by Eric Meyer
“An hour? What the hell for? You told me this was a straight in and out job. I don’t like the idea of waiting.”
He sneered. “Scares you, does it?”
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.
He continued. “Our return cargo hasn’t arrived yet, so there’s no choice, you just have to wait. The cargo is what pays for this mission, so the two are linked together.”
I nodded and went inside the aircraft to let Rachel know. She switched off the engines, and we walked out into the cabin and jumped to the ground to stretch our legs. Luk had taken up a position by the nosewheel leg, and he was surveying the ground around us with his telescopic sight. Walker’s men had loaded their equipment into the Land Cruisers and were sat on the grass waiting. All of them had their assault rifles ready for instant action. I wandered over to Walker.
“What’s the arrangement for getting your men back to Kabul?”
He considered his answer for a few moments. “This job should only take us two days. I’ve got a satphone with me. If everything goes to plan, I’ll call you to pick us up here. Make sure you keep the coordinates.”
“They’re programmed into the aircraft’s GPS system,” I replied.
“Right. I hope to Christ these guys we’re waiting for don’t take much longer. You can’t leave without the shipment. Joe would go crazy.”
So that confirmed it. I was about to become a drug runner, as well as carrying armed mercenaries and their guns and equipment. It was the low point in my career, and one that I could do nothing about. These people had a long reach, and I knew that if I failed to do what they wanted, they’d find me and ruin me. Or worse. I returned to Rachel, and we sat together, not talking. It was a fine morning, cold, but not the harsh cold that can make the interior of this country so forbidding.
“Look, Max, this could be them.”
She was pointing to the far corner of the field. A line of donkeys had appeared laden with bulging hessian sacks. They were accompanied by four men, and all of them were carrying shoulder launched RPGs. It was pure Afghanistan; the ancient meets the modern. The scene would have been exactly the same a thousand years before, were it not for the RPGs. I saw Walker striding towards me.
“We’re running behind schedule, Hoffman. We’ll check the load, and then we need to get moving. See that it’s properly stowed in the aircraft, then head for Peshawar. Joe will meet you there. He’ll see to the unloading and give you your next instructions. Any questions?”
“I don’t want to handle drugs, Mr. Walker. That’s not part of the deal.”
He laughed out loud. “Sure. Well let me tell you, my friend. The deal has changed. Just get it done and don’t fuck with me. And you really don’t want to fuck with Joe Ashford, no way. I’ll see you back here in two days. I’ll call you.”
Then he was gone, racing away to round up his men and meet the donkey train. Luk and Rachel joined me, and I explained what was expected of us.
“I don’t like that guy,” Luk murmured. “Whatever he’s up to, it’s nothing that’s going to be good for us.”
“I agree. Keep the rifle handy. Perhaps you could climb up onto the wing and keep a lookout.”
The Twin Otter was a high wing aircraft, so it would give him a good observation platform. He climbed up onto the wing, and I felt better with him standing up there, keeping a good watch. The Land Cruisers raced away in a cloud of dust, and we were left in a field in the middle of enemy territory with barely enough room to take off and a donkey train guarded by four Afghan tribesmen, about which I knew nothing. I was watching Luk, but I heard the sound of hoofs behind me and the creak of leather harness. I turned to find the donkey train next to the aircraft. The tribesmen were already unloading the sacks. Rachel pointed up to the cargo door of the Twin Otter. One of the men stared at her and smiled through black and broken teeth. Then he made a rude and filthy gesture. I saw Rachel color, but then she relaxed and came over to me.
“I guess that means we load the stuff ourselves.”
“It sure looks that way.”
We watched them continue to toss the sacks to the ground. Rachel and I started to carry them to the aircraft and throw them on board. They weighed about fifty or sixty pounds each, not a massive weight, but there were forty of them. I calculated it was about two tons, and by the time we’d tossed them all on board, we were exhausted.
“Let’s take a few minutes before we lash them down,” I suggested. “I could do with a soda. I’ll grab one each for you and Luk.”
I climbed aboard and looked out at the donkey train. It was moving away from us, already about two hundred yards distant. I took three sodas out of our cool box, and that’s when I heard the first shot. I tossed the sodas down and ran out.
“What going on?”
Rachel was staring into the distance. The shot sounded as if it had come from about three hundred yards away, in the opposite distance to where the donkeys had disappeared. I heard Luk shouting down from the wing.
“How do we know if it’s Taliban?”
“They wear black turbans. I think that’s the only way.”
“There’s about ten of them, and they’re coming down from the low hill off to the east. I’d guess they’re two hundred yards from us.”
“What are they wearing?”
“Black turbans.”
“Then they’re Taliban. Can you slow them down?”
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do.”
“We’ll tie down the load, and we can get airborne. Give us three or four minutes.”
“I’ve got it.”
His rifle cracked out, shot after shot. I afterwards found he hit a target about one shot in four. His main object was to stop them getting any closer. The steady rate of fire only stopped when he changed magazines, and the incoming fire was fragmented and wild. The moment our attackers put their heads up for an aimed shot, Luk put a bullet into them. I scrambled to pull the heavy sacks into the center of the aircraft where they would not upset our trim. Rachel came and helped, and we lashed them down. Rachel limped forward to start the engines, and I went to call Luk.
“We’re leaving. You need to get inside.”
A fusillade of shots came towards us, and two holes appeared in the fuselage.
“Luk! Hurry up.”
His rifle cracked several more times. There were several cries of agony in the distance, and then he was in the doorway, sliding down from the wing.
“They’ll come now that I’ve stopped shooting, Max. I hit maybe six of them, but the other four have assault rifles.”
“You did well. Time to go.”
The whine of the Pratt and Whitney turboprops filled the cabin as Rachel spooled up. I closed the door and went forward. She grinned at me. Her eyes were dilated with the excess of adrenaline that had flooded her system when the shooting started.
“I guess you won’t be doing a walkaround check?”
“Maybe next time. Get us out of here, Rachel. We haven’t much time before they come closer.”
She put the engines to maximum boost, and the aircraft strained against the brakes. Then she released them, and we hurtled forward.
“Max!”
“I see him.”
A Taliban shooter had come nearer, and he was about two hundred yards ahead of us, eighty yards off to the port side. He had an RPG rocket in his arms, and it was clear he was waiting for us to take off. Our forward speed would be miniscule when we left the ground. The aircraft would be struggling for height, and we’d be a sitting duck. I turned around and shouted for Luk.
“Your rifle, you need to hit that guy with the rocket. I’ll open the port window.”
The tiny window next to the left hand seat opened. I slid it aside and let Luk get to it. The aircraft was bumping and jolting on the rough ground as Rachel fought with the controls to keep it in a straight line. Luk fired, but just as he did the aircraft hit a bump, and his shot went wild. I decided that we only had one chance.
He nodded. Rachel looked across at me with her eyebrows raised, but I considered it a risk worth taking. I couldn’t take the pilot’s seat, so I held onto the seat backs and waited.
Rachel handled the aircraft with her usual aplomb while I watched the instruments.
“V1, fifty-five knots.” We needed sixty-five knots to take off, at least with the half load in the cargo area.
“Ok.”
“Sixty-five knots, rotate.”
She held it steady, accelerating. “Rachel!”
She didn’t look at me. “I’m trying to give Luk the best angle for the shot.”
She was right. It was difficult to point the rifle out of the window at such a steep angle in the cramped cockpit.
“Try not to leave until we run out of field.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I saw her face crease into a smile. We hit seventy knots, and there was a tiny window when Luk had an almost perfect angle on the missileer. It all happened in a fraction of a second. Rachel hauled back on the control column, and the aircraft left the ground, just inches above the rough, stony soil of Afghanistan. Luk fired. I watched the missileer; hit by the heavy rifle bullet that pierced his eye and threw him backwards. He must have had his finger on the firing lever, for the missile hurtled into the sky in a blaze of smoke and sparks. It flew away from us to disappear somewhere in the foothills, a long way away. Its only threat was to a passing goat, perhaps. Rachel climbed for altitude, refusing to swap height for speed. Two more shots pierced the fuselage.
“Rachel, they’re shooting!”
“And I’ve got a bloody mountain in front of me. I can’t avoid both of them, Max.”
The distant hills had grown alarmingly close, and as we cleared a low hill, another higher peak appeared in front of us. Two more shots hit. Rachel had both engines straining at maximum power, and slowly we climbed away from the dangers of bullets, missiles and mountains. The danger was over, and Luk moved out of the window. I sat down in my seat and closed it.
“Is everyone ok? Nobody hit?”
“I’m good,” Rachel replied.
“No problems,” Luk added.
“Good. We need to set a course for Peshawar. I think it’s time we had a word with Mr. Joe Ashford.”
Halfway through the flight, Luk came into the cockpit. He’d been aft, checking out the cargo to make sure it hadn’t moved.
“Max, I think you should come and see this.”
I followed him into the cargo space. “What is it?”
“I guess you don’t need to know what’s inside these sacks.”
“No. It’s opium, couldn’t be anything else.”
“That’s my feeling too. But they left two of the wooden crates behind, and I don’t know why. I checked them out. They were about two feet by two feet square, and about a foot high.
“There’s a smaller box over there.” Luk had prized off the lid of one of the crates, and there were a number of wrapped parcels inside. I didn’t recognize what it was.
“Do you know what it is?”
“It’s C4, plastique. Plastic explosive. I came across it in the Afghan Army when I did my training.”
“Jesus Christ! Is it dangerous?”
“Not immediately, no. But there is a small crate in the corner of the hold with the detonators inside it. Put the two together, and yes, it’s very dangerous.”
I tried to think why they’d left such an important consignment on the aircraft. I could only come to one answer. It was a simple oversight. One that I’d prefer people didn’t make on my aircraft, not where explosives were concerned. We went forward, and I warned Rachel what we were carrying. Her eyebrows shot up.
“Fuck! The crazy bastards, what are they playing at?”
“It could be an error, who knows? Let’s just wait and see. Luk says it’s not dangerous.”
“Sure, plastic explosive has that reputation.”
We droned on through the day towards Peshawar. It was a journey of two and a half hours, and we flew past the awesome grandeur of the Afghan mountains. I took over the controls and watched the soaring, rocky peaks fall behind us; mountains that swooped down into green, often fertile and verdant valleys. Could this ever truly be a country at peace with itself and with the world? It seemed as if it could, placed astride a number of major trading routes, and with some natural resources of its own. So far, Afghanistan had been a place of misery, drought, famine, poverty and death to its population. The poor devils could do with a decent oil strike, if that was possible; something to put enough money in the treasury to pay for the essential infrastructure they so desperately lacked. But would these people spend that kind of sudden wealth wisely, or would it just go to equip the warlords with more weapons to continue their endless fighting between each other; fighting that only ended when they joined forces to attack foreign invaders. Then it was back to their internal squabbles. I’d thought Rachel was dozing.
“They’re in the crapper for all time, these people.”
I looked at her. She’d been thinking along similar lines.
“You’re right. Poverty, disease, war, you name it. Tribal feuds, foreign invasions, and if you’re a woman, God help you.”
She shuddered. “These women spend their lives in abject poverty and misery. They’re cooped up in their houses, and when they go out, they wear those awful blue burqas. It’s no wonder so many of them commit suicide. I sure would.”
“You’d get out, Rachel. You wouldn’t put up with it.”
She shook her head. “They’re brought up into a culture of no hope. No money, no passports, nothing. No, better to end it all before it becomes unbearable.”
“It’s a good reason to beat the Taliban. And we’re on the side of the good guys, so at least we can take comfort in that when we’re bitching about being stuck with this crazy agreement.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Max, the CIA, the good guys? I hope so, but that’ll be a first.”
I thought about that for a while. Did the Agency ever do anyone any good, apart from themselves, that is? They’d missed the fall of the Soviet Union. Then I remembered something else. It was thinking about the Soviet Union while we were flying over Afghanistan. They’d trained and equipped the Taliban with the latest weaponry. I nodded slowly. “I hope you’re wrong, but I have a nasty feeling you could be right.”
We made final approach to Peshawar. I took her in to land this time. The Pakistani air traffic controller was crisp and professional, with none of the sarcasm of his Vietnamese counterpart. I was not surprised that they were expecting us. Where Joe Ashford and Ed Walker were concerned, there seemed to be no difficulty in smoothing over red tape. By one means or another. I made a comfortable landing and taxied over to the stand we’d been assigned at the far end of the cargo area. A car was parked there, a Chevrolet Suburban, so beloved of the FBI in the USA and obviously other government agencies elsewhere in the world. I switched off the engines and began to shut down the aircraft systems. Rachel and Luk went aft to open the cargo doors, and when I followed them, Ashford was waiting on the tarmac. He wore a lightweight tropical suit in cream linen, well cut to fit over his huge, muscular frame. Obvious bodyguards, almost laughable in their dark glasses and plain khaki baggy combat suits, flanked him. They each carried a stubby Ingram submachine gun and wore shoulder rigs for their pistols, straight out of central casting in Hollywood, USA. I could have told them they were nearer Bollywood than Hollywood, and that something a little more ethnic and colorful may have been more appropriate.
“You’re late.”
“We were held up on the ground waiting for the cargo you wanted brought back.”
“You got it all?”
“We’ve got what they gave us. Ed Walker was
there, so I assume it’s all ok.”
He didn’t acknowledge my words.
“Unload it into the SUV.”
“Look, Mr. Ashford, I want a word with you before we go any further. Maybe you could get your men to unload while we talk.”
I noticed a fuel bowser heading towards us that he’d clearly organized for us to make a fast turnaround. He looked in our direction at last.
“Fuel up and get back to Kabul. Unload the cargo yourselves. I don’t pay my men to fetch and carry. I’ve got you to do that. I’ll catch up with you in Kabul. I’ll see you there tomorrow.”
“But, we need to talk.” I took a step nearer to him, but his bodyguards automatically moved to intercept me before I reached him. He came up to me and stood six inches away, huge and threatening.
“No, we don’t need to talk. I need to give the orders. You need to follow them. That’s all. Now get unloaded.”
“Ed Walker said he’ll contact us to pick him up in two days,” I finished, trying to keep him talking.
He waved my remark away, as if it was of no consequence. We were left with no choice. We unloaded the sacks into the Suburban and watched as he drove away. I had a sudden thought.
“The explosives, they’re still in the aircraft. Should we have unloaded them too?”
It was Luk who answered. “Max, people like that, if they were missing the plastique, they’d be on to us in a second. They clean forgot it, that’s all.”
Rachel stared, shaking her head in disbelief. “So what the hell do we do with it?”
“If it was me,” Luk continued. “I’d save it for a rainy day. You never know, we might have a use for it one day. We could sell it, trade it, whatever, or even blow something up with it.”
“Like Joe Ashford and Ed Walker, you mean,” I smiled.
He nodded. “There you go, so it could come in mighty handy.”
“You’re mad, both of you,” Rachel exclaimed. “If we get searched in Kabul airport and they find that, we’re in deep shit.”
“We’re flying a plane that effectively is owned by the CIA, flying on CIA business. Who’s going to search us?” I pointed out.
“Christ, I don’t believe this,” she countered, her voice ringing with anger. “It could finish us.”