Combat Alley (2007)

by Jack - Seals 06 Terral

  What about that Russian town, sir? Cruiser asked.

  That is a separate action and will not be undertaken until the Pranistay Steppes are a hundred percent contained, Leroux replied, pawing through his papers until he found the notes on Logovishchyeh. Okay. The place you're talking about is called He studied the word in the document. shit! It's a long fucking name. There must be a Russki law that none of the words in their language are allowed to be under fourteen syllables. Anyhow! The place is occupied by approximately a hundred former Russian military convicts. When you're finished with the steppes, draw up an OPLAN to remove that thorn in our sides.

  I'll have a fine asset in Petty Officer Malachenko, sir, Brannigan said. He knows the area well.

  Right, Leroux said. You are now aware of what the preliminaries are, so don't waste time. He slammed the portfolio shut, saying, I am inviting you to join me in a Thanksgiving feast aboard the Combs in a couple of hours.

  Messieurs Brannigan, Cruiser, and Taylor declined with thanks.

  Leroux understood where they were coming from. It would be a hard thing to do knowing your men were sitting out there in the cold chomping on MREs while you're chowing down on a traditional meal, huh? Well, I have good news for you officers and your guys. A mess crew with thermal cans of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and the whole nine yards will accompany you on the chopper back to your OA. Happy Thanksgiving!

  We thank the general, Brannigan said gratefully.

  As well you should, Leroux said. The chopper and chow are waiting for you on that flat area on the back of the ship.

  That's the aft end of the main deck, sir, Ensign Orlando Taylor informed him. It's called the fantail.

  I almost give a shit, Leroux growled.

  .

  SEALs BIVOUAC

  1700 HOURS

  THE thermal mess cans were empty. The Brigands, along with three chopper crewmen and the mess cooks, had just consumed the last of the pumpkin pie, completely depleting the entire amount of chow brought in for the holiday. The cooks were packing up with the help from a quartet of SEALs, as the festivities ground down to a satisfactory conclusion.

  The only thing missing was a football game to watch before and after chow, Bruno Puglisi remarked.

  Brannigan was standing off to the side with Dirk Wallenger and his cameraman, Eddie Krafton, watching the men pack up. The Skipper turned his attention to the newsmen. By the way, before it slips my mind, I wanted to tell you that I stumbled across an interesting human interest story over at Shelor Field while I was gone. I even got a clearance for you to talk to the individual concerned.

  A human interest story, huh? Wallenger remarked. We could use something, Bill. Frankly, there hasn't been a hell of a lot of interesting things going on around here.

  And there won't be, Brannigan said. We're due for a long quiet time here in the OA.

  Eddie was interested in the story. What did you dig up for us?

  There's the weird kid over there by the name of Randy Tooley, Brannigan said. He's the one who is the mover and shaker for the site's activities.

  I remember him, Wallenger said, grinning. He doesn't like to wear a uniform, and he drives around in a dune buggy, right?

  Right, Brannigan said. Colonel Watkins, his CO, said he would be willing to be interviewed too. The kid is an eccentric thrown straight into in the middle of military operations and he's reputed to be the most efficient American serviceman in the Middle East. And he's funny as hell too. He has a lot of amusing anecdotes as well as some strange and colorful opinions he's not shy about expressing.

  Eddie was enthusiastic. That would make a great story, Dirk!

  Hey, it sure would, Wallenger agreed.

  You can hitch a ride on this chopper, Brannigan said. They can drop you off, then you can come back with the next resupply when you've got your feature.

  Jesus! Wallenger said. We better pack our stuff. That chopper looks like it'll be ready to go pretty soon.

  I'll make sure they wait for you, Brannigan said.

  Within fifteen minutes, the two journalists were back with bag and baggage, climbing onto the chopper that already had its rotors turning. The pilot increased the rpm until the aircraft rose slowly, turning south toward Shelor Field. Brannigan, with his hands in his pockets, calmly watched the Super Stallion disappear in the distance. When it was no more than a black dot in the sky, he turned toward the headquarters hootch.

  .

  THE SKIPPER'S HOOTCH

  2100 HOURS

  THE sides of the shelter were rolled up to allow the smoke from the small fire in the interior to find its way out. Unfortunately it meandered around a bit before exiting, getting into everyone's faces and eyes.

  Lieutenant Bill Brannigan supervised the get-together that consisted of Jim Cruiser, Orlando Taylor, and Chinar, the interpreter. The latter had returned earlier after delivering Emal, the Swati boy who had survived the massacre of his village, to a Janoon family who wanted to adopt him. They had lost a son his age to sickness the previous year. Emal, who needed the affection and care the SEALs could not provide for him, had been happy to return to a normal Pashtun family life.

  Now, Brannigan said. The mission is to pacify the hostiles among the Pashtuns here on the steppes. The main thing I want everyone to keep in mind is that we must avoid civilian casualties if at all possible.

  Cruiser was not optimistic. Attacking villages will make that goal unattainable, sir. You have to keep in mind that there are seven of them.

  I'm afraid you're right, Brannigan said. He spoke to Chinar. Do you have any suggestions regarding the problem?

  Yes, sir, the young Pashtun said. I think if we started with the Mahsuds and concentrated all efforts on them we could keep down the deaths of many women and children while we bring them under our control.

  Good suggestion, Brannigan said. We could do such things as stop their hunting parties and search them. That will cause some unease in their lives. And then turn our attention on their smallest village.

  Yes, sir! Chinar said. That hamlet has only fifty fighting men.

  Alright then, Brannigan said. We'll go there and search for weapons and contraband. We can tear things up and throw stuff around like a bunch of cops going through a crack house.

  I also suggest that you bring along some Yousafzais and Janoons and let them rough up the men, Chinar said. It will cause the Mahsud males great embarrassment and humiliation.

  Yes, sir, Orlando Taylor said. And take prisoners for questioning. Hold them until the rest of the Mahsuds come roaring out looking for a fight. They'll be in the open away from the women and kids.

  Brannigan nodded his head. Let's see. That will give us a good advantage since we will outnumber the tribe. But we have to give them a good ass-kicking before the other clans rally to their side. When the Mahsuds ask for nonwatai, the others will think twice before resisting us.

  Chinar cautioned him saying, It will not be that easy, sir. There will be a battle or two maybe three or four before the others give up.

  Yeah, Brannigan remarked. And we've also got Mur-phy's Law to contend with.

  .

  LOGOVISHCHYEH

  SUROV'S HOUSE

  THE relationship between the Pashtun girls in Valentin Danielovich Surov's household had been one of pure hell for Gabina and Zainba, who had lived there with Yarkov. Surov's woman Aghala bullied the two unmercifully. She did not work herself, bossing them through all the chores, even creating make-work tasks to add to their misery.

  Gabina and Zainba dared not protest to Surov for fear he would become annoyed with them for disrespecting Aghala. If that happened, there existed a very real chance that he might throw them out of the house, leaving them homeless. That would put them in a precarious position. They could not return to their villages since they would suffer honor killings at the hands of their male relatives for fornicating with infidels. In order to save their lives they would have to offer sexual favors to the Russians in exchan
ge for some crusts of bread and shelter. If they were very lucky, one of the men might decide to take one or both of them as his women. But the chance of that happening was very small.

  Then an unexpected development occurred. Zainba was eighteen years old and growing more attractive as she matured. When Surov moved into the house he slept with both her and Gabina between times with Aghala. This, of course, had fueled Aghala's fury, and she was twice as mean to them after each episode. Then Surov began ignoring the fifteen-year-old Gabina, and within a few days also quit sleeping with Aghala. From then on he doted on Zainba with a special fondness. At that point, Zainba realized he had become infatuated with her, and her female instincts kicked in. Although not trained in seduction or the use of feminine wiles, the intelligent girl instinctively began using her beauty to advantage, going out of her way to pleasure him during sex.

  Eventually, Aghala began to sense a marked weakening in her position in the household. She made some clumsy attempts to win back Surov's affections, but the fifteen-year-old didn't have the looks or experience to get the job done. She reacted to this embarrassing situation by turning her anger completely on Zainba while pretty much ignoring Gabina. One day, while Surov was gone, she flew into a jealous rage and punched Zainba in the face several times. Zainba did not resist, allowing the younger girl to leave some marks on her features.

  When Surov returned home that evening, Zainba feigned great pain and injury. When Surov demanded to know what had happened, it was Gabina who told on Aghala. Surov responded by giving Aghala a good beating while bellowing at her for being mean to Zainba. Then he made the girl take all her belongings out of his bedroom, and he moved Zainba in.

  The female hierarchy was turned upside down.

  Now it was Aghala's turn to get the worst of the deal. Zainba was loyal to Gabina, considering her no less than a sister. From that point on the two ruled the roost. It was they who sat around while Aghala fetched and carried, doing all the work under the threat that if she complained, Zainba would ask Surov to throw her out of the house.

  While all this turmoil was going on in his home, Surov was busy consolidating his hold over the other Russians. He also worked with Aleksander Akloschenko and Pavel Marvesky in planning an attack on the uncooperative Pashtuns down on the Pranistay Steppes. Akloschenko had emphasized that they must be able to get the entire poppy harvest grown in the flatlands in order to deal with the Taliban. Any rebellious tribe might easily plead nonwatai to the terrorist group and strike their own deal.

  Chapter 21

  KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

  30 NOVEMBER

  NADER Abiska, using the code name Ilyas, was a supervisor-at-large for the CIA in Afghanistan. He operated out of a gunsmithy in the small town of Baghlan, conducting most of his business from his small office as contacts stopped by to pass on information, receive instructions, or enjoy a safe place to rest and recuperate after a harrowing mission. Abiska's slight pudginess belied his excellent physical fitness. He happened to be one of those individuals with a genetic propensity toward body fat. But beneath that soft layer of flesh was a finely tuned muscularity that provided strength, suppleness, and quickness to his physical actions.

  The bearded man with dark skin had emigrated from Afghanistan to America with his parents at the age of thirteen. Brilliant in mind and restless in spirit, he was an excellent scholar, earning an MBA at the Harvard School of Business at the age of twenty. But instead of accepting a position with the several prestigious firms who wished to employ him, Abiska's yen for adventure brought him into the service of the Central Intelligence Agency. His ethnic background and language skills got him assigned to the Afghanistan desk in Washington. After a bit more than a year he grew bored with the paperwork aspects of the job and requested a transfer to clandestine operations in the field.

  One of Abiska's best operatives was an athletic, dignified individual by the name of Ahmed Bariyan. He was the scion of a wealthy Pakistani family, educated in public schools in Great Britain in the classics, rugby football, and pub crawling. This latter activity was in direct disobedience to his Islamic upbringing, and his efforts to end the habit after graduation were for naught. Bariyan really liked to party hearty. Rather than return to Pakistan, the young man went to the United States, where he found employment on the faculty of Georgetown University as a professor of literature. After three years of teaching, Bariyan had developed a genuine love for the USA, eventually becoming a citizen. He continued imbibing the forbidden fruits of alcohol, pursued young women successfully and often, yet managed to remain a bachelor. He also played on a local rugby team as a star winger, a position similar to a running back in American football. An American teammate who had adapted well to the game recognized something special in the Pakistani, sensing some great potential in him that would serve well in the black game of espionage and spying. This employee of the CIA subtly and skillfully recruited this superb athlete into the intelligence organization.

  It was Ahmed Bariyan who, under the code name Ishaq, acted as the asset for Brannigan's Brigands on their first mission as a unit. Bariyan, out in the cold in the Afghan hinterlands, had recruited a defector who could provide the West with a great deal of useful information in the War on Terror, and he needed help getting the guy out. Brannigan and his Brigands were chosen to go into the OA and extract the man, but he had been compromised and tortured to death by the local warlord before the SEALs even left the States.

  .

  0200 HOURS

  NADER Abiska and Ahmed Bariyan, with the former in the driver's seat, sat in a Honda Accord in a grove of almond trees. They were close enough to the road to have a good view of the immediate area, but far enough back to remain out of sight. The half dozen spike strips they had put out on the dirt highway were concealed by a covering of earth. The vicious sharp points were exposed, silent and waiting like the two men who had positioned the devices where they would do the most good.

  Well, here we are then, Bariyan said in the upper-class British accent he had never lost.

  Yep, Abiska agreed. And there won't be anyone else coming down this lonely road except our quarry.

  Bariyan chuckled. There'll not be a shred of rubber left on the wheels after the car rolls over those spikes. We shall bring our quarry to a complete stop within a quarter of a mile.

  This night's operation is not too surprising, is it? Abiska stated as a rhetorical question. His manner of speech was pure American New England, molded by his exposure to the elite of that part of the country.

  Bound to happen, Bariyan said. I just wonder what took them so long to act. Good God! We exposed the rotter almost two years ago.

  That's easily explained by an old cliche, Abiska remarked. They wanted to give him enough rope to hang himself.

  I don't know about that, Bariyan said. I'm of the opinion that something special has come up rather unexpectedly, what? And our target for this lovely evening will serve well in this particular instance.

  Could be, Abiska replied with a shrug. He checked his watch. Ah, he's due any time now.

  And he's a punctual chap.

  Sure, Abiska answered. He keeps regular habits and hours. The guy is one government official that doesn't have to worry about terrorists.

  Bloody right, Bariyan said. That's the advantage of being in bed with the bastards, hey?

  Too bad about his driver though, Abiska remarked. I guess we'll have to chalk him up as collateral damage. He's not going to get much protection in that car. You had the correct information on the vehicle, right?

  Believe it or not, it's one he's been using for the past eighteen months, Bariyan remarked. It's not armored. Not even bulletproof glass.

  I would wager that you even know the license number.

  Sure. Would you care for me to recite it?

  Abiska laughed, then they fell into silence, relaxed but alert. Abiska had his favorite Beretta 9-millimeter automatic with him, while Bariyan was more formidably armed. His weapon for the evening'
s activities was a Steyr AUG assault rifle configured as a carbine. The magazine was filled with forty-two 5.56-millimeter armor-piercing rounds.

  A couple of minutes eased by, then the sound of an approaching vehicle could be discerned, rapidly growing louder. This pleased the two CIA men. The faster it passed over the spikes, the quicker it would come to a nearly uncontrollable stop.

  A series of pops, muffled by the sound of the car's engine, was followed by the flapping of shredded rubber. The auto swerved wildly past, and Abiska gunned the engine to rush out of the grove onto the road. He headed straight for the target that was now moving at somewhere around fortyfive kilometers an hour. He easily caught up with it, moving to the left and pulling up even. The two men inside had expressions of helpless fright on their faces that showed in the dial lights of the vehicle.

  Bariyan pointed the assault rifle at the driver's window and pulled the trigger. The weapon's selector was on full automatic and half the magazine's capacity was emptied, the rounds crashing through the glass to pulverize the man's body. The car swung to one side, then stopped as the engine quit.

  Now Abiska hit the brakes, and Bariyan was out on the road, rushing to the car. Debandi! he yelled in Pashto. The man inside made no moves, so Bariyan reached through the shattered window and hit the button to pop the locks. He pulled the rear door opened, once more commanding, Debandi!