Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  He nodded and crawled away. I turned to look at Rachel.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t think of any way out of this.”

  “It wasn’t you that got us into it, Max. I just hope I live long enough to put a bullet through that psycho Ed Walker’s brain.”

  “I think you’ll find there’s a queue.”

  I looked up as the incoming fire intensified even more. It was obvious they were building up for the final assault. I looked around for something white to wave at them.

  “Max, there’s more firing coming from the east of them.”

  I looked up, and sure enough, more muzzle flashes lit up the sky. Then I realized that they weren’t coming at us, they were aimed at the Taliban. The Devil’s Guard had arrived.

  The enemy didn’t stand a chance. There were fifteen men in the group who fell on the larger force from behind, but it was as if they were being attacked by a pack of wild dogs. The newcomers were armed with a variety of automatic weapons, and it was clear that each man was an expert in the use of those weapons. They moved as one, deadly precision ballet. Like experts, they found the best natural cover the terrain offered, cover that would get them to their objective in the quickest way to wreak the maximum damage. They unerringly found their targets, and the turbaned Afghans didn’t even have time to turn and aim before they were torn to piece in a hail of automatic fire. Grenades rained down on their ranks, fired from the assault rifles of the attackers. It was as if some kind of demonic vacuum cleaner had arrived to sweep up every single crumb of the attackers. We kept our heads down, occasionally popping up to choose a fleeing Taliban fighter and send him to his God. Then it was all over. They came cautiously into the village, a band of tough, battle-hardened warriors. It wasn’t that they were big men, as such, but they looked huge. They all wore camouflage uniforms, of an unusual pattern. They were festooned with more weapons, grenades and miscellaneous equipment than I would have thought it possible for one man to carry. Their leader came in first, and I went out to greet him.

  “I’m Art Schramm, and I lead these men. A friend said that you were in need of some help, Abe Woltz.”

  We shook hands, and I introduced Rachel and myself.

  “That’s the understatement of the year. Thanks for coming, and thanks for what you’ve done.”

  I stared at him. He was short and powerfully built. Underneath the weapons and webbing festooned over him, he wore a sweat-soaked camouflage shirt that failed to hide the hard muscles it contained. He had khaki pants in a different camouflage pattern and lightweight, sand colored combat boots coated with dust. His hair was thick and hung to his shoulders, held in place by a thong leather headband. He looked like the kind of warrior he was, wild and unconventional.

  He nodded. “You’re welcome, but we’re not clear yet. As we were descending the Pass, we could see another group of insurgents heading this way. About two hundred of them.”

  I could see our group looking at me in despair. Their hopes had been raised by the arrival of these tough fighters, only to have them dashed as the enemy brought in reinforcements. Luk was a few yards away, making strange gestures that I recognized as sign language. The girl he communicated with looked to be about twenty years old, a slim, pretty Afghan girl in Western clothes and a headscarf. He saw me watching and limped over. Before he could speak, I looked at him critically and asked how come he was up and about.

  “They patched me up, and I feel much better. I want you to meet Najela.”

  I felt irritated. It wasn’t the time or place to meet a new girlfriend, and I pulled a face.

  “I’ll talk to her later, Luk. Right now, we’ve got problems. The enemy is bringing up reinforcements.”

  “That’s just it, you see. Najela knows a way out of here.”

  “I’m sure she does, but there are a few hundred nasties that are waiting to kill us the moment we make a move. I’ll talk to you later, but I need to get back to the soldiers and work out a solution to this problem.”

  “No, you don’t understand. There’s hidden path that leads away from here, and it goes through to her home village, where we can hide.”

  “This Afghan girl, Najela. She told you this?”

  He nodded. “Sure. Well, she signed it. She can’t speak, so we used sign language.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that?”

  “I learned while I was doing my stint in the army. There was a big push on opportunities. They said if I learned sign language, it would help with my promotion.”

  I smiled at the absurd image of a modern army using sign language to communicate.

  “Did it?”

  “Did it what?”

  “Help with your promotion.”

  “No.”

  I nodded. I guessed armies never changed, a sniper with sign language. He saw my expression.

  “They had some idea of using sign language for clandestine missions as well. A way of keeping absolute silence in the field for the Afghan Special Forces.”

  “I didn’t think there were any Afghan Special Forces.”

  “Not now there isn’t, no. In the old days things were different, very different.”

  “You mean when the Soviets were here?”

  He grimaced. “Something like that.”

  “Surely the sign language was a problem at night?”

  He grinned. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t get my promotion.”

  Using him as an interpreter, I questioned the girl at length. This village was abandoned long ago, during the Soviet occupation. She lived in the village that was about ten miles away, in a straight line, anyway. What was really interesting was that it was on the other side of a mountain, or at least part of one; a massive spur of rock that slanted down from the heights of the Hindu Kush to sweep down into Afghanistan. It was a journey of almost fifty miles to reach the village if you went the long way around, but there was a narrow path the led to a tunnel in the rock, and all the way through to the village. She signed energetically, and I waited for Luk to translate.

  “She says it was used during the Soviet times, and the fighters used to shelter inside it. The Russians eventually found it and brought down the roof with explosives. When they left, some of the men cleared it to make a way through from their village to the road over the Khyber Pass. Otherwise, it is a long journey to reach Pakistan when they wish to go there.”

  “What’s this village called?”

  “It is called Yaluk.”

  I mulled over what she’d said. It sounded hopeful as a way of escape, but even so, there was an old maxim. If something is too good to be true, it usually is.

  “Ask her if the Taliban know of this village.”

  There was another flurry of signing.

  “She says yes, they do, but they leave it alone. They do not know the tunnel has been cleared.”

  “Why do they leave it alone?”

  He signed again, and I noticed a hesitation on the part of the girl to reply. Then there was more signing that went on for a long time. Luk looked surprised, but he translated.

  “She says because of the magic.”

  I grimaced. “Luk, she must have said more than that. Tell me the rest.”

  He explained it all to me then, and the picture became clearer. Not that I believed it. It seemed the village was home to a long tradition of healers. I guess they would be like the old native herbalists who were part of all ancient cultures. But these people had taken their skills to new heights, using the knowledge passed down to them over generations, and a number of unique varieties of plants and herbs that only grew at the very highest levels of the Hindu Kush.

  “They have a problem, the Taliban. On the one hand, this kind of practice is supposed to be un-Islamic, because of the suspicions of witchcraft about some of their reported healings. On the other hand, they have wives, parents, children, who all need medical help at some time. They sneak into Yaluk to get what they need and sneak out, and the mullahs turn a blind eye. It’s kind of live an
d let live, so the place is like a neutral zone.”

  “So she thinks we could hide out there?”

  “Yes, for a few days, at least.”

  “I’ll talk to the others. Thank her anyway for coming up with the idea.”

  He smiled and looked at the girl, and I saw it then in his face. He was totally hooked on her. It was like he’d been struck with a lightning bolt. Of all the places for it to happen, it had to be here. I left them to it. Inside, I knew that their chances were almost non-existent. We were trapped inside a war zone, an injured man recovering from a bullet wound and a deaf Afghan girl. It could have been worse, but not much. I rejoined the group of soldiers and mercenaries who were sat on the ground. Some of them had lit cigarettes, and I noticed that the new arrivals, the mercenaries, were cleaning their weapons and making preparations for the next fight. They were not men to be taken by surprise.

  Their leader, Art Schramm, nodded at me in a friendly enough way, and he was talking to one of his mercenaries, a huge, muscled bull of a man.

  “This is my second in command, Max. Trip Wennerstrom, meet Max Hoffman.”

  We shook hands, and I explained to both men what Najela had told me. They looked skeptical.

  “Do you believe her?” Art replied. “More importantly, do you trust her?”

  “It sounds on the level, so yes, I trust her. I don’t think she’d betray us.”

  “Why not?” Trip asked.

  I pointed over to where Najela was helping Luk to sit on the ground. When she got him comfortable, she sat with him, kissed him on the cheek, and he slipped his arm around her. Both men nodded. “Yeah, understood. It could be interesting, so what are you going to do?”

  “Me? I thought you were running things now.”

  Art pulled a face. “Me? No way, I reckon it’s time to see if you’re as tough as your grandfather.”

  “I never knew him, you know.”

  “Yeah, that was a shame,” he replied. “But it’s time to put another Hoffman in the saddle, so you can call the shots from here on in, Max. If anything doesn’t look right, we’ll deal with it. The boys all know what your grandfather stood for.”

  “But, Art, I don’t…”

  “Max, listen. I won’t be doing this much longer. These men need someone like you to take over.”

  I briefly wondered what he meant, that he wouldn’t be doing it much longer. Was he ill? Or was he prescient? Many soldiers were a complex mass of superstition and dark premonitions. I tried again.

  “But I’m not really a soldier, Art. I’m a pilot. My military service was years ago, in the Royal Thai Army.”

  “Don’t worry about that, you’re doing fine so far. So what’s our next move, Boss?”

  I winced. But he was adamant, so I decided to make the best of it.

  The first step was to assemble the men and women in a group to explain to them what we had planned. When I told them we were heading away from the Khyber Pass, further into Afghanistan, there was a lot of disquiet. Especially from Ed Walker.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, Hoffman? That plane is bought and paid for, and you are, too. I want you to fly us out of here, right now. We’ll make arrangements to come back for the others.”

  I sighed. “I already told you, Walker. The second we start engines they’ll blast that aircraft to pieces. This is our only chance, and we’re heading for Yaluk. I want everyone to get ready to leave before it’s too light.”

  “Says who?” he sneered. “I’ve got two armed guards with me that say we’re taking that plane out of here.”

  His men looked uncomfortable, and they didn’t meet my gaze. But Art Schramm squared up to Walker. “Says my fifteen armed men, you little shit.”

  Before Walker could reply, Rains walked up to stand beside Schramm. “My men are with Max. I reckon you’re badly outnumbered, buddy.”

  Walker stared at both men for a few moments, then shook his head and stalked away. Art turned to me.

  “Max, it’s your call.”

  “Get everyone ready to leave. We’re heading out in fifteen minutes.”

  * * *

  Carol Wendelski checked in with the guards who allowed authorized personnel to enter the Ground Control Station, and arrested unauthorized personnel who tried to get in. She knew one of them slightly, She’d been on a date with him once, but it hadn’t worked out when she didn’t share his love of baseball, and him not hers for all things technical. But they’d stayed friends.

  “Give ‘em hell, Carol,” he winked. He knew she flew reconnaissance drones over Afghanistan, but he didn’t know that today it would be different.

  “Yeah, I’ll do that, never fear.”

  Corporal Munch handed over the console to her. He’d been running through the training package for the MQ-9, but he was not cleared for flight operations.

  "Hi, Carol. There’s a message from headquarters. You’re to call this number.”

  He handed her a message slip. She was to call a Colonel Brooks, ISAF Chief of Intelligence in Afghanistan. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Jesus, what have I done?”

  He shrugged. “No idea, but you’re to call him the moment you come in, so I’d do it now if I were you.”

  It took almost half a minute to route the call through the secure military channels to ISAF HQ Afghanistan. The voice that answered sounded as if he’d just got out of bed.

  “Brooks.”

  “This is Master Sergeant Wendelski, calling as ordered from Creech.”

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks for calling, Master Sergeant. You’re flying the MQ-9 today, I understand.”

  “That’s correct, Sir.”

  “Right, there’s been a change of Rules of Engagement, and this is from the top."

  Her spirits plummeted. So they were going to prevent her from any live firing, she could see it coming. They were terrified of friendly fire incidents, but even so, she knew what she was doing. It wasn’t fair. She dimly realized the Colonel was speaking again.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. What did you say?”

  “I said you’ll be flying weapons free, Master Sergeant. If you see a target, you are cleared to make your own decision whether to engage or not.”

  Oh, fuck! Was he for real?

  “Yes, Sir. Just so I’m clear, I’m flying the MQ-9 today, weapons free, complete clearance to engage on my own authority.”

  “Correct. Any questions?”

  “No, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  But he’d already hung up. Oh, my God, it was for real!

  “What is it?” Munch asked. “Bad news?”

  “No. I’m weapons free on the Reaper.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Chapter Nine

  Bush said: 'It is better to fight them on their ground than they fighting us on our ground.' In response to these fallacies, I say: The war in Iraq is raging, and the operations in Afghanistan are on the rise in our favor, praise be to God.

  Osama Bin Laden

  “You wanted to see me, General?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. President. I’m happy to report the situation in Afghanistan is being brought back under our control. Another three or four days, and we’ll be comfortable again.”

  “Comfortable?” Barrani looked up. “Is that what we’re there for, General, to be comfortable? I thought we were there to win.”

  “That’s true, yes, but the situation is rather complex. It’s not as simple as that.”

  Mrs. Chalmers glared at him. “I don’t see what isn’t simple, General. Al Qaeda destroyed the World Trade Center, and then they tried to hole up in Afghanistan. In the process of hiding, they allied themselves with the Taliban. Ergo, we need to destroy them. Or are you saying that they shouldn’t pay for what they did? The greatest crime of the twenty first century, for God’s sake.”

  Mann felt as if he’d been set upon by a pack of wild dogs. For a moment he had the idea of telling them to stop being so stupid, and then walking out of there. Years of experience and
self-control stopped him from destroying his career.

  “No, Ma’am, of course not. What I’m saying is the situation over there is highly unstable, both the politics and the military. We’re doing our best to…”

  “Doing your best?” The President looked up and stared at him. “The last time you were here you persuaded us that so-called Black-ops would make all the difference. Tell me, General, how many operations have you mounted so far?”

  Mann hesitated, but he knew the truth would come out. This was Washington. It was no longer the Nixon years, when the truth was so often buried. Or the Kennedy years, when even the President himself could embark on illicit affairs, and the newspapers would keep silent. Things had changed, as Bill Clinton discovered during a very uncomfortable two terms in office.

  “One, Sir.”

  “One! And what was the result of this single operation?”

  “We took out more than a dozen of their local leaders.”

  “You mean killed?”

  “Yes, we killed them, Mr. President.”

  “I see. Why have you not sent this team back in to dispose of some more of these bastards that are killing our men? Or was one mission what you had in mind when you proposed this particular course?”

  “Mr. President, the team hasn’t reported back yet.” He took a deep breath. “Our intelligence suggests that they were ambushed on the border and lost most of their men. Since then, we’ve lost contact with the team leader. He’s a CIA operative.”

  He heard the Secretary of State breathe, “Jesus Christ”, behind him. The President was silent at first. Then he spoke slowly, barely concealing the anger in his voice.

  “Would you have us believe that this operation is about to shorten the war?”

  The General shook his head. “No, Sir.”

  “No. Now listen, General. Your plan was a good one, but the implementation stinks. If you want to take out their leaders, that’s fine. But strike at the top and cut off the head. Not a ragtag bunch of local tribal leaders, and then leave your men exposed to be ambushed and killed. Who’s their top man over there? The Taliban leader.”

  “You mean Mullah Omar, Mr. President?”