by Dale Brown
“But, sir . . .”
“I know, I know. We don’t have any ammo for the main gun,” the commander said. “They don’t have to know that.” No one at headquarters expected a tank battle out here in the middle of nowhere, especially with Northern Alliance progovernment forces in charge again in Afghanistan, so rations of critical ammunition supplies such as rounds for the main tank guns were reserved only for the army units in the cities and Caspian Sea ports, not the border outposts. They were lucky to have any ammo at all. “Get to it, Sergeant. I want to see the commander of that detachment right away. I’ll chew on him for a few minutes while you find some bunk space and rations for them.” As angry as the commander was for being roused late at night, no Turkmen would ever consider being inhospitable to anyone traveling across the desert. Even a professional military officer in the twenty-first-century Turkmen army was only a couple generations removed from his nomadic roots. Every real Turkman knew the etiquette and rules of survival in the desert, and the prime rule was that any unarmed man riding into an oasis, even an artificial one such as this border outpost, was to be made welcome.
“Wakil, they’re moving a tank up to the gate!” Turabi radioed. “We’ve been discovered!”
“Relax, Jala,” Zarazi said. “I’m not worried about the tank just yet. I’m worried about the barracks. If we start to see troops running out of those tents, we may be in for a fight.”
Troops soon did start emerging from the tents, but only a half dozen or so. Zarazi could soon see that they were rushing toward one of the supply buildings and emerging moments later with their arms full of carpets. He realized with amused surprise that they were preparing to bunk down the newcomers. “Steady. I think they want to make us feel welcome.”
Several minutes later the gates opened and a soldier walked out and greeted Zarazi. He spoke in Turkmen first, which Zarazi understood, but he thought it best to pretend he did not. “Zdrastvooy,” he said in Russian, raising his right hand. The soldier smiled and made a short bow—Turkmenistan had been heavily Russified over the years of Soviet occupation, and only recently was Russian replaced by Turkmen as the national language. Zarazi quickly searched for the soldier’s rank, saw he was a major in the border guards, and went on, “I am Colonel Petrovich of the Republic of Ukraine, representing the United Nations High Commission on Refugees. Our column was ambushed by marauders outside of Andkhvoy, and we have several wounded. Can you help us?”
“Da. Ya paneemayoo,” the soldier replied. He removed a glove and extended a hand.
Zarazi shook it, then gave him a curt embrace and patted his shoulder.
“We picked up some transmissions of some sort of skirmish east of here, but we couldn’t make out what happened.” The soldier motioned to the Toyota pickup. “Were they Taliban?”
“Bzduns!” Zarazi said, turning to spit on the sand. “They hit us before we knew they were in the area. Luckily for us, we insisted on going on patrol armed. We suffered a few casualties before the cowards ran off.” Zarazi motioned to the detainment facility, where a number of the men inside had gotten up and moved toward the fence to get a look at what was going on. “Did you capture anyone in the past few hours?”
“Not since this morning,” the soldier said. “But you are welcome to look them over and interrogate them if you wish. Speak any Pashtun?”
“Nyet,” Zarazi lied. “But I have men who do.”
“The base commander wishes to meet with you. You are welcome. You’ll have to keep your vehicles outside the compound until we have our ordnance men look them over, but we can help you with your dead and wounded right away. Come.”
“Spaseeba bal’shoye. I am grateful,” Zarazi said. He turned toward the BTR and stepped out of earshot of the Turkmen officer—which wasn’t too far in this weather—and said into his radio in Pashtun, “Come on in as we planned. Don’t destroy the tank. Neutralize the guards around that detainment facility and see if there’s anyone inside from our tribe. Then get them ready to move.”
A few moments later Zarazi was brought before the base commander, an older man who seemed to be struggling to stay awake. His Russian was even better than his deputy’s. The pleasantries were short and strained. Then: “You are fortunate, sir, that my culture and my conscience prohibit me from turning you away in the desert. Don’t they teach you blue-helmets anything about approaching a border crossing in military vehicles? We could have destroyed you at any time.”
“Ezveeneetye,” Zarazi said. He did not remove his helmet or his sand goggles, a move that obviously irritated his host. “It’s been a long day, sir. It won’t happen again.”
The commander narrowed his eyes even further when Zarazi spoke. The Afghan terrorist knew that his time was running out quickly. He had made the mistake of telling the major he was a Ukrainian, but surely the Turkmen had heard from and dealt with plenty of Ukrainians in the past—and Zarazi definitely didn’t sound like one. The commander tried to erase the alarmed expression on his face and even managed to give Zarazi a slight smile and nod. “Well, in this weather, with what you went through, it was an honest mistake. You and your men are welcome.” He picked up the telephone. “I’ll make sure we have suitable quarters for—”
Zarazi drew his sidearm. “I’m sure your quarters will be more than suitable for me,” he said. “Put the phone down, turn around, and get your hands up on the wall—now.”
The old officer did not look surprised as he replaced the receiver on the cradle, then did as he was told.
“You stupid old man. Law of the desert or not, you never open your gates to an unidentified military force. Didn’t the Russians teach you anything?”
“The Russians taught me to hate the Mujahidin. I had no reason to do so, until now,” the old officer said bitterly.
As if to punctuate his statement, the sound of gunfire was heard outside. The old man turned toward the telephone on his desk, hoping he would get a report saying that his men had captured or executed some terrorists—but his shoulders slumped and the corners of his eyes drooped when the gunfire subsided and the phone did not ring.
“What is it you want? Weapons? Fuel? Food? We are in short supply of all these things.”
“Then the fewer men we have here on this base, the better,” Zarazi said calmly—and he put a bullet into the old officer’s forehead. Zarazi then stationed a Turkmen-speaking man inside the office to cover the phones and went outside with gun in hand to see how Turabi was progressing.
“It went smoother than I ever expected,” Turabi reported. “The border guards here are all conscripts, none more than twenty-five years old. We found one career officer and one career NCO and executed them. The conscripts practically kissed our boots in return. We shouldn’t have any trouble with them. They are refueling our vehicles now.”
“Very good.” Zarazi motioned to the detainment facilities. “What do we have there?”
“Women and children in there, men over here, existing just a little bit better than a herd of cattle,” Turabi said disgustedly. “Damned Turkmen—they think their country is so special. What do you want to do with them?”
“Release the women and children with enough rations to last them a couple days. By then they’ll either be discovered by relief troops or they’ll decide to walk to Andkhvoy.” Turabi nodded. “As for the men—if there’s anyone willing to join us, they may.”
“They’ll all want to join us, Wakil. Either that or starve.”
“Then weed out any who are from hostile tribes, foreigners, unbelievers, or anyone who doesn’t wish to join us, and execute them,” Zarazi said. “Keep one or two of the older men here to supervise the rescue of the women and children. Make sure they all understand that if they tell anyone what happened here, I will return and execute them and their entire families. Put the others to work burying our dead and collecting weapons, ammunition, food, and water. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
“Where are we headed”—Turabi paused, then added
with a smile—“Colonel?”
“ ‘Colonel’ will be fine—Major,” Zarazi said with a smile. “North, to Kerki.”
“We’re going to stay in Turkmenistan? Why not head east back toward home?”
“Because the Northern Alliance, the United Nations, and the Americans will pursue us and hound us until we are destroyed,” Zarazi said. “The Turkmen garrison at Kerki will have more ammunition, weapons, and supplies, and we’ll be safe from our pursuers.”
“What about the Turkmen army? They’ll pursue us even more relentlessly than the Americans.”
“If the state of this border guard detachment is any indication of the state of the Turkmen army, I’m not concerned,” Zarazi said. “The Turkmen government is weak and corrupt. Taking what we want shouldn’t be too difficult for us. Even if we had to assault this border post, we would have had no trouble.”
Zarazi stared out into the darkness to the north and fell silent for several long moments. Turabi thought his superior officer was entering some kind of trance. Just before he was about to ask if anything was wrong, Zarazi went on, “And I have been chosen by God to be His instrument of revenge against the nonbelievers,” he said. “God saved me from the American robot planes. He wants something of me, Jala, I know it. Something great. Something important. I will not stop fighting until I have accomplished it.”
One |
ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY
The next morning
I apologize for holding this press conference in this kind of weather, with no shelter,” former president of the United States Kevin Martindale began. As he did, the early-morning downpour seemed to intensify. “Out of respect for this place, I chose not to set up any tents or shelters and add any more to the circuslike atmosphere I’m already creating here. It’s also why we’re out here in the visitors’ parking lot instead of on the grounds themselves, and why I requested that no cameras be aimed toward the cemetery itself. But I did come to Arlington for a reason.”
Despite the weather, Kevin Martindale, standing on the running board of his armored Suburban, looked as groomed and polished as if he were in a television studio. In his early fifties, tall and handsome, a former two-time vice president and one-term chief executive, Martindale still looked every inch the political pro and commander in chief. He kept himself in good shape; he still dressed impeccably; he had shaved his beard and cut his hair for this appearance. The famous “photographer’s dream” was still there, even in the rain—the two locks of silver hair that automatically mirrored his mood. If he was angry, they curled menacingly across his forehead, as they did right now; when he was contented, they swept gracefully back across his salt-and-pepper mane.
“I asked you to meet me out here today so I might make an observation and an announcement,” Martindale said. “The weather happens to match my mood pretty well.
“Today is a very solemn anniversary: the twelfth anniversary of the last postwar combat deaths of Operation Desert Storm. Two weeks after the Iraqi army was decimated and a cease-fire was declared, a U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopter went down in bad weather over Kuwait, and six brave soldiers were lost. Some of those heroes are interred here in Section H at Arlington National Cemetery. That these losses happened at all is a huge tragedy, but to suffer such a loss after such a great victory against the Iraqi army makes the loss even more grievous.
“Yet it was a great victory for freedom. The mission to release Kuwait from the clutches of Saddam Hussein took only six weeks to accomplish; Iraq surrendered just one hundred hours after the ground war began, after being pummeled into submission by forty days of continuous aerial bombardment. Coalition forces lost just five hundred brave soldiers, against nearly one hundred thousand Iraqi casualties. It was clearly one of the most lopsided wars in history. Those soldiers’ deaths were tragic, but it was a mission I feel the United States needed to accomplish. They did not die in vain.
“I bring all this to your attention today to point out an alarming fact: that the United States does not now have the capability to perform that same fight for freedom,” Martindale went on. “The United States mobilized two hundred and fifty thousand soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen in six months to fight that last battle. Today it would take us years to mobilize and move the same number of troops and send them halfway across the world to fight. We have no ground forces stationed overseas—none. We have a total of fifty thousand Marines deployed aboard ships around the world with aircraft-carrier battle groups. Those are the only ground forces that can respond to an emergency. We also happen to have two fewer aircraft-carrier battle groups operational, which in essence leaves one-fifth of the world unpatrolled at any given time.
“In addition, the forty-first president managed to commit, organize, mobilize, and direct another two hundred and fifty thousand troops from fifty-seven nations in the war against Saddam Hussein, including those from six Arabic-speaking nations and another seventeen Islamic nations,” Martindale continued. “The current administration has managed to ignore, cancel, violate, and abrogate dozens of treaties; it has alienated most of our allies, created distrust among the nonaligned world, and angered our enemies.
“Thomas Thorn continues to cut the size of the United States military at a ridiculous rate, especially our Army,” Martindale said, his voice rising in anger. “The Army is now one-half the size it was just two years ago, and it continues to shrink. The size of the Reserves and National Guard has increased, but the overall force is still one-third smaller. We have abrogated numerous mutual-defense and cooperation treaties with dozens of nations, most important among them the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, which in my opinion has ensured the safety and security of the entire world for almost half a century. Thanks to Thomas Thorn’s shortsightedness, the United States is a friendless, futureless desert island hopelessly lost and forgotten in the sea of global geopolitical affairs. We are not adrift—we are being purposely and maliciously steered around every tragedy, every responsibility, and every crisis, all in the name of splendid isolationism. It is time for that policy to end.
“Now for my announcement: I am hereby announcing the formation of an exploratory committee to become the Republican Party nominee for president of the United States.”
Even from this group of Washington reporters, who had been hearing rumors about such an announcement for weeks, there was a loud murmur of surprise. Martindale’s aide stepped toward the former president, whispering in his ear that several networks wanted to go live with this press conference. Martindale turned from the podium for several moments as if adjusting his trench coat, but he didn’t need to do so—everyone in attendance knew what was happening. Less than ten seconds later the networks gave the sign that they were ready.
“I realize that the phenomenon of a former president who was in office, was defeated, and then successfully ran for office again hasn’t happened since Grover Cleveland did it in the 1880s,” Martindale went on after repeating his announcement. “Former U.S. presidents, especially in the postwar era, are expected to retire gracefully, refrain from active politics, go on the lecture circuit at a million dollars a pop, build their libraries and write their memoirs, and quietly accept the tributes and criticisms aimed at them, until they die.
“Well, that’s not my style. Since I left Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue, I have been speaking out in Republican forums around the country and in many venues around the world, blasting the unorthodox and, frankly, rather bizarre policies of Thomas Thorn. But I’ve begun to realize that retired presidents who criticize seated presidents, especially those defeated by the ones they’re criticizing, are at best labeled sore losers. The public politely listens, then promptly ignores them. I realized that if I want my voice to be heard, I have to get out of retirement and get back in the game.
“My qualifications and background speak for themselves. As a former state attorney general and U.S. senator from the great state of Texas, I stood on a policy of engagement and open dialogue in all a
spects of life and politics in America. As secretary of defense I advocated a strong national defense and engagement with all our enemies and potential adversaries, whether they be a few dozen terrorists or an international superpower. As vice president, I advocated the use of America’s military might in support of many national and foreign-policy issues, from border security to drug control to nuclear proliferation to counterterrorism. As the former president, despite a shrinking defense budget, I fought to build the most high-tech, cutting-edge military force possible.
“I stand before you now committed to rebuild the American military into the greatest peacetime force in the world. Under my leadership America will not retreat from its obligations. America will not disengage. We will use our technological superiority, our diversity, our values, and our spirit to once again take our rightful place as the leader and defender of the free world. With the blessing of God and the support of the American people, if I am nominated and elected, I promise to fight to restore America’s greatness.”
Martindale motioned toward the cemetery before him. The rains had stopped, and, as he concluded his remarks, the sun actually appeared through breaks in the clouds. His handlers could not have hoped for a better outcome to this press conference. “The shades of the heroes who lie in Arlington expect nothing less than strength, leadership, courage, and honor from the commander in chief,” he said. “I ask for your help to begin the campaign to bring leadership and honor back to the White House. Thank you, and God bless America.”
Unbidden and completely out of character, the reporters started to applaud. Martindale’s silver locks were back—the former president was on the warpath once again.