by Ron Lealos
By the time I was done composing, Dunne had filled a pad with notes. He stood, walked around his folding desk, and handed me the sheet of paper.
“He’s emailing a couple of women,” Dunne said. “And his mother. Like you, Morgan, a good boy.”
There it was. Dunne’s veiled admission he was monitoring. No use having a shit fit. It wouldn’t change a thing, and I already suspected.
After inhaling at least six beers, Finnen was sitting straight in his chair, just a slight weave to his head.
“A man loves his sweetheart the most, his wife the best, but his mother the longest,” Finnen said. “Does it seem from his missives he loves her like no other? If so, we can use that.”
“In Thorsten’s words,” Dunne said, “she is ‘da man,’ whatever the fuck that means. From my reading, she’s the woman of his life, not like the bimbos who send him nude pictures of themselves and he writes to as if they were pork loin.”
CIA lore was more ingrained among military personnel who worked with or around spooks than the general public. The reputation of success at any cost and failure grounds for immediate sanction with extreme prejudice was nurtured by the Company and taken as a Commandment by all grunts. “Thou Shalt Not Fuck With the Agency. Or Fail” was written in the shortened lives of too many and one of the reasons they avoided our compound like it was radioactive. Stories of a secret coven practicing black arts and sorcery was a hot topic in the chow line—the way targets just disappeared, as if their bodies vaporized in smoke.
One story on the grapevine told of a Ranger who hid with a Company agent all night in the middle of a herd of tethered Taliban goats, waiting for the dawn and serenaded by baa-ing and shitting. They were supposedly there only for recon of the small mud house. At sunrise, the agent was missing, his escort swearing the man was beside him, still dressed in camo fatigues. But he wasn’t. He stepped out of the hut and into the morning bright wearing man jammies and a turban, a bearded head in his hand. The agent lifted the head, holding it up for the grunt to see, and said, “Abdul had a nightmare,” tossing it to the goats. Finnen, Dunne, and I knew tales like this only supported the belief that not even mothers were safe if there was a mission to achieve.
“Did mom send naked pictures, too?” Finnen asked.
Throwing my empty Bud can at Finnen, I said, “Fuck off, you pervert.”
No smile from Dunne. He was already scheming. His brief.
“Which cave do you want to visit?” Dunne asked again.
“Your choice,” Finnen said. “They all look the same to me. Just make it close. I hate humpin’ up them rocky hills. I don’t think Morgan gives a shite. He’s in better shape than me.”
The nearby cave complexes of Tora Bora, or Spin Ghar to the Pashtuns, had been the site of bloody battle for years and were the stronghold of the Taliban. Supposedly, they were the hide-out of Bin Laden. Both Finnen and I had been deep into them before, but our work was mostly done in the cities and lowlands. It was too hard to sneak into the caves at night, impossible during the day. They were also the site of mortar placement for the sporadic attacks on the base. The closest caves were within the vision of artillery spotters and the range of 155mm howitzers. It would make sense to Thorsten that we were going out on a run to one of the Taliban gun placements based on friendly intel. We didn’t really have to get far into the mountains—just off the base alone with no witnesses lurking and Thorsten believing he was advancing the cause of Operation Enduring Freedom.
Dunne picked up his encrypted satellite cell phone.
“Be ready at 0700. Report here. I’ll have everything arranged. Pack light.”
He started to punch in numbers and nodded for us to di di.
Loose rocks made the trek into the foothills nearly as slippery as climbing an ice cliff. Even at this altitude, the morning sun caused us to sweat like we were under a heat lamp. Air came in bursts, and Finnen struggled to keep up with the patrol. He was more used to safe houses in the city, where a long walk was to the door. Dunne had coordinated a platoon of Rangers for escort. They would be leaving us soon, acting as rear guard.
Trying to stay in the shadows of boulders and the few bushes, we carefully made our way up the hardscrabble hill. Remnants of earlier habitation came in the form of empty Corn Nut and Lay’s Potato Chip wrappers. And a few rocks stained with blood. There hadn’t been any activity from this sector for weeks. We were relatively confident no Taliban were observing our ascent. Still, progress was slow. I was less frightened of snipers than vipers.
Snakes. There are eleven varieties of poisonous snakes in Afghanistan, and seven have no anti-venom. I knew the features of them all. The constant nightmares were filled with the faces of those I had killed. And snakes. Like the Sind Krait. This yellow- and black-banded monster’s bite was sixteen times more venomous than a cobra. It lived by eating other snakes and could be two meters long. Or the carpet viper. A white-bellied demon with oversized teeth on a squat body. One bite, and the brain would bleed within hours. It could hang in the limbs of bushes and drop in unexpectedly. Or the Oxus cobra, a fat gray or black fiend common to these foothills. A nibble from its fangs caused a neurotoxic reaction leading to respiratory failure and death. Too many to think about. I trudged ahead, lost in the daymare.
After a few hours of slow scrambling, we reached a rock overhang, perfect for the squad’s concealment and giving a panoramic view. I waved the Lieutenant to stop. At my side, I told him to scatter his troops close by and wait for Thorsten, Finnen, and me to make our visit. Everyone should be hidden, in case the intel was true and Taliban mortars with 25 mm shells were delivered soon. On my signal, Thorsten and Finnen followed up the slope. A half-hour later, and we were at the opening of a cave.
One of the myths about Afghanistan was that it was dotted with gigantic caves that were big enough for trucks to drive through and could conceal Bin Laden’s entourage. Not true. Most of the caverns were man-made hidey holes dug out of the limestone to protect mortars and snipers. Certainly, huge underground complexes had been discovered with a maze of rooms and corridors, able to withstand even the GBU-28 Bunker Busters and AGM-65 Maverick heat-seeking missiles. These were much higher up in the mountains. The entrance to the cave we approached was about the size of half of a normal door with rotting wooden support beams across the top and on the sides. Rocks were piled in neat stacks in front for more defenses. Nobody expected to discover a duplication of the drawings found in Bamian, northwest of Kabul. These murals were the oldest oil paintings in the world and depicted Buddha smiling in celestial scenes. We’d be lucky if we found “Kilroy was here” in Pashto inked into the walls. I motioned Thorsten to go in first, knowing there could be a nest of vipers waiting. Or a booby trap. He shrugged and followed orders, ducking his head and disappearing into the blackness.
First Washington. Now Thorsten. It would be so much simpler if we could have called in the Rangers for a chat. Or even scheduled an appointment in their barracks or at the command center. But spooks and grunts didn’t mix unless they were in the field. Both sides wanted it kept that way. Any deviation was cause for rampant rumors. If it became necessary to use extreme methods to find what we sought or to cauterize the cowboy, it would be difficult to mask on the base. Fortunately, these types of missions were rare. Most of the enlistees in Enduring Freedom were here to do their jobs and go back to The World, not play at espionage or conspiracy.
In the distance, the outline of the base shimmered in the heat waves. Above us, black vultures circled, attracted by human presence, which usually meant a meal was soon to come. Trying hard, I couldn’t find the squad of men hidden below. They were experts at melting into the rocks in the 50-degree slope. The sun wasn’t yet directly overhead, but rays bounced off the limestone, making the thin air burn when I inhaled. An early morning trip to the Company canteen was already digested, and my stomach growled for attention. Finnen was crouched behind one of the rock piles, scanning above.
“All clear,” Thorst
en said from the darkness.
I went first, Finnen backing in beside me.
After my eyes adjusted, I could see the cave was about five meters wide and three high. Finnen took off his pack and brought out a flashlight and a sixteen-volt battery-powered lantern. When he flicked on the lantern, I could pick out empty green ammunition cans stamped PROPERTY OF THE US ARMY scattered around. Dirty cloth rags and a decaying cardboard box marked SKIPPY’S PEANUT BUTTER – NOT FOR RE-SALE were in the corner of the packed dirt floor. As suspected, no paintings on the walls. There were lots of chips in the limestone, as though bullets had reached inside. The space smelled like musty shit. And piss. Before Thorsten could get cozy, I kicked him in the back of his knees. His helmet rolled off, and his H & K fell to the dirt. He slumped to his knees, and I shoved his face all the way down. By the time he was ready to scream, I had the Ka-Bar pressed against his ear and my knee pushed hard into his back.
“You knew this was gonna be the outcome, one way or the other,” I said. “I’m surprised you came along like such a good little lamb, Thorsten.” I nicked his ear with the blade, making sure it drew blood. “Oops. Negative on that. You’re so fucking dense I could have emailed you an outline of what was going to happen. You wouldn’t have understood unless I illustrated it with pictures. Not even the dumbest grunt is stupid enough to mess with the Company. You must have cheated to pass kindergarten. Or beat somebody up.”
Watching the door, Finnen was again playing sentry and listening, knowing I was the conductor.
“Can we get this over soon, mate?” Finnen said. “I’ve got a date with a case of Guinness my mum shipped over. Cut him quick. No mercy.”
From his prone position and with the dirt in his mouth, it was hard to interpret Thorsten’s exact words. They were something like, “I’ll kill you, motherfucker.” But I couldn’t tell. It was the thought that counted.
In my right hand, the Hush Puppy was pressed in Thorsten’s spine, just above his hips and below the bulletproof vest.
“I’ve got a gun in your back,” I said. “I want you to put your arms slowly behind you.”
“Do it,” Finnen said. “I’d hate to have to ventilate you with this semi-auto. They make such a loud noise.” He wasn’t even looking at us.
Thorsten did, and I bound his hands with the plastic handcuffs. I stepped away and kicked him in the ankle.
“Sit up,” I said.
This man was no hero. He hadn’t spilled his blood in an ambush to save the last man in his squad. Dunne told us this morning that one report in his file was of a female soldier beaten and left behind at an enlisted men’s club before Thorsten was shipped to Afghanistan. No charges were pressed, but others had seen Thorsten and the woman leave together, and the initials JT were freshly carved on her chest. She was too terrified to talk. Thorsten’s first name was Thomas, but his nickname was “Juice,” because he was known to shoot up steroids. He was also investigated for being one of a group of white soldiers who would go into Columbus from Fort Benning and ambush blacks, leaving them bleeding with Coca Cola bottles shoved up their asses. They were called the YCBFs, “You Can’t Beat the Feeling” gang. He was clever enough to cover his tracks. Not this time. His life depended on whether he told the truth or could deceive us. At least, I believed that’s what he was thinking.
Today, there would be no rapport established. No team building. I didn’t want to spend any additional seconds breathing the same moldy air than were needed. Thorsten was the type of soldier the Company often used. Too dumb to ask questions. But it seemed he was still stupid enough to get greedy, even if he was messing with the world’s biggest clandestine intelligence service. When we were finished, all we had to do was step out and toss one of the M67 fragmentation grenades Finnen carried into the cave and pity Thorsten’s short time on the planet.
“Just a few questions,” I said. “I’ll use small words so you understand. You know Lieutenant Washington? Just nod your head.”
He did.
“You delivered heroin with him. Nod your head again.”
He did.
“After you slaughtered all the Afghans in that hovel by calling in the Drones and we were back at the base, you said you had something you wanted my help with. You believed you could blackmail me. Were you planning something that had to do with heroin?”
He couldn’t look me in the eye, and he tried to shrink away as much as the handcuffs would let him.
“No, I was not planning anything that had to do with heroin.”
“What was it, then?”
“I was getting together a bunch a’ fellas for a surprise birthday party for one of my buddies. Thought you might be a great secret guest. I know you guys don’t get out mixin’ much.”
Before he could move his head, I slapped him with the side of the Ka-Bar’s blade. The tip still drew blood on his cheek.
“I really don’t want to waste any more time, Thorsten,” I said. “You know as well as I do that it’s up to you whether you walk out of here or they pick up the little pieces left over. There won’t be enough of you to fill my backpack.”
“How about a drink of water first?”
I shook my head. There was no intention of dancing with this cretin. I went right to the point, knowing Thorsten would know exactly what the finale was going to be.
“No. We’re gonna talk about your momma. What’s she like?”
Thorsten’s hooded eyes opened wide.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with her? Why are you askin’?”
“I thought maybe we could make a deal. You stop lying. When you tell me how many others are involved and how far your discussions have gone, I can assure you your mother won’t get a night visitor. If you tell the truth and keep your word to stay silent, I can have you rotated out tomorrow. Of course, you’ll be watched. If we even suspect you’re blabbing, she’ll be dead before you get home. Then, just before the funeral, you’ll be joining her.” I put my face close to his, staring into his eyes. “You believe every word I just said, don’t you, Thorsten? You know we’ll do it, don’t you?”
Thorsten hesitated only for a second. He nodded. I stepped back.
Whether it was fear of what spooks could and would do to his mother or just to save his steroid-stretched skin, I’ll never know. He began to talk. In minutes, he gave us the names of the others who knew and what their plan was. It all depended on getting to ride shotgun on another trip with Washington and enough advance notice to highjack the truck. They weren’t sure yet how to get the dope out of the country, but they would worry about that later and stash the treasure somewhere in the rocks for now.
When he finished ratting everyone out, I used the butt of my H & K to break his left arm. I didn’t fracture his leg because he needed both of them to get off the mountain, and I didn’t want to have to carry him. Finnen came in from sentry duty and soothed Thorsten while he shrieked, fixing a sling from one of the rags in the corner. I made sure we had all his weapons.
It took us a while to steer Thorsten down to where the other Rangers waited. He fell a few times, but I had stuffed another rag in his mouth so he couldn’t scream; loud noises echoed off the rocks.
The Rangers bought into how Thorsten had slipped exploring the cave. They didn’t have any choice, and Thorsten didn’t voice any denials. Even if they doubted a Ranger would be so careless as to stumble and break his arm, they all wanted to see their families again. Thorsten would be on a Freedom Bird back to The World tomorrow anyway. And the ones he named would be scattered to the Afghan wind.
The routine didn’t change. Dunne was again at his computer in the stuffy operations tent at the base, typing away, a cell phone always within reach. Finnen was trying to single-handedly finish Dunne’s supply of cold Bud. I was scratching new sandfly bites and sitting in the same chair. More colored pins had been added to the map of Afghanistan. We weren’t the only agents Dunne directed.
“Thorsten’s on a transport back to California as of 0600
,” Dunne said. “They put his arm in a cast, and I made sure they shot him up with Demerol to keep him comfortable. And quiet. The others are separately on their way to different fire bases spread across the rock pile.”
Dunne scratched at his lengthening beard. Sometimes, but not often, his brief meant he had to go into the field in disguise. He wanted to be ready to blend with the locals if the situation demanded.
“They had visitors during the wee hours of last night. I was told the messengers wore reflective sunglasses even in the dark. They were informed that people who cared for them knew exactly where they’d be stationed for the rest of their tours. The conversations got quite sociable, bringing up names of wives, siblings, parents, children, and mutual friends back home. It seemed the midnight callers knew a lot about loved ones and their state of health. And prognosis if anything ever came up about the lies Thorsten told them. I think they got the drift. They were assured they’d be monitored and those concerned for their safety had very long memories.”
As far as I knew, the Company had never stooped to killing or beating the families of American soldiers or operatives, no matter how renegade or evil. Not that they weren’t capable. The myth remained, and the threat was usually enough to achieve its goal of cooperation. I couldn’t say the same about associates of foreign enemies. Recently, I had been involved in Operation Family Bond. Dunne came up with the name because the real target had seven brothers. We needed information on the movement of the hadji’s Taliban cell. He wasn’t talking. Dunne had Finnen and I fetch the brothers and parade them naked in front of the shackled Taliban leader. We did a quasi-lineup, taking turns with a Taser on their balls. They were all Taliban. The prisoner didn’t do anything but recite prayers until we brought in his wife and daughter. Then, he talked. The men were all shipped to Guantanamo to enjoy the surf and sand. The Taliban cell was dismantled the next night by a series of fire bombs.