Seals (2005)

by Jack - Seals 01 Terral

  Durtami and Kharani scurried backward on their hands and knees until reaching the door. Only then did they get to their feet and flee the throne room.

  .

  REFUGEE CAMP

  KHAMAMI FIEFDOM

  1500 HOURS LOCAL

  THE mood in the camp was one of utter despair. When the people were informed they would have to remain where they were, they instinctively glanced northward to where the frigid winds of winter would descend from within weeks. It had rained the night before and everyone had gotten wet. The lucky climbed into the backs of the motor-rickshaws for protection from the elements, but most had to cover themselves with blankets that had quickly grown sodden from the rain. Coughing children were already in evidence.

  The men now ignored Durtami and Kharani. They formed up in family groups to make plans for hunting in the nearby hills. With no rations being issued to them, this was their only way of obtaining food. They pooled their available cash to send the women to the nearby farming villages to buy food. With the growing season already over, the best they could hope for was dried vegetables and flour.

  All this activity came to a halt when a platoon of Warlord Khamami's mujahideen appeared, shouting for everyone to gather at the far edge of the camp. A strange individual was with the fighters. He was rail thin with a wispy beard and of undeterminable age. His attire was simple, with a tattered pukhoor wrapped around his spindly body. In spite of his self-effacing appearance, he had a fierce fire in his eyes. His presence made the refugees uneasy, while many of the women shrank back in fear from the walking scarecrow who glared at them, baring his rotting teeth in a fierce grimace.

  When everyone was gathered, he stepped up on the hood of the Soviet sedan. After an angry glare at the assemblage, he spoke in a reedy but loud voice. "I am Khatib the Oracle! I serve the faithful here as their spiritual guide. I have lived alone in the wilderness of the mountains for fifteen years. I fasted and prayed for weeks at a time without stopping. I was celibate, without thoughts of lust disturbing my devotion. Other men would have starved or gone mad under such circumstances and abused their genitals. But Allah had chosen me to prove my devoutness to Him and Islam."

  Now the old fellow had become downright frightening. Mothers pulled their young children closer to them, and the men gave one another worried glances.

  Khatib the Oracle continued. "You are all miserable sinners, cast from your homes and your lands and your herds for your faithless disregard of Islam. Now you are here among true believers seeking comfort and alms. You will receive all the aid that can possibly be rendered unto you, for that is the way of Islam. Though you are fallen, Allah has been merciful and sent you to us to be put back on the right path."

  The crowd remained silent, fully recognizing that they were completely and utterly at the mercy of this zealot, and the most frightening aspect of the condition was that this had undoubtedly been done with the approval of Warlord Khamami.

  "But before your well-deserved misery is relieved," Khatib the Oracle pronounced, "you will have to atone for your sins. Husbands and wives will live apart and not know each other. You must fast and pray, eating nothing during daylight hours and only one meal after the sun sinks over the western lands. Make yourselves pure in thought and deed. Do not dwell on your thirst or your hunger! Do not let your unrelieved passions give you unclean thoughts! If there are those who die from these conditions, then give thanks to Allah for their deaths. He will have relieved them of their mortal burdens and taken them up to Paradise, as they have truly atoned for wrongdoings! The sinners among you will continue to live in this misery. So be it!"

  He abruptly ceased his speech and nimbly stepped down to the ground. He hurried away, walking so rapidly that his mujahideen escort had trouble keeping up with him.

  The people turned away and went miserably back to their campsites.

  KHATIB the Oracle lived in a far corner of the castle. His apartment was isolated by narrow hallways that led to the roof. When he returned to his quarters after delivering his revelations to the refugees, he was met by his old servant. The ancient retainer salaamed respectfully. "Welcome home, Holy Khatib."

  "Is the Dharya girl still here?" he inquired, speaking of one of the captive concubines.

  "Yes, Holy One," the servant said. "I have not yet had her taken back to the bordello."

  "Send her to me."

  "Yes, Holy One."

  Khatib the Oracle went to his sleeping room and slipped out of his pukhoor. A moment later there was a rapping on the door. The servant opened it and motioned a young girl to step inside. After the old man left, she began disrobing, numbly accepting the inevitable rape that she would endure in a matter of moments.

  Chapter 12

  WEST RIDGE BASE CAMP

  23 AUGUST

  0915 HOURS LOCAL

  DUST swirled violently off the ridge top as the two Blackhawk helicopters came in for landing. The roar of the engines frightened the buzzards feeding on the dead mujahideen farther down the slope, and the large, obnoxious birds rose in dark clouds of feathered flight at the thunderous disturbance. They scattered through the sky, their indignant squawking loud and obscene at this interruption in their gruesome feasting.

  As soon as the wheels touched down, each squad of Brannigan's Brigands disembarked from its aircraft, quickly forming relay lines. The crewmen inside began handing boxes and bundles of gear and ammo to waiting hands, and the supplies were passed from man to man toward the side area where Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson neatly stacked the goods prior to proper stowage. Among the usual issue of ammunition and rations were camouflage netting, shovels, picks, empty burlap sandbags and an assortment of uniform items to replace what the SEALs had been wearing for almost three weeks. The fresh, unused skivvies were the most appreciated, but not quite as much as eight cases of Budweiser officially donated by the Army Post Exchange Board in Kabul. The Brigands didn't receive enough alcohol to get roaring drunk, but they were appreciative of this second gift of beer just the same.

  Connie Concord and Bruno Puglisi were also happy with the addition of an M-224 light mortar system to their small arsenal of support weaponry. The platoon commo was enhanced greatly with each officer and chief petty officer being furnished with a PRC-112 radio to enhance his command and control capabilities. These sets also broadcast beacons that all military aircraft monitor on their guard channels to provide an automated method of calling support to particular points of the globe. It was a handy and quick way to get help when needed.

  As soon as the Blackhawks were given the all-clear signal, their rotors whipped back up to flying speed, and they lifted off the ridge, turning toward their home base. The ensuing quiet was broken by the hoarse shouts of the chief petty officers, who set the men to work constructing storage sites for all the new gear. This would include the erection of camouflage netting to enhance the cut brush the platoon had been using for concealment since their arrival.

  The Odd Couple, Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz, were the lucky ones in the activities. The assignment of recon patrol duties saved them from the pick-and-shovel work. They happily donned their combat vests, grabbed their CAR-15s and headed down the ridge to check out the area.

  When the new equipment was covered and concealed, the next order of business was the improvement of the present fighting positions. Now, with better digging implements than entrenching tools, the SEALs set about deepening and strengthening the field fortifications that surrounded the immediate area. This included filling the sandbags to build up higher parapets.

  With the work under way, Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan called a staff meeting with his 21C and chief petty officer. Rather than go into the CP, they stood outside for the session, gazing at the men working hard at their various tasks.

  Brannigan liked what he saw. "That's real discipline."

  Chief Gunnarson frowned in puzzlement. "What are you talking about, sir?"

  "Some peo
ple--especially civilians--think military discipline is a combination of harsh training and punishment," Brannigan replied. "Chickenshit stuff, y' know? Like making guys spit-shine boots and Brasso their brass. But real discipline is the voluntary spirit to be willing to do whatever it takes to make yourself the best man in the best unit in the best service of the Armed Forces. And that's especially true when what you're doing is pissing you off or busting your balls. Like the platoon out there."

  "Yes, sir," Senior Chief Buford agreed. "Guys in outfits like ours put out a hundred and ten percent without a boot up their ass."

  "Your statement may be grammatically flawed," Lieutenant Cruiser said, "but it is filled with volumes of truth."

  The senior chief grinned. "As long as I'm understood, sir."

  "Well, understand this," Brannigan interjected. "We're up here for the long haul, and I've reached the conclusion that nobody anywhere in any SOCOM has the slightest idea of what is going to happen around here. They've stuck us on top of this fucking mountain and are waiting to see what kind of shit is going to be thrown at us."

  "They must expect a lot of trouble," Gunnarson said. "Why else would they give us all these extra goodies, not to mention have us improve the fortifications on this ridge top?"

  "If they expect a lot of trouble," Cruiser said, "why don't they reinforce us or send in a larger unit?"

  "Because nobody else is available," Brannigan replied. "Whatever happens here is going to drop right in our laps."

  "Ouch!" the senior chief said with a wink. "That's where I keep my balls."

  "I was just thinking the same thing," Brannigan said. "Now! Let's organize the Watch Bill, shall we?"

  "Aye, sir," the other three answered together as the administrative side of the session began.

  .

  1115 HOURS LOCAL

  THE Odd Couple, dirty and sweating, returned to the ridge after struggling up from the valley below. They climbed over Bravo Fire Team's improved defensive positions and looked around.

  "Wow!" Dave Leibowitz said. "What the hell have you guys been doing?"

  "Working our asses off," a disgruntled Gutsy Olson replied. He and Connie Concord were filling sandbags. "How was your stroll?"

  "Oh, God!" Mike moaned. "We're gonna need to see psychiatrists after this."

  Chad Murchison stopped his shoveling. "So what's driving you two into the depths of derangement?"

  "Them buzzards, man," Dave said. "They're eating those dead mujahideen down there."

  "And they're just about finished," Mike added. "They're picking the last bit of meat off the bones."

  "Shit!" Gutsy said. "That's worse than a horror movie. Don't tell me no more."

  Mike felt wicked. "They're even eating the eyeballs right out of the sockets."

  Gutsy scowled. "You make me fucking sick!"

  "We must've really kicked their asses," Dave said. "Not only did they leave their dead behind, but all their weapons and gear are laying around too. All that shit's gonna be covered all winter by the snow when the blizzards come."

  "That'll be quite a sight next spring when the sun melts the ice," Mike commented. "It'll look like something out of hell with skulls and rusty weapons all over the place."

  "Godamn it!" Gutsy said. "Ain't you guys got a report to make or something? Don't you think you should take care of it?"

  "Yeah," Mike said. "We better get over to the CP." He grinned at Gutsy. "Have a nice day."

  "Sure," Gutsy said, shoveling angrily. "Thinking about dead humans being eaten by big birds will make the time pass faster."

  The Odd Couple left the position, cutting across the top of the ridge to check in with the Skipper.

  .

  AL-SARAYA CASTLE THRONE ROOM

  NOON LOCAL

  THIS visit was much more pleasant than the previous one for Ayyub Durtami and Ahmet Kharani. They sat cross-legged at a small table, each with a dish of deep-fried yogurt and flour called jalebi, to be washed down with sabz chai, green tea. Warlord Hassan Khamami sat across from them, sharing the dishes in a magnanimous gesture of hospitality. Two bodyguards, however, stood behind the warlord, glaring at the guests to let them know they were still second-class residents of the fiefdom.

  Durtami took a sip of tea. "We thank you for your kindness and consideration in sharing this bounty of delicious food and drink with us, Amir." Like his people in the refugee camp, Durtami and Kharani had been almost starving on the one meal a day allowed them. By Khatib the Oracle.

  "Yes!" Kharani said. "May Allah shower you with ten thousand blessings, Amir."

  "You are welcome at my table," Khamami said insincerely. Rather than exchange any preliminary pleasantries with his guests, he impolitely moved the conversation to the reason behind the invitation. "I wish to find out exactly what happened in your fiefdom these past weeks."

  "It was a treachery brought upon us by Satan," Durtami said. "By the time I had declared jihad, their black magic had grown too strong."

  Khamami, who was not in the least bit religious, picked up a jalebi and bit into it. "Perhaps it is as Khatib the Oracle says. You and your people had sinned so much that you angered Allah, who is all merciful and beneficent. Thus he would not come to your aid." He enjoyed the oxymoronic aspect of the statement he had just uttered. It was an expression of disrespect for the tenets of Islam.

  Before Durtami could say anything rash, Kharani interjected, "We would not argue with one so spiritually inspired by the Oracle, Amir."

  Khamami had already recognized that of the two visitors, Ahmet Kharani was the most intelligent. The warlord was silent for a moment, appearing to be thinking deeply as he considered the past conduct of Durtami. "Tell me, brother-in-law. How many of these infidels were arrayed against you?"

  Durtami, almost speechless with pleasure at finally being recognized as a kinsman of the warlord, leaned forward. "At least a thousand, Amir. Perhaps more."

  "That does not seem possible," Khamami remarked. "Such a number of foreign devils could not enter these lands without my being informed of them."

  Kharani, no longer fearful of Durtami, spoke boldly to his new warlord. "I have heard that the infidels have special fighting forces that are most skillful in the more clandestine aspects of making war."

  "Did they make massive attacks against you?" Khamami asked.

  "Yes!" Durtami exclaimed.

  "No," Kharani answered calmly, making an obvious contradiction.

  Durtami turned and glared at his companion. "Was it not a mighty force that attacked those walls when the hostages were taken from us?"

  Khamami stifled a laugh.-"Were those the hostages whose ransom you were going to use to pay me for the French mortars I sold you?"

  "Oh, no, Amir," Durtami said desperately. "My finances were never so strained." He changed the subject quickly. "A very heavy attack against our walls breached them. They even fired mortar shells into my fortress."

  "Those were the same mortars you purchased from the Amir," Kharani said. He turned to the warlord. "They were stolen from us by the infidels."

  Now Khamami knew he wouldn't get any reliable information out of Durtami. "You are both dismissed!" he snapped.

  "Your will is our command, Amir," Durtami said.

  The two quickly got to their feet, bowing deeply before backing toward the door. Just as they reached the exit, the warlord spoke directly to Kharani. "You may move your family into the village beside the castle walls."

  Kharani was almost giddy with happiness. "My gratitude toward you will last ten thousand eternities, Amir!"

  The two exited the room. As soon as the door closed, Khamami looked up at the bodyguards. "See that Captain Sheriwal is brought to me."

  "Yes, Amir!" they said, immediately rushing toward the door. When the great warlord issued an order, he expected immediate and enthusiastic obedience.

  Khamami took a deep sip of tea. The situation in Durtami's former fiefdom was precarious and worrisome. It was time to go to war.

>   .

  WEST RIDGE CP

  24 AUGUST

  0930 HOURS LOCAL

  A rocky outcrop of bare ground extended from the ridge, which offered an excellent view down into the valley. The area below could be seen from the north all the way around to the southeast of the base camp. This position had been ignored before, since it would have been too difficult to maintain a firing position there. But with the receipt of camouflage covers and sandbags, the SEALs were able to establish an excellent OP where the eastern valley and East Ridge could be kept under surveillance.

  It was the forenoon watch and Charlie Fire Team was on duty as the other platoon members continued to expand and improve the positions put in the day before. Joe Miskoski was doing the honors at the new OP, staying undercover as he used binoculars to scan the eastern side of West Ridge. The number of buzzards feeding and scolding one another among the dead mujahideen had diminished noticeably, and many had despaired of the dwindling food supply, soaring away in search of more abundant carrion.

  Joe had been teamed with Connie Concord and Bruno Puglisi on the new 60-millimeter mortar, and the three had spent most of the previous evening running through crew drill as they rotated the jobs of gunner, assistant gunner and ammo bearer. They had plenty of shells, but the Skipper had not allowed any live firing. He was concerned about alerting any unfriendlies who might be lurking within the OA looking for them. The Skipper wanted to conceal this heavy weaponry as a big nasty surprise for any mujahideen who might come looking for trouble.