Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

“Yes, who else would steal it?”

  “It could have been anybody. There’re a lot of people here, Rains’ infantry, Schramm’s men, the Medecin sans Frontieres people, Ed Walker’s two bodyguards and of course the villagers.”

  “It was Walker, I’m sure of it. Or he got one of his men to do it, that’s more his style.”

  “Probably, but I doubt we’ll get it back. Does Luk know?”

  “He was the one that told me it was missing.”

  “Ok, there’s nothing we can do now. With any luck, we’ll be out of here before much longer. I’ll ask Art Schramm if he has a satphone. We could at least get a message out.”

  I kicked myself for not thinking of it before now. Although the military was stymied until the Taliban had been kicked back to their caves, it would have been useful to let them know where we were and what was our situation. They could, of course, know already, at least where we were, from their drone overflights, but there was no guarantee.

  In the event, Art didn’t carry a satphone when I asked him after we’d eaten.

  “I’ve got no use for ‘em, not in the field, anyway.”

  “I don’t understand, surely it would mean your principals could get in touch with you, in case anything changed.”

  “Not my way of doing business, Max. Have you heard of the Brit admiral, who deliberately ignored an order?”

  I shook my head. “They didn’t teach me that one in Thailand, no.”

  “Horatio Nelson was a famous British Admiral, during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when they had Napoleon to contend with. He was a vice admiral when he sailed into the Battle of Copenhagen. His superior, Admiral Hyde Parker, who Nelson didn’t think much of, signaled the British fleet to retreat. Nelson, convinced he could win, put his telescope to his blind eye and said, 'I really do not see the signal.' So the expression 'turning a blind eye' entered the English language.”

  “Did he win, when he ignored that order?” I had to know.

  He grinned. “Oh yeah, he won alright, and they made him a viscount, some kind of English aristocrat. No satphone, see. If he’d carried one, they could have called him up and screwed around with him.”

  I nodded. “I’ll bear it in mind, thanks Art.”

  “You do that. You’re worried about letting people know we’re here?”

  “I think it would be useful, yes. Sooner or later, they’ll come and get us.”

  “No, they won’t, because we’ll be leaving. Give it a couple more days for that Taliban force to move off, and then we’ll head back to the Khyber Pass. Now let’s get on with your military training, strategy and tactics.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon working on the complexities of moving troops to their best advantage. By the end of the day, he was satisfied with my progress.

  “You’re a natural, you know. Jurgen, your grandfather, would have been proud of you. We’ll work on leadership skills tomorrow, but you’re doing fine. Just remember, don’t let them know what you’re up to, then hit them hard when they’re least expecting it. The rest is easy. And don’t forget Nelson. Don’t listen to bullshit.”

  We spent two more days in that village, during which time we saw no sign of the enemy. The real surprise came when we found the French medical team spending a lot of time with the Afghan healers. Yves was ecstatic.

  “These people have skills and knowledge that amaze me. Ailments that we have complicated drugs and treatment regimes for, they just issue a simple remedy, and the patient seems to recover. Sometimes, they just sit with them, and they get better. It’s uncanny.”

  “I’d get their recipes if I were you, Yves. You could make a fortune when we get back.”

  “I already have a fortune,” he replied in a severe tone. “I inherited a chateau and a number of farms and vineyards in France. It means I never have to worry about money. The remedies would change people’s lives if I could find out more about them, but the villagers are keen to keep them under wraps.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “They flatly refused to tell me anything. It’s their tradition to keep it to themselves. Maybe it’s something to do with the plants and herbs they use. If they’re very rare, and only local to this part of the Hindu Kush, any increase in demand could destroy their resources.”

  “They could always be synthesized, surely?”

  “I’m not sure they could. It could take away that special something that makes them unique. It’s a pity, but they said I could take some preparations away with me, so perhaps I can look into it when I get back to France.”

  “I wish you luck with it, Yves. You never know, you could be the next Pasteur.”

  “He was one of my ancestors, Louis Pasteur.”

  I walked away. I had a feeling it would be something like that. I thought about the people who were very rich and very clever. They always seemed to be one step ahead of you. And despite my being one quarter French, they were the worst. The following day I sent scouts out to reconnoiter the route back to the foot of the Khyber Pass. They came back and reported it was clear, so we made preparations to leave. I thanked Ban, the headman. He refused to take anything in return. All he asked was that we looked after Najela. Luk assured him that he would protect her with his life. He was almost recovered now, and able to walk with only a slight trace of a limp. We set off as before, Rains’ men took the point, the Devil’s Guard the rear, and the rest of us fell in between them. Walker slunk along near the back with his men, talking to no one. And no one talked to him. Since I’d punched him after the incident with Rachel, he hadn’t spoken to me or anyone else. He was morose and sullen, so I had little doubt that he was planning something unpleasant.

  We’d had one strange encounter in a remote hut set off to a far corner of the village. I was walking with Rachel late one evening and noticed Najela’s father Ban coming out of the hut. The door was fully open as Ban bowed to the man who sat inside on the floor. A shaft of bright moonlight lit up the interior, and we could both see the man as clear as if it was full daylight. He looked old, very old. He wore a black turban, which could have made him Taliban, and a patch dominated his ancient face over one eye. The other eye seemed to shine, like a miniature searchlight, its beam flashing across the distance between us until I felt myself caught in some kind of powerful and invisible force. He stared straight at me for a few moments, and I felt the power of the man reach out to me. He wore the traditional tribal robes of the Afghans, except that they were in better repair than most I’d seen. Their cut was more severe, complimenting the severity of his face. Then two tough looking men looked out, saw me, and one of them glared and pulled the door shut. Ban rushed up to us, and he looked distressed.

  “You should not be here. This area is private.”

  “Who is he?” I asked Ban. “Is he some kind of holy man, your mullah, perhaps?”

  “He is holy man, yes. Not be here. You go.”

  We got the message and left. But for the rest of the evening, I wondered about that mysterious man in the hut. The village of Yaluk was famous all over Afghanistan for its skilled natural healers. Was that guy a kind of master, or was he himself a patient? And that face, the sheer, raw power that I’d glimpsed. He was no ordinary man, which was for sure.

  * * *

  Master Sergeant Carol Wendelski took over the console from Vernon Munch. He’d been sat doing nothing, as he wasn’t cleared for the Reaper. He’d spent his shift playing a multi-million dollar computer game, the Reaper simulator. It was a lot of fun, but after the first few hours as boring as hell.

  “I envy you, Sarge, getting your hands on that baby. You gonna launch any of those missiles today?”

  She smiled, but she was looking at the console, waiting to sit down and get her hands on the controls. To give the orders to launch, and then look down on her domain like a God of all she surveyed, with the power of life or death over it. Munch finally got up and left, and she sat down and called up her flight crew in Kabul.

  “Thi
s is Creech calling Kabul. I’m all ready to go here. What’s the status of the bird?”

  “All ready for the preflight checks, Master Sergeant.”

  “Ok, let’s get this show on the road.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she was airborne, watching the fearsome landscape roll past from five thousand feet. Now where were those infantry guys, and what happened to them?

  Chapter Ten

  The enemy will have to quit the region with humiliation and disgrace. Afghans have a history of expelling their enemies as no enemy and invader has quit Afghanistan willingly.

  Mullah Omar

  Joe Ashford put down the telephone and sat thinking for several long minutes. So they were on their way out. How the hell had they managed to get their hands on a satphone? Still, it made no difference. It meant that the game was still in play, if he could put the whole package together. There were still problems. If the Taliban got their hands on that aircraft, they would certainly destroy it. And there was the question of continuing supplies of product. He bought much of his stock direct from the local growers, and once again that meant Taliban. If he was going to pull this off, he needed to ensure that the aircraft stayed intact, and his suppliers were given protection from the constant threats they faced. That meant ISAF forces destroying the poppy fields, Taliban and local militias extorting massive bribes to allow the growers to continue, and Afghan Army and Police units who demanded their share of the cut. It was complicated, especially now that he had no room for maneuver. He needed someone to help him out, and as far as he knew, there was only one man in Afghanistan who could offer the kind of help he needed. He was Taliban, sure, and he would demand a high price for fixing up any kind of a deal, but it would be worth it. Thank Christ everyone had their price. What would he want? Money, sure, but the big catch of course would be weapons. These people loved nothing more than a shiny new assault rifle, grenade launcher or fragmentation mine. Yeah, he could arrange plenty of that stuff. Here in Kabul International, there were warehouses full of it. All it needed was a few dollars spread around, maybe some faked CIA paperwork, and he could fill a dozen trucks with ordnance. Money, guns and drugs, they were the currency of Afghanistan. Guns were easy. Afghanistan was full of them. Drugs, no problem. The hard part was moving it around so it could be turned into money.

  He took a cellphone out of his safe. It was Agency equipment, and secure from interception by any communications satellites that may be nosing around the skies above this part of the world. In the safe there was also a small notebook, written in a code that only he would understand. He found the number he wanted and called. After five seconds, there was an answer.

  “Yes?”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “No one speaks to him, not ever. You know that.”

  “This is different. It’s more valuable than even he could imagine.”

  “I doubt it. What do you want?”

  “We have the product fixed up, as you know. But I need protection. I have to ensure that nothing goes wrong. This is life or death.”

  “Everything is life or death, here in God’s chosen country.”

  “Yeah. There’s an aircraft on the ground. I need it to get my shipments out, including some of the stuff that was bought from your people. I want his people to protect it.”

  The man laughed. It was an eerie sound, and almost mechanical, like a malfunctioning engine.

  “His people have better things to do than protect an infidel aircraft.”

  “Without it, there’d be nothing to take out your shipments. How much are you losing on the old routes through Iran?”

  “There have been losses, that's true. But still, protecting your aircraft, it sounds absurd. Besides, there is already one of our bands on the way to destroy it.”

  The fuck there was! “You can stop them, surely?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The line was quiet. Both men knew that the price had yet to be mentioned, and it would be the deciding factor.

  “How does three tons of ordnance sound, that’s a total price for the product and the protection? I’ll give you assault rifles, grenades, handguns. A couple of light machine guns, maybe.”

  There was another silence. He knew he’d won. There was no grating laugh in reply to his words this time.

  “Five tons, perhaps. That might persuade him.”

  Gotcha! “Four tons, no more. Any more than that, and I’ll call in some mercenary pals of mine.”

  This time the reply was immediate. “There will be no need to involve others. He has agreed. We will attempt to contact our fighters, and tell them to keep away from the vicinity of the aircraft. I will have the crates ready. Be sure you bring the weapons.”

  So his boss was there, listening to the conversation. Like tens of thousands of others, he wondered exactly where Mullah Omar was in hiding.

  * * *

  The journey through the tunnel was easier now that we’d had some rest. We didn’t meet any opposition and emerged into the Afghan morning, our eyes blinking to accustom to the sunlight. Once again, the vast grandeur of this cruel but spectacular country was opened up to us. The peaks of the mountains that were the border with Pakistan, the distant hills and peaks, connected by patches of rocky ground, covered with sharp rocks to make cross country journeys painful and hard. The only way to travel was to stay on the main tracks; even these were uncomfortable, and we frequently stumbled on the rugged, pot-holed surface. At last we reached the village at the foot of the road that led up to the Khyber Pass. We were all astonished to see the de Havilland Twin Otter sat between the two warehouse-like buildings, apparently untouched.

  “Can you get her off the ground?” Walker asked.

  “Maybe, but it’s not that simple. There are too many of us, and I’m not planning on leaving a score of people on the ground to be butchered by the Taliban.”

  “I still own the charter papers on her,” he persisted.

  “Yes, and I’m running this show, Walker. So you can forget any ideas about taking off and leaving people behind.”

  “Max, that may not be such a bad idea,” Art Schramm interrupted. “These medics need to get out of here and on their journey to Pakistan. There are still people there that need them. I’m sure Lieutenant Rains can take his men out without any problems. Our two groups can team up until we meet some ISAF forces.”

  Rains nodded. “That sounds good to me. The current emergency must end soon, and there’ll be plenty of vehicles moving around again. They’ll pick us up.”

  “If you’re sure.” I was doubtful, but it made a lot of sense. The medics were needed elsewhere, and the only quick way to get them out was by air.

  They all nodded. “We’ll come with you, Hoffman,” Ed Walker put in. “I’d like to see the medics safely back. It was my mission after all.”

  We all grinned. “Right. Before we make any plans, I need to check out the aircraft. Rachel, shall we take a look at her?”

  We walked to the ladder and climbed up to the cargo door. I moved the lever to open it and climbed into the dark, cold and silent interior. Rachel followed. We went straight through to the cockpit, and we both started bringing the aircraft’s systems online. There was no immediate problem, so I left Rachel going through the pre-flight checks while I got out and conducted my walkaround check. If it was ever necessary, it was now, when this aircraft had been left unattended in enemy territory for several days. But no one had stolen any parts from the fuselage, and everything looked intact. I watched Rachel checking the operation of the ailerons and flaps. It all looked fine, and so I called over the medical team.

  “You may as well get aboard while we prepare for take-off. We should be able to leave in fifteen minutes or so if everything is working.”

  “We’ll get aboard too. Come on, men.”

  Walker signaled to his two bodyguards to accompany him, and they waited impatiently at the foot of the ladder while the medics boarded. Rains and Art Schramm were together, discussin
g the best route back. I went over to say goodbye to them both, especially to Art.

  “You just get that thing flying, Max. We’ll be seeing you again. Maybe we can meet up for a beer,” he grinned.

  “Where are you headed when you get out of here?”

  He smiled. “That’s need to know, I’m afraid. But it won’t be a million miles away from here. You’ll be operating out of Kabul International?”

  “Yeah, that’s certain, until we can unravel this CIA nonsense.”

  “I wish you luck then. We’ll be in and out of Kabul, so we’ll pick up with you there.”

  I shook hands with him and then Rains. The American lieutenant did look different to when I’d first encountered him. In the space of a few days, he’d become less hesitant. It was as if the mercenaries had exerted an influence on him in some way. Perhaps he realized that their shocking and brutal style of combat had something to commend it. It wasn’t new, the current American doctrine of ‘shock and awe’, hitting the enemy hard and fast in overwhelming force, proved effective. But until he’d met Schramm’s men, he hadn’t grasped the way of applying the tactic at platoon level. He’d seen combat now, had been bloodied by the enemy, and then helped to turn the tables and inflict heavy losses on the same enemy. He was a different man.

  “Good luck, Lieutenant, I’ll see you in Kabul too, no doubt.”

  “Yeah, I owe you a beer, that’s a promise. When we…”

  He didn’t finish. A line of shots stitched holes in the ground less than a foot away from where we stood. Art reacted first.

  “Take cover!”

  Everyone hit the ground and started to crawl for the nearest cover, except me. I only had one place to go, the aircraft. I started to run, and behind me, I heard Schramm’s men and Rains’ troops start to return fire. Walker was framed in the doorway to the cargo hold, and he’d climbed aboard, but when the shots started to whistle around us, he unslung his M4-A1 and started to shoot in the direction of the enemy. I reached the door, took a flying leap inside and shouted to him.