Hell To Pay

by Andrik Rovson

  “Sorry,” going outside he walked to a bench under a bright halogen light, sitting down to scan the orders. “Hereby extended pursuant ComDef Regulation 44. 2.a, Priority Mission requirement Alpha 222 ...” he read on “until released by Commander Southwest Asia Theater.”

  “Fuck, they pulled me back,” he read the proviso that seemed to limit his recall for one specific mission. He breathed out, angry but not that pissed off. Okay, one more time into the breech. He could handle that. In fact he felt pretty good. “Couldn't live without me, could ya?”

  He ambled to the mess hall instead of a fast jog. He was going to need all the calories he could load up. He always came back leaner and meaner, veins showing everywhere, his body fat had to be somewhere near one or two percent, damn near impossible to maintain once he got out, which wasn't happening in three days What had his orders said, “until Mission complete”. First time he'd seen that, an open ended Op. Whatever it was had top priority to kill his pending discharge and rate a runner to speed him off to a briefing in a building he'd never been in before. Was there someplace more secret than their compound?

  Guess he'd find out, soon, after breakfast. A call from God wouldn't stop him from eating breakfast. He'd learned, having sortied on an empty stomach that had stayed empty for two days, except for protein bars and chocolate. His turds were like rocks. He swore he could hear each one clink as it impacted on the hard ground. He was going to eat as much 'shit on a shingle', scrambled eggs and hash-browns as he could wash down with three big glasses of orange juice.

  “What the hell is an Alpha 222?” he spoke to himself as he neared the mess hall. “It better not be a VIP playing soldier.” Using an elite team to play nursery maid to a senior Politician touring the battle zones was the worst assignment anyone could draw, and impossible to dodge. They had to go everywhere in a helicopter then whined if they drew any fire, even at altitude small arms couldn't reach. Pussies, all of 'em, and the things they said when the got back, like they'd dropped in with a patrol taking fire and led a charge to take out the insurgents. They'd piss their pants when they heard someone outside the wire rattle off some rounds for fun. That would explain the odd briefing room on his orders, 8:30 exactly. Fine, he'd use the time to load up for whatever they were going to throw at him and his team.

  “Sir,” he snapped off a salute, his uniform tucked and tight the way rear area brass liked it, especially officers. His salad was reduced to the single Special Forces badge over his left blouse pocket. The rest was various levels of 'job well done' which he felt good they'd recognized, but to him, every damned Op he'd done was to the same high standards.

  “At ease, sit over there,” the full bird Colonel didn't smile or scowl. Maybe they hadn't specifically asked for him, just who was available. That relaxed his body slightly. Maybe it was a high profile milk-run with the appropriate special operator officer to make the VIP feel special. He's our best man... blah, blah, blah. His over stuffed stomach hurt and he felt like burping, so he muffled it and sniffed, looking around. The room was blank, no pictures, no flags, one phone on the desk the Colonel was bent over, talking quietly to an aide, pointing out things on a big map, large scale so Jabo hadn't seen anything he could use to place it. But the title on the bottom said Afghanistan, so it was in country.

  “Son, come here,” that kind of informality was new to him. A senior team leader was hardly a kid or a son but what the hell, he had the rank.

  “Yessir.” He clicked his heels, still not sure how this man operated with lower ranks.

  “Cut it,” he turned, “I was doing Ops when you were sucking mama's tit. This is the man I wanted for this mission but,” he pointed to the other soldier's foot in a black stained cast, done so it wouldn't stand out too much, the best match possible for his other foot, in a airborne, tucked in paratrooper boot.

  “Captain Cooper, One Oh One,” he shook Jabo's hand, showing his dismay at his injury, clearly this Colonel's favorite problem solver. “I was detached until this happened. You know Lieutenant Addison?”

  “Barkley? Shit yes.” Jabo smiled, then stiffened, “sorry sir.”

  “You call me sir one more time and I'm going to see how many setups you've been doing,” he brandished his fist, showing he'd punch his gut if he messed up again, “can it means can it, got it?”

  “Yesss...” Jabo caught himself as the Colonel smiled for the first time. “What the heck am I doing here, if I can ask.” He wanted to add, 'because I'm so short you shouldn't be able to see me over the tops of my boots'.

  “You ever heard of a Taliban called Asif, big time Taliban leader, Northeast?”

  “No, there are so many,” he wanted to add, 'that I kilo'ed myself'. Like WhackaMole, they just kept popping up.

  “No matter,” he looked at the para Captain, giving a slight rise to his eyebrows, wondering if this was the guy everyone was talking about, who never lost. “We want you to take him out, along with his entire group,” he turned to the captain, not sure of the latest count.

  “Twenty five, maybe more, most of them experienced, no word on heavy arms, but I doubt they'd have more than a mortar and a few light soviet machine guns. Whatever they can pack over the mountains.” The captain looked at Jabo, to see if he showed any discomfort, but the moment passed and they both looked back at the Colonel.

  “I get to choose my team?” Jabo moved up to look at the map, an area he'd operated in once, about two years ago, chasing down a particularly vicious Taliban crew who moved light and fast. They'd gone up and down mountain ranges for a week chasing them down, then a few days trailing close until they were in a bind, faced with a slow climb over a high pass. His team was tired and in no shape to drag themselves up the steep face, they'd called in a frag pass, two jets that had obliged then left, leaving them splattered over the rocks. It made pursuit of the last three men much easier, a hunt more than a sweep.

  They'd dialed them back after that, making it clear prisoners were desired instead of bodies – a political settlement was in the offing, which failed after a year of talk and foot loose, roaming bands that did as they pleased. It didn't matter to Jabo, as he'd decided these people preferred violence as a way of life, against them, the invaders. The other side was usually failed, lip-service Muslims or righteous believers who'd kill anyone who questioned their strict interpretation of the Koran. It all seemed an excuse to do what they wanted, live the bandit lifestyle then justify it later with some quotes and righteous talk. As a boy from the South, he knew the types, Bible thumpers who always ended their solemn services with a plea to fill the offering trays passed through the audience.

  He could see several places he'd like to drive them, if they were new to the area it might work, but if they'd grown up in the rugged terrain the map showed, he'd be the one facing an ambush if he didn't check every detail before they moved. It wasn't looking good, a reason for him to refuse, if they'd let him.

  “This guy is becoming the new norm, setting a pattern we can't allow.” The captain spoke as his body bristled with rage. They'd got to him, or someone he'd known. It happened, you stay long enough and the sad but earnest people of this country got to you, the good ones who wanted to make a go of the extra freedom the presence of the American forces allowed.

  “We've spent nearly ten million dollars rebuilding every road, well, farm and village, new electrical lines, a dam we dedicated last year, everything to make this into a model of the new Afghanistan.” The Colonel took over, moving the Captain back, worried his emotions had got the best of him.

  “To hell with the money, I lost thirty five men pacifying this area, driving out the Taliban so we could move in our contractors and clean this place up. There was nothing until we showed up and now this Asif character is blowing it all up, killing off the local militia leadership we've sweated and died to train and support.” The Captain wasn't finished. He looked at the Colonel who vetoed Jabo's calming attempt to close off his next outburst, urging his aide to continue.

 
“I tried to get him, but he got away, then he made my people pay! He knew who I'd worked with, about two hundred people here, in a little valley that was finally green and turning around, a decent place to live and he wiped them out, ran out the survivors then burned it all down.” He broke, then recovered, “you got to get him, all of them, show them this cannot stand or, shit, we should just leave, toss in the towel.”

  Jabo worked his mouth, wanting to reply, to make a promise of some sort, but he couldn't. Their normal engagement rules were so Byzantine and changing, even for the special forces teams and his unit, a cut above them. You could start with one set of restrictions then find they'd changed when you asked for an airstrike or reinforcements to close a fight out. It was Vietnam redux, with the Politicos calling the shots off info coming from a computer monitor and a clutch of unctuous staff officers, playing up to people who'll stamp their ticket.

  “I can't promise an outcome,” he offered, starting there.

  “No, it's not like that,” the Colonel whispered something to the Captain who limped out of the room, his usefulness over. “He's in knots because he broke his ankle doing a final exercise, a night drop from altitude onto a small LZ, the winds caught him on the way in. They needed the experience. Everyone else landed okay, bumps and bruises. They were going to fly in, death from above, all that airborne stuff, but it's not needed. We know where the bastard is going, he was just spotted an hour ago, and it's only forty miles from here, by helo.”

  “So our LZ is in the mountains?” Of all the inserts, this was almost suicidal. Jumping into a potentially hot LZ, then add in a slope made of rocks and cliffs or loose scree that could turn into an avalanche when you touched down and rolled, a guaranteed death trap before you started.

  “No, that's off the table, it's a helo insert all the way, a step off landing. I decided against the Airborne, too much trouble to coordinate with the Air Force,” the Colonel looked directly at Jabo, “he chose you, to replace him, out of all the people we have in country. I'd consider myself proud.” The ya ya, hip hooray wasn't getting through to Jabo. He knew how patriotic he was, doing one more Op wasn't going to change his self image.

  “Okay, how many men do I get?” Might as well see if there was any chance he'd go along with this dubious operation. The parachute boys could have it back if he didn't like what he was given, starting with an adequate attack force. That remark about the Air Force didn't ring true, something was strange about this mission.

  “How many do you want?” That was the first time he'd ever been given Carte Blanche, a blank sheet to fill in as he pleased.

  “How many in his group, twenty five?” He did the math, half their number was bare bones, equal would be nice, it would be the first time he'd ever faced one of these guerrilla groups in a fair fight – man to man. He was short and the last thing he wanted was a long running fight up and down the mountains in this very rugged area. Looking at the map he saw a village circled.

  Tapping the location he looked at the Colonel, “They coming here? When?” He got a nod.

  “One hour,” he checked his watch, “or less, you need to saddle up.”

  “Now? What about my men?” He'd never gone out without at least a day to get organized, brief his men, synchronize their fallback plans, ex-fill, standard tactics they'd use in various situations. Alot could happen and it always surprised you. This whole war was outside the box and going in cold was nearly as suicidal as jumping on the top of a mountain, at night!

  “On the tarmac, your equipment is there as well, everything you'll need. A Master Sargent Williams is waiting, with a large contingent, plenty to choose from. We could even drop you some mountain guns or recoil-less rifles if you wanted.”

  “Who's behind this?” the Colonel was leaving, drawing Jabo in his wake, unanswered questions nagging his mind. “Who did they piss off?”

  “Me,” his dead eyed stare made Jabo stop for a moment, “they were my friends, good people and I said they'd be safe.” His expression was fatherly for a second then resumed his command mien, how he'd look when they took his picture for a new brigade or staff position. “I want them all dead, today.”

  Asif was happy the long trek was nearly over. He would have liked an immediate, rapid descent from the high meadow, but finding a herd of goats waiting was heaven sent, 'a sign' that inspired the men, filling them with religious awe, reaction he allowed when it seemed appropriate. Events can take over and this one had. Relenting, he'd allowed them to slaughter the entire herd, providing meat rations for a week and a full belly for the coming fight. It would energize them, make them feel invincible. God was truly on their side.

  If he was right it would be walk over, with little or no opposition. A few invalided soldiers, some boys with rifles calling themselves a militia, nothing difficult. A short nasty fight, maybe lop off a few heads to cow the rest of them, then they'd have a good time, and now, with Allah's blessing, it would be feast as well. Waiting until the dawn for the meat to cook over big, open fires wouldn't cause any problems, but the moment he saw color in the East they'd move out.

  The people in the village below had talked, spread stories about how they were going to live differently, oppose the fierce, iron law meted out by the Taliban. He'd come to make an example to be absorbed by the others in this region, so they'd know what happened when you betrayed your own people and their true religion – strayed from the path – his rules.

  “Oh shit, brother you're short, how did you get into this cluster f'd mission? You should be folding your underwear and picking out some nice golf shirts. We're not going out to guard a NATO convoy.” Sargent Williams was in top form, happy to see a man he'd assumed was already flying out of this hell hole where nobody ever won, for long.

  “I heard you were the top kick in charge, a real shit storm specialist. And contrary to what they told you I'm not running this Op. I've been asked to observe and write a report, for Army Times. There might even be a photographer. We're going to make history tonight.” Jabo looked at the men who didn't know him, gaping in astonishment or annoyed some featherweight public affairs staff puke had got himself inserted in a very dicey, difficult assignment. “Are these the volunteers?” He grabbed a man's hand, “very brave, we'll make sure you get the gold plated coffin.” The man pulled his hand back, his face twisted into a repugnant sneer. “And a big medal, the Purple Star.”

  “Where's the hot shit guy you said was coming?”

  “Who's this jerk? It's bad enough we're going in cold.”

  “If he's in charge I'm going AWOL.”

  “Men, men, enough of the whining, this is not a SEAL team pre-Op brief.” That got some laughs. “This,” Williams patted Jabo's shoulder, “is the answer to our prayers.”

  “Him, that dipshit?”

  “Lieutenant Dipshit to you soldier.” Jabo fronted the surly NCO, another senior master Sargent like Williams, but nearly half his size, “Where's the rest of you?”

  “You wanna take off those shiny bars and dance?” the man unbuckled his Alice vest and tossed it on the table where it clanked, stuffed with a vast amount of ammo, a selection of grenades and smoke canisters – with two knives, one on each side.

  “Aren't you going to be late for the Wizard of Oz re-Make?”

  The smaller man rushed Jabo, taking him to the ground, as Jabo rolled back, pulling his legs in tight to push the man off, high over his head. The small man snap rolled then hit the floor like a gymnast, sticking the landing.

  “Wow, we finally did it, great.” Jabo kicked out his feet, standing up to grab his attacker's hand, giving him a bro hug.

  “Gentlemen, the great Jabo Bowie and his flying sidekick, Benito will be here all week.” Sargent Williams took both their hands to raise them high, and they all bent over in a bow.

  “Are we gonna kill someone or put on a show?”

  Jabo ignored the comment and waved them all in, “This is a waste everyone who shoots at us mission, authorized by someone who wants payback
not a post Op briefing. We're going in full weapons free, no higher ups on overwatch, no kibbutzers or nosy generals on the radio playing God, just us. Anybody want to play?”