The End of America’s War in Afghanistan (The Russian Agents Book 3)

by Ted Halstead

  Vasilyev paused, clearly weighing his words.

  “Russian companies are not as…concerned…about security issues as Western companies. The ruthlessness that our security contractors will bring to protecting their operations, as long as it is solely directed at the Taliban, will be welcomed. Ironically, the not altogether undeserved reputation we acquired for brutality during our occupation of Afghanistan may work in our favor in this case.”

  Grishkov looked thoughtful. “I don’t think that’s a bad guess. But what about Bagram Airfield?”

  Vasilyev nodded. “That’s why I said if the Taliban get more than one warhead out of Pakistan, Moscow might reconsider. Realistically, three agents have only a small chance of detecting and stopping one warhead. That drops to near zero if we have to split up.”

  Vasilyev paused, again thinking over his next words carefully. “If we are told that either two or three warheads have crossed the Afghan border, I am going to recommend to Moscow in the strongest terms that we pursue only the warhead destined for Kabul’s Green Zone. Also, that we should give the Americans the information we gained from the map at a minimum. I hope Moscow can also figure out a way to share drone radiation detection data with the Americans without compromising that capability.”

  Vasilyev spread his hands. “I agree with you that the Americans are more than capable of protecting themselves. In fact, they may decide just that, and refuse our offer of assistance.”

  Then Vasilyev paused. “But not to make the offer, to stand by and give the Taliban even a small chance of success?”

  Vasilyev shook his head. “More than I could stomach,” he said soberly.

  Grishkov and Neda both nodded. Grishkov spoke first.

  “All you have said is sensible. Let’s hope the bosses in Moscow agree.”

  Neda said softly, “I’ll never forget the look on the faces of those men at the roadblock when they thought we were their helpless victims. When we started this mission, I was ready to die if necessary to stop the Taliban from using nuclear weapons against innocent people.”

  Neda unconsciously fingered the fresh scar on her cheek.

  “I’m twice as ready now.”

  Hattar Industrial Estate, Pakistan

  Colonel Azita Kamar snarled an oath into her radio handset that she saw Senior Technician Nasir Cheema was visibly shocked to hear coming from a Pakistani woman.

  Azita thought to herself with grim amusement that he would have been even more shocked by her conduct in combat. There was a reason she was still breathing, while many Taliban who looked far tougher were not.

  “Lieutenant, I don’t care how many officials tell you that we have to start letting vehicles out of here without being searched. If they won’t listen to you, arrest them. Tell them you are acting on my orders.”

  Azita signed off and returned to her review of a map of the industrial park. It dated back to shortly after the park opened and was missing dozens of structures as well as several roads. As she had received reports and observed details herself, she had made additions to the map by hand.

  Now, as she looked at the map, she was trying to put herself into the shoes of men trying to escape with a nuclear warhead.

  Azita knew they were nearby. One, two, or even three warheads might have escaped before she was able to ring the industrial park with troops. But not all four.

  At least one warhead was still here. Azita could smell it.

  But time was not on Azita’s side. She could ignore local officials. Eventually, though, the powerful business owners with assets here would get through to politicians in Islamabad. Politicians with authority to give orders to her superior officers.

  Azita’s fingers traced over the map, lingering on the roadblocks she had set up on every road. Her eyes narrowed as she saw a wide gap between two of the barriers and remembered driving through the area. There had been nothing in that gap but the burned-out hulk of a chemical factory.

  And behind it, flat land that eventually led to the main road. Perhaps drivable by a small truck with four-wheel drive.

  Would the remains of the chemical factory be enough to obstruct the view of the soldiers at the roadblocks from an escaping truck?

  Azita had a sudden rush of anger. Maybe, if the officers at those roadblocks were being distracted by busybody local officials.

  Azita radioed the commander of the Talha armored personnel carrier to tell him to proceed to the field behind the ruins of the chemical factory, and that she would meet him there.

  Thanks to being both closer and faster, Azita reached the factory first.

  Just in time to see a small truck setting out over the field behind the factory.

  Azita had carried the same Hechler & Koch G3P4 assault rifle since she joined the Army. It had served her well over that time, and she only had one complaint about it today.

  Its effective range was about four hundred meters, and the truck had already traveled about that far. The way it bounced up and down testified to the fact that the land wasn’t really flat, and that it was a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Following it in her sedan wasn’t an option.

  And it also made it a devilishly hard target to hit. Just one round in a tire…

  But no matter how many carefully aimed rounds she sent towards the truck, it kept getting smaller and smaller in her view.

  The Taha APC rolled next to her, and its hatch flew open. The officer pointed towards the fleeing truck, and Azita just nodded and waved towards it.

  The Taha’s speed might not be so impressive on paved roads. On the open country, though, its treads easily outperformed the small truck’s wheels. Long before overtaking it, the Taha’s 12.7 mm machine gun had stopped the truck’s forward movement.

  Azita spoke rapidly into her radio handset, and the Taha rolled back towards them. Minutes later, Azita and Nasir were crammed inside the APC, which then went at full speed towards the small truck.

  The truck still wasn’t moving.

  Azita didn’t think for a second that the Taha’s machine-gun fire had killed everyone on board and told the APC’s commander so.

  His only response was to smile.

  Azita smiled back. Yes, it was obvious. But sometimes you had to be sure that your troops didn’t forget the obvious.

  Azita pulled Nasir to the side of the APC, facing away from the truck. Then, she had him hunch down beside her. Keeping the technician alive was a top priority, with—Azita hoped—a recovered warhead to examine. Otherwise, she would have commanded the assault on the truck herself.

  Instead, the eight soldiers who had been inside the APC were led by its commander towards the truck. The gunner remained behind to cover them with the Taha’s 12.7 mm machine gun, and its driver to move the APC if necessary.

  It didn’t take long before Azita’s prediction that there were survivors proved accurate. Several automatic weapons inside the truck opened fire at the same moment. Still, the soldiers’ quick reflexes as each hit the ground, coupled with their ballistic armor, prevented any severe casualties.

  A short burst from the Taha’s 12.7 mm machine gun silenced the Taliban fighters’ rifle fire. At the APC’s current range against a stationary target, the Taha’s gunner literally couldn’t miss.

  The Pakistani soldiers advanced cautiously towards the truck, but there were no more surprises. Just a few minutes later, the voice of the APC’s commander crackled over Azita’s radio with the single word, “Clear.”

  “We’re up,” Azita said brightly to Nasir, who appeared anything but enthusiastic. However, he knew there was no avoiding the task, and dutifully followed Azita to the truck.

  The Pakistani soldiers had already rolled back the canvas covering the truck’s bed and its metal rear frame, revealing multiple unmoving Taliban bodies, and what Azita recognized as one of the missing warheads.

  Azita watched approvingly as Nasir’s attitude immediately changed to one of intense professional interest. After about fifteen minutes, Nasir looked up.

&nbs
p; “If Ibrahim trained someone else to do the warhead removal, he did a great job. I doubt we could have done better back at the lab,” Nasir said.

  “So, this warhead is intact and could have been rigged for successful detonation by someone with Ibrahim’s knowledge?” Azita asked.

  Nasir nodded. “Absolutely. If the other stolen warheads are in the same condition as this one, that will go for them as well. He’ll need to remove the nuclear cores to get maximum yield from a new device, but he knows how to do that too.”

  Azita frowned. “Very well. I have another task for you. As you did back at the warehouse…”

  Nasir’s mouth twisted with distaste. “I understand,” he replied and quickly examined each of the bodies in the truck bed and cab.

  Nasir shook his head. “He’s not here,” he said flatly.

  Azita wasn’t surprised and nodded. As the only person the Taliban had capable of building a working bomb with the stolen warheads, Azita had thought it likely Ibrahim had left with the very first warhead to be successfully removed.

  Nasir had gone back to looking at the warhead. But now there was a small and unpleasant smile on his face.

  “So, what could possibly be amusing about this situation?” Azita asked, with genuine curiosity.

  Nasir looked up absently, with the disturbing smile still on his face. “The answer to that question is classified above your level. I will only say that though Ibrahim may indeed have done well to get this far, getting farther may be harder than he thought.”

  Azita looked at him thoughtfully and then shrugged. “Well, I hope you’re right. I don’t know if you’ve realized it, but you and your organization have more at stake than anyone else in Pakistan.”

  Nasir looked startled. “What do you mean? The Taliban won’t want to use these warheads against our nuclear weapons production facilities, or for that matter, anywhere in Pakistan. I’m sure they’ll use them against the Americans in Afghanistan.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Azita said. “Now, ask yourself this. If the Taliban succeeds, what do you think the Americans will do?”

  “Well, obviously, punish those responsible…” Nasir said, his voice trailing off as he realized what Azita meant.

  “Yes,” Azita said. “And could we say with a straight face that didn’t include us? The Americans would never attack our cities, full of innocent women and children. Our already produced nuclear weapons are scattered and mobile to prevent an Indian first strike.”

  Azita paused. “But our nuclear weapons production facilities? I guarantee the Americans know exactly where they are. But if the Taliban succeeds in attacking the Americans with our weapons, I’m certain they won’t be there much longer.”

  For once, Azita saw with satisfaction, Nasir had nothing to say.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Creech Air Force Base, Nevada

  Senior Airman Tom Evans considered himself lucky to have his hands on the controls of a Predator C Avenger. It had a total payload capacity of nearly three thousand kilograms, split almost evenly between its internal weapons bay and external hardpoints. It could carry virtually any weapon in the Air Force inventory.

  Best of all, this Avenger was going to support a combat mission. According to the brief, he shouldn’t have to fire a shot and only relay sensor data to the Seal team that would carry out the assault.

  Evans’ job was to pilot the Avenger. There were also two sensor operators, who were responsible for both collecting sensor data and flagging anything that might require action during flight. He’d flown with them both before, and knew they were highly competent professionals.

  Ordinarily, Evans would have had no chance to pilot an Avenger with his limited experience and low rank. But his performance in piloting unarmed drones had been outstanding, and his last glowing evaluation made promotion this year a near certainty. It had also led to this assignment.

  Evans knew he was balancing right on the edge of what had been the limit for enlisted men piloting drones. It had only been a few years since piloting drones had been opened up to airmen like Evans. Now, after another policy change, he had just been trained on every aspect of the Avenger’s systems and weapons and even assigned to support a combat mission.

  But only as long as he was expected to use nothing but the Avenger’s sensors.

  Well, Evans would take what he could get. He was confident that if he just kept his head down and followed orders, the time would come when he’d be able to take on any mission with the Avenger, including ground attack.

  Getting briefed by the CO himself had been a little unnerving, but Wainwright had been pretty clear about what he wanted. Follow orders, and only fire a weapon if requested explicitly by troops on the ground.

  Simple enough.

  Evans was roused from his internal monologue by the arrival of his immediate superior, Captain Josh Pettigrew. A quick look at the clock confirmed it.

  Game time.

  “Good morning, Evans. Any questions about today’s mission?” Pettigrew asked.

  Evans shook his head. “No, sir. Seems straightforward. I keep the bird flying straight and level, while these guys keep an eye out for anything unusual,” he said, gesturing towards the two sensor operators.

  They both grinned and touched two fingers to their foreheads in mock salute.

  Pettigrew nodded and smiled back.

  Evans concluded, “If they spot anything, you let the guys on the ground know.”

  Pettigrew smiled. “Good summary. The CO’s already given you the mission brief, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Evans said.

  “Well, one thing he probably didn’t tell you is that the man those Seals have been sent to capture has been on the run for over twenty years. But somehow, we’re asked to believe that he’s in this compound in the middle of nowhere with just three other men. And he’s staying put for nearly two full days. What does all that make you think, Evans?” Pettigrew asked.

  “Sir, what you’re saying makes it sound like a trap. But didn’t the intel guys think all that through?” Evans replied.

  Pettigrew nodded. “Yes. They discounted the obvious, though, because their source has a perfect track record handing over Taliban leaders for cash. Plus, they really want him.”

  “OK, sir, so what should I do?” Evans asked.

  Pettigrew waved his hands to include Evans and both sensor operators.

  “All three of you should keep your eyes as wide open as you can. You should expect trouble because I sure do. And Evans, be ready to use your weapons if the troops on the ground request it. I know you expect this to be an observe and report only mission, and with luck, that’s what it will be. But remember, there’s a reason an Avenger was assigned in support of this mission, not an unarmed recon drone,” Pettigrew said.

  “Yes, sir,” Evans responded. Well, that all made sense, he thought. Even better, none of it contradicted what he’d been told to do by the CO.

  A light lit up on the console in front of Pettigrew.

  Pettigrew lifted the console’s handset for the communications check with the Seals signaled by the lit indicator. One of his many pet peeves, when he’d been a drone operator himself, had been officers who put the distant troops on speaker, and had a loud conversation with them while he was trying to fly.

  When Pettigrew had unexpectedly been offered a slot in OCS, his first resolution had been that he’d never repeat any of the things he’d complained about officers doing.

  So far, he thought he was succeeding.

  After a brief and quiet conversation with the Seal team commander over his handset, Pettigrew said, “Looks like the Seals’ helicopters brought them to the target right on time.”

  “To the target” wasn’t entirely accurate. The helicopters would always bring the special forces troops as close as possible without their noise alerting the target. One of the many reasons Seals and Rangers needed to be in top physical shape was the need to cover the distance between drop off and targe
t quickly while carrying a heavy load of weapons and equipment.

  The Avenger was now collecting data from within the compound that was supposed to be housing Mullah Abdul Zahed. The sensor operators quickly flagged several factors that appeared unusual.

  Only one man appeared to be standing guard outside the main structure in the compound. So far, they weren’t detecting movement inside the structure.

  There was also a large truck parked just behind the main structure, between it and the back wall of the compound.

  Pettigrew frowned. Just how big was the truck?

  When he pulled up the sensor data, he gave an involuntary hiss of dismay. It was the kind of truck ordinarily used in Afghanistan for just one purpose. Movement of large quantities of produce to market.

  It would do just as well, though, to transport a large quantity of explosives. Say, the type of bulky, relatively cheap explosives based on the ammonium nitrate fertilizer sold worldwide. Including Afghanistan.

  Hold on, now, Pettigrew thought. Maybe I’m making too much of this.

  And then he realized that they could check.

  “Evans, I want you to drop altitude five thousand feet so we can check out a truck near the target with that new chemical sensing pod we just installed on the Avenger. I want to be sure it’s not filled with explosives before the Seals hit the compound,” Pettigrew said.

  “Uh, sir, our orders state we’re not to go below our current altitude to minimize our chance of detection,” Evans replied hesitantly.

  “OK, you’re still going to be flying too high for anyone on the ground to see or hear you. The Taliban don’t have radar, and even if they did, the altitude change wouldn’t make a difference to their ability to detect you. It will make a difference, though, to whether that chemical sensing pod works. Carry out my order,” Pettigrew said, with growing impatience.

  “Yes, sir,” Evans muttered.

  The truth was Pettigrew understood Evans’ reluctance. The Avenger was many things, but agile wasn’t one of them. Dropping altitude quickly while maintaining both control and relative position to the target wasn’t so simple.