Now, in the early afternoon chill, Andy was among a disorganized crowd of a half dozen Russians cantering across the steppes toward the Bhittani's main village for a confab. When he learned of the destination, the SEAL felt it would be a good idea to wear shades just in case some Pashtun might recognize him.
Andy felt a slight hangover from the unaccustomed amount of vodka consumed the evening before, although his cohorts didn't seem the worse for wear. The SEAL had gotten a bit out of shape in handling the aftereffects of the strong liquor since he hadn't been home for a while.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, the group slowed down to a walk, wending their way through the huts to the square. The malik, Ghatool, had already been apprised of their approach by lookouts and was waiting with a couple of the spinzhires and a tribal warrior at his side. After the Russians dismounted, some boys rushed forward to take the reins of their horses and lead the animals out of the way. The malik and Surov greeted each other, then sat down. The other visitors remained standing in a semicircle around the ex-officer and the Pashtun elders. Surov and Ghatool immediately fell into an intense conversation, with the warrior joining in from time to time to add his own comments. After twenty minutes, Surov stood up and addressed the Russians.
Ghatool has just told me there was an encounter with American soldiers, Surov explained. This man was present at the scene. He pointed to the warrior. His name is Mirzal, and he says there was an exchange of gunfire.
Andy's jaw tightened imperceptibly, knowing that the American soldiers would be nobody else but Brannigan's Brigands. Were there any casualties? he asked, putting his mouth into gear before his brain. It was a stupid thing to do, but his lack of experience as a spy had betrayed him once again.
Surov was confused as to why Andy would care, but he replied, Nobody on either side was shot.
How many Americans were they? Igor Tchaikurov inquired.
Mirzal says there were ten and that a Pashtun by the name of Chinar was also with the group. He is from the Janoon tribe and is acting as the Americans' translator.
Another Russian, Yakob Putnovsky spat. Shit! This means big problems for the opium harvest. That is one sure thing the amerikanski are more concerned about than anything else. Those bastards will be out chopping down the first plants that appear in the spring.
Andy knew that wasn't the case; at least not at the present.
This is going to make things a hell of a lot more difficult, Tchaikurov said.
It is bad news alright, Surov agreed. I am going to cut this patrol mission short and get back to Logovishchyeh as quickly as possible. Yarkov must learn about this new development immediately. Some serious preparations are going to have to be made if we are to deal with it effectively.
He gave a loud whistle, and the Pashtun boys brought the horses back for the visitors. In less than a half minute they were mounted up and galloping across the steppes in the direction they came from.
.
SEALs BIVOUAC
1520 HOURS
DIRK Wallenger watched with extreme satisfaction as the USAF Pave Low chopper lowered toward the landing spot designated by Frank Gomez, who was the detachment's acting LSPO. This was a resupply flight that meant that Wallenger could also send out his tape cassettes for shipment back to the Global News Broadcasting studios in Washington. He and Eddie Krafton had done some interviewing with Janoon tribesmen while using Chinar as an interpreter, and the effort resulted in some excellent human interest features. The journalist was sure the tape would give the GNB ratings an extremely big boost. He could already see the Emmy within his grasp. If not that, the Stensland Communications Award was a sure thing.
As soon as the helicopter touched down, Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had the working party hurry aboard to wrestle the incoming cargo out of the fuselage. The shipment included hay and oats, MREs, the long-awaited arctic sleeping bags, beer, snacks, small gifts to be given to the Pashtuns, reading material, and most important the mail. After more than a year overseas, mail call was an allimportant event in the lives of Brannigan's Brigands. Another of Gomez's acting jobs was that of postal clerk. He even had a small briefcase in which he kept stamps and various forms to transfer mail deliveries and send in changes of address for detachment members who had been shipped out or sent TDy to other duty stations. While the unloading was going on, he went inside the aircraft for the mailbag, taking it over to his hootch to sort it out for distribution to the detachment.
There were several letters for everyone and some packages that meant extra goodies that would be shared among the Brigands. This was always a morale builder. Homemade pastries and candies were welcome additions to the bland diet of MREs. When Gomez was ready, he went around to the other hootches, dropping off the mail for the inhabitants to pick up when the supply work was finished. The officers were standing together observing the unloading of the chopper, giving Gomez the opportunity to save some steps by handing the envelopes to them personally rather than go to each of their hootches.
Ensign Orlando Taylor had a letter from his father, Lieutenant (JG) Jim Cruiser had three from his wife, Veronica, and the Skipper had one from his spouse, Lisa. It had been a while since Lisa had written, and Brannigan was anxious to read his mail. He quickly left the area, going over to his living quarters. The letter was dated a week previously and had been mailed from NAS North Island in Coronado. He opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper that bore Lisa's small, neat handwriting.
Dearest Bill:
I know you must be on a combat operation some place, and I feel like hell writing this to you. I wanted to see you in person, but there is no telling when we could be together again, and this is something that must be dealt with now.
I am asking you for a divorce. I won't go into a lot of detail about how our marriage has been so difficult due to long separations, though I am sure that has He is a Naval Reserve aviator who lives in San Diego.
I met him during some fleet training exercises and I
guess we just saw too much of each other. He is a freelance writer of aviation articles for magazines and newspapers. I'll be staying in the Navy, and
Craig is already back in civilian life. He is able to re locate easily when I am given transfers. He works out of a home office and can reside anywhere and still meet his contractual writing obligations.
I guess I am a weakling, Bill, and I know you have such contempt for that, but I cannot help myself under the circumstances. I hope you don't hate me. There will always be a place for you in my heart.
Lisa
Bill Brannigan set the letter down, turning his head to gaze out the hootch. He did nothing for a few moments except watch the work of unloading the helicopter. Then he busied himself heating up some water for a cup of MRE coffee. When the brew was ready, he sipped it slowly and contemplatively, leaning back to rest against his rucksack.
He was sad, not angry, because he really couldn't blame her. The marriage that started out happy and bright had deteriorated into a sham several years before. He never did fit in well with her flying friends, and she was right about those long separations. Bill Brannigan and Lisa had enjoyed an exciting courtship after their first meeting at the North Island Officers' Club. He had gone there to try to score with one of the many civilian women who hung around the place looking for romance with a handsome naval officer. But instead of one of them catching his eye, it was a beautiful lady aviator in a khaki uniform by the name of Lieutenant (JG) Lisa Gordon. The mutual attraction was so strong that the romance started about two quick minutes after he invited her to join him in a drink.
Their love for each other was initially deep, but after a couple of years a few rough patches in the relationship emerged. They went through several crises common among couples who both serve in the military, but things always eventually smoothed out. The real tension come from the fact he couldn't stand her aviator friends. His attitude as a SEAL did not meld into that culture, and eventually none of h
er fellow fliers cared very much for him either. There were a few incidents and confrontations at affairs where the drinking had been particularly heavy, and Lisa was embarrassed by the events. All the unpleasantness kept adding up, until they both instinctively tiptoed around each other, putting a lot of effort in not offending or angering one another. This was not the basis for a real successful marriage under any circumstances.
So another guy came along and that was that. She could continue the naval career she loved so much, and her new husband could stay at her side. Of course they would be apart during those six-month outings with the fleet, but he would be home waiting when her tours ended, whether it be in North Island, Pensacola, Whidbey Island, or whatever NAS was her duty station.
Brannigan looked around at his surroundings. He sat under a tarpaulin, wearing a dirty BDU with an M16 rifle, ammo bandoleers, web gear, and other war-making accoutrements around him. His branch of the service was nothing like Lisa's. This was what and who he was; a warrior who met the enemy face-to-face. His type of military service was termed soldiering. He participated in most active ops exhausted, hungry, and thirsty, with the proverbial wind blowing either hot or cold in his face for weeks at a time. He was no different than men who had served in the Roman legions, Napoleon's Imperial Guard, or the Poor Bloody Infantry of Britain's Thin Red Lines. He attacked, defended, and endured long moments of lonely waiting in an atmosphere where men were killed and maimed in primitive conditions within grenade-throwing range of each other.
Brannigan finished the coffee, then got to his feet to go out and see how the cargo job was coming along.
.
TAJIKISTAN
THE mountain bandits of the country had a long tradition of murder, rapine, and plundering. Generations back they had preyed on travelers negotiating the great passes of the high country, raided small villages from time to time, and even made warring expeditions onto the Pranistay Steppes to invade the fierce Pashtun tribes that dwelt there. This latter activity called for much guile and surprise to succeed. Their ancestors learned the hard way not to attack established villages. The warrior people living in them were always alert and ready for an enemy to appear. Generally this ended up with the bandits becoming the victims before they even reached their objective, and it would be they who fled for safety rather than the Pashtuns. It was best for the Tajik outlaws to go after small groups or isolated camps of herders and hunters if they wanted to prey on the inhabitants of the Pranistay Steppes.
As things continued to evolve through the decades, the bandits committed most of their crimes in the lowlands of Tajikistan. In more modern times they hijacked trucks on isolated stretches of highways, robbed buses, or caught occupants of occasional automobiles that happened to travel through their raiding grounds. Now and then the police would come looking for them, but the lawmen were easy to evade.
Then the Russians showed up in the Kangal Mountains.
The bandits didn't know where they had come from, they just suddenly appeared. When raided, these newcomers defended themselves ferociously, then counterattacked. And, unlike the police, they didn't mind getting off the roads and up into the high hill country to search out the Tajiks. The bandits learned these murderous men were former convicts who had been locked up many years for the worst of crimes. Eventually, the ex-prisoners subdued all the bandits' camps, and a truce was agreed to in which the robbers would conduct their activities in way that did not upset the cruel Russians.
.
LOGOVISHCHYEH
YARKOV'S HOUSE
5 NOVEMBER
1730 HOURS
LUKA Yarkov sat in his chair looking down at the two Tajik bandits who knelt on the floor to his direct front. The one was Akali, a chief, and the other his subchief, a wily looking fellow by the name of Buxari. The little gay Pashtun cook named Gulyar was also present. He spoke Tajik and would act as a translator for everybody. He had once lived in Khorugh with a Soviet bureaucrat who had returned voluntarily to Moscow after the fall of the Soviet Union. The man wanted to get back to the gay bars of the big city to find real romance. He had been exiled to Southwest Asia because of his sexual orientation, but with the establishment of the Russian Federation, that had come to an end.
The pair of Tajiks had been summoned to the Russian's presence the day before and had reluctantly presented themselves to the headman of the ex-convicts. Generally this meant a dirty or dangerous job that paid little. Unfortunately for the bandits, any refusal or hesitation on their part could result in a raid on their camp.
After seeing they were served coffee, Yarkov announced, I have a task for you.
How much will it pay? Akali asked through Gulyar.
Fifteen hundred somonis, Yarkov replied.
The two Tajiks looked at each other. They would keep half and split it, then take the other half and divide it up among their subordinate bandits.
There are some Americans down on the Pranistay Steppes in Afghanistan, Yarkov said. We want you to search them out and attack them. Kill them all.
Akali swallowed nervously. Those Americans are nasty fellows.
There are only ten of them, Yarkov assured him. I know this for a fact because my good friend Ghatool of the Bhittani tribe has seen them and talked to them.
Buxari still didn't like the idea. But how can we find them? We could search the steppes for weeks and never see any Americans. It would be like trying to find a mouse in a mountain range.
Ghatool says you can probably make contact with them in the Derdala area, Yarkov replied.
The Tajiks liked that. It was a good place for an ambush with all the gullies and dips in the ground. But Akali did not show any enthusiasm. Fighting Americans is very dangerous, even if there are only ten. Fifteen hundred somonis is not enough.
You know I do not like to bargain over fees, Yarkov said with a frown. However, I will give you one thousand rounds for your AK-47s. You will not need to shoot that much to kill less than a dozen men.
Ammunition was precious to the isolated bandits, and lately the shortages had reached critical levels. Akali quickly ran the matter through his mind, thinking that if a proper ambush were staged, ten Americans could all be killed with less than a hundred rounds. That would leave at least nine hundred left over.
We accept the job, he announced.
Excellent, Yarkov said. I will have the bullets brought over for you. Would you like another cup of coffee?
Do not forget the money, Akali said.
.
MAHSUD MAIN VILLAGE
PRANISTAY STEPPES
6 NOVEMBER
1000 HOURS
MOHAMBAR, the malik, Dagar, his young war leader, and three other spinzhiri were seated on the benches in front of the well. Two chairs and a rickety stool had been set out for their visitors. These august persons were Lieutenant Bill Brannigan, Lieutenant (JG) Jim Cruiser, and Hospital Corpsman Doc Bradley. Standing beside them, in his usual role as interpreter, was Chinar of the Janoon tribe. Farther to the rear, Alpha and Bravo Fire Teams, along with Tex Benson, the SAW gunner, were kneeling or standing as they saw fit. At the edge of the crowd, not exactly menacing, but looking businesslike, were a couple of dozen fully armed fighting men of the Mahsud tribe.
After an exchange of polite greetings, Brannigan took the floor. Chinar was ready to translate as the Skipper spoke. We Americans are here to offer you our friendship. The President of the United States is very fond of his Pashtun friends and has sent us here to help you in any way that we can. The President has instructed me to tell you that in no way will we interfere with the harvest of next spring's opium poppy crop.
Mohambar nodded as a sign of approval. We are happy to hear you say that. The poppies are very important to us. And if we do not have to worry about anybody chopping them down, we will be able to plant a larger crop and make more money. Our people can purchase many things that they need and life will be good for them.
We also have another way to show our desire to help you, Bran
nigan said. He nodded to Bradley, who stood up. This man is like a doctor. Although not a surgeon, he is able to cure many ills. Have you heard what he did when we visited the Janoon tribe?
Mohambar again nodded. It is said that he made a man who had infection in a bad cut be cured and keep his arm.
That is what he did, Brannigan said. Do you have any ill people here?
Now Dagar spoke up, his voice somewhat enthusiastic. Many of our children have tapeworms. We fed them charcoal, but the tapeworms did not go away. Can this man who is like a doctor help them?
I can help them, Doc said. He was familiar with desperate primitive people feeding charcoal to tapeworm sufferers in the hope that the parasites would die of starvation. Unfortunately, the nourishment of the victims also deteriorated. The SEAL corpsman looked around, spotting a large, spreading chicku tree. I will take my medicine over there. Bring me your sick children.
Even as he picked up his medical kit and began walking over to the spot, several of the Mahsuds rushed away toward their homes to bring back their ill kids. By the time Doc got the kit open and organized his medicine, there were thirty youngsters lined up. It took him a half hour to determine that the children truly displayed the symptoms of the infections. This malady is worldwide and not necessarily confined to backward places.
Now the entire population, including the leaders, also gathered around. This is going to take five or six days, Doc announced.
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