Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  “Handy gadgets, the satphones. Everything ok back here?”

  “Sure, I’m good. How long before we reach Peshawar?”

  “We’re on course, Mr. Walker, but it’ll be a few hours yet.”

  “Good, good. They’re waiting for me on the tarmac. As soon as I land, they’ll transfer the cargo, and I can get on my way to Kabul.”

  “Nice place.”

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Walker, what kind of cargo would you carry from Vietnam to Peshawar? It’s got me beat.”

  He eyed me for a few moments. I thought I saw a little curl to his lips, a small sneer. He saw me as little more than a chauffeur, a guy to drive his aircraft and carry his bags.

  “You saw me pay off that customs guy back in Tan Son Nhat?” he replied at last.

  I nodded. “I saw.”

  “Right. It’s that kind of a cargo.”

  I went back to the cockpit. If he wanted to be Mr. Mysterious, that was up to him. He was beginning to irritate me, anyway. Maybe he thought he was James Bond. That was fine by me, as long as he paid up promptly and kept out of my hair. We landed twice to refuel, and then we took off on the final leg to Peshawar. I contacted Air Traffic Control, and Rachel settled into final approach. I let her take the de Havilland in; she just loved to fly, flying anything and everything. I was convinced she’d pay me to let her work for the airline if I insisted. In fact she almost did. We landed on the long runway and taxied to the commercial hangars. The cockpit door opened, and Walker came through into the cockpit.

  “You’re looking for a Cessna Caravan. It should be parked behind the main cargo hangars. If you’d taxi over there, we can make the transfer.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Rachel, can you take it?”

  She nodded. “Sure, I’m on it. I can’t see a Cessna yet.” She stared out of the windshield. “Wait, yeah, it’s over there. Ok, I’ll get as near as I can.”

  I was surprised that Walker was using such a small aircraft, but it was his choice. We came up to it. There were half a dozen armed men lounging on the ground nearby. When we stopped, and I opened the cargo door, they were waiting and climbed up to start unloading the crates, carrying them across to the Cessna. It was the larger version, the Grand Caravan, and I noted the thick, balloon tires and toughened suspension legs. So that’s why they were using her, it was the perfect aircraft for Special Forces or mercenary operations. She would land on rough ground and only needed a crew of one, the pilot. The Caravan would take a cargo of soldiers and equipment virtually anywhere, including the rough strips in the interior of Afghanistan. I wondered what Walker was up to, what kind of horrors he was planning to visit on the folk of that beleaguered country. It was always the civilians who suffered, especially when these Ivy League ‘Masters of War’ set out to make their mark on the battlefield. They would consider any innocent village in Afghanistan to be their personal battlefield, and they’d stop at nothing to forge their reputation before returning to Langley for a high-level management position. These people had virtually invented the phrase ‘collateral damage’ all on their own.

  Walker glanced at me. “What do you think of her? I’m told the Cessna’s a good aircraft, but we only just acquired it, so I guess we’ll have to see.”

  I nodded. “I’ve seen them around. They’re ideal for rough field landings with those big tires fitted. You’ve got auxiliary tanks?”

  He shrugged. “Search me. I’ve got a driver to take care of those things.”

  Yes, he would have. I was surprised he didn’t use the word ‘chauffeur’. I gave him a polite nod and started back to take care of the Twin Otter. They finished the unloading, and Rachel taxied over to our hangar we used in Peshawar, which was our secondary base of operations. I was glad we wouldn’t be ferrying Walker into Afghanistan for some murky operation. Helene Air may be struggling to keep afloat, but we refused to carry drug shipments, weapons or mercenaries, at least, knowingly. I was well aware that some of the cargos we carried would probably be considered illicit, but I couldn’t police our customers if they hid their true intentions. It kept our hands clean, and nobody died as a result of the way we earned our living, or failed to earn a living, anyway. Two men came across the tarmac and intercepted me as I was walking back to our aircraft. They both wore suits, shirts and ties, and shoes that were at least half clean. I knew at once it couldn’t be anything good, not when someone dressed in a suit, collar and tie approached you in Peshawar.

  “Mr. Hoffman? Max Hoffman?”

  “Yes, I’m Hoffman.”

  “We are from the bank’s head office in Kabul. We heard you were landing here and came out to meet you. This is for you.”

  They handed me a document. I opened it and read the writing, in Pashto and English. I couldn’t understand the legalese at first.

  “What is it, what does this mean?”

  One of them gave me a polite smile. “It is a notice of bankruptcy, Mr. Hoffman. Your business is in liquidation. The bank will sell the assets and notify you if there is any surplus money due to you. I’m sorry, but from what I’ve seen, I doubt you even have enough to cover your debts.”

  I felt as if he’d punched me in the stomach. “But, I have contracts. How can I go on flying?”

  His smile left him, and his expression now was hard. “Oh, you won’t be doing any more flying. You’re finished. The business no longer belongs to you. Please, do not go near the aircraft, any of them. They are no longer your property. You may remove your personal effects from your offices, but it must be done right away. The liquidators will be here at any moment. Good day, Mr. Hoffman.”

  I walked back to our hangar. Each step felt like lead. I was walking through a thick soup, so that my legs moved only with difficulty, every step slow and forced. Rachel saw me approach and came up to me.

  “What’s up, Max? Are you ill?”

  “The airline, we’re finished. It’s gone.”

  “What? What the hell do you mean? How can we be finished?”

  “The bank, they’ve seized it to pay off the debts. It’s bankrupt, and we’re not even allowed near the aircraft. We have to get our possessions and that’s it, the end.”

  “Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it. The bastards, how could they do that?”

  I didn’t answer her at first. I felt the same way, yet of course they could do it. The banks owned our souls these days, and they could do anything they wanted. I looked around at the hangar, the Twin Otter, our pride and joy, then back at Rachel.

  “I think we should sort out our possessions. The liquidators are due any moment.”

  “What do we do then, Max?”

  “I don’t know. Look for a job, I guess.”

  I noticed Ed Walker looking across at me. He’d seen the two suits hand me the document. He must have seen my expression, so he knew exactly what was going on. Damn him, of all people, I wished he hadn’t just witnessed my downfall. He nodded politely enough, then walked to the Cessna Caravan and climbed aboard. The engine was already ticking over, and it slowly taxied out to the main runway to wait for clearance to take-off. I had a battered Jeep Wrangler parked near to our hangar. It seemed crazy to keep a facility in Peshawar when we had a hangar in Kandahar, but the bureaucracies of both Afghanistan and Pakistan meant that it actually cost less than the need for separate paperwork when we flew between the two countries. I offered Rachel a lift into town, and she accepted. When we were driving towards Peshawar town center, I asked her where she wanted to be taken. She looked into my eyes.

  “I want to find a bar, Max. Then I want to get drunk. You gonna join me?”

  “Sure. I’ve nothing else to do. Let’s go.”

  But two hours later, and after almost an entire bottle of Bourbon, it still didn’t feel any better.

  * * *

  Dwight Rains slapped the dust from his uniform. If anyone ever asked him about his first impression of Afghanistan, what it was like, that one word was what he’d use by
way of a reply. Dust. It got everywhere, covered everything, and it was like a living, breathing organism. He stepped into the brigade office and saluted the officer who sat behind the desk. Major Evan Fairchild glanced up, and Rains noticed the chest full of medal ribbons. He wondered what this man had done to deserve them. No doubt he’d find out soon enough.

  “Second Lieutenant Rains, Sir, I’m reporting in for assignment as per instructions.”

  Fairchild flipped a casual acknowledgement. “What’s your strength, Rains?”

  “Thirty-two men, including the platoon sergeant, Sir.”

  “Where are the rest of them?”

  “That’s all I came out with, Sir. The platoon is under strength at present.”

  “I see. I was told they were sending forty men in four squads. You’ll have to make do, but if you take any casualties, it could cause you problems. Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Your men are settling into their quarters?”

  “They are, Sir, yes.”

  “That’s a pity. As soon as they’re ready, I want a convoy escort. We’re sending some heavy equipment out to Kandahar, and you’ll be taking care of them. You’re up to scratch on the Strykers?”

  Rains nodded. The IAV Stryker was an eight-wheeled armored fighting vehicle, produced by General Dynamics Land Systems, and in use by the United States Army. The vehicle was named for two American servicemen, both named Stryker, who posthumously received the Medal of Honor during both World War Two and the Vietnam War. They were becoming essential in the strange kind of war fought in Afghanistan. The hull was constructed from high-hardness steel that offered good protection against heavy incoming fire, especially from the front. In addition to this, Strykers were also equipped with bolt-on ceramic armor that offered further protection from IEDs, Improvised Explosive Devices, and incoming artillery and rockets. Best of all was the remote operation of the turret guns from inside the vehicle. For soldiers who wanted to survive the constant threat from insurgents, the Stryker was without peer in the day-to-day threats ISAF soldiers faced.

  “That’s good news, Rains. You wouldn’t survive for very long here in the old M113s. They’re worse than useless against the kind of hardware the Taliban use against us.”

  “I thought they’d got rid of them, the M113s. They’re Vietnam era museum pieces,” Rains exclaimed, then almost bit off his tongue. This veteran combat soldier didn’t need telling about his own equipment, but he just nodded.

  “They’re not ideal, you’re right, but against small arms fire they’re ok. We just use them for local transport, and they’re good against snipers. Out in the countryside, they’re deathtraps, though, so we never use them outside the city. What do you think of your new home, Phoenix Base?”

  He was smiling as he asked the question. It was a shithole, but it wasn’t for the new second lieutenant to criticize. Camp Phoenix was an installation located in the capital, Kabul, about six miles from the Kabul International Airport. It was a mess of concrete fortifications, barbed wire and inside, the various buildings that housed the US soldiers. Maybe not the most miserable place on this earth, Rains reflected, but it would certainly be up there with the leaders. And the people! As he’d driven through the teeming streets, he’d been surprised at the angry glances the locals darted at him, at his American military vehicle. He hadn’t expected much, but not the outward shows of hatred for all things American.

  “It’s interesting.”

  “It is that. Make sure your men attend to their security,” Major Fairchild continued. “Last year three suicide bombers were killed by the base defenders during an attack on the camp. Two self-detonated, causing little damage, and we killed the third one, but it could happen at any time.”

  “I’ll tell the men to keep alert, Sir.”

  “Right. As soon as they’re settled, report to the armor park, and I’ll make sure your Strykers are ready for you. You’ll need to take three, and that’s eleven men per vehicle, which is about par for the course. The convoy you’re escorting is Afghan National Army regulars, and they’re driving ten trucks with equipment that’s needed yesterday in Kandahar. Any questions?”

  “What time do we leave, Sir?”

  “I assume this is your first operational assignment?”

  “Yes, Sir,” he replied, feeling like he was standing in front of his headmaster.

  “As fast as you can get it together, Lieutenant. It’s two hundred miles. If you leave right way, you’ll be there before dark. Don’t leave it any later, the Taliban eat up convoys that travel at night.”

  “I’ll get the men moving, Sir.”

  “That’s what I would do if I were you, Rains. And watch out for the civilians, that means don’t go running any jingle trucks off the road.”

  “Jingle trucks, Sir?”

  “The Major nodded. “You’ll see plenty of them around. They’re painted up like it’s Halloween, weird colors, like sixties pop-art. Some of ‘em have bells festooned over the bodywork, and they jingle like crazy. Jingle trucks, they call ‘em.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good luck.”

  They exchanged salutes. Rains left the building, back out into the camp, and back out into a whirlwind of dust, noise, troops racing back and forth; and the heavy tension in the air that was almost thick enough to bear a load.

  Chapter Three

  We have gone forth from our shores repeatedly over the last hundred years and we've done this as recently as the last year in Afghanistan and put wonderful young men and women at risk, many of whom have lost their lives, and we have asked for nothing except enough ground to bury them in.

  Colin Powell

  “These figures do you no credit, General,” President Hamid Barzai snapped. “You were given this post on the understanding you would deal with these rebels. Yet every day brings some new outrage. People are afraid to walk outside their homes, even close to the Presidential Palace. Why have you failed?”

  Lt. Gen. Mohammed Kadim was short, in his late forties and built like a wrestler, bald, with hard muscles and an erect stance. A career soldier, he was of the same tribe as his President, who made him the Army Chief of Staff, the man charged with beating the Taliban scourge in the country of Afghanistan. He met his President’s eyes and then looked away. He could see that Barzai was boiling with rage. It was not the time to argue facts and figures with his fellow Pashtun. The President wanted results. Results that Kadim didn’t have.

  “Sir, we are making good progress against the rebels, yet they are so numerous. I need more resources. Resources that I am constantly denied.” He glanced at Abdul Rahim Wardak, the thin, elegantly dressed soldier turned politician. He wanted President Barzai to be in no doubt about where to place the blame. Barzai gazed at the Minister of Defense. “Well?”

  “General Kadim had twenty-eight percent more troops on his strength than he had this time last year, but it seems to make little difference. Sometimes I wonder where all of these extra troops are. They seem to be ghosts.”

  It was a lethal shot at the General. There was a long tradition of claiming pay for non-existent soldiers in the Afghan Army. Kadim reacted angrily.

  “Every single soldier on my strength can be accounted for, Sir. They are not ghosts, and the blood they shed in this war is very real.”

  Barzai grunted. “We shall see. Perhaps it is time I ordered an inspection of your troops to find out what they are doing to stop these attacks getting any worse. But there is some hope, I am happy to inform you.”

  His advisors looked up with interest. Maybe he had a plan that would take the pressure from their departments. Mullah Rahim Massoud, the fourth man in the meeting, sighed.

  “Not the Americans again? I would like to think we could solve some of our problems without their clumsy interference.”

  “Without their clumsy interference, none of us would be here, and the Taliban would be sitting in this room!” Barzai fired back at him. “Yes, the Americans are extending a helping hand to us again. They
are, of course, unwilling to deploy more troops to our country. Their tactic will be to use private security forces to attack the Taliban in their lairs, in their homes and strongholds. Chop of the head of the snake, and the body will die. That’s their plan.”

  “Mercenaries!” Mullah Massoud spat out; not realizing it was an uncanny echo of the American Secretary of State’s view of the use of private security forces.

  “Perhaps so,” Barzai continued. “But whatever you wish to call them, they could strike a blow against our enemies that will bring them to the negotiating table.”

  “If they are successful,” General Kadim added with a morose tone. Inside, he was thinking why the Americans again? But he knew the answer. His own people couldn’t be trusted. As many as a quarter of them were Taliban sympathizers, and some of those were sleeper agents, waiting for an order from Mullah Omar to strike a blow against the infidels. This included him, because of his alliance with the Americans.

  “Whether they are or not,” Barzai said briskly, “they cannot make matters any worse than they are. And every Taliban leader they kill helps our cause.”

  “What do you want of us?” the Minister of Defense interjected, making certain that his ministry wasn’t excluded from any changes of policy. Or increases in funding.

  “Nothing, Minister. I just want you to be aware of the operation, so that if you come across it, you will do nothing to hinder it, and perhaps even offer our help if it is needed.”

  “It would be better if we are not involved in this business,” Mullah Massoud offered. “Our people will not take kindly to hearing of the involvement of mercenaries in our struggle.”