by L. J. Martin
No one on the road in front of us for as far as I can see, so I yell to Skip who's in the gunner's seat. "Wave him over."
"Roger," he yells back and does...but the trucker ignores him.
"Wave the 50 cal at him," I yell, and Skip does.
"He don't mind so good," Skip says.
"I'll bet a burst over his head will get his attention," I yell.
I presume a half dozen or more big fifty caliber slugs and a couple of tracers six feet over your head from only a hundred feet in front of you, will rock your world. And it does. His tires smoke as he slides to a stop.
"Wave him off the road," I yell as I brake to a stop. Skip does, and the guy pulls off onto the shoulder. BeBe pulls up behind him and leaps from Dirt Dog, carrying his M5, and Skip and TooBad do the same from Sand Hog.
BeBe climbs up onto the truck's running board. The haji driving is wide eyed, and obviously frightened.
"Salaam alaikum," Bebe says, peace be with you.
The guy manages to choke back, "Wa’alaikum salaam," and peace be with you. But the driver doesn't seem to be convinced.
While BeBe is making small talk, as well as he can, TooBad and Hank unrope the canvas back of the truck, then Hank jogs forward. "Electronic stuff. Boxes and boxes of toasters and microwaves and junk like that."
"BeBe, can you drive that thing."
"Hell yes," he says.
"Hank, get the driver up here, hook up his hands behind him and get him in the passenger side. Let's get this truck out of sight."
Only one vehicle passes as we move forward until we find the wash we've already reconned, and pull the truck off. There's not quite enough room to back it under the bridge covering the wadi, so we back up and all of us unload the boxes and boxes of stuff under the bridge and up against a bank where it can't be easily seen.
When we're done, I call the guys together. "I don't want to whack this poor dumb driver, but we don't want him to shout out either. BeBe, you and Hank haul ass with him down this wadi all the way to the big one, where it must go...at least eight or ten clicks, and uncuff him and dump him...with a little water. He'll be all day walking back and we'll be in town in the traffic by the time he gets back. We'll load Sand Hog and drive up and down the highway until you return, then we'll load you and haul ass for Mazar. Got it?"
"We'll be back in an hour or hour and a half," he says, and throws rocks as he roars off, lifting the front tires a foot off the sand.
We're able to position the truck against a low bank and back the DPV deep into the truck with barely a spin of the tires. Then I let Skip drive so I can get on the horn to Pax.
"Tell me something new?" I ask, when he answers.
"I was about to call you. I got onto another location in Mazar that Zazai and his boys occupy, but I can't pinpoint it."
"We've changed horses. We got a truck and are loading up the rigs and heading for Mazar in an hour or so. We have reason to believe the boys we'd like to meet up with are there. They left Zazai's place in a limo, believe it or not."
"As guests?"
"I think as prisoners, but don't know."
"Weird."
"Right, weird, but a stretch Mercedes limo shouldn't be hard to find in Mazar."
"I'll go on the hunt. Rumor is DOD has a satellite zeroed in on Mazar and has had since we pulled our troops out of there, they also have a drone working the area. If I can climb aboard either of them—."
"Won't that get you in deep ka ka?" I ask, then add, "We are encrypted here, are we not?"
"As good as we know how to do it. As to deep shit, If I were trying it from Vegas it might, but they'll have a hard time tracking Taj and his boys at this location. And if they try they'll think it's the Chinese playing around again."
"Good, find my limo."
"I'm on it."
"We'll be in Mazar by the end of the day and we'll need a base of operations."
"I'll work on that too. Scroder and Blackthorn may have something there."
We ring off and continue our drive. Skip and TooBad are up front with me. All of us wearing hijabs, scarves, on our heads. Now we're the ragheads. But when riding in the high cab of a truck, it's a good disguise.
We see dust rising from the wadi, a little surprised as it's only been forty minutes. I stop the truck on the bridge and use my binocs and see that it's the DPV with only two occupants, and wheel off the road and down into the wadi, and back up to the low bank. Without barely letting off on the gas, BeBe hits the bank, all four wheels leaving the ground, brakes it hard and slides about facing the back of the truck. He gears down and shoots inside a little too fast, rear-ending Sand Hog. I hold my breath as both DPVs are rolling bombs because they have so much armament aboard. But we don't go up in a cloud of flame and smoke, and BeBe and Hank are tying the canvas down on the back as I'm jamming gears to get us back on the highway.
And we're off for Mazar.
I feel a little like the lamb going into the lion's den, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
15
Before we reach the outskirts of Mazar I get a call from Pax. Skip's driving, and being very careful not to run over a herd of goats or attract any kind of attention. BeBe is riding front center, his M5 between his legs.
Pax begins before I can catch a breath. "We've got two chances for you to tie up with someone sympathetic to our cause. There's a small enclave of Coptic Christians who've had an ongoing feud with the Sunnis which Mullah Zazai happens to be, of course. And there's a small group of Shiites holding out in the city. Both of the groups are in play."
"Who hates the Sunnis the most?" I ask.
He laughs. "That's like asking a lamb if he'd rather be eaten by a lion or a tiger. The Sunnis have killed a generation of both groups. You choose."
"Give me the coordinates and addresses and some leader's names. We'll take potluck. What do they do to keep body and soul together."
"The Shiites are gold traders, and do some dope for arms trade. Then again so does half of Afghanistan. The biggest players in the Coptic Christian group deal in exports, goods they bring in from the other Stans and lots of rugs and furniture. They have a big warehouse—"
"Big enough to hide our new truck?"
"Big enough to hide a half dozen trucks. You know that any religion other than Muslim is outlawed in Afghanistan. It's estimated there are fewer than eight thousand in the whole country. They live a life of fear and survive by bribes, which takes most of what they earn."
That makes me smile. "Then they'll be interested in getting one rather than paying one."
"Makes sense. I'll see what Blackthorn knows and get back to you. I'll email you what I have on both groups and what I've found out about a city compound belonging to the Zazai group."
"Then we have a target?"
"Maybe. I'm trying to find a computer in that location. The mullah, if he's there, has not gone online and until he does, I can't get a bead on him. There’s hardly any internet service over there…maybe I should set up shop—"
"What about some air transport?" I ask.
"Blackthorn is working on it. They should have something on the ground there by tonight."
"Super. Don't get too far from the phone. Things could get very hot for us. Is the little bird still standing by?"
"It is, but now it's about fifty minutes away."
"Have you had any luck locating a stretch limo?"
"Nope."
"Ka ka happens." I sign off. Maybe my new friends, hopefully they'll be friends, will know who in Mazar is riding in style in a black Mercedes limo.
"What's the scoop," BeBe asks.
"There are two groups that might help us out."
"The Coptics and the Shi'a, right?"
"You're right on brother. What's your take?"
He takes a deep breath. "You know of the massacre of nineteen ninety eight?"
"Only what came via the press."
"The Taliban had tried to take the city a couple of years earlier, but had been
driven back. They blamed the non-Sunni residents of the city. When they returned in ninety eight they went on a killing frenzy, for the first couple of days killing anything that moved. When they settled down the Taliban forces carried out a door-to-door search for male members of the ethnic Hazara, Tajik, and Uzbek communities in the city. The Hazaras, a Persian-speaking Shi’a ethnic group, were particularly targeted because of their religious identity."
"And the Coptics?"
"They would have killed them no matter. Only those with Muslim friends survived, much like the Jews who sought help from non-Jewish Germans in WW two. It's a little better now, but not much. A Christian could be dying in the street and most Muslims would merely step over him, if not on him."
"So, you think Christians might help us?"
"If you can find any. If not, the Shi'a, the Tajiks, or the Uzbek's, if there are any left."
"We've got a line on some Coptics and I think we should try there first."
"Flip a coin, bro."
The land is flat again with only a very few low hills. It’s lush with low grass which is being taken advantage of by scattered herds of fat tailed sheep, an occasional herd of donkeys, a few horses and mules, and one fairly large herd of camels.
I've done some reading on the city and know it is the fourth-largest city of Afghanistan, with a population of about three hundred seventy thousand as of the last count and is the capital of Balkh province where we've been since we entered Afghanistan. It is linked by highways with Kunduz in the east, Kabul—the capital of Afghanistan—in the southeast, Herat in the west and to Uzbekistan in the north by the highway we came in on, A62. Afghanistan, because it's the center of the spokes in the region, is an important strategic location in Asia. The city also serves as one of the many tourist attractions of the country—like anyone is interested in visiting—because of its famous shrines as well as the Muslim and Hellenistic archeological sites.
As we move deeper into the city center, we're slowed by traffic—buses, trucks, hand-drawn carts, three-wheelers and animals being driven and ridden. Street merchants are everywhere touting everything from rugs and kitchen utensils to produce—grapes, apricots, melons, pomegranates, dried nuts and fruits. The occasional lamb, chicken, or duck carcass hangs in an outdoor shop.
I'm tempted to stop and buy some beautiful melons but the risk is too great.
It's a cacophony of sounds and sights as we near the city center. Buildings have progressed from mud shacks to a few metal structures scattered among them to a mixture of single to four story structures, a few fairly modern. The most beautiful structures are monuments and mosques.
A pack of wild dogs cross the highway in front of us and I hear gunfire which makes us all duck, but it’s only some irate Afghani shooting into the pack and scattering them. Dogs, I know, are considered unclean by Muslims, as are cats. Hank sticks his head into the opening from the rear of the truck.
"What the hell’s going down?" he asks.
"Some shit bag shooting dogs," I reply, and he nods and again disappears into the back.
Yellow and white taxis pepper the roadways as we near the city center on A62, the highway from Uzbekistan. We’re looking for a round-a-bout that will take us east on A76, then another road that will take us south to what is supposed to be where a few Coptics still reside.
A half dozen buildings up to six stories high come into view. It’s not the New York skyline, but it’s impressive compared to what we’ve seen farther north.
I'm glad it's busy as we're not being studied too closely. I have to keep telling Skip, who's driving, to tuck his blonde curls back under his hijab. Thank God we're all dirty enough after covering the desert in the DPVs to pass for two shades darker, except for BeBe, as his covering of dust and dirt actually lightens his Nubian complexion.
Pax has provided me with a map, but it's a little tough to read on the iPhone. I should have thought to bring a paper version.
Unfortunately our goal, the supposed Christian compound, is all the way across town on the southeast side. Its been described as a big metal storage or warehouse building. But possibly its location is fortunate as it's less than a mile from the Mazar International Airport. Hopefully our point of departure from Afghanistan.
Just south of the airport is Camp Marmal, which was the largest NATO base outside of Germany, and at one time housed the staff of the German Armed Forces, the Quick Reaction Force, and a company of the American 167th Infantry Battalion. At one time more than five thousand troops were stationed there from fourteen NATO countries.
I'm sure that none of the ANA troops currently there are interested in helping us. However they might be very interested in five guys who have no business, in their minds, of being in ANA battle dress and driving American SEAL Desert Patrol Vehicles armed with American weapons. And I for one, wish we weren't in full battle dress as the Afghani civilian clothes we’re wearing on top of the BDUs are about to turn me to jerky in this heat.
We find the first round-a-bout, and Skip swings a little wide.
"Watch it!" I yell as we veer toward a taxi cab on my side, the passenger side, but my yell is too late and we crunch his driver's side fender. "Pull over," I instruct Skip as the guy’s yelling like he got his nuts in a grinder. "BeBe, it’s time to use all the Pushtu you know, and buy this guy off." I reach under my seat where I’ve hidden a sack full of Afghani paper money and dig it out. I pull out what must be two grand American, a wad hard to carry in one hand. "Give him this and get him out of our hair."
Again Hank fills the pass thru to the back. "What the hell."
"Stay loose, we crunched a cab. If the cops come be ready to fire the rigs out the back. Get TooBad on the wheel of one rig and you be ready on the other. We may have to fight our way out of town."
"Roger that," he says, and disappears.
16
I jump out and let BeBe out the passenger side. He has his glock, under his untucked haji blouse, but leaves the M5 behind. The cabbie is out of his rig and jumping up and down yelling like he’s been corn-holed with a pork chop and his future in seventy-two virgin heaven is now in question. BeBe flashes the fistful of bills at him, and his eyes go wide and his tone drops two octaves.
While the negotiations proceed, I get on the horn to Pax.
"What’s up?" he asks.
"Shit may have hit the fan as we smacked a taxi. Get the Little Bird ready to get airborne and an MH standing by if you can—"
"I can. I’ve stayed in touch with them."
"Stay on the horn and let’s see how this plays out."
"Okay, but I’ve got some news for you. You know the term, going to Mazar?"
"No, why. What are you talking about, we’re in Mazar?"
"Mazar, as it turns out, is the prostitution capital of the country. That’s a term used any time a haji wants to pay for sex. And strangely enough I’ve got a line on a lady—"
"Paxman, we hardly have time—"
He laughs and interrupts, "This lady is, or was, an Egyptian Coptic who was educated at Texas Tech before she fell on bad times in Mazar. She’s now adopted the Sunni role in order to stay alive. But she’s helped some grunts out before. Her husband was killed by the Sunnis and she’s worked the troops with tricks, and some underground help, since. I’m not sure she doesn’t work both sides of the road, but the word is she goes where the money is."
"Sounds like a lady we should know."
"And I have her primary business contact, a cell phone number."
The cabbie is stuffing his pockets full of paper money, and smiling, which is the good news, the bad is a police car has pulled up.
"Stand ready," I yell into the back. "The heat is here."
But the cabbie yells at them and jabbers away in Pushtu with a big smile on his face, and BeBe gives them a smile and a wave. Still one of them is approaching. "BeBe," I yell out the truck window and he jogs over and I hand him what must be a hundred U.S., still a fat stack of Afghani bills.
The off
icer stops ten feet from the truck, and BeBe walks over and hands him the dough, with a wide grin. He greets him, "Salaam alaikum."
The smile is returned, and as the cop stuffs the bills in his trouser pocket, he replies, "Wa’alaikum salaam." And BeBe waves and heads for the truck. I slide over and let him have shotgun. The cop watches him without moving. His smile has faded Not a good sign.
But I report to Pax. "It’s cool, we’re back on the road."
"Write this number down," he instructs and I do, and sign off as Skip gets underway.
"Beat a path," BeBe snaps as he climbs aboard. "Before that shit bag wonders who the hell is the black guy in haji clothes with the collar of a ANA uniform showing underneath and combat boots. And he might conclude there’s more dough where that pile came from. We gave it up too easy."
Skip pops the clutch and we jerk away. As he swings right off the round-a-bout onto A74, the front tire rubs where the fender’s been pushed in and some smoke roils out over the hood from that side.
"Screw it," I instruct. "We'll pull it out later. Right now let’s get down the road aways."
The cop car is behind us, and I’m relieved when he stays on the traffic circle and disappears from view. Hopefully he’s now looking for the Mazar version of a WalMart in order to blow his newfound riches.
As we roll east on a new highway, I get on the phone again. "Hello," I say as a nice female voice answers, then add, "English please."
"I speak English," she says, with an accent reminding me of BeBe’s. Obviously she spent her time in the states in Texas.
"Is this Ruba?" I ask.
"Who speaks English to me?" she asks.
"A friend, who was given your name and number," I lie, "by a former Sergeant who was stationed at Marmal. I’m not calling in regards to your normal business. I need a guide and I pay well…very well."
Her voice lightens. "And I’m a very good guide."
"Do you have transportation?"
"I have a car and a driver."
"A driver who can be trusted?"
"He, too, is an Egyptian. So yes…but why must he be trusted?"