Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  “Hello?”

  “Second Lieutenant Rains?”

  How did they get his number? Oh yeah, he always had to leave a contact number.

  “Yes, I’m Rains.”

  “Corporal Reardon from HQ, Sir. I have your new assignment.”

  He smiled. They’d all told him about the army screw-ups.

  “That’s good of you, Corporal, but I already have my assignment. I’m due to report to Benning in forty-eight hours.”

  “Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir. That’s been changed.”

  “Oh, really? Where are they sending me?”

  Christ! That was quick. This could be it, the survey unit he’d wanted.

  “Afghanistan, Sir. You need to return to headquarters ASAP. You’re ordered to fly out tomorrow.”

  “No, there must be some mistake. I’m not down for combat, Corporal, it’s...”

  “You’re an infantry officer, Sir?”

  “Well, yes, I guess so.”

  “There’s no mistake, Sir. You’re taking over a platoon of infantry, Lieutenant. They’re moving up to Camp Phoenix in Kabul as soon as you join them. Your written orders will be ready for you when you report here. Thank you, Sir. Have a good trip.”

  He decided to take an ice cold shower. He needed to clear his head. Fuck! It was crazy. Rains checked his appearance in the full-length mirror. Did he look like a combat soldier, really? He was pale and thin to the point of being gaunt, fair and blonde, a legacy of his Scandinavian ancestors. His hair was short, not quite a buzz cut, combed straight back. No, he looked like an associate professor of archaeology. At that moment, he wished to Christ it were just a dream. He couldn’t even shoot straight, and he’d sure never fired a shot in anger. Damn what was he to do? He thought for a few moments. He was a second lieutenant in the United States Army. He’d follow his orders. But what would he actually DO? He hadn’t got the faintest idea.

  Chapter Two

  Operations in Iraq and Afghanistan and the war on terrorism have reduced the pace of military transformation and have revealed our lack of preparation for defensive and stability operations. This Administration has overextended our military.

  The President of the United States of America

  The Situation Room at the White House looked strange in its unaccustomed emptiness. Mathew Mann, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, glanced around at the cold, gray, bare walls and the naked electronic screens; at the solid, institutional furniture, executive quality, that would seat the horde of senior administration apparatchiks who made the decisions about who would live. And who would die. He caught his reflection in the mirrored glass wall opposite where he sat. He was looking at a trim six-footer with black hair, cut so short it was little more than a shadow on top of his head. His eyes were dark, and he liked to think of them as veiled. Especially when he played poker, or politics, which were essentially the same game. Bluff and counter bluff for high stakes. He loved his country, his job, and the Army. Some said he mixed up his priorities at times, but he was not a man who spent a great deal of time soul-searching. He knew that behind his back, he was nicknamed 'Action Mann'. It wasn't a name that caused him any difficulty. He knew he was getting old when he felt irritated that the air conditioning hadn’t been adjusted to account for the empty room, for the small group that was gathered for this meeting. He smiled at his frailty. The room was designed to cope with the raised adrenaline, perspiration, even the fear of a large number of political and military hangers-on. Even with his tunic buttoned up, he felt the cold, almost as cold as the chilly Washington. He grinned to himself; he was getting too old for this particular kind of armchair warfare. There were only two others present, the President, as elegant, fit and trim as ever; a handsome, dark Othello, who weaved the spells that changed their lives, and not always for the better. Although he knew that Barrani was a good man. The Secretary of State sat near to him. Short, trim and power dressed as usual, her fragrance even managing to overpower the aircon in this place. But this morning her usually immaculate blonde hair and perfect makeup were slightly askew, which was no surprise given the early hour. The President had a full diary, so when he wanted to discuss one of his pet concerns it had to be fitted in outside of normal working hours, like this morning, at ten minutes after six. He realized they were both staring at him, and he made an effort to stop the woolgathering. What was the question? Damn, he should have paid attention. These people were not used to asking twice.

  “Could you repeat the question, Mr. President? I’m not quite clear on what you’re looking for here.”

  President Barrani stared at him, a lawyer’s stare. “General, I said that I’m less than satisfied with our progress in Afghanistan. It seems to me that every time we attack the enemy, especially the leaders, the important targets, they fade into the mountains and just wait for us to leave. Then they start shooting again, taking back territory we’ve spilled blood to win. What are you doing about it? And what’s more to the point, where is Mullah Omar? Now that bin Laden is gone he’s the man the Taliban look to for leadership.”

  He wanted to give an honest answer, but he’d liked to do a whole lot of things, except that his hands were constrained. Tied by the politicians in Kabul, the United Nations, and here in DC.

  “We’re doing everything we can, Sir. But we do have to consider the political implications of our every action. If we get it wrong, it makes life difficult for the soldiers on the front line.”

  “That’s crap, General, and you know it!” Mrs. Chalmers leaned forward and glared at him, another lawyer’s stare. “The President asked what you’re doing. All you’ve told him is what you’re not doing. I’ll ask the same question. What are you doing about it?”

  The General sighed. Ok, if they wanted it, they’d get it. “Nothing.” He looked at both of them. “The rules we operate under prevent us from taking the kind of direct action that’s needed.”

  Barrani smiled. “At least that sounds like an honest answer, General. Now tell us, what would you do if your hands weren’t tied by the politicians?”

  General Mann nodded. So it was to be that kind of meeting; they wanted honest answers. Answers they could beat him over the head with later. It explained the lack of any staffers and the numerous assistants that were always thick on the ground at this kind of a head to head.

  “You want the absolute truth?”

  They both nodded emphatically. “Go ahead, General, tell it like it is,” the President ordered him.

  “Yes, Sir. It’s really simple. The only way to contain the enemy in Afghanistan is to cut off the head. Kill the leaders. It’s a tactic we used in Vietnam, when we were allowed to, the so-called Black-ops.”

  “General, I seem to recall we lost in Vietnam,” Mrs. Chalmers reminded him. He grimaced. Sure, it was the public perception, that the US had lost that war. But it was only half right, and also half wrong.

  “We lost the Vietnam war politically, Ma’am. Only politically! In military terms, we won every single battle. And the Black-ops operations were a success, every one of them. It was the single most effective weapon in our armory.”

  Oliver Barrani wore a thoughtful expression. “So in effect, you’re saying that we need to adopt this Black-ops method of working in Afghanistan? Send in undercover teams, Special Forces, I assume, to assassinate the leadership of the Taliban?”

  The General sighed with relief, at last, a politician who understood the military reality.

  “Exactly, Mr. President.”

  Harriet Chalmers cut across them. “Is there no other way to gain the initiative, General? Surely an undercover assassination program isn’t likely to earn us a good press.”

  Mann replied to her challenge. “You’re right, if it gets reported, but undercover means that it never finds its way into the press. As far as I know, there’s only one way to ensure a good press.”

  “And what’s that, General?” Oliver Barrani asked, sensing an opportunity for political gain.

  “It’s
obvious, Mr. President. We need to win the war. Everyone loves a winner. As for assassination, that’s just another name for fighting battles. In war, you kill people, period. The Islamists started it by killing plenty of our folks in the World Trade Center. I’m saying we should finish it. Killing the leaders is the fastest, most economical way of achieving that end.”

  Harriet Chalmers made to object, but Barrani waved her down.

  “What are the figures?”

  Mann smiled inside. That word ‘economical’ had caught his ear, as intended. He spent some time comparing the costs of a limited number of Strike Teams as opposed to Main Force Battle Groups and aircraft, including drones. Even as he spoke, the figures sounded impressive to him, and he’d written many of them himself. Eventually, the President held up his hand.

  “Enough. You’re saying we get the biggest bang for our bucks? That’s good enough for me. Draw up a plan, General. We’ll go down that route.”

  “But Mr. President, the United Nations will never…”

  The President stopped Mrs. Chalmers’ objection dead by finishing her sentence.

  “Will never know anything about it,” he grinned. He turned to Mann. “Is that clear? This is to be kept undercover. You can do that?”

  The General shook his head. “Not one hundred percent, Sir, no. Something always leaks out, but enough to make it deniable. I’ll make sure we use contractors to go in and carry out the strikes. No American troops need be involved.”

  “You mean mercenaries?” The Secretary's sneer was enough to show her feelings for that kind of soldiering.

  “I mean contractors,” he replied firmly. “We’ve been using them for a long time, and nobody has shown any objections so far. Especially when it means less of our troops being flown back in body bags.”

  Barrani nodded. “Contractors are fine by me, General. How about transport, getting these people in?”

  “We’ll use small, commercial air transport outfits. There are one or two flying around the country carrying a range of cargo and passengers. They’ll do most things if the price is right.”

  “Good, keep me informed, General.”

  The President stood up and the others followed. Harriet Chalmers looked grim, but Mann shrugged to himself. She’d just have to deal with it, and make it right with her opposite numbers in the United Nations. She was welcome to that side of things. He knew what he’d do with that bunch of whining chair polishers. It wasn’t anything pleasant. He started towards the door, to return to the Pentagon so he could pursue the real business of the American military. As he exited the room, a question surfaced in his mind, one that nagged at him on a daily basis, and one that needed to be answered if they were ever going to win this war. ‘Where is Mullah Omar?’

  * * *

  Our flight from Kandahar International Airport, Afghanistan to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, was uneventful, as it should have been. We had the two stops to refuel, but for once, there were no foul-ups; no problems with paperwork, no officials claiming that the ‘consideration’ we had to pay them to avoid any screw-ups wasn’t enough. The de Havilland Twin Otter flew well too, which was as good as we could expect given the constant shortage of money for spare parts and maintenance. The tough little high wing cargo aircraft was robust and reliable, the pride of our tiny fleet. The cockpit was Spartan but comfortable, and a huge improvement on the old C47 Dakotas that we’d flown in the early days. We even had comfortable leather seats, a heater that worked and a degree of soundproofing. And best of all, the war had been over for a long time, so they didn’t shoot at you these days when you flew over Vietnam; the way they’d shot at my grandfather when he flew numerous missions across the country. I could see Rachel smiling as I stared down at the steaming hell that was the jungles of Vietnam. What was it really like for my ancestor, fighting for the French during the Indochina War? I turned to look at her.

  “You’re wondering why I look at that awful sea of green, so I may as well tell you. My grandfather was a soldier in the French Foreign Legion, and he fought in those jungles.”

  “Really? What was his name?”

  “Jurgen Hoffman.”

  “Right. I thought you said your grandfather owned the airline. Your grandmother took over after he was killed, didn’t she?”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “But before he ran the airline, he was a soldier.”

  “How could he have been French, with a name like Jurgen Hoffman?”

  “Most Legionnaires weren’t French. They came from almost every country in the world. Still do, I believe. He was a German. In fact, before he joined the Legion, he was an officer in the Waffen-SS.”

  She looked at me sharply. “He was a colorful guy, your grandfather! Care to tell me more about him?”

  It was something I preferred to keep to myself, but it was a long flight, and I saw no reason for her not to know. She got little enough from my almost bankrupt airline. If she didn’t receive her pension from the US Air Force, she’d certainly starve. Wages were not our number one priority, so they often had to be postponed to pay the fuel bills; as well as the bills for aircraft spares, equipment and the never ending bribes that sapped the strength from all of South East Asia.

  “He came to Indochina in the French Foreign Legion, fighting as a sergeant in ‘A’ company, Second Battalion, 13th Half Brigade. At the time he was on the run, evading the hunt for Nazi SS officers that took place after the end of the Second World War. I should add that my grandfather was no war criminal. He was a Sturmbannführer in Waffen-SS Das Reich, a Panzer Infantry division. But it was enough to put him on the wanted list of the Allies after the German collapse.”

  Rachel grimaced. “That must have been pretty tough for him.”

  I nodded. “It was. My grandmother told me a number of the tales he’d passed on to her. Stories of how hard it was back then, fleeing before the victorious Russian hordes, fighting a series of desperate rearguard actions that saw more and more of his comrades slaughtered for no reason, other than Adolf Hitler’s stubborn lunacy. Like a lot of other SS troopers, he found a bolthole in the French Foreign Legion, which until 1947 didn’t ask too many questions about links to the Waffen-SS. He fought through the jungles we’re flying over right now, against the Viet Minh. They were the communists back then, before they became the Vietcong. After the French debacle at Dien Bien Phu, when the Legion pulled out, he went south to Saigon, with the French wife he’d met in North Vietnam. Her name was Helene, and she was my grandmother. He used his discharge pay from the Legion to buy a couple of worn out cargo aircraft, and they started this airline. They were looking for a peaceful life, for a time to prosper and start a family, and a chance to help to build the two newly created countries - South and North Vietnam. But Ho Chi Minh had other ideas, and there would not be any peace.”

  “And then we Americans came along.”

  “Yes, then the Americans came,” I agreed. “They exploited my grandfather ruthlessly, and he had to struggle to keep afloat while they fought their proxy war against the Russian surrogate, North Vietnam. In 1973 my grandparents moved their operations to Thailand. They could see the inevitable communist invasion of the south was about to happen. My grandfather continued flying in and out of Vietnam. In fact, my grandmother often flew as his co-pilot.”

  “She was a commercial pilot, too?” Rachel asked, surprised.

  I chuckled. “She was a pilot, that’s for sure, and a damn good one. I believe she only ever got her private pilot’s ticket, but that’s more than many of these local pilots had. The rules around here are different than in the States.”

  “Obviously. So what happened to him?”

  “He was killed during the mad scramble to escape the North Vietnamese communists when his aircraft, carrying refugees, was shot down by a North Vietnamese Mig 17. My grandmother was flying co-pilot for him that day, and she told me she held him in her arms as he lay dying in the wrecked cabin of the aircraft. Amongst the passengers on board was their daughter, Sop
hie, my future mother. When my grandmother Helene died, Sophie wasn’t interested in the business, so I inherited the airline.”

  “How about your father, what happened to him?”

  “I never met him. My mother never told me his name, but I understood he was the son of one of my grandfather’s comrades who fought with him in Vietnam.”

  “That’s strange, why did she keep it quiet?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve no idea. All I know is that she was a single parent when I was born.”

  “He went off with someone else, eh?” she said sympathetically. “That’s real tough.”

  “No, my mother told me he was killed when his aircraft was shot down by the Russians. He was flying a cargo into Afghanistan in the early days.”

  “Jesus Christ, the fucking communists again!”