by J A Heaton
As he turned and looked at the surrounding area, the bleak mountain-desert landscape comforted Daniel. Even though the air was cold, it was dry and clean. Reinvigorated, Daniel steeled himself for the next step in his mission.
A man in a camouflage uniform took him by the elbow and led him towards a row of semi-permanent tents away from the runway.
“We were told to expect you,” the man yelled over the aircraft noise and wind. A few stray snowflakes swirled around them. “Come with me to the support group commander’s tent.”
Glad to stretch his legs, though they still felt like rubber, Daniel forced them to carry him towards the tent, and towards warmth.
“Doctor Knox, the spook, is here for you, sir,” the man said as he deposited his charge into a large, heated tent.
“Daniel is fine, and I’m a contractor, not really—”
“I’m Brigadier General Stanley,” a husky man said with an extended hand and a gaze that had already seen too much war and disappointment in Central Asia.
“Daniel,” he said, accepting the handshake.
“Welcome to the airbase of Karshi-Khanabad, known as K2,” the general said.
“In Uzbekistan,” Daniel said, finishing his sentence. “The armpit of Uzbekistan, that is.” He gave the general a slight smile.
The wry grin from Stanley told Daniel they both knew a thing or two about Central Asia.
“This part of the world is my second home,” Daniel explained.
“Brigadier General Jones arrived earlier,” General Stanley said. “He’s waiting for you in the tent next door. Good luck on your mission if I don’t see you again.”
“Thanks, sir,” Daniel said as he left to go next door.
“One more thing,” Stanley said before Daniel left. “The stories about General Jones, if you’ve heard them, are true. If anybody can help you complete your mission, it’s Jones.”
“Thanks,” Daniel said. He left to meet General Jones, wondering what the stories could be.
When Daniel entered, he saw a man in the same uniform as Brigadier General Stanley, but he was instead tall and wiry. Absorbed in a packet of papers, the man finished his page before looking up to Daniel with icy blue eyes.
“I’m General Jones,” he said, standing up from his desk. “And I hear you will be my guest at the base in Mazar-i-Sharif.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Daniel said.
General Jones sat back down at his desk and motioned for Daniel to sit as well. Jones asked for an explanation for his assignment.
As Daniel updated Jones on his mission, he was constantly distracted by thoughts of how close he would be to the village he’d lived and did research in. He would be so close to Bobo, Oybek, and, of course, Nigora.
“Damn,” Jones said after Daniel finished telling him about the hunt for the terrorist and the nuclear weapon he sought.
“And the northern part of Afghanistan was the most likely location for the Soviets to hide such a weapon, so that’s where I’ll start hunting,” Daniel explained.
“Why you?” Jones asked. “I gather you’ve studied the area or something.”
“Lived here and did research in several parts of Central Asia.” Daniel decided not to be more specific.
“Research?”
“Linguistics,” Daniel clarified.
“God, I hope there’s really no nuke out here because I don’t think linguistics is going to do a whole helluva lot against guerillas toting AKs. We’ve successfully captured all the major cities, and the biggest leaders have almost certainly left Afghanistan, but there’s still plenty of bad guys out there. This place is no tamer than the Wild West.”
“I can imagine,” Daniel said. “Or, I can’t imagine,” he corrected himself. Daniel felt Jones’ unbelieving eyes boring into him. He must have been thinking that a linguist had no chance of surviving in a war zone.
Jones leaned toward Daniel and said, “I know from your record that you left the military short of your potential. I hope your linguistics training is worth it because I know several men who were the best who have not survived.”
Daniel felt Jones was testing him as he looked into his eyes. Daniel felt like telling the general that it hadn’t been his decision to come here. Instead, Daniel said, “Then let’s make sure those men didn’t die in vain.”
Apparently satisfied, Jones looked away. “So, you’re either looking for a bomb somewhere in this God-forsaken pile of rocks, or you’re looking for the one man who supposedly knows where it is?”
“Yes,” Daniel said. When he heard it out loud, Daniel had to agree it sounded crazy. “And I don’t think he will wait around to find and use the nuke, so I don’t have forever.”
“Lucky for you,” Jones said, turning a laptop screen towards Daniel and showing the picture of the terrorist from EU security, “we have a guy in custody in Mazar-i-Sharif who looks a lot like this. He was just picked up at a checkpoint.”
Before Daniel could answer out of shock, Jones continued, “He was picked up at a roadblock while you were en route. If you’re lucky, you’ll get what everybody here wishes for. A fast ticket out.”
After reassuring Daniel that they would hold on to the prisoner and that his flight couldn’t take him down to Mazar-i-Sharif until the next day, Jones told Daniel to get whatever rest he could. “Once you have your wits about you, come back here, and I will give you the lay of the land,” Jones said. Jones knew exactly what Daniel was thinking and continued, “Don’t worry. I’m sure I will be awake.”
The same camouflaged man who had led Daniel from the airplane to Stanley’s tent then led Daniel to another tent that served as the barracks.
“Airmen are in these tents over here, Rangers are in tents over here, and other base personnel are over here. A spook like you gets the bunk in the back,” the man said. Daniel was too exhausted to tell the man that he was a contractor, and not, technically, an employee of the CIA.
Daniel wandered past the shower facilities to relieve himself, and although he felt that his body was a disgusting mess and that he desperately needed a shower, exhaustion forced him to his bunk. Plopping down onto the hard surface, he fell asleep, and he dreamed of when he said goodbye to his Uzbek host family in the remote mountain village, somewhere south of Mazar-i-Sharif. He hadn’t known it would be the last time he saw them. The Taliban had grown too powerful, and Daniel didn’t feel he could hide there forever. He remembered leaving with a heavy heart for many reasons.
When Daniel woke, he wasn’t sure if he had slept for four days, or four hours, or perhaps only forty minutes. His head throbbed, and his body hurt. Shutting his eyes, he tried to force himself to sleep more, but after a few minutes, he decided to head back towards Jones’ tent to get what he had told him was the lay of the land.
Minutes later, Daniel stumbled into Jones’ tent, and Jones immediately said, “Coffee?”
Daniel was shocked at how this man continued to be attentive and working even though he had been working for how long? Daniel had no idea, but he was sure it was more stressful than sitting on an airplane.
“Grab a seat, doc,” Jones said. “Let me show you what’s going on. Daniel plopped down and sipped the coffee, noting that it was about ten times stronger than what he’d had a few days earlier with Jenny. Jones pulled out a large detailed map of the surrounding areas including Northern Afghanistan, Southern Uzbekistan, and Southern Tajikistan.
“We successfully drove the Taliban out of Mazar-i-Sharif a few weeks after 9/11,” Jones said. “It was our first major victory, and we sent them running for the hills last November. A lot of them fled north, but skirmishes continue in all directions around Mazar-i-Sharif, including south of Mazar-i-Sharif in the hills and mountains. The mountains just south of Mazar-i-Sharif are nothing like the gigantic mountains elsewhere in Afghanistan, but for kids who are more familiar with the Midwest and growing corn, these mountains are pretty big. Regardless of how big they are, they are easy for the enemy to hide in, network,
conceal weapons, and then control the villages dotted about the mountains. Trying to root all them out is nearly impossible since there are very few roads and the paths that do exist are mostly goat paths known only to the locals. Even sending Special Forces in is incredibly difficult due to insertion, extraction, and the basics of carrying enough water for desert-mountain combat. If you get stuck in the wrong spot in those mountains, you are a sitting duck, and the locals know those mountains better than anybody.”
Daniel glanced at the map and spotted about where he guessed his host village was located. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t a dot on the map indicating his host village. It was too small. Other dots indicated villages they suspected were under Taliban influence. Other dots marked a village as uncertain, but Daniel correctly guessed that all them held potential dangers, and he feared that the people he had known were already dead.
“Any news about the man captured at the roadblock?” Daniel asked.
“No, and he is refusing to talk,” Jones said. “Not surprising. They’ve got enough out of him to know that he prefers to speak Uzbek, so they’re arranging an Uzbek speaker from the Northern Alliance to come and interrogate him.”
“Sounds good,” Daniel said.
“We’ve got roadblocks going in and out of Mazar-i-Sharif,” Jones began to explain, “and many of the open areas are still mined back from the Soviet invasion. Even if they are not mined, the terrain is so rough that anybody trying to sneak by becomes target practice for our airpower or other patrols. So right now, we stop people at the roadblocks, and we have patrols within the city. But we also have patrols going out into the surrounding population centers and villages, trying to get informants. Anybody at all who will tell us anything about the Taliban. But it’s tough.”
“They’re so afraid of the Taliban,” Daniel said.
“Right,” Jones said. “Once you find out whether that man we captured is the one you’re looking for, then maybe you can get what you need. Then, it would be nice knowing you, and you’re done here. Otherwise, if your mission continues, then I recommend you build out those intelligence networks around Mazar-i-Sharif. The information locals can give us on the Taliban is priceless. I hope your linguistic stuff is good for that.”
“If it’s good for anything, then it is good for that,” Daniel said. “But Peters only gave me eight days, now down to six.”
“Then let’s hope the prisoner is the break you need,” Jones observed with a raised eyebrow.
“Will you be able to get me a recording or the transcript if there is an interrogation of the prisoner?” Daniel asked.
“It doesn’t seem like there will be an interrogation until the translator arrives, or until you’re down there,” Jones said, “but I do have the recording of the pre-interrogation. He doesn’t say anything of value.”
“He doesn’t necessarily have to say anything of value,” Daniel said. “It’s more of how he says it that matters to me.”
“I see. I’ll put in a request to get whatever materials they have on that pre-interrogation.”
“Once you get it, send it to Officer Carter. My colleagues will need to analyze it.”
“Got it,” Jones agreed. “Go grab a shower and get as much sleep as you can. Your flight won’t leave for a while to get you down to Mazar-i-Sharif to meet your SpecOps man.”
Daniel took a deep drink of his coffee, finishing the mug, and thanked General Jones for his help.
“You be careful out there, kid,” Jones said before Daniel left the tent. “It’s dangerous down there, but we need men like you. I know that if you play your cards right, you can do more to win this war than any of my men could imagine doing with a rifle. Don’t get me wrong, I know we need the muscle and brawn that we’ve got with the boots and hardware—that’s why I’m here—but if we’re not smart, even the best victories will come up to bite us in the ass later. Now get your rest so you can do what needs to be done to save American lives.”
“Yes, sir,” Daniel said.
“I’ll be with you on the same flight early tomorrow to Mazar-i-Sharif,” Generl Jones said. “And I’ll have a special package for you and your mission.” Jones gave a wink.
Daniel went to his tent for the shower he so desperately needed, thankful Officer Carter wasn’t the only one who recognized how important Daniel could be in the War on Terror.
Karshi-Khanabad Airbase (K2), Southern Uzbekistan.
The next morning. 5am.
Daniel nearly missed his flight he was so exhausted. He checked to make sure he had his voice recorder—and extra batteries—after tying his boots.
Stanley’s aid hustled Daniel out of his bunk and shoved him towards the hulking C-130 plane that was transporting not only supplies to Mazar-i-Sharif, but also Daniel, a lone linguist contracted by the CIA, and General Jones. Daniel shoveled rubbery scrambled eggs into his mouth along with a bagel as he rushed towards the roaring hulk of a plane.
The man yelled into Daniel’s ear as he hurried him towards the airplane:
“Good news first. We heard back from your superiors. The report from the pre-interrogation with the prisoner will be waiting for you in Mazar-i-Sharif. Another piece of good news. We have air superiority so don’t worry about getting shot out of the air and hurling to your death in this dusty dump. Well, except for…” The man paused before continuing. “Never mind.”
“Bad news?” Daniel asked.
“None, as far as that can be the case in this war. I almost forgot. The general requested this special bag of equipment to be sent with you.”
The man held out a bag for him. Daniel accepted it while chewing the last bit of his bagel.
“General Jones must like you for some reason. Don’t open it. When you land, your SpecOps man will meet you and will know what to do with the bag’s contents. He goes by Rex. And yes, he is as badass as his name implies. Godspeed.”
Daniel clambered onto the airplane, his body revolting against the idea of being strapped in for yet another flight in a behemoth airplane. Daniel turned to thank the man, but he was already fading into the distance towards the command tents.
“First time to Afghanistan?” one of the crewmembers yelled over the roar of the plane preparing for takeoff.
Daniel shook his head from side to side.
The man gave a surprised look and began strapping himself in next to Daniel. Jones was already buckled and ready for the flight. He gave no sign of recognizing the bag he had sent with Daniel.
“Good. Then I guess you know what these flights are like. Rapid climb into the sky followed by a rapid drop not too much later. This one guy was puking up everything in his stomach for the first ten minutes of the flight. It was unreal.”
Daniel remembered the food he had recently crammed down his throat. But the man wasn’t done.
“But then, just a short time later, when we were coming in for the landing, the same guy was dry heaving like I’d never seen before. I thought he was going to puke up his spleen.” The man gave a burst of raucous laughter. And he still wasn’t done.
“You’ve made this flight before?”
“First time in Afghanistan since the war started,” Daniel clarified.
“Ooooh,” the man said, as if wondering how that was possible. “Then I should let you know that puking like nobody’s business is just the beginning. When you get there, it will feel like everybody is out to kill you. You never know whose side somebody is on. It seems like there’s always mortars and gunshots going off somewhere, and people get hurt and killed in the damnedest of ways.”
The man slapped Daniel on the back. “I’m glad I just load and unload the plane and spend as little time as possible in Afghanistan. K2 is my home away from home. You sure you want to go to Afghanistan?” Before Daniel could respond, he continued. “Of course you do. Don’t let what I’ve told you about Afghanistan ruin it for you.”
Daniel responded to the man’s grin with a weak smile.
“Leave him alone,” Brigadier
General Jones said to the crewmember. “He’s with me.”
Without warning, the transport plane accelerated for takeoff and then climbed into the sky.
Daniel’s stomach told him it was not going to be a pleasant flight. After this takeoff and landing, the crewman was going to have a new story to share about somebody puking up what seemed like an internal organ.
8
By the time the plane made its final descent to the airbase on the eastern edge of the city of Mazar-i-Sharif in Northern Afghanistan, Daniel’s stomach had emptied.
After the plane landed and taxied to a halt, Daniel considered apologizing for puking, but he changed his mind when he saw the glee on the airman’s face. He took pleasure in watching passengers suffer.
At least it was a short flight, Daniel thought to himself, recalling his journey from D.C. to Germany before heading on to K2 in Uzbekistan.
A uniformed man with black hair in khaki camos saluted General Jones after they deplaned. The man exuded machismo, and Daniel figured he was Rex. He wasn’t as muscular as Daniel had expected, but Daniel still sensed Rex could handle himself in a fight, whether it be a brawl in a bar or a gun battle at long range. Rex looked Daniel up and down for a second before slumping slightly from disappointment.
Perhaps somebody told Rex who Daniel’s father was, and he had expected a younger version.
“I’m Daniel, nice to meet you,” Daniel said as he extended his hand. Rex didn’t take it but turned to walk behind General Jones towards the airbase and away from the landed airplane.
“Follow me,” Rex called out. “My name is Rex, and I need to be clear with you about one thing.” Daniel did not need to ask what that was because Rex told him immediately, “I’ve lost the few friends that I have over here, and I’m not going home until I’ve killed a lot more Taliban. Then I can go home and tell my friends’ wives and families that justice was met.” Rex continued his brisk pace behind Jones.