his sore body up, he didn’t know if he had slept for hours or a whole day. His senses only told him that everything was as it had been before he slept.
Rustam didn’t fully realize it, but the weight of the knowledge he held was crushing him. He decided he had to express it in some way. Taking out his scrap of paper and pencil, he turned on his headlamp. He began writing. He didn’t dare to look around at what the light revealed. He needed to write to remain sane. He had always dreamed of becoming a poet like the masters his father used to recite to him at home in Tashkent.
After a few scribblings, Rustam turned off the headlamp, put his writing materials in his pocket, and continued crawling. He couldn’t bear to watch his headlamp slowly fade into darkness. He resolved to never use it again unless necessary.
Rustam pressed on. After he squeezed through one more crack and the cave widened so he could stand, he encountered something he had nearly lost hope for. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He checked to make sure the headlamp wasn’t on. Moments later, he was certain his eyes were telling the truth. A ray of light came in through a hole in the ceiling.
Rustam ran in circles around the beam of light, yelling for joy.
“Light! Light!” he shouted.
The small hole that allowed in light was out of reach, on the ceiling of the tunnel. Several repeated attempts to scale the walls made it clear to Rustam that he couldn’t climb his way out. His attempts made his fingers sore and bloody. He collapsed to the ground in the tunnel, only meters away from sunlight and freedom, but unable to obtain it.
Hours passed before Rustam rose and pounded against the walls and yelled in frustration. Could he tear his clothes and make a rope? Would his bootlaces form a rope? Rustam came up with such outlandish ideas, but never an idea that would bring him the freedom he needed.
When darkness fell, Rustam thought about how he would die. Would he die right here, where moonlight and sunlight could fall on him? Would he crawl deeper into the cave and die in secret? Too exhausted to cry, he thought of the girl he had loved back home. He wondered if his parents would have arranged a marriage with her. Memories of her comforted him for only a short time, and then he had to hope for sleep that would silence the voices from thirst and hunger that were going to drive him mad.
Rustam shook his head, but the faint voices remained. The voices were not in his mind. They were voices outside the tunnel.
“HALLO!” Rustam yelled, desperate that somebody would hear him.
What happened next was a flurry that Rustam would later hardly be able to recall. A rope pulled him out of the pit, and Rustam threw himself to the ground outside the tunnel, bathing himself in the impossibly bright moonlight. He greedily drank down water. His rescuers thought he was mad. But Rustam danced because he had escaped death twice. First, from the hands of Misha, and then from the depths of the cave.
Two men among Rustam’s rescuers knew how to speak some of Rustam’s native language. Rustam naturally spoke Russian, but that was not a language any of these wanted to hear. The group of men, armed with Soviet AK-47s and other small arms, were not on a combat mission against the Soviets. Rather, they were on a journey. As such, they weren’t sure if they should be done with a suspected Soviet-sympathizer, or bother dragging him along for the journey and then allow their chieftain to figure out what to do with him.
Rustam was quick to disavow the Soviets. The massacre he had witnessed back at the cave had convinced him of that. But a verbal disavowal did not persuade the men that he was worth keeping around. They couldn’t understand why he had deserted once in Afghanistan with the Soviets. According to them, he should have deserted earlier.
The leader of the band went by Jassur, which Rustam assumed was a false name. Something told Rustam that Jassur didn’t want to kill him. Jassur gave Rustam a choice.
“I can kill you with my gun right now,” Jassur said, pointing his pistol at Rustam. “Or, we can lower you back into that cave.” To Rustam, Jassur’s threat seemed more weary than eager, and so Rustam hoped Jassur wasn’t the type of man who wanted to kill more than he had to. Rustam vowed to himself that he would never re-enter the cave. A quick death would be much preferred.
“I have something to tell you,” Rustam said. “But you must swear to never tell it to anybody other than the Americans.”
“The Americans?” Jassur asked as his eyes narrowed. He holstered his gun. “Explain.”
Rustam recounted how he came to Afghanistan and his escape from the slaughter.
“I’m the only one who can find the location,” Rustam explained. “And the Americans must know about it.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” Jassur pressed.
“I will,” Rustam promised. “I can take you there. Once I learn more about where we are in daytime, I can take you there. And when the Americans know…”
“You have bought yourself another day of life,” Jassur pronounced. “As Allah has ordained it, we are on our way to meet an American. We are out of the supplies we need to fight the Soviet helicopters. You can come with us and tell your story to the American. Then you can find the cave with us. But we can’t miss our meeting with the American. Without his rockets, we are helpless when the Soviet helicopters attack.”
Rustam breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had not only survived, but Jassur was also going to do the right thing.
The band of Afghans and Rustam left early the next morning, wearied by keeping watch over Rustam, a man they still did not trust. They walked towards another mountain pass, which Jassur explained would be the last one until they would meet the American and the rockets he would provide.
As the group passed around a bend on the side of the mountain, a low rumble startled Rustam. He had never heard it before. The other men had, and they clambered for cover.
But the Afghans had no chance. The Soviet Mi-24 helicopter used its 23 mm guns and rockets to cut the men down. They were defenseless against such a flying tank. If this encounter had taken place after meeting with the American, the outcome might have been differe
nt.
The men screamed out in pain, and one of them fell on top of Rustam on the ground. As quickly as the mayhem had begun, it ended only moments later, and the helicopter rumbled away in the sky. Rustam froze for a few moments and heard groaning. He pushed the body off him and slowly stood to look about.
Jassur was still alive, lying on the ground. Rustam rushed to his side.
“Where can I meet the American?” Rustam said to Jassur desperately. Rustam wondered if Jassur would tell him that Allah had ordained this as well.
“Get away,” Jassur muttered. “Spetsnaz.”
Jassur died in front of Rustam.
Rustam understood. The helicopter must have made the initial attack, and then Soviet special forces would come on the ground to clean up the mess.
Rustam took Jassur’s weapon and got as far away from the attack as he could.
Now without a chance of meeting the American, Rustam chose another course.
The new journey required several months of uncertainty and hardship. Rustam navigated simply, using the sun to point him west. He often blended in with gypsies and nomads. His odyssey took him out of Afghanistan and into Iran. He passed through Iran into Turkey, and then on to a freighter with refugees. Still heading westward, he eventually entered Eastern Europe. Finally, he arrived in East Berlin, as close to the Americans as he had ever imagined.
Rustam had cheated death a third time.
7
Washington D.C.
January 10, 2002. 9:53pm.
Exhausted, Daniel leaned against the wall outside the meeting room. He wanted to sleep. He shut his eyes and relaxed for a few moments. All the information tumbled around in his mind. He was certain his theory held water. He wasn’t certain what should be done about it. As much as Daniel didn’t enjoy the power games and prestige seeking in D.C., he was tired of translating and writing analyses that nobody would ever read or care about. Although he knew he was theoretically contributing to the War on Terror, he felt more like he was creating more paper in a bureaucracy. Officer Carter cared about his work; she was a believer in the importance of human intelligence and the required linguistic and cultural analysis. But Daniel was tired of making intangible contributions to the War on Terror from a cubicle. He would soon discover he wasn’t the only one. Peters, who Officer Carter said had the President’s ear, had ideas for Daniel.
The meeting room door opened, and Carter stuck her head out.
“Come,” she said.
Daniel wanted to ask if he could go home and rest before he had to endure another day of cubicle-dwelling, but her look told him that wasn’t a good question at this point. Maybe his theory was being taken seriously.
When Daniel walked in, Carter stood alongside Peters. Daniel was unsure if he should apologize for disrespecting the others in the meeting, but Peters was already on to his next move.
“The possibility, even if it is admittedly remote, of the Taliban acquiring a nuke is one that I can’t ignore in good conscience,” Peters said to Daniel.
Thank God he’s not ignoring the danger, Daniel thought.
“At the same time, we have a conventional war going on, and another is in the works, and those are not hypothetical possibilities. Additionally, we can’t harm our relationship with Russia at this point, but we also can’t raise undue panic by announcing to the world with a giant task force that we’re hunting down a nuke-toting terrorist.”
Daniel wasn’t sure where all of this was going, but Officer Carter gave him a reassuring look.
“I’m giving you eight days in the field to either obtain the loose nuke or neutralize the terrorist,” Peters continued. Daniel didn’t need to ask what “neutralize” meant. “After that, I’ll have to alert the ANA and the Russians about the possibility. That would seriously undermine our efforts in the region.”
“The first flight leaves early morning,” Officer Carter said. “A car will pick you up at four AM. Be ready for it.”
Before Daniel could ask what she was talking about, Officer Carter said, “Congratulations, you’re going back to Afghanistan.”
“But I’m a linguist,” Daniel objected. “A translator. I write reports. I don’t do covert ops and hunt terrorists. I washed out of the military, remember?”
“Make sure you’re ready for that car to pick you up at four,” Officer Carter answered. “You and I both know that we need solid HUMINT to win the War on Terror. Our country messed up by cutting back on that last decade, and now you are the only hope we have of understanding the language and culture of the terrorist. We need all the help we can get until we’re sure the Taliban won’t get a nuke.”
“Send Max instead,” Daniel suggested. “He’s really CIA. I’m a contractor.”
“I didn’t pick Max for my team,” Officer Carter said. “I picked you, and Peters agrees you’re the man for the job. You’re the only one who understands the threat is real. You’ll also be tasked one SpecOps man for your team, and then you’ll have the latitude to accompany patrols or go out on your own for your mission.”
“I get one SpecOps soldier?” Daniel asked.
“It has to be low-key,” Peters explained. “We can’t very well have everybody there thinking they’re about to get nuked if we’re not certain it’s true. Brigadier General Alex Jones, the airbase commander at Mazar-i-Sharif in Northern Afghanistan, will have orders to support your efforts. Pay heed to his counsel. He’s a wise warrior.”
“I need more help, though,” Daniel said. “My friend Jenny is the best with computers. Get her whatever computer she wants, and she can help me crank through linguistic stuff. I’ll need her technical support.”
“Consider it done,” Officer Carter said.
“Okay, I’ll be on the plane tomorrow morning,” Daniel said cautiously. Right then, he wanted the predictability and comfort of his cubicle from which to write reports. And he didn’t want to go back to a devastated Afghanistan.
What if I see Nigora? Daniel thought to himself. Daniel decided he preferred continuing to pretend she wasn’t already married or dead.
“Just make sure when you hire Jenny, you give her a good computer,” Daniel said. “Not a junker government computer from the nineties.”
“Don’t you let me down,” Peters warned. “If you’re as knowledgeable and experienced in the language and culture as Officer Carter says you are, then you are our best shot at getting to the bottom of this without making a lot of noise.”
Peters took a deep breath before continuing with words of encouragement. “The Russians and Brits used to jockey for political advantage in that part of the world in the 1800s. Historians have called it the ‘Great Game.’ In your case, the stakes are even higher. You will play the ‘Greatest Game.’ Play it well. And remember: listen to Jones when you get there.” Peters shook Daniel’s hand firmly and left the room.
Daniel gave Officer Carter a confused look, wondering what the hell had transpired over the last fifteen minutes.
“Time to go pack your big boy pants,” Officer Carter said as she left the room. “This is your chance to make a real difference in the War on Terror. You’ll meet Brigadier General Jones en route to Afghanistan. He’s been out of Afghanistan for a few days for other meetings, but he’ll be heading back in time for you to join him. He will get you caught up on the local happenings.”
Daniel followed, but he felt so sick he had to stop at the restroom first. He made it just in time. After throwing up, he rode back to the office with Officer Carter, and then he went to his mom’s house to prepare for his first fieldwork as a contractor for the CIA. He didn’t have much to pack other than his voice recorder and extra batteries. Daniel called and left a message for Jenny, who was undoubtedly too busy partying.
“Thanks for the party. Crazy work stuff. It’s weird, but I’ll be traveling for work for a little bit. I did get you a job to work with me. Please take it.”
Daniel didn’t manage to sleep before the car picked him up to go to the airport.
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Karshi-Khanabad Airbase (K2), Southern Uzbekistan.
January 12, 2002.
Prior to establishing K2 and an airbase in Kyrgyzstan, which was much farther north, the United States had no options to extend its airpower into most of Afghanistan without massive fuel expenditures. Central Asia is the most landlocked region of the world, making naval power useless, and the United States had few, if any, allies in the region. Thankfully, since the fall of the Soviet Union, the Republic of Uzbekistan, formerly the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, was eager to distance itself from its bigger brother, Russia. Uzbekistan already had an airbase near its southern border that had previously supported the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan decades earlier.
Karimov, the President of Uzbekistan, was eager to host a Western superpower who could not only help him keep some distance from the Russians but could also ensure that radical Islam did not take over his own country. He had already brutally suppressed political opponents for years to ensure that civil war did not break out as had happened in neighboring Tajikistan.
By the time Daniel arrived at K2, the base had been used by the Americans for less than a year. Much work had been spent to repair the runway, and almost all the structures were tents instead of permanent installments. The main purpose of the base was to provide supplies into Mazar-i-Sharif, the largest city in Northern Afghanistan, which had been taken from the Taliban the previous November. The massive C-130 transport planes took up most of the room, but other flight platforms also used the base, including Chinook helicopters and B-1 bombers.
Though it was less than forty-eight hours after Daniel left Washington, D.C. when the massive C-130 transport plane belched Daniel out onto the runway at K2, Daniel felt like his body had taken a beating from a boxer for three days straight.
The dry cold bit at Daniel. Although temperatures can reach well over one hundred degrees regularly during the summer in Central Asia, they can be equally brutal in the winter. Daniel noted that this winter didn’t seem too harsh.