"Why not?" Brannigan remarked. "They have definite plans to resupply us, and that means there's a task in the offing. It might not be anything more than a potential mission that could be called off later. Either way, I have no intention of us just sitting on our asses in these rocks and thorns to await their bidding. We'll do a little sneaking-and-peeking along with some combat patrols to keep that warlord son of a bitch off balance. I want to create an atmosphere that will strike fear in his evil heathen heart."
"It's as we concluded," Cruiser remarked. "We're going north in the southbound lanes. Even with resupply, we can't stay here forever."
.
VILLAGE OF HERANDBE
WARLORD DURTAMI'S FIEFDOM
THE small community of mud huts consisted of fifteen families, and was under the protection and patronage of Warlord Ayyub Durtami. These farmers worked their fields in a single valley of the high country, pooling their resources and energy for a more efficient operation. If they planted the usual crops--wheat, barley and corn--each family would earn the equivalent of approximately 150 American dollars per year. But they had something more profitable to harvest. These peasants cultivated the opium poppy plant from which heroine is made. The crop afforded the farmers 64,500 afghanis annually, which translated into 1500 American dollars per year for each family. It was not surprising that this tenfold advantage in cash encouraged them to cultivate and process the poppies.
Their broker for the sale of the product was the warlord, who paid them cash for the illicit crops. He took care of the transport and sales to the manufacturers that smuggled the narcotics to European and American markets.
The farmers got the juice from the unripe seeds of the plants, and air dried it until it formed into a thick gum. Further drying of this gum resulted in a powder for the final product that the warlord's men transported to receiving points. From there, the substance was taken to processing centers in Kabul and Kandahar.
The farmers loved this arrangement and were deeply grateful to the warlord for providing them with the opportunity to make so much money. It was easy, fast work, without the backbreaking struggle of plowing and harvesting grain crops. These cultivators considered opiates a blessing from Allah. And if the stuff trapped infidels into the hell of addiction, so much the better. That was what the nonbelievers of Western civilization deserved.
The only food the families grew was taken care of by the women and girls. The females worked their personal vegetable gardens, and from these small plots they were able to get more than enough for a decent sustenance. They also tended the animals that provided milk, cheese, poultry and meat. With the income from the poppies, they could afford to buy enough flour for bread. Life was good under these conditions, and used to endless grinding poverty, these people now lived in what they considered shameless luxury.
The villagers did more for the warlord than produce poppy products. They provided him and his mujahideen with intelligence and backup. Their latest support would be in dealing with some people coming from Kabul to register them for the next national elections. This was the reason that the warlord's second-in-command, Ahmet Kharani, and six chosen men waited concealed in the village for the government voter registrars to show up.
.
0945 HOURS LOCAL
THE white Toyota van covered in dust was preceded by a small Russian UAZ sedan. The two vehicles pulled into the village, turning into the small community square. Three elderly farmers sat on benches by the well, looking impassively as the visitors came to a halt next to them.
Four heavily armed men stepped from the sedan, holding American M-16 rifles at the ready. They were obviously city fellows, a bit soft and dressed a little too fancy for the countryside. These bodyguards looked around at the mud huts, then one of them nodded to his companions in the van. The two young men in the vehicle got out and walked up to the old men at the well.
"Asalaam aleikum," one greeted politely. He was wearing slacks and a white dress shirt opened at the collar. "We wish to speak to your head man, if we may."
The farmers made no reply, but stood up and walked away from the well, toward the nearest hut. As soon as they entered and closed the doors, gunshots detonated from nearby buildings with a deafening rapidity. The four armed bodyguards were caught in a murderous crossfire that pummeled them to the ground, leaving them sprawled in the undignified positions of sudden violent death. The other two visitors looked up in terror as Kharani and a half dozen gunmen stepped into view from their hidden firing positions around the huts.
"Put your hands up!" Kharani growled.
As the frightened men obeyed, two of the mujahideen went forward and roughly searched them for weapons, punctuating the procedure with sharp kicks and punches. Kharani walked over to the van and looked inside. A briefcase lay between the seats, and he reached in and grabbed it. He unbuckled the flap and looked inside. It was crammed with illustrated pamphlets and printed posters for placing on walls. He walked over to the prisoners.
"What is this all about?" he asked.
The man who seemed to be the senior of the two spoke in a quaking voice. "They are information about how to vote. The people in this area missed the last election."
"And what exactly were you going to do with this information on how to vote?" Kharani asked. "The people here do not want to vote."
"Uh . . . uh, Allah protect me!" the man stammered. Kharani swung his gaze to the younger man. "Answer my question!"
"To teach the people how to vote."
"I see," Kharani said. "It seems you are unwanted intruders within our land. We do not like people to bother our farmers."
The first man found his tongue and spoke rapidly in a beseeching tone of voice. "We are officials of the government! They will ransom us! Do you understand? You will be paid much money to give us our freedom."
"That is correct," the second agreed. "You should not kill us.
"Why not?" Kharani asked mockingly, though he knew that Warlord Durtami had every intention of obtaining money for their release.
"Please, sir! We both have families!" the older man said, beginning to weep. "We are Muslims! Followers of Islam."
Kharani turned to his men and barked short, terse orders. One man ran to the sedan and got in while another took the driver's seat in the van. The prisoners were pushed and bullied into the back of the vehicle while Kharani and the remainder of the men joined them.
The two vehicles sped from the village and out to the dirt road, turning in the direction of the warlord's compound. The three old farmers came out and gazed at the sight of the four corpses. The dead had to be taken care of properly, since they were Muslims. The Holy Koran forbade leaving the bodies of the faithful unburied to be eaten by jackals and vultures.
.
MUJAHIDEEN PATROL
EAST RIDGE
1400 HOURS LOCAL
THE patrol was made up of a half dozen of the youngest mujahideen in the compound. This was more of a training mission than an actual reconnaissance patrol, and they had been sent out on their own to see if they could find any sign of the infidel interlopers who had proven so deadly. The senior men of the warlord's band were certain the attackers had drawn off and concealed themselves on the other mountain. This little excursion would be good for the kids without putting them in any real danger.
The boys laughed and shouted threats to the enemy, waving their weapons above their heads as they pranced around on their way up the rocky slope. Several wore green headbands with white lettering in Arabic that read "Maut-laKafir"--"Death to Infidels," while others said "Ash Tawil al Jihad"--"Long Live the Holy War."
This was going to be a great day. They were away from the strictness of the instructors for a few hours and had even been given some rice and wheat cakes, with cold tea to wash it all down. With luck they might run into the skulking cowards who had been brazen enough to enter the domains of Warlord Durtami. What an honor for them if they found the infidels and killed them all. .
Th
e lead boy, a sixteen-year-old, sped up to race the others to the top of the mountain. "I shall be the first to glory!" he shouted as a challenge to his comrades. He had just begun to gain speed when a shot echoed from somewhere, sending a bullet that struck him just below his right eye. His face caved in as the back of his head blew out, spewing brains and blood in one instantaneous millisecond of horror. He fell back on his buttocks, appearing to sit down on a boulder, then rolled to the side.
An instant later, two more of the boys spun under the impact of body shots, slumping down to the rock-strewn terrain.
The last three snapped out of the shock of the moment as they quickly got behind the sparse concealment of some thorn bushes. Two of them fired back some useless, unaimed shots while their buddy squatted in terror.
It was suddenly quiet, the only sound being the moaning of a dying young mujahideen up a bit higher on the mountain. The two active survivors stood up and moved upward toward the summit, pumping out quick bursts from their AK-47s. The sound of the M-203's firing was masked by the noise of their own shooting, and the kids failed to note the HE grenade falling toward them. It struck a waist-high boulder and exploded, shredding them with shrapnel, as they buckled under the multiple impacts of white hot metal pellets.
The last rookie, panicked into insanity, leaped up and began running down the slope toward the valley floor. He didn't quite make four full strides before a 5.56-millimeter round hit him between the shoulder blades. He tumbled face-first onto a spread of small stones. The neophyte mujahideen raised his head just in time for one more bullet to split his skull.
Bravo Fire Team, led by Senior Chief Buford Dawkins, came out of their ambush site, gazing down at the destruction they had blasted into the small patrol. Chad Murchison shook his head at the stupidity of the dead fighters. "It appears that we ruined their whole day."
"Let's go see if there's anything useful on them dumb shits," the senior chief said.
They made their way down to the corpses and stopped, shocked at the youth of their victims. "Uff da! " Gutsy Olson said, falling back into a Norwegian-American expression. "I thought they was just nuts the way they were singing and yelling. It never dawned on me they was a bunch of idiot kids."
Connie Concord, holding his combination M-16 and M203, rolled one over. "There ain't any sense in searching these guys, Senior Chief. Nobody is gonna give 'em anything important to tote around."
"You're right:' Dawkins agreed. "The sound of our shooting irons is gonna attract attention. We better pull back."
"Well, the Skipper said he wants to keep the sons of bitches off balance," Concord said. "Mission accomplished for today?'
The Bravos turned and followed their fire team leader back up the mountain.
.
WARLORD COMPOUND
1800 HOURS LOCAL
WARLORD Ayyub Durtami seethed in silence, ignoring his tea. Across the table from him Ahmet Kharani kept his eyes averted. This was a dangerous time. Even though he had brought back two valuable hostages that would net them a million afghanis, his chief was in a black mood. When Durtami finally spoke, his voice was low in a subdued fury.
"Just before you arrived, I was told that six of our youngest fighters were discovered slaughtered," the warlord said. "We heard the firing and I sent some men to investigate. It was a massacre."
"I was not aware of that," Kharani said.
"This was supposed to be a pleasant outing for the lads:' Durtami said. "The instructors let them go up onto the mountain ridge to have some fun after weeks of hard training. They were obviously victims of some vicious treachery by an older, more experienced enemy."
"Are you going to punish the instructors?" Kharani asked. He knew the men were probably fearfully anticipating certain death for the mishap.
But Durtami shook his head. "We have done this a dozen times to reward youngsters who have been training hard. Today was a most unusual event."
Kharani was relieved by this uncharacteristic mercy. One of his cousins was among the instructor cadre of the warlord's small army.
"It is now obvious that numerous enemies have invaded my fiefdom," Durtami said. "Perhaps they are Americans."
"It is possible," Kharani said. "And I think they are here to stay awhile. There is only one place for them to remain out of sight. They must be skulking atop the far mountain from here:'
"I agree. But they could be anyplace up there. The entire ridge is a natural fortress."
"What about your brother-in-law Hassan Khamami? Does he not number mortars in his arsenal?"
"Au," Durtami replied affirmatively. "He has a large cache of weaponry. Some of his arsenal is new."
"Ask Khamami to help you, Amir," Kharani suggested. "With mortars we could shell that mountain from one end to the other."
"My brother-in-law would want too much money," Durtami said.
"With the ransom money for the two hostages you would get enough to refill your war treasury very quickly," Kharani said.
Durtami looked over at his second-in-command and smiled. "You are most clever, Brother Ahmet. In fact, you are so intelligent that at times you make me nervous."
"I desire only to serve you with loyalty, Amir," Kharani said, humbling himself. To be too assertive could lead to a summary execution as a serious potential threat to the warlord's leadership.
"Make arrangements to send a message to Khamami." "I will take care of it, Amir."
Chapter 6
STATE DEPARTMENT
WASHINGTON, D. C.
10 AUGUST
1400 HOURS LOCAL
IN the complicated environment of international diplomacy, there is a clandestine segment of most proceedings that only a few insiders know about. The talented people of these secret negotiations are known outwardly as undersecretaries, envoys or attaches in their various state departments or foreign offices. But whatever the official title, they perform their surreptitious tasks in two phases; the first is "preparation" and the second is "wrapping up." The former paves the way to concurrence and the latter assures that the deals and treaties thus parleyed to conclusion are put into effect.
These anonymous negotiators are polite and sophisticated but speak among themselves in an open, candid manner that only people with proverbial "thick hides" can tolerate. If some of their exchanges of ideas were made public, the citizens of their respective nations would be outraged by much of the give-and-take aspects of the haggling. Their conferences get down to the nitty-gritty. Threats are made, warnings issued, concessions granted and agreements struck that are either happily or rationally accepted.
The bottom line is that solid covenants are made.
One of the world's best and most effective of these diplomats was an African-American undersecretary of the United States State Department by the name of Carl Joplin. The tall, slim man with a gentle voice came from Baltimore, Maryland, and was the forty-year-old son of a father who was a retired janitor and a mother who was still employed as a licensed vocational nurse in a local hospital. The couple had worked hard all their lives to maintain a steadfast home life for their family, at times juggling their regular jobs with additional part-time employment when the bills piled up. When it came to their children, they deemphasized sports, pushing the value of education to the four offspring, and each youngster recognized and appreciated these high standards. All obtained college degrees with the full scholarships they earned through scholastic excellence. Carl, the youngest, continued his education, obtaining a PhD in political science at Maryland State University.
Joplin was a soft spoken man with an unusual insight into other human beings. Even in the earliest stages of his career, he'd demonstrated an uncanny ability to negotiate, knowing just how to convince a stubborn foreign counterpart that going along with the United States' side of an issue was not only in his nation's best interest but would benefit him personally as well. Joplin flattered, cajoled and demanded, while seeming not to. Consequently, he ended up with a reputation of being able t
o score diplomatic coups when the need for getting the American point of view across was the most critical.
NOW, in the meeting room just off his personal office, Joplin sat across the table from Zaid Aburrani, a special envoy from Afghanistan. He and Aburrani had known each other for three years, and though they were not close friends, they each felt respect and even a bit of affection for the other. The main subject of their undercover meetings was the thorny issue of warlords in Aburrani's native country. The Afghan had come to Washington from Kabul to discuss what he termed a "sensitive" and "judicious" issue. As usual, neither man had an attending stenographer or maintained personal notes. They kept the gist of their conversational exchange in their heads.
Joplin settled back in his chair and smiled. "I was most pleased yesterday when they informed me of your coming, Zaid. I don't believe we've seen each other for at least six months or so."
"I am happy for this opportunity to visit you, Carl," Aburrani replied. "There is much satisfaction when problems are solved, and we have been most fortunate in that process."
"Ah!" Joplin said. "You said 'problems.' Does that mean there are some difficulties we must address today?"
"What else?" Aburrani replied with a laugh. "At least there is only one issue for this particular session. As you know we had excellent results in our first national elections. However, there are still a great many problems to solve. Some of the more isolated areas of Afghanistan still resist the process. It is one of those two steps forward, one step back situations." He laughed. "It is like you Americans say. `The faster I go, the behinder I get.' "
Seals (2005) Page 6