This was America.
Families made up of all races, creeds, and colors, doing whatever it took to fight against those who would take it away. He loved his country and would die for it, as would any of the men here. Was it perfect? By no means, yet was any country perfect? People were too entrenched in their positions these days, and after hearing Professor James Acton rant about social media, Dawson was convinced it was the problem as well.
Everything was filtered. Most people had no clue that what they saw on their social media feeds was based on algorithms designed to show them things the computer thought were of interest to them or would make them happy. It detected that they always clicked Like on an article blaming mankind for climate change for example, or instead on an article questioning man’s involvement. The algorithm quickly learned this, then only showed them articles that they were most likely to approve of. It meant that those who liked the articles blaming man for climate change only ever saw stories or postings from friends who favored that position and never saw anything challenging it. And the reverse was true as well.
What it meant was, when someone heard an opposing opinion, they assumed that person was an idiot because every single story they had ever seen supported their side. Yet that wasn’t the reality. There were a mix of views on every subject, and they weren’t just “yes” or “no.” There were various shades of “maybe” out there. But in a society where everything was yes or no, like or dislike, thumbs up or thumbs down, it led to thinking in similar terms. Right or wrong, black or white, good or evil. And everybody always thought they were on the side of good, which meant that those that disagreed with them or opposed them were clearly evil, and evil must be destroyed in all its forms.
Yet that wasn’t life. That wasn’t reality.
And until people learned that fact, that there were algorithms designed by social media companies intent on making people happy so they would stay on the platform so they could earn more advertising revenue, he feared his country was doomed to be torn apart.
As he stared at the growing crowd, however, it gave him hope. This was what America could be if it remembered the way things used to be. Again, not perfect, but at least with civil discourse. When neighbors who have lived beside each other for decades now hate each other because of the lawn sign they put out every four years, there was a problem. When families could no longer attend holiday dinners together because of who they voted for, there was a problem.
A throaty engine roared, interrupting his thoughts, and he turned to see Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung pulling in with his new girlfriend, Angela Henwood, in a massive Ford F-250.
“I think someone’s over-compensating,” grumbled Atlas.
Snickers rippled through the group as Niner hopped out and Angela climbed down. Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme walked up with his wife and son, admiring Niner’s new truck.
“What does over-compensating mean?” asked young Bryson Belme.
More snickers.
Atlas was about to say something that would no doubt be inappropriate, but Dawson raised a hand, cutting him off as he noticed Niner’s somber expression and Angela’s red eyes. The others spotted it as well, and the adults quickly quietened, the parents sending any children nearby onto the ball diamond.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dawson.
Niner frowned. “You heard about that ambush in Afghanistan a couple of days ago?”
Everyone nodded.
“I just heard Dax was one of them.”
There were several gasps. A few of the spouses who had been attached to the Unit for a while cried out and the children fell silent without knowing why. Dax Laurier had been a good friend, a member of Charlie Team. He had joined Delta around the same time Dawson had. With the birth of his second child, his wife had begged him to leave the Unit. It was too dangerous. He had reluctantly agreed, though on condition he could still serve in the Army, and the man most of them knew well had returned to the regular forces where he was supposed to be safer.
Tears flowed down Maggie’s cheeks. In her position as Colonel Clancy’s assistant, she had met Dax on many occasions. “His poor family!”
Spock sighed heavily. “Well, this kind of puts a damper on things.”
“Maybe we should pack it up and do this another day,” suggested his wife.
Dawson held up a hand, everyone falling silent. “We lost a good man, and we lost five other good men and women in that same attack, but that’s the job. And no one knew that more than Dax, who died doing what he loved. Now, for those of you who never met him, he was a great guy. He loved his wife and children, loved the Unit, loved his country.” He jabbed a finger toward the barbecues. “And the man loved his barbecue.”
Chuckles rippled through the group.
“I miss his ribs,” said Atlas. He turned to his girlfriend, Vanessa, training to be a chef. “He had this homemade sauce that was unbelievable. You would have loved it.”
She beamed up at him, her eyes glistening as she patted his chest. “I’m sure I would have.”
“So, here’s what I propose,” said Dawson. “We don’t mourn the man. We celebrate the man. We were planning on burgers and dogs. I say we go pick up some ribs and do this thing right.”
Some whoops and cheers were followed by clapping as everyone psyched themselves up for what was to come, a brave face, forced for now, that would turn into a mix of laughter and tears as they reminisced over the coming hours about their friend.
I’ll miss you, Dax.
10 |
Ministry of Urban Development and Land 3rd Macrorayon, Kabul, Afghanistan
Kane stepped outside, staring down at the courtyard in front of the Soviet-era office building where the Minister of Urban Development and Land held court. He glanced over at the translator he had worked with for years, Mo. “Well, there’s an hour we’ll never get back.”
Mo chuckled. “I think you had him almost convinced that Shaw’s was indeed willing to underwrite their new construction projects, despite the fact the Taliban had vowed to blow every one of them up.”
Kane headed down the steps. “Yeah, sometimes I forget what my job is.”
“Where to now?”
“The Wakhan Corridor.”
Mo’s eyes widened. “The Wakhan Corridor? Where those soldiers were ambushed a few days ago?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t that mean the area’s not safe?”
Kane shook his head. “Oddly enough, I don’t think it does, unless you’re wearing an American uniform and going to a scheduled meeting.”
Mo stared at him, puzzled. “When my wife is viewing my body, she might appreciate a clearer explanation than that.”
Kane slapped him on the back, grinning. “Where’s that positive attitude you’re famous for?”
Mo grunted. “Oh, it’s still there. I’m positive that one of these days you’re going to get me killed.”
Kane climbed in the armored SUV his cover company had arranged for him. It was a beast on gas, but it would protect them from small arms fire. He started the engine as Mo closed the passenger door and put his seatbelt on. Kane turned to him, serious. “Listen, if you’re having second thoughts, I can find someone else.”
Mo rapidly shook his head. “No, please don’t. I need this job. It feeds my family, and…” He hesitated.
“And you hope it’ll get you out of the country?”
Mo stared at the dash. “Will it?”
Kane put the vehicle in gear and pulled away. “The paperwork’s been submitted, and I’ve asked my contacts to see if they can goose the process along. Beyond that, there’s not much more I can do.”
Mo sighed. “Things are getting worse here, not better. I’m terrified that once you guys leave, the government will fall, and the people like me who cooperated will be hunted down then tortured and killed along with our families.”
Kane came to a halt behind another car waiting near the gate and regarded the man he had been on missions
with at least a dozen times. Rarely were they under fire, though there had been enough hairy situations that Mo had plenty of opportunity to prove his courage and his trustworthiness. So many of the translators here had pledged their loyalty to the new government and its foreign allies, with the expectation that the government would never fall because of its NATO backing. And many, like Mo, were being abandoned as the troop drawdown continued.
Yet what choice did America and its allies have? It had been two decades. It was ridiculous. If a country couldn’t be stabilized in that amount of time, it was clear the population didn’t want it, and if that were the case, then so be it. But they shouldn’t be abandoning those who had helped them, those they knew would be targets.
But these things were beyond his control. That was for politicians to decide. He didn’t make policy, he enforced it, though perhaps there were favors he could call in that he hadn’t yet. He reached over and grabbed Mo by the shoulder, giving it a squeeze and a shake. “Have faith, my friend. Let’s get through the next week or so, and then I’ll make some more phone calls.”
Mo’s reaction wasn’t what he had expected. Instead of a smile or a thank you, his eyes bugged out. “A week or so?”
Kane nodded as he pulled through the gates and onto the road, heading back toward his hotel. “It could be a little bit longer, but I have a feeling I’m going to have the answers I need within a week.”
Mo muttered a prayer to Allah, pleading for strength as he dialed his cellphone.
“Something wrong?” asked Kane.
“I have to tell my wife how long I’m going to be away. I assured her it wouldn’t be more than a few days. She’s going to be most upset.”
Kane laughed. “Buddy, we’ve been gone for weeks before.”
“Yes, but that’s before we had our fourth child. I promised her I wouldn’t do that again. And it’s my eldest’s thirteenth birthday.”
Kane’s chest tightened as he offered his congratulations for the milestone, yet another reason he had to get this family out of a country that would see its men slaughtered for doing the right thing, and deny its women any semblance of human rights should those trapped a thousand years in the past retake control.
11 |
Baharak Bazaar Baharak, Afghanistan
Jafar sat, struggling to control his nerves. The attack hadn’t gone as planned. Their village’s imam was dead. Half a dozen of those involved in the attack were also, and several of the elders had been wounded when those who claimed to be their friends opened fire indiscriminately on the imam’s home.
It had been a bloodbath.
None of that would have happened if the ambush had taken place outside of their community as had been planned. He didn’t care that the Americans had been betrayed. Despite being on friendly terms with them for years, they were an occupying force, and now they were leaving. His village had to make plans for the future, a future where the Taliban would be in control, and the only way to survive under their dominion was to keep your head down and obey their rules.
So, when in Baharak, negotiating for supplies with some of the money the American soldiers had left them with a few weeks ago, he had lent his ear when approached by the man now scrolling through the photos. The proposal had been simple. Let him know when the next scheduled meeting was, and provide a dozen able-bodied men to participate in the attack with a small contingent that would arrive the morning of the ambush.
And for every American killed, he would pay an unfathomable amount of money. Typically, six Americans would come for the meetings. It would mean so much for his village. And it would be for his village, for he had no intention of keeping the money himself. It was a cruel, evil act they would be participating in, betraying those who came to them in friendship, and executing them for profit. Though if the money were used for the village, then perhaps it could be justified. After all, their late imam had taught that only believers were worthy, and if betrayal of one’s word were necessary, it was only permitted if a non-believer were involved.
Yet it wasn’t a decision he could make. He wasn’t an elder. The man had given him a phone and a number with instructions to call him as soon as a decision had been made. He had finished purchasing the supplies and returned to his village. When he arrived, he had immediately sought out the imam and the village elders. He told them what had been said, and a raging debate ensued that went well into the night.
But a decision had finally been made. NATO was pulling out, which meant they had no defense against the Taliban or anyone else should someone take an interest in the village. New allegiances were needed. If they refused these people, they could become targets, but if they agreed, they would be richly awarded, hopefully protected after the Americans pulled out, and the only cost would be the lives of a few infidels who had no business being in Afghanistan.
They agreed the money would be used to improve the lives of everyone in the village, especially the families of those who might be martyred in the ambush. Jafar had immediately agreed to be among the volunteers demanded of the man, though he had been refused. He was the point of contact. It was essential he stay alive, take the photos demanded, and get them to their contact. Involving anyone else risked linking the village to what would be an atrocity in the eyes of the Americans they were betraying.
And it had been an atrocity.
The Americans had figured out something was wrong, attempted to pull out early, and died regardless. But so had the imam he had known his entire life. From his refuge in the hills, he had watched on in horror as those who had been sent in to join them, who had provided the weapons and trained them, opened fire on the imam’s home indiscriminately.
The entire event hadn’t taken ten minutes. The moment the last shot had been fired, he rushed down from his perch, took his photos, then fled with the rest of the village before the Americans arrived. He had come into the city the next day, made his phone call, and was now sitting in the mosque’s supply truck, his heart hammering as each photo was examined.
The man smiled as he turned to face him. “Excellent work. Six as you said on the phone.” He gestured toward the bag clutched against Jafar’s chest. “You’ve got your money. We agreed I’d pay you one thousand per American, so that’s six thousand to you in there. A profitable day for a few minutes work.”
Jafar nodded.
“You have our thanks, and a promise that we won’t interfere in the affairs of your village, as long as you don’t defy us.”
Jafar gulped. “Who is us?”
The man chuckled. “You don’t need to know.” He tapped the bag. “You’re sure you don’t want to count it?”
Jafar gulped again. He could try, but he wasn’t sure he could count high enough for it to matter. “No, I trust you.”
The man smiled broadly, slapping him on the back. “Excellent. Now, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but we never met, you were never paid, you never participated in the attack. You’re victims, just like the Americans.”
Jafar opened his mouth to pose an obvious question, then decided against it.
“You were about to ask me something. We’re all friends here. Ask your question.”
Jafar patted his bag. “How do we explain this?”
“Don’t be stupid, and you won’t have to. Wait a while, then use it wisely.”
“But what if we’re asked? This is more money than our village has ever seen in its entire history.”
“Then tell them you found it.”
Jafar stared at him for a moment. “Where would I find something like this?”
“There was a government convoy hit last week in your region. Just tell them you came upon it, found the money, and decided to donate it to your mosque. No one would dare challenge you on it. Any more questions?”
Jafar shook his head.
“Good. You’ll never see me again unless you betray me, and then I’ll be the last thing you ever see.” The man climbed out then slammed the door shut, disappearing among th
e crowds.
Jafar peered into the bag then grabbed the thick envelope sitting on top, opening it once again, his pulse racing at the amount it contained. He stuffed it into an inner pocket and prayed he wasn’t searched on the way home. He started the engine then put the old beast in gear, and as he pulled away, the transmission grinding with each shift, he hoped the village elders decided some of the money should be invested into a new vehicle. As he gained speed, heading out of the city and onto the lonely road that led to the village he called home, the thought of a new vehicle brought a smile, the future comfort eagerly looked forward to.
And all that it cost were the lives of six infidels and one traitor to his country.
12 |
The Unit Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“Go on in, he’s expecting you.”
Command Sergeant Major Dawson winked at his fiancée Maggie as she waved him into his commanding officer’s inner sanctum. He rapped twice on the closed door, his hand perched over the knob.
“Enter!”
He dropped his hand and turned the knob, pushing the door aside. Colonel Thomas Clancy glanced up from his computer then directed him with a finger into one of the chairs in front of his desk. Dawson closed the door and took a seat as Clancy finished reading something before turning his attention to Dawson.
“Sergeant Major, you asked to see me?”
“Yes, sir. It’s about Dax.”
Clancy leaned back, frowning. “So, you’ve heard.”
“Yes, sir. I suspect the entire base has heard by now.”
“I suppose they have. And before you ask, at the moment, we have no idea who committed the attack, so we don’t know if it was Taliban.” Clancy tapped a finger on his desk for a moment, contemplating something, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m going to tell you something off the record. Don’t repeat this to anybody, including Maggie.”
Dawson pulled his chair closer. “My lips are sealed.”
The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021) Page 5