by C. G. Cooper
Andy wasn’t one to complain, but he felt the limits of his physical strength waning. Even though there was plenty of food to be had in the makeshift shacks along the way, he couldn’t find the appetite to eat. He forced himself to drink, remembering the nights in his OCS squad bay, chugging canteens full of water as his sergeant instructors watched. The order always included hoisting your overturned canteen over your head to prove that you’d finished it all. That was one way to keep your charges hydrated.
His stomach grumbled from whatever parasite had laid claim to his insides. Hopefully his bowels could stay intact until they reached Kandahar. Isnard led the way into another tent. They’d struck out in the last five. What they needed was transportation, having ditched their delivery van on the outskirts of Gereshk.
Kandahar was barely a two hour drive away along Highway 1, but the damn road was wide open. They couldn’t risk going alone. They needed to be part of a larger convoy. Lots of people. Lots of goods moving from point A to point B.
Andy was proud of his half-stuttering Pashtun, but he marveled at Isnard’s command of the language. The guy knew the people and the language. Within minutes the young man sitting behind a short wooden table invited the two Marines to an early dinner.
“You’re going to Kandahar?” Isnard asked his new friend.
“Yes.”
“How many vehicles?”
“Twenty five, my friend. Would you like a ride?” the man asked, his eyebrow lifted as if asking to be in on Isnard’s secret.
Isnard nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. We lost our car a mile back. Axle.”
The man nodded with a knowing smile. Driving in Afghanistan wasn’t like driving down Main Street U.S.A. There were potholes everywhere. Sometimes whole portions of road just disappeared. It was part of the Afghan way of life, move around and keep going. The people had learned to adapt.
“Just the two?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to know how much?”
Isnard shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “You are a friend. As a friend I know you’ll give us a fair price.”
The man smiled, his gold canine peeking out from his sagging mustache. “You know how to shoot a rifle?”
Again the shrug from Isnard. “Who doesn’t?”
The man nodded, scratching his scraggly beard, thinking.
“I give you a deal. Ride in the lead vehicle and help protect my goods from bandits and crooked police, and I give you half price.”
Andy didn’t like it. He wasn’t sure what the full price would be, but he was sure Isnard was good for it. The better play was to hunker down in one of the twenty five vehicles and stay out of sight. It wasn’t that Andy was scared of being shot at or shooting someone else, but being seen wasn’t something they needed right now.
After a moment to think, Isnard said, “We’d be happy to help, my friend.”
The two men shook hands.
“Please, call me Latif. Latif Saladin.”
They waited until dark to leave, their host explaining that checkpoint guards tended to be lazier after nightfall. He was right. An hour in they’d made it through three checkpoints without more than a cursory glance at whatever lay inside the packed cargo holds. Andy was pretty sure it had more to do with the money he saw Latif slipping the guards along with other sundry items from the salesman’s eclectic collection. He wondered how many pockets the man had under his billowy robe.
As they cruised along, Andy’s mind wandered back to the last time he’d been in-country. Then he’d been part of a beefed up convoy of Marine light armored vehicles (LAVs) who’d offered to give him and his squad leader a lift to Kandahar. There’d been no one to stop them. Hell, they’d even had gunships and drones providing overwatch as they moved. No such protection this time. Now it was Andy, Isnard, Latif, and his complement of some forty employees. Most looked to be no more than fifteen, but every one came armed and grim faced.
The number of weapons did little to settle Andy’s nerves. They were still in the middle of Afghanistan being pursued by a force that could easily overwhelm the ragtag convoy.
“This remind you of playing cowboys and indians as a kid?” Isnard asked over the heavy revving of their vehicle’s engine.
“Feels more like General Custer’s last stand. Circle the wagons, right?”
Isnard laughed. “Hey, man, if I’m going out, I’m going out shooting. But I’m not a proud bastard like Custer. I know when to duck and run.”
That much Andy knew. While Isnard did, on the surface, look like a reckless operator, the guy was much more than most people probably realized. He was a survivor, a winner. It was what made him such a good spook. He was always analyzing the situation behind those bored eyes, tearing plans apart and rebuilding on the fly. Much like Cal Stokes, Rich Isnard inspired confidence in his men. It was probably the only reason Andy had made the decision to leave his post at 8th & I. Well, that and a bit of adventure. The life of a newly minted Marine major was more paper-pusher than behind-the-lines operator. It was why so many of his peers left the Corps after their first tour as captains. Going from company commander to desk jockey didn’t sit well with hard-charging grunts.
Isnard nudged Andy and pointed to the road ahead.
“Another checkpoint.”
“This one looks bigger,” said Andy, noticing the presence of high powered lights blazing in the night. Different than the last three posts that had had not much more than a rusty streetlight and a couple guys with flashlights.
The convoy slowed as it approached, the screech of brakes bringing them to a stuttering stop.
Andy’s heart beat a little faster as he squinted through the spotlights and saw what lay within the checkpoint perimeter. Instead of a collection of dented Afghan police and military vehicles, he saw the familiar outlines of humvees and armored SUVs.
Andy watched as Latif walked out in front of his caravan and approached the cluster of guards. They seemed casual enough, all smoking cigarettes, weapons slung over their shoulders. Latif kept his distance, talking and gesturing with his hands like the good salesman he was. This time no money or goods were exchanged.
A minute later, Latif walked up to the passenger side door of their truck.
“They want us all out of the trucks. Inspection.” His face seemed placid, but something in his eyes rang alarm bells in Andy’s head. “Come. Help me tell the others.”
Isnard and Andy climbed down and followed the Afghan as he went from truck to truck instructing his men to turn off their engines and step to the side of the road. Once they’d made it to the final vehicle, Latif went around the back of the last canvas-flapped truck bed. The Marines followed.
“They are looking for two Americans. They say the men are criminals, possibly terrorists trying to destroy our country. There is even a reward for their capture.”
No accusation in his tone or in his gaze. More like a flash of amusement. Andy could tell that this man lived for adventure.
“We are Americans,” said Isnard.
“Are you the men they are looking for?”
“What if we are?”
Latif gave a slight shrug, leaning against the back of the truck. “It could be that we have more in common than I thought.”
“Oh?”
“I know those vehicles, my friend. Not police, not military. They are government, possibly secret police.” Latif spit on the ground.
“We could leave,” offered Isnard, pointing to the darkness beyond the road.
Latif shook his head. “I like you, my friend. Something tells me that I would gain more by helping you than turning you in. The government pays little for criminals, the secret police even less. Tell me, would you return the favor?”
“On my honor as a United States Marine,” said Isnard, putting his hand out.
Latif’s eyebrows rose, but he took Isnard’s hand in his, even covering the clasp with a second hand.
“You are a long way from home, Marin
e. Come, let us see how we can get out of this mess.”
Nods from each man. Just as they went to join the others, there was shouting from the front of the convoy. Andy saw that one of Latif’s young guards was pinned against a truck, his weapon lying on the ground. Andy knew what had happened before snippets of the yelling made it to his ears.
The interrogators, four men in suits, turned as the hoisted teenager pointed to the back of the convoy. Every one of them turned, their eyes locking on to Latif, Isnard and Andy.
Isnard grabbed Andy’s arm. “Time to go.”
Chapter 14
Enroute to Kandahar, Afghanistan
8:02pm AFT, August 24th
Another surprise waited Cal and the rest of The Jefferson Group after lifting off from Charlottesville. The first came in the form of recently retired Chief Warrant Officer Benny Fletcher, USA. Fletcher had the boyish features of a college cheerleader, not a retired CWO-3. He greeted them all formally like a general’s steward.
“I met Benny passing through Fort Campbell last month,” explained Jonas Layton. “I got turned around and he offered to show me the way back to my conference. I returned the favor with lunch and one thing led to another.”
“Fort Campbell? What did he do before retiring?” asked Cal. He was familiar with Ft. Campbell, having spent much of his adulthood in Nashville. Ft. Campbell is approximately an hour from downtown Nashville.
“He was a Night Stalker.”
The “Night Stalkers” are formally known as the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne). They first cut their teeth in Grenada in the 1980s and soon built a reputation for their night flying abilities, hence their name. They’d been used extensively since 9/11 in special operations roles.
“Really? And you hired him as a flight attendant?”
“Not exactly. I learned a long time ago that when you run into talent, like top notch talent, you hire them first and figure out the rest later. Benny said he’d be happy to help until we found him something better suited for his skill set.”
It was the same way Cal’s father ran SSI. Find the good ones and never let them go.
“Besides, it never hurts to have a third pilot,” said Jonas.
“Where’d you find the other two?”
Jonas turned his head toward the galley. “Hey, Benny, you mind taking over up front? Send the brothers back?”
“No problem, Mr. Layton.”
“You’re gonna have to cut the mister crap if you want to stick around this motley crew.”
Benny smiled, even blushing. “Okay…Jonas.”
Cal leaned over and asked, “Brothers?”
Jonas put up a finger indicating that the answer was forthcoming. A minute later two men walked out of the cockpit. Cal watched them, curious. You could tell they were brothers, same chestnut hair, all-American good looks, probably six foot. Not twins but familial features for sure. They could’ve been military aviation poster models in their TJG monogrammed polo shirts.
“Cal, I’d like you to meet Jim and Johnny Powers. Gentlemen, for all intents and purposes, this is your boss, Cal Stokes.”
Cal stood and shook their hands. Firm grips. Military, a cautious look from Jim and a mischievous grin from Johnny. Cal noticed a thin scar running the length of Johnny’s jawline. War wound or childhood prank?
“Jim, Johnny and Jonas?” Cal asked, giving Jonas an amused look.
Jonas raised his palms with a shrug.
“Why Jim and not Jimmy?” asked Cal, trying to gauge their personalities.
Johnny Powers answered for his brother. “He used to go by Jimmy until he went into the Corps. Thought Jim sounded more dignified.” He mimed sipping a cup of tea with his pinky finger out.
Jim gave his brother a dirty look, but grinned. “It’s true. I blurted my nickname the first day of OCS and got reamed. After that I always introduced myself as Jim.” He shrugged like it was neither a good or bad thing, just something he’d done and rolled with ever since. “Jonas tells us you’re Marine.”
Cal nodded. “Seems like a long time ago. When did you get out?”
“A year ago. Finished my commitment and bumped into Jonas on a private hop to Dubai. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“What did you fly in the Corps?” asked Cal, warming to the brothers.
“Started on Hueys then moved over to Ospreys. Spent most of my time at Cherry Point flying over Lejeune.”
“And what about you? Another Marine?” Cal asked Johnny.
Johnny shook his head vehemently. “No way. Big brother was the one with the stick up his ass. Nope, Air Force all the way. I flew AC-130 Spookies, you know, the gunships.”
“What he’s not telling you is that he was a member of the Air Force Special Operations Command (AFSOC), specifically the First Special Operations Wing out of Hurlburt Field. These guys have spent more time over the desert than Lawrence of Arabia did in it.”
Cal was impressed. Two, no three (he’d have to chat with Benny later) high speed aviators. Most people thought that fighter pilots were the tough guys, the real flying heroes. But Cal knew differently, and apparently so did Jonas. It took big balls to fly a squad of Marines into a hot landing zone. The same thing with the AFSOC pilots. Tasked with supporting special operations troops, they were the elite of the elite despite flying the comparatively unsexy AC-130 gunships. Cal had seen the big bird in action and was more than impressed.
Suddenly it all came together, what Jonas had set in motion. They didn’t call him The Fortuneteller for nothing. Without a word from Cal, the brilliant billionaire had added to their army. By hiring the three aviators, Jonas effectively gave The Jefferson Group all the air support they’d need. Need someone to fly a helo, gotcha covered. Commercial airliner? No problem. Hell, aside from fighter jets, which Cal figured they’d never get their hands on anyway, they now had the talent to fly anything. He had to hand it to Jonas. One of the best indications of a man’s worth is what he does when you’re not watching. The guy was good, really good.
“How much do you know about what we’re doing?” Cal asked the brothers.
Jim looked to Jonas who nodded. “Jonas said we’re going in to pick up a couple of Jarheads, under the radar.”
Part of Cal was annoyed that Jonas had said that much, but then he realized that if these guys were going to work for him they might as well know, but they had to get the speech now.
“True. What I’m about to tell you is so over the level of Top Secret there is no classification. The Jefferson Group is a presidentially sanctioned organization tasked with…”
Cal gave them the five thousand foot view. What the president wanted them to do, some of what they’d accomplished over the previous months, and finally why they were on their way to Afghanistan. He included what would happen to them should they divulge The Jefferson Group’s true mission, namely a lifetime incarcerated in solitary confinement. That or a bullet to the head.
There was silence for a moment as the Powers brothers digested the information. Then, to Cal’s surprise, they turned to each other, Johnny smiling wide, Jim more casual. Simultaneously they raised a hand and smacked a high five, just like they were on a baseball field and one of them had done a diving catch at short.
“I told you!” said Johnny.
Jim shrugged.
Cal looked at Jonas, suppressing a smile. “Well, I guess they’re in. Now, if we only knew what Andy and Rich were up to.”
Chapter 15
Somewhere Along Highway 1
Between Gereshk and Kandahar, Afghanistan
8:05pm AFT, August 24th
First came the shouting, enemies ordering their subordinates to rush the convoy. Then came the swivel of spotlights, illuminating the dusty night air, seeking out the Americans. Finally came the unmistakable revving of humvee engines, the assault was coming.
Latif pulled the two Americans around the left side of the truck, away from the enemy. “We must get to the fifth vehicle.”
> There was a lot of space between them and the fifth vehicle, lots of time to be found and killed.
“Why?” asked Isnard, crouching low to look under the product laden truck.
“You will see.”
Isnard looked up at the Afghan. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
It was decided that Andy would bring up the rear. While he usually might have protested, he wasn’t too proud to admit that in his weakened state he really shouldn’t be walking point.
More shouting, large tires crunching their way closer. Heavy machine guns undoubtedly ready, waiting for the Americans to poke their heads out.
Three vehicles up, Isnard stopped, cocking his head to the side, listening. His head snapped around, a furtive glance to his companions, then he was flat on his stomach, crawling under the truck. Andy and Latif followed.
Crowded behind the front right tire, the three men watched as Latif’s men were ordered to their knees, hands on their heads. Only one man, a boy really, resisted, receiving a crushing blow to the head from his aggressor’s rifle. The boy crumpled. Andy knew he was dead.
If there was any hesitation in Andy to fire on Afghan forces, it left him a moment later. The same military and police units he and thousands of coalition troops had trained, men who’d sworn to uphold liberty and freedom, leveled their weapons. Every one of Latif’s men were cut down by not one but two humvee mounted machine guns along with the ground troops. In twenty seconds it was over. Andy knew because he felt and counted each one. Tick, tick, tick…
Latif pounded the ground with his fist, letting out a barely audible moan. Pure anguish. A common smuggler with transient contractors didn’t mourn. Andy knew in that extended moment that Latif had family in the pile of murdered boys. Family now gone forever.
Something in the Marine snapped. Any weariness he’d felt left him. It was like the air throbbed, thumping in his ears.