Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan

by Eric Meyer

  * * *

  They made another ten kilometers before the snow started falling again in huge, white thick flakes. Visibility was down to little more than ten meters. He had to slow but still managed to keep driving. Until they sighted the snowdrift, right in front of the hood. He jammed on the brakes, and the Jeep slewed sideways, turning almost completely around to face in the opposite direction. Greg was already out of the door with a shovel in his hand.

  He furiously attacked the wall of snow, which was a meter high. Stoner told him to stop. The Wrangler could drive over the top without a problem. Until the shovel hit metal, and they began to uncover a vehicle trapped underneath. An old and battered Iranian built Renault 21. It had almost certainly skidded and failed to regain traction before the deep snow trapped the wheels. The owner had abandoned it in the center of a main highway.

  "I'll keep digging," he told Stoner. His voice was almost cracking with fatigue and despair, "If I clear the worst, we can drag it out of the way."

  He nodded and grabbed another shovel, then climbed out to help him. In the bitter cold, they worked so hard they were both sweating. Stoner could feel a trickle of icy perspiration sliding down his back. They cleared enough snow to free the front of the vehicle, fastened the tow chain to the axle, and dragged the Renault to the side of the highway. They recovered the chain, and minutes later were on their way again.

  "At this rate, Ahmed is likely to get there before us," Greg grumbled, "You have to speed up. She doesn't have much time left."

  He shook his head. "No way can I push this thing any faster. We almost ran into that abandoned car back there."

  "Probably because you'd been drinking," he grumbled, "If you'd stayed sober, it wouldn't have been a problem. You'd have seen it sooner."

  Stoner looked sideways at him. "I kinda thought it was the guy driving that car who was too drunk to see the drift and ran straight into it."

  Greg shook his head in exasperation. "We need to stay sober."

  The other man sighed. "Speak for yourself." He reached into the door pocket, pulled out a silver hip flask, and swallowed a slug, "How about you? It's good stuff. I keep it for emergencies. It's not like that crap they sold in the bar."

  He didn't answer, but his look was eloquent. Stoner shrugged, closed the cap, and returned it to the pocket. "It keeps the cold out, good for hangovers, too."

  A stony silence was the only reply, and he kept on driving. They reached the outskirts of Kabul just as the light was fading, and kept going. Close to the capital, the road was clearer. This didn't mean the government had sent out gritting trucks or dozers. Only that the traffic was heavier, enough to push some of the snow into the side of the highway.

  He began to feel guilty about Greg. The man was distraught over his wife, which was unsurprising. He could also have a point about the booze. They were about to go into some heavy action. The Head Imam of Mehtar Lam, Sheikh Habib Daud, had a squad of religious police who had a certain reputation. They carried assault rifles, and people said they were quick on the trigger. After all, they were doing God's work, so why should they hesitate?

  "There's a bar up ahead. We'll stop for coffee," he said abruptly.

  Greg gave him a sharp look. "Coffee, is that all?"

  "That's it. I'm on the wagon. We need something to keep us awake."

  "You've had enough of the booze?"

  He chuckled. "Never enough, but right now, I need coffee."

  They stopped at the bar; a lean-to hovel built next to the remains of what had once been a police post. No doubt dynamited by the Taliban. An enterprising local had used the rubble to build his establishment. He chuckled as they walked toward the door. Even Greg managed a smile. The walls and the roof all sloped at odd angles, giving the impression the place would fall down in a strong wind.

  Yet it was still standing, and they went inside and closed the door. It made little difference to the chill. There was no glass in the windows. Only rough curtains to keep out some of the draft, and prevent the warmth escaping, although not enough. There was a man behind the counter, thin, lined, and with a long beard.

  He looked every bit as decrepit as the structure, and when he wiped his hands on the filthy rag he had tied around his waist, they shuddered. Evidently, he was less than acquainted with the tenets of basic sanitation. They gave him their order, and he began to brew the coffee on a stove heated by butane gas. One other man, ragged and filthy, was sitting at a table, staring into space. He could only be a shepherd, and he was puffing at a sweet smelling pipe. It appeared his flock was not his main priority.

  A potbelly stove in the center of the room gave off some heat, and they stayed close to it as they swallowed mug after mug of strong, sweet coffee. To their astonishment, the taste wasn't too bad. When they returned to the Wrangler, both men felt wide-awake. Stoner was lost in thought.

  Before he started the engine, he said, "I need to call the hospital in Ghazni, see how she's doing."

  He used the satphone Ahmed had given him, and the call connected in less than a minute. It took another six minutes of waiting until her physician arrived. He spoke English with a thick Pashtu accent. "The news is not good, I'm sorry. The infection is spreading, and we don't have the equipment, the drugs, or the expertise to deal with it here."

  His guts lurched. He'd always known the worse could happen, but somehow, never thought it would. Something the man had said got him to thinking.

  "You said you didn't have the means to deal with her in your hospital. Which hospital does have the right drugs and equipment?"

  A pause. "Jalalabad, they're the best. I know what you're going to say, we should transfer her to Jalalabad, and normally I would agree with you. Unfortunately, it's not possible. You know what the weather is like here in Ghazni. There is no way we could transfer a sick patient. We don't have any kind of vehicle capable of making it through in these conditions."

  There was no need to mention a helicopter. Taking off in thick snow and zero visibility would be an act of suicidal madness. Nevertheless, he pressed on, there had to be a way. A suitable vehicle, that's what he said.

  "Who does have a suitable vehicle? Jesus Christ, Doc, this is a rough, wild country. There has to be something leftover from the military. You've had just about every army in the world come through this place. They must have left something behind."

  A pause. "Yes, there is."

  "Go on."

  "The Norwegian NATO forces brought in a Unimog converted for use as a battlefield ambulance. After they left, a local businessman bought it, and he maintains it for extreme emergencies. It is not often used, most people cannot afford it, but..."

  "I'll take it. How much?"

  He heard an intake of breath the other end. "Three thousand dollars per day, and a minimum charge of ten thousand, plus an insurance indemnity, and the wages of the owner Nasim Haq who will drive, and the paramedic. It will certainly cost you more than ten thousand dollars, Mr. Stoner. Are you sure?"

  "How soon can you arrange it?"

  A sigh. "Within the hour, the owner keeps the vehicle on permanent standby. Where shall I tell him to send the bill?"

  "Ma Kelly's Boarding House, Jalalabad."

  "Ma Kelly's?"

  "I'm the owner."

  "Very well, I will contact him immediately."

  He looked at Greg and explained about the Unimog. "Those vehicles can drive up a cliff. It'll get her to that specialist unit, no question. Soon as we've finished with Massoud and Daud, we'll go to Jalalabad and pay her a visit."

  "That's good. Did I hear something about ten thousand dollars?"

  "Yep."

  "So the price on Massoud should more than cover the bill. I want to pay my share."

  "You sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Thanks."

  They drove for a long time in silence. The snow began to ease again, and they could now see the highway snaking away into the distance. He relaxed and looked at the Russian.

 
; "You know what this highway is? What they call it?"

  "No."

  He grinned. "You're rolling through ancient history, pal. We're on a stretch of the Grand Trunk Road."

  "Is that right?" He didn't sound impressed.

  "Yep. It's two thousand years old."

  "It looks like they never repaired it since it was built."

  He couldn't dent Stoner's enthusiasm. "This is one of Asia's oldest roads. Runs from Chittagong, through Bangladesh, and on to West Bengal in India. Across Northern India into Lahore, then into Pakistan, and it terminates at Kabul."

  Greg finally took the bait. "So why are you so interested?"

  "It used to be our hunting ground. Our guys called it the 'Highway of Death' when I was in the service. Couldn't travel more than a klick without some rag taking potshots at you. We went in behind them, traveling on foot. After we killed more than a few fighters, they gave it their own name." He chuckled, "It translated as something like the 'Road to Paradise.'"

  "IEDs must've been a problem for you, Stoner...shit, I'm sorry. I forgot about Madeleine. I guess you never forget."

  "That's right."

  He thought again of Madeleine Charpentier. He thought her every day. The girl he'd fallen for after the split with Faria. Maddie worked her tail off for the UNHCR. She was always busy getting relief supplies of food to the outlying villages. Folks who'd lost their crops after years of war. She made no discrimination between different tribes and factions, and if a Taliban fighter's kids were left at home starving to death, like most of them were; she'd feed them. In return, they killed her.

  They rode in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. At last they took the left fork for Mehtar Lam, which was twenty kilometers down the highway. The right fork would have taken them to Jalalabad, also twenty klicks further along the highway. But they were entering the final part of their journey.

  As they made the turn, Stoner glanced at the right fork, the direction of home. Home was his lavish apartment over the brothel, the charms of Anahita, his favorite whore, and the occasional bickering with Ma Kelly over the running of the establishment.

  Will I ever see it again?

  He had no illusions about what they were getting into. Sheikh Daud could call on any number of armed fanatics to defend their prisoner, as well as his regular religious police, the Mutaween. There was another possibility he had to take into account, and he wondered if Greg had figured it out. He glanced at him.

  "This shitstorm we're heading into in Mehtar Lam?"

  "With Daud? What about it?"

  "We'll be up against Daud and his Mutaween crazies, and anyone else he can persuade to pick up a gun and slaughter in the name of the Prophet."

  "We got into Massoud's place and killed Khan. What's the difference?"

  "Massoud. We missed him in the Torgan Valley. Have you considered where he would have gone?"

  "A long way away, I hope."

  "If I were him, I'd head for someone with power and influence, someone to shield me while I consolidated what I'd lost. Someone like Sheikh Daud."

  The full import of his words got through to Blum. "You mean Massoud could be in Mehtar Lam?"

  "Him and that psycho sniper, yes. Massoud's no fool. I reckon he'll figure we're coming to rescue your wife, and they could be waiting for us. We could be walking into an ambush."

  "So what do you suggest? I won't leave her."

  "This is Faria we're talking about, of course we won't leave her. All I'm saying is to keep our eyes skinned for trouble. And I mean a lot of trouble. It'll still be dark when we arrive. We'll sneak around and see how the land lies. I don't know about you, but I haven't slept since I don't know when. We'll lie up during the day and catch up on some rest, then go in tomorrow night and get her out. Only problem is where to hide the Wrangler. The moment it gets light they'll recognize it."

  "There's my farm. It's not far from town."

  "They're almost certainly looking for you as well, Greg. Not a good idea, they could have it staked out."

  "Ahmed's farm, it's two klicks from Mehtar Lam. There's no one there. As far as I know, his sisters were with Faria. I guess they're still at my place."

  "That would be perfect. We can hike into town and snoop around, then head back and get some rest."

  "You still think we can do it?" Greg asked; his voice filled with doubt, "Stoner, if there's any question of getting her out. I mean, if it looks bad, you know what to do. A bullet would be merciful."

  He shook his head. "We'll get her out, so you can forget that kind of talk. Remember, she was once my girl as well. She's much too good for Daud's scum to harm."

  "Still, if it comes to it..."

  "You still want me to put a bullet in her head?"

  "If it's the only way to avoid the stoning."

  He nodded. "Last resort, but it isn't going to happen."

  He accelerated, determined to reach the town with enough time for the recce, before dawn forced them off the streets. The headlights picked up the occasional person hiking along the side of the highway, and he frowned.

  "That's strange, why are they here at this time of night?"

  The volume of pedestrians increased the nearer they came to the town, when they almost had to stop to avoid ramming the tightly packed crowd. It had swelled enough to block the road. Greg lowered the window and called out to a podgy man who looked like a bazaar merchant, or a local tax collector. Same thing. He looked better dressed than most, so there was a good chance he'd speak English.

  "What's going on? Why so many people on the road in the middle of the night?"

  The man looked excited, and his plump face wore a beaming smile as he strode along. His wife stumbled along behind him, shrouded in a long blue burqa. She carried a baby in her arms. The man carried nothing.

  "To Mehtar Lam. Everyone's going to Mehtar Lam, haven't you heard?" He noticed the Caucasian skin tone, and his voice became suspicious, "Are you a Muslim? You don't look like a Muslim?"

  "Salaam alaikum, brother. I have been out of town, so I have no idea what's happening here."

  He relaxed. "Salaam alaikum. It is a call from God, according to the Sheikh, Imam Habib Daud. There is to be a celebration tomorrow in Mehtar Lam, and he has urged all the faithful to travel to town along this road, the Laghman Surkhakan Highway. It is a pilgrimage of thanks and prayers to the Prophet."

  "What kind of celebration?"

  The man chuckled. "What celebration? The stoning, of course, the Sheikh has arrested a notorious blasphemer. She's to be tried and executed by stoning tomorrow morning."

  "I thought the stoning was set for the day after tomorrow."

  "So it was, but it's possible there could be interference from the Westerners who plague our land. They may complain and try to stop the execution. Sheikh Daud called for the execution to take place a day early. It will be a glorious lesson to all who would doubt the wisdom and mercy of the Prophet. Everyone will be there. Tomorrow will be a day to remember. I am hoping they will let me throw a stone and perhaps smash the woman's skull, although we want her to die slowly. It wouldn't be fair for us to walk all this way for only a few minutes of enjoyment."

  To stop him shooting the guy between the eyes, Stoner accelerated away. He'd seen Greg's right hand start to move.

  "You can't kill them all. Neither will it help her if you start shooting."

  "Bunch of fucking bloodsuckers!"

  "They are, yeah. We need to pick up the pace. We don't have much time left."

  Greg looked at him with a face etched with fear for his wife. "What're we gonna do? There're so many of them. Tens of thousands, I'd guess."

  He didn't answer. They were rounding a sharp bend when they saw two vehicles blocking the highway. Black Toyota Hilux open back trucks. The headlights of the Wrangler picked up the huge green Islamic flags dangling wet and sodden from radio aerials. Men were standing in the bed of each truck, armed men, watching the 'pilgrims' as they flowed past. They wore black robes, bu
t instead of the conventional turbans, they'd hidden their faces with ski masks.

  "Mutaween," Greg snarled, "Religious police. Motherfuckers, I count at least nine of them."

  "Twelve. There's a driver in the cab of each vehicle, and over there what looks like the Mullah in charge." He halted the Wrangler two hundred meters before they reached the roadblock, "We may have a problem. They could be expecting us."

  "We have to get past them," Greg cried, his voice cracking with despair, "I'll kill them myself, if that's what it takes."

  Stoner didn't reply. He watched and waited, calculating angles, weapons, and the alertness of the Mutaween. Before he could make a decision about how to handle them, headlights lit up the interior of the Wrangler. He looked behind. Another Toyota Hilux was coming up behind them, a mobile patrol. Even in the dark, he could see the men standing in back. The limp flag fluttered from the aerial, like a strip of rotted inner tube. They'd organized the celebration well, and Daud was leaving nothing to chance.

  He spoke quietly. "I doubt you'll have the chance. They're coming up behind us."

  He jerked his head around, sized up the oncoming vehicle, and grabbed for his rifle. Stoner rammed the lever forward into drive, stamped on the gas, and they shot forward. The Jeep skidded across the road to shouts of anger from pilgrims who scattered in its path. He drove off the road and swung the wheel around to point them in the opposite direction. Back the way they'd come.

  "What gives?" Greg shouted, "We're going to Mehtar Lam, not back the way we came."

  "We're not going anywhere until we've got ourselves out of this situation. We'll get there, just not yet."

  "We're almost out of time," he protested, "Turn around."

  He ignored him. The oncoming Hilux had stopped, and the men in back were gesticulating and pointing their way. It was only a matter of time before they started shooting. The Toyota picked up speed and was coming directly toward them.

  "I count six men," Stoner gritted, "plus the driver and passenger. That makes eight assault rifles. We can only hope they don't have RPGs."

  Greg turned as more headlights blazed. "One of the Hiluxes back there just turned around. It looks like they're planning to box us in."

  "Understood. You'll have to use that Dragunov and persuade them to stay away from us. You wanted to do some killing, now's your chance. Remember, they won't hesitate if you give 'em half a chance, but wait until I make my run."

  "Your what?"

  "Watch. When I hit the gas, start shooting. All you need do is keep them away from us, stop them from getting near. Aim for the tires. That should slow them down. You're a sniper, so snipe."

  "Don't worry about my shooting. What I don't get is how you're going to get past those guys."

  "You'll see. Ready?"

  "Ready."

  "Kill them." The Dragunov spoke as he floored the pedal, and the Wrangler jumped forward. Stoner steered with his left knee and dragged out the two Desert Eagles. He fired a single shot that demolished the windshield, and he used the heavy handguns to smash out the remains of the glass. The first shots from the Mutaween smashed through the bodywork, missing them by inches. The religious police were alert to the danger of what they perceived as a suicidal attempt to ram them, and were trying to kill them before the vehicles collided.

  When he was twenty meters away, he opened fire. He used each pistol alternatively, hammering out the heavy rounds, aiming as best he could from the lurching platform. The gunfire intensified, and they both ducked down. Stoner had already hit three of the hostiles with the heavy .50 caliber rounds. Some of them dived for cover, but two of the braver fighters shot back. The driver was one, with his AK held out the window, and the other a man clinging to the back. Fifteen meters separated them; near enough to score difficult hits with a handgun or two. He calculated the number of remaining bullets in the two clips. There were six, three in each magazine.

  "Yob tvoyu mat," Greg cursed abruptly, "The bastard just clipped a chunk off my ear. That was too close."

  Stoner kept the Jeep driving straight ahead. They'd collide in less than a couple of seconds, and the other guy wasn't giving an inch.

  You want to go to Paradise in the next second, shithead? Make up your mind.

  Three rounds remained in each mag, and he made a lightning decision. His right foot almost pressed the gas pedal through the floor, and they were a split second away from collision. He fired four rounds at the driver, the priority. The bucking Wrangler wasn't a good shooting platform, but the fourth round scored a hit. Not on the target, but the lead smashed into the man's rear view mirror, and slivers of glass tore into his eyes. The Hilux abruptly changed direction as the driver tried to clear his vision, but the turn was too fast, and the vehicle tilted up on two wheels. Stoner steered the Jeep under the gap beneath the Toyota's front wheel, which was almost two meters in the air. As they slid past, he leaned out and put his final two rounds into the shooter who was holding on desperately in the back.

  The Jeep raced on, bumping over the uneven ground until they were out of sight of the vengeful Mutaween, as well as the pilgrims. The men and women who were their willing allies in the forthcoming act of religious sadism. When the road looked clear of pedestrians, he steered back onto the tarmac and accelerated away, in the wrong direction.

  "She's back there!" Greg shouted, holding a piece of rag to stop the bleeding from his ear, "We have to turn back."

  He didn't reply, just kept driving, occasionally swerving to avoid small groups of pilgrims plodding toward the promised fun the following morning. Greg screamed and shouted, almost weeping in despair, but he resolutely kept driving away from Mehtar Lam. Finally, he relented and told him the plan.

  "Okay, just listen up. If we'd kept going toward the town, we'd be dead. If you don't understand that, you're either stupid or Russian. We need an edge if we're going to beat these people."

  "An edge? For fuck's sake, where're we going to find an edge at this time of night?"

  "In a whorehouse, in Jbad, in my whorehouse. I keep some emergency gear in the basement."

  "So what then? How does that help us get back down that road? They'll have it staked out with fifty shooters waiting for us to come back."

  "There's another way in. Patience."

  They reached Jalalabad, and he halted outside the whorehouse. The lights were all on, and clients were still entering and leaving. Stoner led the way through the back entrance and down to his basement. He clicked on the light, and Greg stared around the walls. He could see racks containing every weapon he'd ever seen in his life, in a country where weapons were commonplace. There were also some he'd never seen.

  "Holy shit!"

  "Nope, this is real shit. There's nothing holy about it."

  "I guess not. So what’s next?"

  Stoner's face was ghastly, drawn and red-eyed from lack of sleep. Yet his expression was cold as a granite tombstone. "It's time to start a war."