Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  “It won’t be so good if the Americans leave,” I told him.

  “Have you heard anything?”

  I shook my head. “Not from MACV. But I read the papers and the political mood in the U.S. is changing rapidly. They’re looking for a way out of the war and it won’t be long before they pull out completely.”

  “So it’ll be down to the ARVN to protect us, eh?”

  He was laughing as he said it. We both knew that man for man the ARVN soldier could be as good a fighter as the next man. But too many of them were badly led by dishonest officers and generals who were unhappy about their troops suffering too many battle casualties.

  “God help us,” I replied.

  Helene looked at us sharply. “So what are we going to do, we have to make some long term plans. How long do you think we’ve got?”

  I looked at Paul.

  “Maybe five years,” he said to my wife. “Not much more.”

  “Then we have to have a plan to get out. I assume there is no possibility of working with the communists?” she replied.

  We both nearly choked. We’d seen the communists in action, in Russia and here in Vietnam since the French Indochina war.

  “None whatsoever,” I said quickly. “Forget it, if the communists come to power they’ll steal everything they can get their hands on.”

  “So we need to start moving operations out of Vietnam,” she said.

  Cam looked uncomfortable, I think she genuinely cared for Paul and was distraught at the thought of his leaving. I saw him squeeze her hand and whisper in her ear. He would take care of her I knew that. Maybe he’d take her with him, perhaps marry her, why not? She was pretty and she probably loved him, not a bad basis for a marriage.

  “Where would you suggest we move to?” I asked her.

  “Cambodia would be worth considering. It’s close to here, it would be easy to arrange and we could begin operations sooner rather than later. South East Asia is our home, it wouldn’t feel like we were being forced to leave it.”

  “What do you think?” I asked Paul.

  “It’s a good idea, it’s a peaceful place, they don’t have any serious issues with the Vietnamese, we should be able to set things up quite easily. Yes, it’s a good idea. Phnom Penh has good facilities, we could start with a small satellite operation there and share aircraft between both operational bases.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough, at least, it would expand our business into new markets and if we ever felt it would be politic to leave Vietnam we could just fly across the border.”

  I ordered a new round of drinks and we toasted to the success of our new idea. I had little doubt we could make a success of it, nor that one day we would need an alternative to Vietnam to live and run our business.

  A moped pulled up on the street outside the bar, laden with fresh pineapples temptingly displayed in a large basket fixed in front of the handlebars. A pretty, young Vietnamese girl was astride the bike, selling to the people like us enjoying a relaxed drink in the sunshine. It crossed my mind how similar the pineapple was to the enemy grenades we’d encountered during the Second World War. Whatever jarred in my mind I would never know, but something made me look at the face of the seller. She was reaching into the basket yet I hadn’t seen anyone buy one of her fruits. Her face was contorted with hate and range, it all clicked into place. Everything happened at once, she was drawing her arm back to throw, I shouted ‘grenade’, relying on Paul to do the right thing. Then I drew my pistol in one smooth motion, cocked it, took off the safety, aimed and fired.

  It was as it was in slow motion, I could see Paul throwing the girls down to the floor, under the table. The pineapple seller was thrown back into the road, still clutching the object she was about to throw. For one terrible moment, I thought I’d made a mistake and shot an innocent person. As I was tumbling to the floor, another instinct was telling me to go and take care of the girl I’d shot, to remedy a terrible error of judgement. Then just as I hit the floor there was a huge explosion as the grenade she’d been about to throw went off. Immediately, the area became total chaos, a shower of metal fragments hit the inside of the bar, wounding several of the patrons. I checked out the girls, but they all appeared uninjured. Paul started to help them up while I went to check out the terrorist. She was dead, her body blown apart by the force of the grenade. One of her arms had disappeared completely, the rest of her was battered and bloody. Sirens were sounding and the police would clearly be here any moment. I went back to my party. They were just clambering to their feet, except Helene, who was already up and attending the wounded.

  “Are the girls ok?”

  Paul nodded. “None of our people were hit, we’re fine. Cambodia sounds pretty attractive to me at this moment.”

  “I know what you mean. At least it’s peaceful, no wars going on there.”

  The police arrived and questioned us briefly, but it was a regular occurrence in this city. We’d had enough and when Helene was finished with the wounded, we made our way back to our bungalow. I served drinks on the table in the garden. I noticed that Paul was checking around the perimeter of the wall, making sure. I called him over.

  “Hey, Paul, you’re making us all nervous, come and join us.”

  A few moments later he walked over. “I think you need to look at the wall, you could do with adding some rolls of barbed wire, it’s easy for someone to climb over as it is. Maybe some security lights too, at night you’d be a sitting duck.”

  I got up. “Show me where you think the weak points are, I’ve been thinking about additional fortifications since we started moving in.”

  “Stop!” Helene shouted. We both stopped.

  “I can’t go on like this much longer, Jurgen. You men go and sort out your barbed wire or whatever, but it’s no way to live. I’ll start coming to the hangar from tomorrow while Sophie is at school. We need to plan our exit.”

  I looked at Paul. “What do you think?”

  “We’ve had a good run, we’ve been lucky, generally. But this is where the money is, Jurgen.”

  “For how long?”

  He shrugged. But I knew what he meant, we could clean up here, Cambodia could swallow us up like the minnows we were in the air freight business. We exchanged glances.

  “We’ll think about it,” I said to Helene. “But not tomorrow.”

  She gave me a furious look. Between her and the Viet Cong, life would never be boring.

  * * *

  By intervening in the Vietnamese struggle the United States was attempting to fit its global strategies into a world of hillocks and hamlets, to reduce its majestic concerns for the containment of communism and the security of the Free World to a dimension where governments rose and fell as a result of arguments between two colonels' wives.

  Frances Fitzgerald

  Clark Clifford and Earle Wheeler watched the broadcast from the office of the Chief of Staff, next door to the Oval Office. Jim Jones, the newly appointed White House Chief of Staff, although serving under the nominal title of Appointments Secretary, sat behind his desk. He was not watching the broadcast, only half listening. He had already discussed the speech in depth with the President.

  “So what do you think, Clark?” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs asked the Secretary of Defence. “We could get a Republican in the White House next time around. Will that be good for us, for our efforts in Vietnam?”

  Clark Clifford shook his head, amused at the idea that a Republican would necessarily be in favour of expanding the war in Vietnam. “General Wheeler, the one thing on the mind of the American electorate at present is how to get out of the war in South East Asia. The president that gets elected will be the one that makes that promise. You can forget any more resources, chances are we’ll be out of there in the near future.”

  “But that’s crazy, we’re finally winning the war and they talk about pulling out.”

  “The American people don’t believe we’re winning, and they’re the ones that vote, Gener
al. Besides, that ‘war is almost won’ rhetoric is wearing a bit thing, Westmoreland was spouting that line just before Tet, as I recall. People remember things like that.”

  “One second, he’s getting to it now,” said Jim Jones, who was now watching the screen. The President was still speaking.

  “I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your President. But let men everywhere know, however, that a strong, a confident, and a vigilant America stands ready tonight to seek an honourable peace, and stands ready tonight to defend an honoured cause, whatever the price, whatever the burden, whatever the sacrifice that duty may require. Thank you for listening. Good night and God bless all of you.”

  They looked at each other, it was real, it had finally happened. Their futures were now all up for grabs. Not one man expected to be in this august building by this time next year.

  “So that’s it then. You reckon the next guy will start pulling us out of there?”

  “I do,” Clifford replied. “Not totally immediately, there’ll need to be some way of saving face, they’ll have to agree some kind of a formula, a form of words, I guess, but it won’t take too long. Two or three years, would be my best guess.”

  “So it’ll be peace, General,” Jones said. “You’d better start looking for a new job.”

  “Or a new war,” Clifford quipped.

  “The only peace the American people would accept would be peace with honour,” Wheeler insisted.

  They all turned and stood up, the President had just entered the room. He nodded to them.

  “If that’s what it takes, General, that’s what we’ll do.”

  THE END

  DEVIL’S GUARD AFGHANISTAN

  By Eric Meyer

  Copyright © 2012 Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  Chapter One

  I am considering two promises. One is the promise of God, the other of Bush. The promise of God is that my land is vast…the promise of Bush is that there is no place on Earth where I can hide that he won’t find me. We shall see which promise is fulfilled.

  Mullah Omar

  The man looked at the assembled group, watching carefully as they returned his gaze. He was tall, at least six-three, and lean, yet he was different from them for other reasons. Not because of the patch he sometimes used to cover his one useless eye. Not for his black robes and black and gray patterned turban, which were little different from the clothes of his companions. Not for his beard streaked with gray, which was no longer than the other beards in this room. It was for the power that emanated from him, from his gaze, and the way he held himself; the awesome mental strength that seemed to flow from him to inspire and command those he led. Until the Americans came, he was Head of the Supreme Council of Afghanistan. Now, he had even more power, the power to change political shape of the entire world.

  “I am ill.”

  Three words, yet they sent a ripple of fear into the assembly. He held up his hand.

  “No, I am not about to die, but I will have to travel to a location where I can receive treatment. It is essential that I regain the strength to continue the fight to drive out the infidels. I need a band of fedayeen, men I can trust to be my personal bodyguard. I will ask for volunteers when this meeting is over.”

  He knew there would be no shortage of volunteers for his proposed band of fanatics, the fedayeen, who would guard him with their lives. It would give them, and their families, everlasting prestige if they lived and an assurance of immortality if they did not.

  “Next, our intelligence about the American intentions has dried up. We have lost so many men over the past few months that we are fighting blind.”

  Commander Abdul Qadir held up his hand. He was in his early forties, bearded and sinewy, like the men he led. His sunbaked face was lined and cruel.

  “We have a man who expects to be appointed to the traitor Barzai’s personal staff very soon. As soon as he is in place, our information will flow once more.”

  Omar nodded. “That is good, Commander Qadir. As soon as you have anything, let me know straight away. In the meantime, I want you to make certain that the areas we control between Jalalabad and the Khyber Pass are kept clear of the infidels. It is important you do not fail. If any NATO patrols are sent into the area, you know what to do.”

  “You are going to Pakistan again?”

  Omar stared at him. “Perhaps, perhaps not. I will keep you informed. Let me know about the informant in the palace, and enlarge your operations in that area. That is all.”

  He got up, stiffly. All of them remarked how tired he looked. Some were terrified; they could not lose this man, the man who was hunted by every resource the foreign infidels could employ. He was Afghanistan, and they had vowed to protect him to the last breath in their bodies. They laughed aloud when they heard the question translated into Pashto, the question that was uppermost in American minds. For the infidels would never learn the answer to the problem that vexed them more than any other.

  “Where is Mullah Omar?”

  * * *

  “How are things going, Max?” she asked me.

  I smiled at Avizeh, the pretty young woman who ran our shoestring operation in Kandahar. She wore a clean, white dress that accentuated the olive tint of her skin. Her hair hung loose under the obligatory headscarf, and unusually for the local women, she wore gold hoops in her ears.

  “Going? They’re fine, everything’s good.”

  She kept the skeptical look on her face. I sighed. “Ok, it’s not so good, but I’m hoping things will pick up.”

  “Hah!” she grimaced. “If I lose this job, I don’t know what I will do.”

  “You won’t lose it, we’re fine.”

  “Fine! Do you think I haven’t seen the overdue bills, Max? We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  I nodded. “Yes, we’re not so good. Rachel hasn’t been paid in weeks, and we’re struggling to find the money for the aviation gas.”

  “I hope we keep the airline afloat. If I have to look for another job, it will be difficult.”

  “For you? Surely not!” Avizeh was fluent in English, Pashtu, Dari and Thai. She was also very efficient; anyone would be glad to hire her, and not just for her looks.

  “You know what they call me in town? A dog washer.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s a dog washer?”

  “You know that Muslims regard keeping dogs in the house as unclean?”

  I nodded.

  “They say that those Afghans like me, who work for a Westerner, are put to work washing dogs, menial and unclean work. It is a great insult.”

  “I’m sure it is. I’m sorry, Avizeh. I promise you I’ll do my best to keep things going.”

  Rachel, my co-pilot, came into the hangar. A former Air Force pilot, she’d been dumped after an accident left her grounded with only one eye and a permanent limp. To compensate for any shortcomings, the feisty brunette, short and barely five feet tall, possessed a dark beauty both on the inside and the outside that could light up a room. I wondered daily which particular god had been smiling on me the day I managed to recruit her for Helene Air.

  “We’re all ready to go, Max. I’m not sure about the refueling. We’ll need two stops, I’d guess.”

  I grimaced. “Let’s hope the budget can squeeze it. It’s a long haul to Vietnam. Did you find out about the cargo? I’d be more comfortable if I knew what we were carrying in the hold.”

  “Not a chance, I’m sorry. The crates are secure, but I’d guess we already know what’s inside.”

  Yes, we had a good idea. Drugs, in the form of raw opium. It was both the scourge and the salvation of Afghanistan, a deadly dichotomy of wealth for the people who ran the rackets, and a slow agonizing death for the consumers. After 911, a politician stated that Afghanistan exported more than five hundred tons of opium each year. The invasion would be justified if meant stopping that ‘evil’ trade. They’d reported that eleven ye
ars later, exports were running at over eight thousand tons a year. We refused to carry drugs but were adult enough to know that some cargoes would be bales of opium sealed inside wooden crates, and we couldn’t check every one.

  “Let’s hope the Vietnamese customs officials have been paid off,” I added grimly.

  She smiled. “You know it’ll be fine. It’s what keeps this part of the world spinning.”

  “You mean drugs or pay-offs?”

  “Both. Around here, it’s one and the same.”

  She stopped speaking as a pair of fighters flew off the airfield in a roll of kerosene-fueled thunder, NATO Tornado ground attack aircraft. We hardly took any notice these days, just waited until the noise abated and then carried on speaking. Kandahar served NATO and the ISAF forces as a military airfield, as well as a civilian airport for Southern Afghanistan.

  “Do you fancy a drink before we leave? It could be a long time before we get the chance.”

  I could see her considering it, the Air Force fighter jock that she’d been struggling with the co-pilot for a backwater airline that she’d become. The Air Force lost.

  “I’d love one,” she smiled.

  “Can we take your car? My SUV is out of action again. I’m waiting for a new gearbox.”

  “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

  We walked outside, or rather, I walked and Rachel limped, but it was very slight. She didn’t need two good legs because there was no doubt in his mind that her beauty would attract admirers wherever she went, limp or no limp.

  We drove slowly through the streets of downtown Kandahar. I still found it strange, where almost everyone seemed to carry a weapon. Foreigner-filled SUVs jostled for position with ancient timber carts pulled by donkeys and sometimes Afghans. We found our way to our usual haunt, the Millennium bar. Some people argued it was named after the Millennium Falcon, Han Solo’s ship from Star Wars. I was certain it was a throwback to the year two thousand, and the name was no more exciting than that; like the rest of Afghanistan, a stale reminder of a stale past. We ordered drinks and a meal. It wouldn’t do to fly on an empty stomach.