Elevated Threat

by William Robson

  Richard cocked his head to the side.

  “Listen to what? I don’t hear a thing except all the bugs trying to eat me alive.”

  “Exactly. There is no sound, not even the mechanical bees you usually hear out here in the West.”

  Richard looked to the sky and listened. He knew that allied drones generally flew east to west and that their flight path would normally put them overhead of where they now were standing. The drones should be within earshot of anyone actively listening for them. The drones had become so ubiquitous in the skies above Pakistan that they have started to blend into the rest of the background noise for most of the people. But here, away from the big city and the noise that comes with it, it was the lack of their engines’ low humming sound that stood out. After a few minutes of staring at the sky and listening for sounds, Richard made another observation.

  “Hey, Max. Have you seen an airplane since we left town?”

  Max reflexively looked up.

  “Now that you mention it, I haven’t. Weird.”

  Uzair broke up the moment of reflection by yelling at them to load up. Soon they were off again heading down the dangerous two-lane road in Uzair’s rickety old minivan.

  The drive on the Indus Highway south from Muslim Abad is no treat on a good day. While not yet into the tribal areas, there is always the risk of government checkpoints, rebel groups of every sort, or even just plain old highway robbers showing up. If you find yourself at the wrong place at the wrong time on this road you could easily disappear into the vast surrounding desert. Thus, keeping a low profile for the trio was the order of the day. The camera gear, the satellite phones, and laptops were all buried away under a jumble of clothes, food, and other basic supplies that one would expect to see in the back of a ratty old Nissan minivan.

  The clothing in Pakistan is very regional in nature. In each of the four provinces of Punjab, Sindh, Baluchistan, Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa, and in FATA out in the countryside, people include distinctive options to the basic shalwar kameez outerwear which most Pakistanis wear. This fact presents a problem on a cross-country trip. If a group stops you along your route and you are wearing the wrong sash or head covering, you can instantly be labeled an enemy to the locals. For a trip deep into southern Waziristan, that would definitely be a bad thing.

  Max, Richard, and Uzair decided to wear a very plain shalwar kameez with sandals and no hat. The lack of a beard could be a problem, and the thought of using the fake beards some CIA buddies gave them awhile back had crossed their minds. They decided being found with the fakes would look even more suspicious than not having them, so they decided to risk it with no whiskers.

  The minivan arrived in Ambrin Kala safe and sound, and they decided to stop for some food. This would most likely be the last stop along the way, so they all decided to pig out. What Uzair ordered for them was not unlike that consumed on an Iowa farm. They ate eggs, qeema (minced meat), fresh seasonal fruits, bread and drank lots of sweet, strong tea.

  With full tummies, they headed back on the road for the final push to Bannu. Now the little Nissan was heading south on the N55 highway out of Ambrin Kala, and it was here that they expected the trip to start to really get interesting. It didn’t take long for the three travelers to notice something did not appear normal. The traffic going south with them consisted of the anticipated mix of transport trucks and family vehicles. But the traffic going south was also heavily sprinkled with trucks and vans of all types that were chock-full of animated and agitated young men. Guns, never in short supply in this part of the world, were now everywhere, and sticking out of windows, pointing in every direction. It took less than an hour of travelling down this road before Richard and Max saw the first large group of young men shooting randomly into the sky out of their drastically overloaded little Toyota truck while yelling jihadist slogans.

  Max leaned over to Richard and said:

  “You realize we are on our way into the fricken Super Bowl of jihadism with only you, me, a couple of cameras, and two 9mm’s. Are we nuts?”

  Richard started wondering if he should have listened to Smitty after all. Putting on a brave face, he leaned back at Max and added:

  “Yeah, we are. But the story will be epic.”

  When the van reached the turnoff to Mangel Mela, Uzair stomped on the brakes and yanked the wheel, sending the van skidding to a stop just behind an obviously abandoned building. When Richard and Max stopped tumbling around the inside of the van, they yelled out in unison.

  “Uzair! What the hell are you doing?”

  When Uzair looked back at them his eyes were as big as two-dollar eggs and the lack of blood in his face indicated that something those eggs saw was bad. The reporters took a quick look around the van but there wasn’t anything they could see that could have created such a reaction in their driver. All they could see was this old abandoned building, miles of desert, and the traffic whizzing by. Thankfully, none of the traffic was paying any undue attention to the minivan and the cloud of dust it created. Richard broke the silence:

  “Uzair! Why did you stop here? There’s nothing here!”

  Uzair was still spooked and spoke under his breath.

  “That’s the point. There should be a government checkpoint right here. This is where you always stop and pay the bribe to head into the tribal lands. But they are all gone. This is a very bad sign. We should go back.”

  The only thing worse that someone could say to the two reporters this far into the journey than, “show me your identification” was, “we are turning back.” The two reporters were not pleased. They tried reasoning with Uzair that this was a good thing. Since they would not have to deal with government bribes, they could then give even more money to Uzair and his family when they got home. Uzair was not convinced. It wasn’t until Richard had agreed to double his original salary – all in US dollars – that Uzair agreed to push onward. Even though Uzair had promised to wait for them in Bannu for the return trip, both reporters now anticipated they would need to be looking for a ride back.

  The farther west one travels away from the government checkpoint at Mangel Mela, the less often the now rapidly deteriorating road was serviced. Since breaking down out here was not an option, the average speed the minivan was able to travel around the potholes was dropping precipitously. All three knew that getting to Wana before dark was crucial. No money in the world would be able to convince Wahid to make the trip if they couldn’t do it during the relative safety of the sunlight. It seemed the more Richard pushed Uzair to hurry, the more he slowed down.

  Somehow, despite Uzair’s reticence, they managed to reach Bannu without any other drivers paying their little van much attention, having the Nissan break down, or having Uzair turn back. Richard and Max were now over half way to their destination in miles driven, but still light years away in terms of risk. They were now deep in the countryside and in a place where any misstep could be their last. There would be no more stops at the local café from here on out. They silently hoped Wahid had not backed out on them, and the anticipation of seeing him waiting for them at the appointed place was palpable.

  There was an audible sigh of relief when they reached the small house on the eastern outskirts of town where they had agreed to meet and found Wahid. He and his reputed reliable transportation dutifully waiting. The relief was short lived. Wahid turned out to be in his late seventies, and judging by his looks, the years were not kind ones. Worse than the image of health that Wahid himself presented was the reliability expectations of the truck Wahid was standing next to. His “reliable” transportation turned out to be a 1968 Land Rover. The back half of the cab had been cut off and the original steel sides had been replaced with planks of rotted wood arranged something like a picket fence. It was obvious this stylish modification was dated in decades, not years. When Max hopped in the passenger side, the road was visible between his feet, thanks to the rusted out and now missing floorboard on the passenger side. To add to the Beverly Hillbillies’ look
, there was a goat inside the picket fence looking back at them.

  Richard just smiled at Max and slapped him on the back before throwing his own gear in the back with the goat and climbing aboard. Max at least got the seat up front. As long as he didn’t let his legs dangle through the holes in the floor, Max decided this was the better option. When Richard asked Wahid if he spoke English, Wahid just smiled back, with no teeth, and said:

  “Okay, boss.”

  When Richard asked Wahid if he knew where they were going Wahid replied:

  “Okay, boss.”

  Max looked at Richard in a way that could have been construed as something less than full confidence. Richard took out his map and showed it to Wahid and pointed to Wana.

  Wahid shook his head up and down:

  “Okay, boss.”

  Both Max and Richard wanted to ask about the goat, but never did.

  To everyone’s surprise, the old Land Rover started on the first twist of the screwdriver that had long ago replaced the truck’s key, and the new Beverly Hillbillies were on their way. The only thing now standing between Richard and “the story of the century” was 400 kilometers of a road last maintained in the 70’s, getting there in a truck built in the 60’s, driven by a man who last had teeth in the 80’s, and about 20,000 passersby who would kill them instantly if they knew they were in the rickety old truck. Just a simple summer’s drive.

  The road from Bannu headed west to Razmak, the last town before Wana. The farther down the road they went, the more shooting into the heavens from the windows around them they encountered. Eventually Richard and Max stopped flinching at the sound of the AK-47’s firing

  into the air. Bouncing down this road, the whole trip had become so surreal to Richard and Max that even random shooting out of windows seemed to lose its impact on them. It’s amazing how humans adapt to make things normal so they can deal with them.

  When the engine note of the old truck dropped to near idle and the truck started pulling to the side of the road five kilometers before they reached Razmak, Richard thought for the first time that they were in serious trouble. Wahid pulled the truck way off the road before he stopped. Wahid pulled the screwdriver out from under the seat and turned the engine off. Richard tried to be calm, but realized from the look on Max’s face, that he was in fact yelling.

  “Wahid, why are we stopping? Why are we stopping? Wait, where are you going?”

  Wahid didn’t answer, he just got out of the truck and started walking out into the desert. Richard was imagining how this would be a perfect place for land mines. When Wahid didn’t respond to his calls, Richard’s imagination started running full tilt. Maybe the old man had actually set them up, and now his Taliban buddies were waiting just over the sand dune. For the first time, Richard started thinking about how two Americans traded alive to the Taliban could be worth more to Wahid than the bribe they had given him to make the drive. The thought was not reassuring.

  While Wahid continued to walk away from the truck, a beat-up old Nissan Sentra with three young men in it started slowing down to see why the old truck was sitting way off of the road. When they spotted the car, and noticed it was starting to slow down on the road behind them, Richard and Max really started to sweat. Wahid was waking away, and the Sentra was now off the road and on the gravel approaching the little Land Rover. The man in the back seat of the Sentra stuck his AK-47 out the window and yelled at Max and Richard some unintelligible words, but did so in a very excited voice that made his intent obvious. Max silently reached for the 9mm in his backpack. Richard, sitting in the back bed of the truck, had no way to reach his. If there was going to be a firefight out here in the desert, it was going to be a short one.

  The Sentra slowly rolled to a stop about twenty feet behind the truck, and now all three men in the car were yelling at them. Richard had one hope. He faced the men in the Sentra and then pointed to his ear like he couldn’t hear them and then pointed out at Wahid in the desert. At that very moment, Wahid dropped his drawers and took a dump. The three men in the Sentra started laughing and honked their horn. As they drove off, the AK-47 shot a few rounds into air. As Wahid finished his business, Max and Richard realized they needed to check their drawers as well. Eventually Wahid returned to the truck, grabbed his screwdriver and yelled out:

  “Okay, boss!”

  Despite Razmak being a hotbed for extremists and the entire population of the town only consisting of a few houses, it somehow still was a calming sight to Richard and Max. There was at least a hope for gas or help if the truck broke. Any little lift in spirit, real or imagined was welcome at this point. Two turns later and the small hamlet was behind them, the small respite of relief gone.

  The road was now following the Baddar Toi River. Small encampments down by the river could be seen from the road. There was no doubt that these camps were all filled “true believers” resting for their final drive to Wana. Richard could not help but wonder what would happen if the truck broke down now. Richard literally shook his head to try and get that thought removed from his brain. Before long, the road veered away from the river and back up into the endless desert. Surprisingly, the vast empty desert was starting to look better than watching the river encampments go by.

  The small village of Makin came into view and along with it came the river again and still more encampments. Beyond Makin was a steep climb up and over a mountain pass that would deliver them into Kaniguram, the last town before reaching Wana. Richard was slightly relieved when he realized his foot was resting against a five-gallon can of water. Wahid had brought it in case the old truck overheated in the climb over the mountain pass. Amazingly, the old truck made slow, but steady progress up and over the pass. The rest of the trip was downhill from here, at least literally.

  The Tank-Makin Road forks off to the east from the Wana-Razmak Road. It’s the last, and only way you can run when trouble is brewing in Wana. And it was at that very fork in the road where everything began to unravel for Richard and Max.

  Parked ten meters before the split in the road sat two very large troop carriers. These imposing trucks were having the effect of causing the traffic to slow to a crawl as it went by. The trucks had no markings on them and their occupants had no uniforms or identifying marks. Usually this meant they were just a local gang looking to grab whatever contraband they could. However, none of the cars passing by in front of them were forced to stop or were even looked at by the men in trucks. One of the occupants of the trucks just peered through binoculars at each of the cars as they went past. At least they did until the little Land Rover chugged into their view.

  Max and Richard saw him about the same time the lookout in the troop carrier saw the Land Rover. Unlike the young men in the Sentra, this time it was clear Richard and Max had been identified by the sentry as not belonging there. Max handed Richard his 9mm. Richard just handed it back and pointed out the front window. In the back of each truck were six or seven men, all with their ubiquitous AK-47’s at the ready. There really was no point. When the traffic in front of them had cleared and there was nothing left between the lead truck and the little Land Rover, a very large, serious looking man with a heavy beard pointed at them to pull over. Wahid did.

  The big serious-looking man talked to Wahid for a few minutes and then Wahid stared straight out the windshield back at the road. After a few very uncomfortable seconds of silence, Wahid put the truck in gear and slowly started moving. Max and Richard’s eyes got real big. Could it be old Wahid convinced the bad man they were not who they wanted, and that he had to let them go? Had another miracle just saved their collective ass? That thought was short lived when they saw Wahid take a left turn and head down the Tank-Makin Road. Worse than the change of direction was that both of the troop carriers started to follow them. Richard knew that down this road was one hundred kilometers of empty desert. Their bodies would never be found. Richard and Max just sat quietly, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

  Wahid broke the silen
ce and yelled out to Richard:

  “Okay, boss!”

  Richard looked at Max; neither knew what to say.

  About twelve kilometers down the mountainous road the lead troop carrier flashed its lights and the Land Rover pulled off the road. Not one car had followed them, and none could be seen all the way down to the desert valley below. A perfect place for a quiet killing. Max turned to Richard and showed him his gun.

  “I am not going to be tortured, so maybe we should deny them that pleasure.”

  Richard just stared at Max, his mind was racing. Wahid put his hand on Max’s gun and pushed it down toward the floor. Then smiled his toothless grin.

  “Okay, boss!”

  Before the two men could react to Wahid’s words, they heard broken English coming from the side of the truck. The large bearded man was now standing next to them.

  “Would you please put the gun down. We have been waiting for you.”

  Max was stunned, he did not say, “give me the gun,” he said “put it down.“ And more astonishing was the fact that the bearded man did not have his gun pointed at them. It was slung nonchalantly over his shoulder. After taking it all in for what seemed like forever, Max put his 9mm back in his backpack. The bearded man stuck out his hand.

  “I am Kamran. Please come.”

  Max and Richard grabbed their backpacks and made their way over to the closest troop carrier. All of the men in it jumped out and went to the second truck, leaving them plenty of room to store their gear. Kamran offered water and fruit to the three travelers. Then Kamran left them in the back and started to rummage around in the cab of the truck. When he returned to the back, he had a very unique looking satellite phone. On its keypad he banged in some numbers and then handed it to Richard. The voice on the other end just about took Richard to his knees.

  “Richard, it’s Smitty. Hey, buddy, I sure had a bitch of a time finding you, but I am glad I did. I knew you wouldn’t follow my suggestion to get out of here, so I started looking for you as soon as you left the embassy.”