by C. G. Cooper
His gaze met Isnard’s. They nodded and shuffled back the way they’d come.
With Latif regaining his composure and now bringing up the rear, the three men snuck from shadow to shadow. It was only a matter of time before the opposition came around to their side of the convoy, but for now they were being cautious. The bastards called to them, threatening and taunting. As if they’d just throw up their hands in surrender after seeing so many killed so quickly. They didn’t know the Marines they were dealing with.
The familiar adrenaline rush coursed through Andy’s veins, smell, vision and touch all heightened, drop by drop the bucket filled. Somehow they made it to the fifth vehicle, Latif scrambling in the cargo flap. It felt like forever before the merchant’s head popped out, followed by his hands holding a pair of rocket propelled grenades (RPGs). The Marines each took one, prepping the weapons without thinking.
In under a minute the three men had twelve RPGs stacked on the ground and three more in their hands. The tricky part was going to be the back blast. More than a few idiots had killed comrades by thinking nothing was coming out the back.
“We need to get on top of the trucks,” said Andy, realizing that the tightly parked trucks offered no other room. Isnard nodded and was the first up, keeping his profile low.
Louder shouting and more vehicles. Their time was running out. When Andy finally got his footing on top of the canvas cargo top, he was sure the ancient fabric was about to give way. It was like walking on thin ice, peril a footstep away.
He ignored caution and was the first to stand, the only way he could get a clear shot and compensate for the weapon’s back blast. Whooosh! He dropped to his belly reaching for another RPG.
Men scattered at the telltale sound, the explosion rocking the check point. Whooosh! Whooosh! Rich then Latif launched their RPGs, the heavy rounds slamming into humvees. Take out the big guns first.
It was pure chaos on the ground, but the enemy knew where they were. With time limited, Andy was the only one who had time to launch one more, before the three men slipped off the backside of the vehicle, bullets following, chests heaving.
“Now what?” asked Andy.
They’d taken out a couple vehicles and a few men, but there were plenty more who were converging on their hiding spot.
A look passed between the three men. Defiant but resigned to their fate. Surrender wasn’t an option.
“Let’s go,” said Isnard, turning and heading toward the sound of crackling fire, and angry shouts.
He took out two men with his first burst, Andy another with his. They fanned out, walking right down the side of the road like heroes in an old western. Wyatt Earp and his boys taking on the cowboys at the O.K. Corral.
Latif was the first to be hit, a stinger in his right arm. He grunted and kept moving, shifting his weapon to his left hand, disciplined fire.
There were targets everywhere and even more rounds flying overhead. A tiny part of Andy’s subconscious couldn’t believe he hadn’t been shot yet. It was only a matter of time. But the rounds kept coming, flying high, bad aim.
Then he saw them. A line of black SUVs, heads peaking out from behind. None of those guys were shooting. As soon as Andy wondered why the answer came. They were letting the lowly Afghan police take the casualties and hoping they would kill the Americans. Cowards. The thought made Andy smile despite the intense heat of the burning vehicles he was trying get cover behind.
More small arms fire. Luckily they’d taken out the humvees. Andy hated to think what it would feel like with MK19 rounds in the mix.
Isnard sprinted to the next bit of cover, a blasted humvee door, when Andy’s blood went cold. BOOM! BOOM!
All three men dropped to the deck, waiting for the explosions to take them out. But that didn’t happen. Instead the black SUVs disappeared, reappearing moments later several feet away, fiery hulks. BOOM! BOOM!
The front of Latif’s convoy exploded a split second later.
Those are tank rounds, thought Andy. Whatever it was, the few remaining Afghans bolted for any vehicle that wasn’t burning and took off down the highway.
Without the sound of gunfire, the area fell still. There was the snapping and popping of smoldering vehicles, and the death moan of some unseen combatant, but they’d come out relatively unscathed.
As Isnard wrapped a piece of his torn T-shirt around Latif’s upper arm, Andy waited. Soon came the rattle and crunch of tracked vehicles. It wasn’t the hum of an Abrams, he knew that for sure. It was the squeaky turn of ancient parts, the rough screech of gears changing. Not Americans.
He had to find a vehicle and get them away from the check point. Walking wasn’t an option. Any half-ass newbie could track them down, even at night, what with the limited cover in the low lying desert. But every vehicle Andy came to was either burning or disabled, courtesy of the gun battle.
The engine noises rumbled closer as he climbed down from yet another dead truck. Nothing to do but wait. Like most Marines, Andy hated waiting. He didn’t have to wait long. Rolling into the light of the remaining spotlights came four rust-lined Russian tanks. They sagged under their age, like old men taking one last walk into the sunset.
They lined up in a row just off the highway, idling. Then came the sound of footfalls, steps coming from behind. Andy’s eyes went wide. Streaming onto the road were tens, then hundreds of armed men, all dressed like desert vagabonds, nomads, faces hidden, robes scraping the pavement as they surrounded the caravan.
Two men broke off from the others and headed to where Andy now stood with Isnard and Latif. They carried AK-47s pointed at the ground. They stopped a few feet away, first one then the other pulling down the fabric covering their faces. Both men had deep set eyes. Men of the desert. Deeply tanned crow’s feet. Their facial hair blotted out every other aspect of their features. Andy immediately pegged them as Kochi, traditionally nomadic people. The problem was that many of the Kochi people, whether out of ignorance or necessity, had aligned themselves with the Taliban.
“Which one of you is Isnard?” one of the men asked in Pashtun.
Isnard stepped forward.
“And that is Andrews?”
“It is,” replied Isnard.
“And that man?” the larger of the two men asked, pointing at Latif.
“A friend,” said Isnard. “And you?”
“We are guardians of the desert,” the man replied grandly, spreading his arms wide.
“May I call you friend?” asked Isnard.
The two strangers exchanged glances. Number two stranger nodded. “You may call us friends, Isnard. Come. We must leave before the army arrives.”
With their only option standing in front of them, supported by what Andy estimated to be two hundred men and old yet precise tanks, the three men accepted the escort. No one told them to relinquish their weapons and they were offered water from ragged goat bladders. Once satiated, the troop moved off into the night. Andy wondered if it was just another death march. Out of one boiling cauldron and into another.
Chapter 16
Kandahar, Afghanistan
12:11am AFT, August 25th
Anthony Farrago swore under his breath. Not only had that prick Rich Isnard slipped through the incompetent fingers of the Afghan police, military AND their intelligence force, they’d done it four hours before . The moron on the other end of the conversation kept going on and on about a rebel division swooping down in the middle of the night. He wasn’t making any sense.
Farrago knew from long experience that Arabs had the bad habit of overstating enemy forces. That was especially the case if said forces overwhelmed their own. Cowards and liars.
He’d heard enough. “You listen to me. Tell your boss that not another penny will go into his account if he doesn’t find those two.”
More blathering on the other end. Excuses. Promises. Empty words.
“Just do it,” Farrago growled.
Anthony Farrago hadn’t risen to the right hand of a deput
y director of the CIA by being nice. Sure his attitude had bit him in the ass more than once, but that’s what fiery Italian-Americans did, bawl people out every once in a while. If that meant stomping on a few toes and chewing some ass, Farrago was only too happy to comply.
Even though he felt like he was on the wrong side of fifty when he looked in the mirror every morning, the career spook knew he had plenty of years left. Three marriages and four stints in rehab later, Farrago had come up the hard way. From the frozen streets of Minneapolis to a tour in the Navy, and finally to where he hoped to die: The Central Intelligence Agency.
He’d begun his CIA career as an embassy staffer in Rome, learning the ropes from a crusty station chief who’d cut his teeth on the front lines of Moscow during the Cold War. They’d become friends and for a while Farrago was the golden child, gathering contacts and spies like the Pied Piper.
He was in high demand and spent time all over the world until finally settling in the Middle East. After 9/11 there’d been so much work that he rarely saw home, hence the repeated attempts at marriage and occasional relapse into the bottle. Each time the CIA picked him up, dusted him off, then sent him on to the next thing.
Now he lived on the road, relishing the freedom, spurning long-term relationships in exchange for life-or-death intrigue. Along the way he’d slipped a couple times. His mouth did have a way of interjecting at the wrong time. He’d written them off as minor mistakes, but in truth they’d derailed his aspirations of becoming a station chief. That’s what he’d always wanted. Lord of the manor. Now Farrago was damaged goods, but not damaged enough to get the boot. He’d gotten the ultimatum from Kingsley Coles himself, “Work for me or you’re out.”
The position started out as more of an administrative role, something Farrago hated. But he soon came to see the political appointee just wanted to get a better feel for the headstrong Italian. Within months, Farrago was on the road every other week, then three weeks out of each month. Courier deliveries led to inspections which morphed into what he was doing now, anything he wanted.
He was given autonomy and the resources to do what had to be done. Coles didn’t want to know all the details and that was fine with Farrago. Left alone he was a cunning operator, flexing his muscles as needed. He liked the variety and the power. Who wouldn’t?
Like this operation. It was exactly what Farrago wanted. A guy like Rich Isnard was too young and inexperienced to be a station chief. Sure the kid was good, but Baghdad? No way. Things had to be corrected and Farrago would spearhead the effort. The Agency had gotten soft. It was time to put a boot in certain orifices.
Isnard and that Marine, Andrews, had gone too far, encroached on his turf. Sure he’d twisted a few truths and doctored a couple of reports, but that was all part of the game, part of his job. Coles understood. There was a bigger picture to take into account. Upstarts like Isnard and Andrews didn’t get that. They were Boy Scouts in a den of howling wolves. Farrago was the alpha male tasked with fixing the problem.
There were multiple fronts to fight. It was all part of the fun. He’d give the Afghans one more day to find Isnard and Andrews. Farrago would personally oversee the rest.
He looked at his watch. Probably another thirty minutes. Farrago leaned back against his dented loaner, his tongue running along his upper lip in anticipation. A beer or shot of rum would be nice, but he’d sworn off the stuff. Too bad.
He exhaled.
The runway was quiet for now. In thirty minutes it would be Ground Zero.
+++
12:34am
The Gulfstream touched down, its occupants feeling barely a thump as every tire settled.
“Welcome to Kandahar, ladies and gents. Thanks for flying TJG airlines. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.”
Everyone chuckled at Johnny Power’s announcement. It was the last of many they’d heard over the preceding hours. The guy was a bottomless well of wit.
There’d been plenty of time on the flight over to get acquainted with the new team members. The three pilots rotated every other hour, coming to the back when they weren’t flying. The three men, even the quiet Benny Fletcher, were going to fit in nicely. Cal understood the simple fact that, because they were once again part of a pseudo-military unit, it made the men happy. He was pretty sure they’d accept a lot less pay just to be onboard.
Not that Cal would think of paying them less. If the last three years were any indication, what Cal and his team did was dangerous. He was happy to have the ability to pay his men handsomely. They deserved it.
“Cal, can you come up to the cockpit?” came Jim’s voice over the speaker system.
Cal unlatched his seat belt and made his way to the front. Jim turned when the reinforced cockpit door opened.
“You expecting company?” he asked, pointing into the hazy night.
Cal bent at the waist and looked out the thick glass window. The runway was still except for a vehicle flashing its headlights in the middle of the tarmac.
“Did you talk to the tower?” asked Cal.
“Yeah. They don’t know anything about the truck.”
The plane slowed as it neared the vehicle. There were two men standing outside their respective doors. Cal squinted.
“I’ll be damned.”
“You recognize them?” asked Johnny Powers.
“Yeah. Can you open one of these windows?”
“Uh huh. Here, switch with me.”
Jim opened the side window and swapped places with Cal. Cal stuck his head out the window.
“To what do we have the honor of Her Majesty’s finest?” he shouted over the engine noise.
Gene Kreyling was an easily recognizable figure. Gray eyepatch over one eye, the gruff British operator stood like an iron golem. He’d been part of Cal’s operation to stamp out ISIS earlier that month. Their relationship had started contentiously, but Cal now considered the brusque warrior part of the family. The man on the other side of the truck was Kreyling’s number two, Rango.
Kreyling didn’t say anything, just motioned for the plane to follow them. Cal nodded and popped back in the window.
“What’s that about?” asked Johnny.
Cal didn’t have a clue. No one was supposed to know they were coming. The last he’d heard Kreyling had been tasked with helping the U.N. train its new anti-terrorism reaction force. Hell, he’d recommended him for it. President Zimmer, the architect of the Zimmer Doctrine and the newly formed reaction force, was more than happy to forward Cal’s recommendation to the general commanding the team.
Not that he wasn’t happy to see his friends, but the fact that they’d been waiting was more than a little unsettling. Who else knew they were coming?
“Follow that truck,” Cal told the pilots. “Oh, and make sure you’re ready to take off if we need to.”
The Powers brother exchanged questioning looks as if to say, “Is this what it’s always like with these guys?”
Chapter 17
Kandahar, Afghanistan
12:40am AFT, August 25th
As the minutes slipped by, Anthony Farrago’s frustration clicked higher. There’d only been one landing in the last hour and that was on an auxiliary strip on the farthest edge of the tarmac. He couldn’t make out the markings thanks to the haze and gloom. The runway lighting was just barely acceptable for night use. Seeing anything from afar was impossible.
The control tower manager had assured Farrago that the American plane was going to land and taxi to this exact spot. No phone calls to say differently. Farrago resisted the urge to call the tower. Instead he walked around his sedan and found his men waiting behind a shoulder high concrete wall. Eighteen men. Private contractors. Experienced men. All of Afghan descent.
He’d used them before. They weren’t as good as American contractors, but they knew the land and did jobs for a tenth of what American contractors would. These guys knew their place, mostly because they had nowhere else to go.
Kicked out of various Afghan age
ncies for a wide range of offenses ranging from drunkenness to rape, they were the scum their country no longer wanted. Perfect for what Farrago had in mind.
“I’m going up to the tower. Keep on eye out for the airplane,” Farrago told the team leader, a hulking man with one ear and a jagged scar across his forehead.
The man nodded and went back to puffing on his cigarette. Farrago left the mercenaries, criminals really. He knew a guy like Kingsley Coles would never associate with such men, but they were right up Farrago’s alley. Ruthless. Uncaring. Expendable.
Despite his impatience, he smiled as he made his way up to the tower to see what was taking so long. It was only a matter of time before he let his hounds loose.
+++
Kreyling led the Gulfstream off the auxiliary runway and into a portion of the airport that looked abandoned. The hangar was large enough to accommodate something twice their size, but its doors looked like they were about to fall off and the roof probably did little to keep the weather out.
The Brit met Cal at the bottom of the steps.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” Cal said. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Rango were in town as advanced party for the U.N. Ran into some old S.A.S. pals who caught wind of some CIA operation going down tonight.”
CIA?
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“I ignored it at first but then some drunk Afghan spouted off about Jefferson something. That got my attention. You don’t hear the natives mentioning that kind of name. So I bought him a drink, and he starts bragging about some rich bastard his team is going to take down. He finally remembered the name of the rich guy’s company, The Jefferson Group.”
Cal froze. Kreyling was one of maybe thirty people, including twenty of Cal’s own men and the president, who knew The Jefferson Group’s real mission.
“And then what happened?”
“I left and started asking around. A few pounds got me what I needed. They were planning on taking you right after landing.”