The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  Afghanistan

  Carrie O’Connor peered from behind her binoculars through the windshield, then she leaned forward in her seat. She glanced at the driver, Paryan, a full-bearded man with close-cropped hair dressed in brown salwar kameez and a long black jacket. He had pointed out to her a sun-soaked ridge to his left on the other side of the Kunduz River, informing her of a potential Taliban position. “Paryan, I don’t see anything.”

  “Maybe they’ve cleared out of this area,” said Fazlullah from the back seat.

  Paryan shook his head. He looked at Carrie, then gestured over her shoulders. “Most likely they moved to new, better positions.”

  She looked in that direction. A tall ridge, similar to the one on the left, stretched for a mile. A cluster of cinderblock shacks lay at the bottom. Carrie studied the ridge and found similar shacks at two other locations, about halfway up the ridge. She judged the distance from the road to those locations to be about a mile and a half.

  Fazlullah said, “There hasn’t been a Taliban attack in over a week, since the assault against the police station in Kunduz City. They’re losing ground and are in retreat.”

  Paryan shook his head again. “I wouldn’t be so sure. These so-called ‘retreats’ happen every year—well, more than that. The truth is that Taliban never die.”

  Carrie looked at Paryan, her guide in this mission and a trusted contact. Who’s right? Probably both. Fazlullah is the voice of youth and hope. Paryan brings the pessimistic view of experience. He had been working as an asset for the Canadian Intelligence Service over the last ten years. Paryan had provided more than actionable intelligence. He routinely guided or escorted CIS teams to their destinations and was often involved in fierce firefights against the Taliban, ISIS, or tribal warlords. Ever since Paryan had saved the lives of two wounded Canadian Army soldiers who had been separated from their platoon, he had become almost irreplaceable.

  Carrie was not sure about Fazlullah. The twenty-three-year-old man had been introduced to the CIS Kabul Station by Paryan, who had described the young man as brave, smart, and above all, well-connected among the northern Afghanistan tribes. He was the son of a powerful and well-respected tribal leader, a relationship that came in very handy to Canadian covert operatives travelling in these deadly deserts. But Carrie did not fully trust Fazlullah. She had not seen him in action and had only met him yesterday in Kabul when planning this insertion. While Paryan was privy to most details of Carrie’s operation, all Fazlullah knew was that the foreign operative needed a safe passage to Kunduz City.

  Paryan turned the steering wheel gently, and the battered-looking grayish Toyota SUV followed the road twisting alongside the meandering of the Kunduz River.

  Fazlullah shifted in his seat. “There was a time when we lived without the Taliban plague. That time will come again.”

  Paryan shrugged. “Maybe, but not while we draw breath.”

  Carrie thought about jumping in with her two cents, but decided against it. She listened for a couple of minutes as Paryan and Fazlullah debated the merits of different tactics and strategies on how to eradicate the Taliban plague from the land. Then she shrugged and closed her eyes, resting them and her mind for a moment. She thought about the last time she had been in this area. It was in June nine years ago. Carrie was on her second tour of duty in the country, before she had signed with the CIS. She was a part of the Joint Task Force Two, the elite counter-terrorism unit of the Special Operation Forces. As one of their best snipers, she was assigned to operations to eliminate warlords or Taliban commanders.

  That fateful day, she was travelling in the lead Humvee in a four-vehicle convoy, when they had come under attack by a horde of Taliban. The enemy had engaged the small Canadian force with heavy machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades. Although outnumbered, Carrie and her teammates had withstood the Taliban, then pushed them back to the hills. The Canadians had suffered only two casualties, while the enemy had left more than twenty dead bodies on the battleground.

  Carrie drew in a deep breath and glanced through the window. She peered again through the binoculars, trying to stifle an eerie feeling that had begun to simmer in her stomach. Is it my gloomy memories? Or are there Taliban hiding among those hills? This area had seen some violent fighting about a month ago between the Afghan National Army and ISIS fighters. Carrie cursed the recent developments. ISIS had spread its tentacles and was fighting the Taliban to control many areas that had always been the latter’s strongholds. While Carrie did not mind the two monsters tearing at each other’s throat, she worried about the aftermath, when the winner would turn its sights against the Afghan government and its international allies, including Canadian forces still serving in the country.

  She sighed and glanced through the bulletproof windshield. The SUV gave the appearance of a rundown vehicle to anyone who bothered to give the clunker a casual glance. But the doors and the engine compartment were reinforced to withstand even assault rifle fire of 7.62 mm caliber, like the notorious Kalashnikov assault rifle in the hands of almost every fighter in Afghanistan. The windows and the windshield had a few cracks, but they would also survive at least the first wave of a small arms attack. And the run-flat tires would allow the SUV to make a quick escape. The vehicle was not the perfect means of insertion into enemy territory, but Carrie was willing to sacrifice a certain amount of security for stealth. Humvee convoys were definitely safer, but those bulky vehicles were bullet magnets.

  “Hey, Carrie, what are you thinking about?” Paryan asked.

  His voice brought her back from her thoughts. “Oh, just wondering what’s behind those hills.”

  “It’s the Taliban,” Paryan said.

  Fazlullah opened his mouth, probably to object to Paryan’s assertion, but Carrie held up her hand. “What’s that?” She pointed at a dark object on the side of the road, just where the crackled layer of asphalt met the coarse tan desert.

  Paryan slowed down. The object was still about fifty yards away. He studied it, then said, “Dead dog with an IED inside.” He cursed the Taliban, then expanded his string of expletives to include ISIS and its collaborators.

  Carrie pulled out her binoculars and examined the carcass. Paryan was right. The tip of a yellowish jug appeared near the poor creature’s half-rotten muzzle. The jug was probably filled with the explosive mixture. Potassium chlorate powder and fuel, Carrie thought. The trip wire was not immediately visible. She zoomed in and scanned along the dog’s body and the side of the road. Nothing. Maybe it’s pressure-triggered. “I don’t see a wire.”

  Paryan stopped the Toyota. “Pressure plates. You drive near it and boom.” He cursed the Taliban again.

  “I thought the tire needed to be over the plates.” Carrie frowned.

  “Those are older tactics,” Fazlullah said in a somber tone. “Paryan is right. If we drive next to it, it would blow up.”

  Carrie shook her head. And I thought that nothing had changed since the last time I came to this madhouse. “Well, let’s drive on the other side, as far away from it as possible.”

  “It will not work. Taliban dogs sometime put another bomb on the other side, luring you toward that one,” Paryan said.

  “We’ll have to dismantle it,” Fazlullah said.

  Carrie glanced at him. “You have the training and the tools?”

  Fazlullah grinned. “I have both.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I was born and grew up in war. When you were learning how to read, I was learning how to fire an AK and prepare a bomb.”

  Carrie cursed under her breath. She did not like the situation, but she was not about to cause Fazlullah to lose face by ordering him to stand down. He was dead set on his mission and had already opened the back door.

  She stepped outside and walked toward the rear of the SUV, followed by Paryan. Fazlullah had started to rummage in the trunk. “Do you have a protective suit?”

  Fazlullah shook his head.

  “Kevlar vest? A mask?�
��

  “No.”

  Carrie cocked her head toward Paryan. “Then what does he have?”

  “Courage and experience,” Fazlullah said. “And I’ve got this.”

  He pulled out a couple of plastic pipes, each about seven feet long. He screwed them together, then produced a large metal hook from a box behind the spare tire. He fastened it at the end of the tool, then proudly showed it to Carrie. “This will do the job.”

  “You’re crazy. I can’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I understand you’re worried,” Fazlullah said. “But I know what I’m doing. I’ve done this so many times, I can dismantle that bomb with my eyes closed.”

  Carrie shook her head. “What do you think?” she asked Paryan.

  “I think we should stay far away from him.” He grinned.

  Carrie shook her head again. She looked at Fazlullah, who gave her a firm, reassuring nod. “All right, if you want it that way,” she said slowly in an uncertain voice.

  “Yes, we’ll get this over and done with in five minutes and be on our way,” Fazlullah said.

  He took the long pipe with the hook and headed toward the bomb. He took a few steps, then turned and shouted, “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need it,” Paryan shouted back. He stepped closer to Carrie, who was standing near the hood of the Toyota and whispered, “What you need is a brain.”

  “Do you think he’ll make it?”

  Paryan nodded. “Yeah, he will.”

  “Have you seen him do this?”

  “No. But it’s not that difficult. The army uses it routinely. Villagers too, when they don’t want to wait a few hours or days for the army.”

  Carrie shook her head and glanced at Fazlullah. He was now about twenty yards away from the bomb. He slowed down his pace, walking on the other side of the road, then dropped to his knees and lay on his stomach. He began to crawl toward the bomb and covered a few yards. Then he reached for the pipe and pointed it toward the dog’s carcass. He moved it gently toward the edge of the carcass, then began to pull ever so carefully and softly with the metal hook.

  Carrie bit her lip. “He’s gonna blow it up.”

  “Stay back, behind the door,” Paryan said and stepped back.

  Fazlullah continued to poke and prod at the carcass. He rose on his elbows for a better look, then shook his head. He dropped back onto his stomach and moved another couple of yards closer to the bomb.

  Carrie cursed under her breath, then clenched her teeth. “We should call this off.”

  “Too late,” Paryan said. “He’s halfway done.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Look.”

  Carrie returned her eyes to Fazlullah. The metal hook seemed to have caught onto something. He was pulling slowly and gently, but to Carrie, it seemed he was pulling too hard. The pressure plates of the bomb were quite sensitive to tension.

  Fazlullah dragged the pipe toward him along with a small yellow plastic jerry can. It seemed he had been able to detach it from the rest of the mechanism. Two pieces of wood were exposed near the edge of the road—the pressure plates along with their metal bits and a wire.

  “See, he did it,” Paryan said.

  Carrie heaved a sigh of relief. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, a bullet kicked up dirt inches away from Fazlullah’s head. “Incoming fire,” she shouted and fell behind the SUV’s door.

  Paryan had seen it too. He turned his head to the right, in the direction of the shooter.

  Another bullet slammed against the hood of the Toyota.

  “There.” Carrie pointed at a spot about four hundred yards near the bottom of the hill. “Eleven o’clock.”

  She dropped to her knee and double-tapped her C8SFW assault rifle. Then she let off a quick burst. Bullets stitched up the area in front of the shooter and lifted a veil of dust. She was not sure if the shooter was hit, but there was no return fire.

  Muzzle flashes erupted from a second location, about twelve feet to the shooter’s right. Those bullets danced a few feet away from the SUV.

  “Second shooter. Ten o’clock,” Carrie shouted.

  “Got it,” Paryan replied.

  He fired a long volley from his American-issued M-16 rifle.

  Carrie also pounded the area with quick bursts.

  She peered through the dust curtain, but it was impossible to tell if they had hit the target. Still, no one shot back at them.

  “Anyone else?” Paryan shouted.

  “Negative.”

  Carrie scanned the foothills. No muzzle flashes. No rounds striking the asphalt or thumping against the Toyota. And no movements of any gunmen in or around the shooters’ locations.

  She stood up and quickly moved to the other side of the Toyota, away from the enemy’s line of sight. Her eyes fell on Fazlullah, who was lying on the other side of the road. “Fazlullah, you okay?”

  The young man shook his head. “No . . . I’m . . . a bullet shattered my bone.” He gestured at his right leg.

  That’s pretty specific, Carrie thought. Then she considered the excruciating pain Fazlullah must be suffering. He was still lying in the open. He would have tried to get back to safety, if he could.

  “Paryan, cover me,” Carrie shouted.

  “What? Where are you going?” He turned his head.

  Carrie pointed at Fazlullah. “Cover.”

  Paryan blasted with his assault rifle.

  Carrie bolted toward Fazlullah. No bullets whizzed over her head or struck near her feet. She crouched near Fazlullah, then said, “I’m pulling you to the Toyota.”

  “I can’t walk, I—”

  “No worries, I’ve got you.”

  She pulled him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry, careful not to reinjure his wounded leg. Her knees almost buckled under Fazlullah’s weight. She grunted, then began her walk toward the Toyota.

  Carrie had taken only four steps when a powerful explosion rocked the area. A spray of debris spouted out about ten feet away from the road. A thin cloud of smoke began to blanket the area.

  Taking advantage of the unexpected cover, Carrie hurried her pace. Fazlullah groaned and grew heavier with every step she took. Carrie drew in a deep breath and redoubled her efforts. A few more yards and you’re there.

  Paryan fired his rifle again, then shouted something at Carrie that she did not understand. He seemed to be gesturing to her to move to the side and further away from the road. What . . . what’s going on?

  She veered off as Paryan turned his rifle in her direction and fired a long barrage. Carrie turned slightly and saw two gunmen’s bodies stretched out on the road, perhaps two hundred yards away. They’re trying to surround us. She cursed the Taliban and dashed toward the Toyota, her combat boots crunching on the sand.

  When she was about six yards away from Paryan, another explosion tore through the road maybe fifty yards behind the Toyota. A hail of debris fell over that area, too far away to cause any damage to the vehicle.

  Carrie clenched her teeth. The Taliban were raining mortar shells on them. While mortar fire was very inaccurate, there was still a chance one of those shells could land on or very close to the Toyota.

  Almost out of breath, Carrie made it to Paryan. He opened the back doors, and Carrie placed Fazlullah in the backseat. “Take care of him,” she ordered Paryan. “There’s an aid kit in my rucksack in the trunk.”

  “Got it.”

  Carrie observed the hillside, straining her eyes. She thought she saw a small swirl of smoke rise up near one of the shacks, but she could not be sure. Even if that was the mortar’s location, it was beyond the effective range of her C8SFW rifle. It would be another matter if I had my CheyTac M200 with me.

  She turned her head toward Paryan working on the wounded member of their team, then she marched toward the driver’s seat. “Getting us out of this trap.” She slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Watch out for other IEDs. The Taliban like to place them t
ogether,” Paryan said.

  Fazlullah moaned and cursed the Taliban.

  Carrie glanced at the hillside, then closed the doors and hit the gas. The Toyota jerked forward. She steered away from the IED’s location, keeping her eyes peeled for other improvised explosive devices.

  When Carrie reached the gunmen, she gave them a casual glance. They were not moving, so even if they were not dead, they presented no threat. She drove away from them, staying in the middle of the road, her eyes scanning the sides for any sign of another IED.

  Carrie followed the bend in the road, then a few bullets pounded the right side of the Toyota. A gunman was firing from atop a small dirt mound. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Paryan was still patching up Fazlullah. We’ll just have to go through this.

  More bullets clobbered the door. A couple struck the glass, causing a spider web to stretch across the surface.

  Carrie winced. The glass is going to withstand those rounds. I hope they don’t have large-cal snipers.

  She glanced to the left, then to the right, her eyes taking in every little detail of the shoulders along the road. As the Toyota came to another bend, a gigantic fiery explosion ripped through the left shoulder, only a dozen or so yards away.

  Carrie slammed on the brakes as shrapnel and debris battered the Toyota. The entire windshield cracked, and she thought it was going to cave in. She rolled down the window and stuck her head out, so she could see where they were going. Driving by the thinning dust cloud of the explosion, she wondered if the mortar round had stuck near the IED, causing a double eruption.

  She cursed the Taliban again, and stepped on the gas. I’m not going to die on this road.

  No more bullets hammered the vehicle, and there were no explosions for a few moments. “How’s he doing?” Carrie asked Paryan.

  “He has lost a lot of blood, but he won’t die. I know a doctor in Kunduz. He’ll save his life.”

  “And his leg?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure.”

  Fazlullah said, “This . . . this can’t . . . How did this happen?”

  “Yeah. They knew we were coming?” Carrie asked.

  Paryan shook his head. “I don’t think so. They were probably lying in wait for someone else.”