by L. J. Martin
"You have forgotten something," Emir reminds me.
I nod, and dig into my ruck and come up with a wad of Afghan paper money, an inch and a half thick, representing two thousand five hundred American dollars.
He nods and stuffs it into a pocket in his patoo.
So I repeat, "Hank, haul ass."
And he does. When we get another kilometer behind us, I yell. "Hold up here." And he obliges as I advise them, "Dirt Dog is too far back. I want them to catch up."
We wait until he rolls up beside us and I slap Emir on the shoulder. "You ride with them for the next leg. We should all get to know each other." And he gets out as I yell to the others, "Killer, come ride with us."
I note that Emir eyes the other DPV as he approaches. He can see their load is considerable less. He’s a smart guy, and pays attention, which can be good and bad. We let them drive away until they’re out of sight, then we travel a couple of hundred yards until we see a large overhang where the water has cut deep into the side of the ravine. We unload our extra weapons and explosives, and stow them. Driving the DPV across the ravine, we stop and throw the quarter inch cable from the winch around some sedge and a pistachio tree and back the DPV away, uprooting them. Then we haul them to the cache and stuff the folige into the opening, effectively hiding our cache, at least until the next high water.
Then we double time it and catch up with Dirt Dog and pass them. In only another half mile, Emir waves us up and out of the wadi.
"How far?"
"Eight kilometers."
"We'll travel half that then find a good place to hole up. I want BeBe and I to go the rest of the way on foot...as soon as it's dark."
"Full moon tonight," Emir cautions. "But it won't rise until midnight."
"Then we'll get a little closer with the vehicles. When you think we're within two clicks, advise and we'll button things up and get some rest. I check my watch and see it's not yet two PM, so we'll have some good rest up time...presuming we can rest in this damnable heat.
When Emir estimates we're three clicks from the target, we come upon an abandoned kwala, a small one with only four huts, now roofless, but the walls of two of them stand high enough to offer shade. Shade, a scarce commodity in this land, where not only are you slow baked but everything seems to stick, sting or bite. One of the huts has had a wall completely blown away, and we're able to back both DPV's into the small cover it offers, and we hide them with the tarps.
As I'm about to doze off, my phone vibrates.
"Yo," and it's Pax again. "We've got to quit meeting like this, sweetheart," I say, with more than just a hint of sarcasm.
"Update from your friendly hacker. We just got a surprise and I thought I'd better clue you in before you're the surprised one."
"You won the lotto?"
"Nope, you won another four passengers, if you're up for it. It seems the good Mullah has other prisoners. Two Danish and two Brits...aid workers...two of them women...are being held by the pricks."
"Pax, we don't have the transportation. It'll be hard enough to haul out Blackthorn's guys...."
"Scroder says bring his people out. The others are problems for the Danes and the Brits."
"The Danes have paid ransoms before. So maybe we'll try and just get the Brits out."
"You're the little carnival tin duck in the shooting gallery. But there's more."
"Must be good news, right."
"If you're in a hurry to get home, it is. The Chinese have left with some of the Mullah's people, so there're fewer in the compound to deal with. So now you won't have to worry about causing an international incident. The better news, they're all pulling out in the morning. With the prisoners and the package, I imagine. It seems they saw a drone, probably a Brit one, circling the compound and have gotten nervous. Tomorrow they're heading for Mazar and some meeting with Taliban and al Qaeda big wigs, and going full force. At least thirty, maybe forty, guys in a half dozen vehicles."
"Forty, I hoped it would be half that.... That means we have to hit the place tonight, or deal with the big city, and I can't see driving these DPV's into the city."
"Good luck."
"We'll need it. As a backup, see if you can get some air into the Mazar airport, something big enough and fast enough get us out-country, ten of us…just in case."
"I'll work on it, amigo."
"Make it happen."
"10-4."
I turn to the others who've been watching as I've talked. "Change of plans, gentlemen, we're going in tonight. As soon as it's dark we'll move up within a click and BeBe and I will go on in and recon the place."
Killer stands and stretches, and walks over. "You said forty? Forty Taliban in that compound?"
"Could be that many," I say, with a shrug. "Hell, there could be more."
"That's the shits." He shakes his head.
"Never promised you a rose garden," I say, with a chuckle.
"Walled compound. Nine buildings, one of them ten thousand square feet—."
"The main house," I offer.
"And we don't know where in that pile of mud and goat shit the people are? We don't know what condition they're in or if they're ambulatory? Or if they're there at all."
"Look, Killer, we've got good intel. Pax has been in their mouths and ears and we know they're leaving tomorrow and taking their prisoners with them."
"Why don't we hit them on the road?"
"Six vehicles, maybe more, forty guys. They have an MRAP and we’d have to get ahead of them and set up an IED to try and upend that hippo or hit it with our LAW. I think we'll do it on the sneak...if it's all right with you."
"So long as it's you doing the sneak...you and the squib...and TooBad and I offering cover from outside, it's fine with me. What do you two want on your headstones?" He walks away, laughing.
BeBe's leaning against the wall in the shade, cleaning his nails with a pocket knife, and glances up, "How about 'died surrounded by pussy partners'?" he says with a tight smile, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face in the shadows...then goes back to his cleaning.
Killer's face sours, then he snaps, "Fuck you. How about 'died of failure to recon'? Or maybe, 'died of stupidity.'"
BeBe smiles again. "Whatever it is we'll have it done in really big letters so you two fuck-heads can read it."
Hank stands and commands, "Whoa, you guys are about to engage and I, for one, don't want any bullshit going on between any of us. Cool it and think about the job at hand. When you've got a pocket full of green you can go to the alley or the opposite ends of the earth."
"Roger that," I say. "Now, get some rest and chow down some of those MRI's and hydrate like hell...there's a chance that tomorrow at this time we'll be halfway to a Tuscan t-bone and some good red...and a fat wad of good ol’ greenbacks."
I don't mention that we may have more booty than we can carry.
9
Everyone else has dozed off, except I notice that BeBe is reading, and I can never sleep when I’m about to go on an op and imagine he has the same problem. So I cross the floor space between us and flop down beside him.
"I didn’t know you squibs could read?" I say, ragging him. "What’s the book?"
"It’s an English translation of the interpretation of a few of the more important holy ahadith."
I look at him a little strangely, I guess, and he laughs. And he asks, "You’re not a student of the Qur’an or ahadith?"
It’s my turn to laugh. "Hardly. I learned enough about the teachings of the Qur’an at the business end of lots of Muslim fire power."
"The Qur’an is, supposedly, the actual word of Muhammad. The hadith are tons of writing by others…stories about Muhammad. They are as holy to Muslims as is the Qur’an."
"Are you Muslim?" I ask, a little taken aback.
That gives him a good belly laugh. "No, however the focus of many ahadith, that’s the plural of hadith, is war, and war is my business and like Sun Tzu wrote in the ancient tome,The Art of War, know your enemy. So, that�
�s what I’m trying to do."
"So, are you fluent in Arabic or Pushtu?"
"I can get by, but when I’m around them, like our friend Emir here, I’d just as soon they think me a dumb brother from Alabama or someplace."
I have to laugh again, then reassure him, "I won’t rat you out," then add, "Even if I can’t sleep you should try."
"Won’t work, never has for me when I think we’re about to engage."
I nod. "You and me both, brother."
I dig out a couple of MRE packets; a meatloaf and gravy and a mixed fruit, and chow down, then hydrate with a quart of water. BeBe, I’m glad to see, does the same.
When he’s finished, he suggests, "Let’s move forward in the DPV until we can spot the kwala, then hide the rig and get eyes on the bad guys until it gets dark, which is gonna be eight thirty. We’ll have to move fast to get in and out and get the team back in before moonrise. We’ve got a heavy advantage with night vision, not so much with a full moon."
"Roger that," I say, and rise and walk over and nudge Hank with my toe, and I’m afraid he’s going to draw down on me, he awakens so violently.
"Jesus, Reardon, I was having a bad dream."
"Save it for when you get home. There’s enough daytime bad crap that you shouldn’t take it to sleep with you. BeBe and I are going to move forward. Keep eyes on Emir. I don’t want him making any phone calls. We’re taking Dirt Dog forward. Look for us back here at or before ten and be ready to go. We’ll leave a man on a Barrett with Emir spotting for him, but the rest of us will go in."
"Be safe. I’ll keep the radio fired up."
I have to dig a box out of Sand Hog, which I’m sure I’ll need, and do.
We’re able to advance at least a mile, weaving through the wild pistachio, until we can barely see the roof top of a minaret gleaming in the sun, covered in what looks to be blue ceramic tiles—probably copying the Blue Mosque—sticking up over the horizon in the distance. I know from studying the plans and pics that it’s on the southwest corner of the main house. We find a shallow ravine, hide and loosely tarp the DPV, then move forward on foot. As we get closer, doing the creep to within a quarter mile, I keep checking with my binocs until I can see the balcony of the minaret from which the summons to prayer is cried by the muezzin five times a day. No one occupies it now, which is a good thing as you can see for miles from its height.
I’m wishing I had a good Wyoming fir tree to climb so I could get a better view, but it's not to be, and most of the pistachios are only a little bit taller than BeBe or me. The compound is almost a hundred feet below us and we’re able to find a hidey hole that has a pretty good view, and we settle down to see what we’re up against.
We can see over the walls, maybe six feet high, into the west half of the compound. Of the nine or so buildings maybe five of them are housing. One’s a good size garage—however a half dozen vehicles are parked out in the sun—one building seems to be a meeting room and possibly a chow hall, the others, without windows, must be storage.
After watching a couple of hours, with the sun just above the yardarm to the west, I observe a haji carrying a couple of buckets to one outbuilding. He’s followed by an armed guy who waits for him as he unlocks a padlock and enters. He exits with a larger bucket, seemingly fairly heavy, and walks to a nearby building, and enters. In moments, when he exits, he’s swinging that bucket freely; now, I’d guess, empty.
If I had to wager I’d say he entered with chow and water, exited with a human waste bucket, and will enter the locked building again and leave the larger bucket and exit with the first two…and I’m right. That building, I’m going to bet, holds the hostages.
The bad news, it’s on the far side of the compound, near a large gate that’s a vehicle pass through and has an iron pipe as a closure that is swung aside for entry and exit. It’s the only place I’ve seen that seems to have a guard. There’s a pass through gate—looks to be heavy timber—in the wall on our side, the east side, of the compound but it seems to be locked and seldom used.
The good news is the locked building is only a few feet from an outer wall. I have no idea if it has a window, but if it does odds are it’s barred.
Finally a muezzin appears on the balcony of the minaret, but it’s not him but a recording that blares out across the desert, calling the faithful to prayer. In a few minutes, it’s quiet again and the guy on the balcony falls to his knees, faces Mecca, and prays for a while. Then he’s up, the chatter and music starts again for a couple of minutes, then all’s quiet again.
I spend the rest of the time we have light measuring distances so whoever mans the sniper rifle won’t have to spend a lot of recon time. And I mark the yardage on one of my aerials.
Finally, the sun sets behind the mountains to the west. I unlimber the box I’ve been toting and open it. BeBe gets a laugh.
"What kind of toy you got there," he asks.
"Eyes in the sky, my friend. Eyes in the sky."
The quadcopter carries a GoPro and both of them communicate with my iPhone. I can control the quadcopter with the iPhone and see, in real time, what the GoPro sees, but its range is only a couple of hundred yards, so we have to get close.
"I gotta get way closer," I tell him. "You gotta break out the Barrett and cover my butt. We should be in position about the same time. I’ll give you a heads up when I’m ready to launch."
"!0-4" he says, and heads back over the ridge top to where we’ve stowed the DPV as I start moving closer. I have an M5 over my shoulder and would like to have a combat shotgun along as well, but I’ve got about all I can carry.
I move slowly from pistachio to sedge, from tree to brush, until I find a low spot only a hundred and fifty yards from the compound wall. The last thing we need is for these guys to spot our little drone, but I need to see what I couldn’t see from our hideout up the slope.
Settling in, I whisper into the radio, and get a "ten minutes" back. Then wait patiently until I hear an "In place, locked and loaded."
She lifts off like the beautiful little bird she is. I’m about fifteen hundred into my rig, plus the iPhone. Were this a Department of Defense toy it would likely have a couple more zeroes on that cost.
I lift her to at least a hundred fifty feet, fifteen stories in the air, and move her over the compound. She doesn’t have night vision, but her ASA is 6,500 or so and if there’s any light, she’ll make out human figures.
All’s quiet, I’m happy to say. There’s only one other guard besides the guy at the gate and he’s at the entrance to the main house, sitting on his butt, dozing. Three haji’s are sitting outside one of the huts, and four outside another. The first three are smoking—I hope it’s indica, strong weed, or hashish—and playing some kind of game, three of the four are watching the fourth one play a stringed instrument, a small one, probably a rebab.
I’m happy to say none of them look up to see who’s looking down.
I’m equally happy to see the only real light—looks like a healthy mercury vapor—is outside the door to the main house, a hundred yards or more from the main gate. It’s a good light, but peters out at fifty yards.
I hit the return button and the smart little quadcopter retraces its steps and flies home to daddy.
The radio is again put to work as I let BeBe know I’m on the return trail. I’d hate to have him think I was a haji sneaking up on him.
When I get back to the hidey hole, I’ve got a plan.
"You go gather our people. Bring Killer Carlos and Emir back here, I want Killer on this Barrett with Emir spotting for him. You, Hank, and TooBad will take Dirt Dog and Sand Hog and work your way over the desert out of sight of the compound and end up two hundred yards to the east of the main gate on the access road. Lights out, of course. Make damn sure you’re not seen. I’m going to put a sneak on the main gate. I’ve got a plan to get the guard down the road a bit and out of our hair."
"And?" he asks.
"Then I’ll radio you up, you bring one RPG
, your M5, a pair of shotguns, and a claymore and we’ll set up at the front gate with a little surprise for anyone coming after us. Can do?"
"No sweat. But let's leave one of the DPV’s out in the desert as a back up."
"A couple of hundred feet, no more as we’ll be in a hurry. We’ll need both as there’ll be at least six or seven of us if we get out with the Blackthorn boys, then pick up Killer and Emir." I don’t mention there may be more.
"Got it."
"Then you and I will either slip in under the pipe gate or over the wall. Hank will man an RPG for any vehicles trying to come through the gate and he’ll kill it right in the gate, if possible, so it blocks the exit. I want TooBad to have both RG-6 Russian grenade launchers and if the kaka hits the fan, to lob those babies all over that compound. Smoke first, then frag, then phosphorus. Smoke first as there are kids and women in the compound and I want them under cover…I have no interest in being a baby killer. Let’s make sure all those bad boys are head down while we haul ass out of here. We can all four ride Dirt Dog back around and pick up Emir and Killer, and go back the way we came. Once we’re back in the wadi, on that flat sand bed we can make the Amu Darya in an hour and radio for a chopper pick up."
"Roger that, then on our way to a Tuscan t-bone and that bottle of red."
"You got it. Now haul ass as all this should happen before moonrise at eleven."
And he moves out. I stay on the Barrett, on the night scope, watching the compound.
10
It’s ten PM by the time they return. Killer will have to give Emir a quick lesson in spotting with night vision binocs while we get set up in front of the compound.
We work our way slowly through the low undergrowth as silence is the keyword, then leave Dirt Dog a couple of hundred feet from the road leading to the compound. We take Sand Hog onto the road, hardly more than a two track, and luckily there’s a rise a hundred fifty yards from the main gate and a clear view. I don my helmet—the only time I wear the damn hot thing is when I need it as a platform for my night vision—and see there’s still only one guard on the drop down pipe that serves as a compound gate. He’s leaning against the gate post, smoking. I remove the GoPro from the quadcopter, and fade into the brush after telling BeBe to stand by on the radio, Hank to be ready with an RPG, and TooBad to get set up to put the Russian grenade launcher to work, should we be discovered. I caution him again, smoke, frag, then phosphorous. I wrap my gift, the patoo as would an Afghani, hoping it’ll give me some advantage.