by Eric Meyer
“Walker, get inside. We need to get the door closed and get airborne!”
“The fuck I will. They need all the firepower they can get. Hey, you two,” he shouted at his men. They were sat on the floor, trying to ignore the pandemonium that had erupted around them. “Get the fuck out here and start shooting!”
We could take off with the door open. If he fell out, it was his choice. I left him and ran into the cockpit. Rachel was beginning the start up procedure. She turned a white face towards me.
“I didn’t have time for the pre-flight checks. It’s anyone’s guess if she’s ok to fly.”
“Just start the engines. If we don’t move now, there won’t be anything left to get off the ground.”
As she went through the engine start procedure, an almost automatic series of actions, I looked out of the window. From the slightly elevated position of the cockpit, I could see more clearly what was going on. A band of insurgents had arrived, black turbaned Taliban. But instead of preparing an ambush, they had no choice but to fall on the soldiers that they encountered on the ground. And the soldiers fought back hard. A lieutenant, who had discovered what it meant to lead men into battle, led the American infantry, and Art Schramm’s mercenaries were capable of giving a Taliban force much larger than this one a severe headache. Bullets struck the fuselage, and I reflected that we’d have more than our share of repairs to make, patching up the holes, when we got back. Bursts of gunfire echoed from the cargo space where Walker and his men were lending their support to the men on the ground. I heard a scream, someone shouted, and one of Walker’s men ran into the cockpit.
“It’s Ed, he’s been hit. You need to get this motherfucker of the ground.”
“Is he bad?”
“Bad enough, there’s blood everywhere. He needs a hospital. That doctor is looking at him now, but he’s going to need blood, that’s for sure. I don’t think he’s got long.”
The guy looked concerned, which surprised me. Ed Walker’s men were not the kind to be worried about the fate of their fellow man. Then it came to me. Ed Walker was the meal ticket. Without him, their well-paid employment may come to a premature end.
The engines roared to life, and I turned my attention back to getting the Twin Otter off the ground. As we taxied towards the ribbon of the tarmac road, I could see the mercenaries going forwards in short rushes, from cover to cover. As they ducked out of sight of the enemy, they proceeded to lay down a curtain of fire to cover their comrades coming in from behind them. At the rear, Rains’ men laid down further fire that served to make it all but impossible for the insurgents to look out from behind cover without receiving a bullet in the head for their pains. It was like watching a well-oiled machine going forward, and I had little doubt that the end of the Taliban warband was imminent.
“Max, the road, it’s blocked!”
I looked forward as Rachel shouted. It explained why we hadn’t seen them before; the insurgents had been busy building a roadblock to prevent take-off. It was out of sight of the area where the aircraft had been parked on the ground. They’d piled rocks onto the road, several tons of them. It had all been done so swiftly and silently that we had no idea it was there.
“I’ll take the controls,” I snapped at Rachel.
She took her hands off the column, and I steered the aircraft slowly towards and then around the obstruction. As I bumped back onto the tarmac road, Rachel turned urgently to speak to me.
“You won’t be able to take off, Max. There’s not enough room to clear those rocks.”
“Except that it slopes uphill just before their roadblock.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like the ski-jump they use on aircraft carriers. We might be able to use the same principle. Didn’t you see that kind of thing when you flew military?”
“I was USAF, not Navy. We didn’t have aircraft carriers.”
“Right. Well, that’s the principle anyway. It was a British invention, an alternative to the catapult system. The ski-jump ramp at the end of a runway or flight deck allows an aircraft to make a running start to transition a portion of its forward momentum into upward motion. The idea is that the additional altitude and upward angled flight path from the jump provides extra time, until the forward airspeed generated by the engine thrust is high enough to maintain level flight.”
“You’re not serious? Making it work on this roadway may be a little different, of course.”
“You don’t say.”
I ignored her sarcastic rejoinder and concentrated on steering the aircraft. We reached the end of the tarmac road at the point where it disappeared into a sharp bend between two low hills, and which were too close together for the aircraft wings to fit between them. I spun her through one hundred and eighty degrees and looked ahead.
“It’s awfully short, Max.”
I nodded. “It’s all we have.”
The brakes were full on. I pushed the throttles forward, the twin turboprops built up speed, and the airframe started to shake as it strained against the leash of the wheelbrakes.
“For God’s sake, Max, she’ll tear herself apart.”
But it was the only way. “Nearly there. My grandmother told me that my grandfather used to shout ‘Hals und Beinbruch’, break a neck and a leg, as they went into the area of maximum danger. Kind of a German good luck thing.”
“Max!”
I let the brakes off, and the Twin Otter leapt forward. It was all we could do to keep it on the narrow ribbon of tarmac. Rachel was right, the rocks were awfully close, but I figured we had to try it. There could be another Taliban force on their way to reinforce the first group, and we may find ourselves under mortar or machine gun fire to add to the difficulties of the roadblock. The rocks came nearer, nearer still. To her credit, Rachel didn’t close her eyes even though she must have been tempted.
“Are we full out?” I shouted at her. “Can you increase power at all?”
“You’re right forward on the stops, Max. There’s nothing else.”
“Ok, hang on.”
Then we were on it, and I felt the nosewheel start to rise as it ran onto the slope, then the rear wheels. It was now or never, so I heaved on the control column just as the aircraft hit a bump. That bump in the ground saved us. It was enough to nudge the aircraft upwards, and I felt the propellers biting as they screamed against the wind, clawing for a hold, battling for some kind of altitude. There was another bump from the undercarriage as the tires hit the rocks a glancing blow. I refused to sacrifice speed for height, and for several hundred yards we flew only a few feet of the ground. Then I pulled back gently, and we started to climb. We’d made it.
“I feel sick.”
I looked across at her and grinned. “Maybe it was a little close.”
“Close! Jesus Christ, we brought half that roadblock with us. I’ll bet we find pieces of rock tangled in the undercarriage.”
“Souvenirs. Rachel, would you go back and see how Ed Walker is. He got hit badly before we left. Shit, hang on!”
The vast curtain of the Hindu Kush loomed in front of us, and we were about two thousand feet too low to clear it. The terrifying rock face loomed towards us, filling the cockpit windshield.
“Rachel! Hard to starboard, we’ll need to fly adjacent to the mountain range until we’ve got enough height to cross.”
I heaved on the control column, kicked on the rudder and fed in as much right aileron as I could manage to drop the right wing. The de Havilland almost dropped perpendicular on the starboard wing as it came around, slowly. The rocks were near, too near!”
“Bank her harder, it’s our only chance.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Rachel, this isn’t a test, pull!”
We both put all of our effort into turning away from the rocks that waited to end our flight almost before it began. There were shouts from the back of the aircraft as the passengers were tossed around, but I didn’t have time to worry. Inch by inch we cla
wed our way free of the mountain range. At last we could see clear sky in front of windshield. When I was satisfied we’d averted disaster, I asked Rachel to check on Ed Walker. She came back a few minutes later, her face grave.
“He’s dying. He said he needs to talk to you, and it’s urgent. I’ll take her from here.”
“What does he want?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you go and see?”
I handed over, and she continued climbing to clear the mountains. I went aft to where he lay on an old tarpaulin. His lifeblood had drained into it so that the canvas had taken on the sheen of a wet oil slick, but this was a blood slick. He was white, struggling to speak. I bent nearer and put my ear close to his mouth.
“Tell them to give me some room. This is for your ears only,” he whispered.
The medics and bodyguards heard him and went further down the cabin. As Yves walked away, he caught my eyes and shook his head.
“How do you feel?” I asked Walker.
It was a stupid question to ask a dying man with multiple bullet wounds. His lips bared in the ghastly parody of a smile.
“I’ve been better.”
“We’ll get you to Peshawar very soon. There’s a good hospital there.”
“Yeah, fuck you, Hoffman. I’m finished, and you all know it. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Ed, it’s ok. Why don’t you try and rest.”
“No time,” he whispered, his voice even fainter. “Your satphone, you’ll find it in my pack. I told Kyle to give it back to you.”
“Ok.”
“Joe Ashford, he…”
He bucked then as the agony hit him hard. I waited for a few minutes until the spasm had died away. He tried to speak again, but it was barely audible.
“What? What is it about Joe Ashford?”
“He’s…deal…” I waited again.
“Mullah Omar.”
“Mullah Omar? The leader of the Taliban?”
“Yeah. Weird, ain’t it? But listen, he…”
Another spasm, and I waited to hear the rest of it.
“It’s a double-cross. They think he’s on their side, but…”
Then he died. A fountain of blood spurted from his mouth, and I leapt aside to avoid it. Yves was watching and rushed over, but it was too late. Something internal had ruptured from the bullet wounds, and it had pushed his body beyond the limit at which it could survive. His men came over and looked down at their boss.
“He’s dead.” I looked up and stared at them, but there was no reaction.
“He told me about the satphone, would you let me have it later and cover the body. We’ll bury him when we land.”
One of the men folded the bloody canvas over the body. The other lit a cigarette and sat down, smoking quietly. He saw me watching him. “Stupid bastard, he led us into that trap and got most of the men killed. Good riddance.”
I nodded. “Some epitaph.”
Back in the cockpit, I told Rachel what he’d said. She looked puzzled.
“But, who thinks he’s on their side? And who is he double-crossing?”
I shook my head. “It beats me. The Taliban, I assume.”
“But that makes no sense. They wouldn’t trust an American CIA man, so how could he double-cross them?”
She had a point there.
“So maybe it’s the Americans, ISAF, the CIA, even the Afghan government.”
“But why?”
A new voice called out a reply. “Drugs.”
It was one of Walker’s men, the one who’d covered Walker’s body. I still didn’t know his name. He was short, thin and wiry, probably for Special Forces; like so many mercenaries and security contractors I’d come across, especially lately. He saw my raised eyebrows.
“I guess it’s time we were introduced. I’m Saul Madden, and the other guy back there is Kyle McDonald.”
It was the most words I’d heard him speak. I nodded.
“Ok, well, I guess you know who I am.”
He grinned. “Yeah, the guy whose gonna get us back safe.”
“I hope so. What’s this drugs business?”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I’ve about had enough. The cause of all this trouble is Joe Ashford. The guy’s a fucking lunatic.”
“The drugs?” I prompted.
“Yeah, I guess you know why he’s here in Afghanistan. He’s building up a bank balance, something to retire back to the States with.”
“I doubt he’s the only one doing that, Saul.”
“Maybe not, but he’s probably the only one whose sacrificing his own people to do it. It was Ashford who put Ed Walker in command of the team, when he knew the guy didn’t know squat about military operations.”
“But why?”
“Yeah, good question. The only people we can figure out who got any benefit were the Taliban.”
“He’s working for the enemy?”
Saul shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s possible. I think it’s more likely he deals drugs from these Taliban people, buying them direct and shipping them out Stateside. And in the process, he wouldn’t want to put anyone too experienced in command, in case it upset his business contacts. He sends us people out into the field, and we have the occasional success, but not against the big guys. It’s always the little ones, like the last mission. A few local leaders, that’s about it. The time before we destroyed a bombmaking shop. Only trouble was there wasn’t enough material there to make a Fourth of July rocket.”
“So how does he run his operation?”
“Like I say, he does just enough to convince the brass that he’s serious. On the side he makes his drug deals.”
“The bastard,” I murmured. “So he’s giving the Taliban the money to buy weapons to use against his own people.”
“Money? I didn’t say anything about money,” Saul exclaimed.
“No? If not money, what does he give them in exchange?”
It was a puzzle, and Saul supplied the answer I was least expecting.
“Guns.”
The enormity of the double-cross astonished me. So that’s what Walker meant. He was selling US military equipment to the Taliban for them to use against US troops. Not actually selling it, exchanging it for drugs with which to destroy the nation’s youth.
“We have to do something about it. The guy sounds completely out of control.”
“Hey, buddy, a word of advice. Don’t fuck with Joe Ashford. Don’t even think about it. He’s more poisonous than a hungry rattler, and a thousand times meaner. He’s got contacts all over the country, back in the US too. Not just CIA, either, he’s pretty tight with the drug people.”
“So what the hell do I do?”
“Same as me, my friend. Nothing. There’s nothing you can do, not if you want to live.”
“What about your comrade, Kyle? How does he feel?”
Saul shrugged. “He’s in it for the money. If he’s got any conscience, I haven’t seen it yet. I don’t talk to him about it.”
Shortly after, I had to help Rachel navigate to Peshawar. Saul returned to the cargo hold, and Luk came forward with Najela.
“You don’t mind her sitting up front with me?”
He looked better, much better. Still pale, obviously recovering, but he was doing better than any of us had expected. And as for Najela, anything that helped him recover had to be a good thing. I grinned.
“I’m always in favor of some extra company up front, especially someone as pretty as Najela.”
He signed what I’d said to her, and she looked away, not used to compliments from male strangers. If, as I suspected, Luk intended taking her home to Thailand, she’d have to get used to them. And enjoy them, if she was like most women.
* * *
Joe Ashford finished the brief conversation that had come in from Kyle McDonald on the aircraft. So Ed Walker was dead. That was too bad, he’d have to find a replacement, and maybe bring out some snot-nosed youngster from Lang
ley. He’d lost most of his men, so he wouldn’t be able to blame anyone else for his shortcomings. He’d have to remember to keep his promise to reward Kyle McDonald for giving him the heads up. What he’d said could be serious. Kyle suspected that Walker had blabbed to that fucking pilot, Max Hoffman, before he’d died. What had he told him? He’d have to assume the worst, and that he’d told him everything about his operations. It was too bad, but Ashford couldn’t allow that kind of info to get back to his masters in Washington. That meant Hoffman would have to be dealt with very soon. How could he organize that? Oh yeah, Mullah Omar. He’d help, in return for a favor. Ashford knew that Omar operated a base in Pakistan, guarded by the Pakistani Secret Police. The Inter-Services Intelligence, ISI, was Pakistan's premier intelligence agency, and responsible for providing critical intelligence assessment to the Government of Pakistan. Its work had included supporting the Mujahedeen in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the 1980s and the Taliban against the Indian and Iranian-backed Northern Alliance in the Afghanistan Civil War in the 1990s. The connection to the Taliban had withstood the American backed invasion, and they made certain that the Taliban facilities were safely guarded well away from the American spy drones. Omar’s base was near the stricken village. All he’d need to do would be to order Hoffman to fly into the nearby airfield to get aid into the village as fast as possible. Then make sure that Omar’s fighters took him out. In return for the favor, they’d be welcome to help themselves to the medical supplies. What was it Joseph Stalin had said? ‘Death solves all problems - no man, no problem’. It was neat, and it would work.
Chapter Eleven
What we need to do is to correct some of the ways we operated in the past. We need to show the kind of resolve and the imagination in some cases to do this smarter and to do it right.
General Stanley McChrystal
“Let’s have it, Charlie, what’s the current situation?”
Marine General Daniel Westwood stared at his intelligence officer, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Brooks. The atmosphere in the room had changed from the last time they’d met here. Then, the whole country was in crisis. But after several days of fierce fighting, they were regaining the upper hand. The other officer present, Lieutenant Colonel Vance Everard, was about to be let off the leash. Defensive operations were almost over, and his new mission was to seek out and destroy the enemy, wherever he could find them. Westwood went to the wallmap and used a pointer to illustrate his talk.