Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  “Sergeant Mason, over here!”

  Two of the infantry searching the area where Omar’s stone hut lay had emerged with two men. They were so ragged I thought at first they had caught two more prisoners, but when I focused my binoculars I saw they were American. I walked towards them with Mason and Art Schramm, and as we drew near, it became clear they were an officer and an NCO. The officer held out his hand to us.

  “Major Roberts, and this is Corporal Blakeney. My thanks to you gentlemen, I thought we were going to be here a lot longer than this. Maybe forever.”

  We shook hands. “How long have you been a prisoner, Major?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “I wish I knew. We lost track of time. A year, I guess. We were captured in the winter of 2009.”

  “It’s 2012 now, Major. I’d guess you’ve been there for three years.”

  Their faces fell. Three lost years! “We were hooded for most of the time,” the corporal explained. “It was disorientating.”

  I nodded. I’d bet it was all of that, and more.

  * * *

  “Mr. Ashford, my employer has been very fair with you. Yet now you tell me that the shipment has not arrived, and you do not have the money to repay what you owe. I’m afraid that his patience is finally at an end. Do you have his money?”

  Ashford stared at the phone. He wanted to recruit a team, send it in to those spic drug dealers, and blast them all to hell. Except that they were too strong, too heavily armed, too numerous.

  “Listen to me. It’s all lined up. The guns are stuck in a warehouse in Kabul. As soon as I can get them moved to my contacts, I’ll have the drugs, and I can swap them for the money. Just a few days, that’s all.”

  “But Senor! That is exactly what you said last time we spoke. My Jefe has given me explicit instructions, no more extensions. Either you pay, or we shall have to proceed with the alternative.”

  He pictured his life, as it would become; a fugitive, running from the South American hit squad. The Agency wouldn’t support him, and if they found out what he’d been doing, he’d be facing a lifetime in a Federal prison. He had to get more time, had to!

  “I’ll give you more money.”

  There was a slight hesitation the other end, and then a sigh. “But you have no money.”

  “As soon as the deal’s done, I’ll up the ante. Twenty-five percent on top.”

  Another hesitation. This time it was briefer. “Five days, no more. After that, there will be no more calls. You would be advised to make your peace with God if you fail to keep your side of the bargain, Senor Ashford.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money.”

  “It is not I who should be worried, Senor Ashford.”

  The line went dead, and he hung up. The damn spic had gone. Ashford started working out how he could play this. The first task would be to get the crates loaded back onto the Twin Otter, and he’d need to arrange to divert some extra ordnance to make up the amount he’d promised the Taliban. That was easy. He knew who would issue the necessary orders, and they’d have no choice but to carry them out. As soon as that little shit Hoffman got back to Kabul, he could fly out to the field and do the swap for the drugs. The intelligence officer had told him they should be back by the following day. He’d have to move fast. He climbed into his SUV and started to drive to Kabul International. Now what would make Hoffman do as he was told? Hadn’t Ed Walker said that he was sweet on that co-pilot of his? That should do it. Perfect!

  Chapter Fourteen

  After our victory in Afghanistan and the defeat of the Soviet oppressors who had killed millions of Muslims, the legend about the invincibility of the superpowers vanished. Our boys no longer viewed America as a superpower. So, when they left Afghanistan, they went to Somalia and prepared themselves carefully for a long war. They had thought that the Americans were like the Russians, so they trained and prepared. As I said, our boys were shocked by the low morale of the American soldier and they realized that the American soldier was just a paper tiger.

  Osama bin Laden

  President Barzai looked tired and irritable. He glared at the two senior men. The man in uniform was his Army Chief of Staff. The other was a constant thorn in his side.

  “What is it, Defense Minister Wardak? You have called me away from vital work to attend this meeting. Tell me why?”

  Abdul Rahim Wardak spat out one word. “Drones.” He looked at the President and the Army Chief of Staff. “These hideous aircraft fill our skies, killing our people and destroying our mosques. Shall I tell you who they’re fighting for, Mr. President? The Taliban. Every time one of their missiles attacks our innocent people, they cry out for revenge, for the blood of the Americans.”

  “Yes, yes, you have said this before, Abdul. But remember, the drones are doing a fine job, destroying the Taliban leaders wherever they gather.”

  “A fine job you call it? When every missile recruits more fighters for the enemy cause.”

  “And how would you deal with the Taliban leaders, Abdul,” General Kadim asked gently.

  “By negotiation. It is time we talked, instead of driving more fighters to fill their ranks.”

  Barzai stood up and leaned on the table. “Talk to them! Are you serious? Do you know how many times I have tried to talk to these people? Every time it is impossible. Do you know they don’t even have an address, and somewhere I could contact them? How can you talk with non-existent ghosts, Defense Minister?”

  It was true. Wardak knew that. The Taliban were virtually unreachable. They made contact only when they had something to say, and then the conduit would quickly be broken off. He stayed silent.

  “Yes, you know the truth of it, don’t you? Talk to them, you say, but I say, talk to who? Stop the use of drones, that’s what you suggest. But how then do we take the war to the enemy? When we talked about the American mission to target the Taliban leaders with mercenaries, you protested. I’m beginning to think you don’t want to win this war, Abdul,” The President ended scornfully.

  Wardak flushed. He knew he was on dangerous ground, and Barzai had a harsh way of dealing with his ministers who failed him. Yet when everything they suggested was tantamount to a recruiting drive for the enemy, what should he say?

  “My information is that the American mercenary operation General Kadim was so enthusiastic about ended badly. Our intelligence sources say their people were badly mauled and only achieved limited ends. We have to stop this nonsense now. Even the tribes that formed the Northern Alliance against the Taliban, they’re turning against us. Many of them are swearing revenge for the failed American drone attacks. Some have even allied themselves with the Taliban. We’re losing this war, Mr. President.”

  Both men stared at the Defense Minister. Had he lost his mind? His words were tantamount to treason. But Barzai merely nodded.

  “We will discuss these things, Abdul. Perhaps there is merit in what you have to say. This meeting is at an end. General, would you stay a moment? I need to talk to you about an approach to the American military.”

  Both men were silent as the Defense Minister left the room, and when the door was closed, Barzai picked up his telephone to call his private secretary.

  “Bring us a tray of tea, and then we are not to be disturbed. Not by anyone.”

  He put the phone down. “Now, General, you know what has to be done? I will not have such treasonous defeatism in my cabinet.”

  “It will not be easy,” Kadim replied. He is Pashtun, of course, like us. But his tribe, the Khattak, will swear revenge if anything happens to him. It could even start a civil war.”

  “We already have a civil war, General. But I take your point. I would suggest an accident. No, I have a better idea. If he were killed in a Taliban suicide bombing, it would strengthen the determination of his tribe to fight our enemies. Can you arrange it? You know how they operate. Perhaps one of your prisoners could be killed and placed in a vehicle on the route that the Defense Minister uses each d
ay.”

  The General nodded. “It could be arranged, yes. There may be many civilian casualties. It would need a large bomb to be certain of killing him.”

  Barzai spread his hands wide. “So much the better. We need to stir hatred against the Taliban. Now listen, there is a nephew of my wife, he is a colonel in the army. I feel he would make an excellent Defense Minister, especially if I instructed him to obey your wishes for the military.”

  Kadim kept a straight face. He already had a cousin he’d hoped to put forward as a replacement for Wardak, but he’d have to bide his time. Barzai couldn’t survive forever. Afghanistan was such a dangerous place. He’d survived several attempts on his life already, and maybe he wouldn’t be so lucky next time. He’d even suggested the way to dispose of unwanted politicians that would deflect public opinion against the enemy.

  “Excellent, Sir. I will arrange it.”

  The President nodded. “Good. Anything else?”

  “Sir, I’ve had a request from the American CIA Station Chief here in Kabul, Mr. Ashford. There is a shipment of arms destined for our loyal tribes who are fighting the enemy in the northern provinces. Apparently, there’s some kind of bureaucratic foul-up, and it would help immensely if you would issue an order to release the shipment without further delay.”

  Barzai waited. They both knew that this kind of affair was never quite that simple.

  “Of course,” the General continued, “Mr. Ashford will be more than happy to make a sizeable donation to your fund for the education of the poor.”

  “See my secretary and have him draw up the paperwork,” the President nodded carelessly. “The shipment must be made available without delay.” The door opened, and a tray of tea was brought in. Both men sat drinking tea, making small talk. Each one wondered when the other would make an attempt on his life to ease a relative into a promotion, or satisfy some ancient vendetta, or both.

  “I’m so glad we had this meeting,” the General said to his President. “I feel it will go a long way towards making the kinds of changes and improvements we need to govern this country.”

  “I agree. It is good to be able to speak frankly with men you trust.”

  * * *

  We sat on the rocks exhausted. All around us the debris of the battle lay strewn on the ground. Bodies, ripped clothing, abandoned weapons and equipment. The Delta Force men were in a tight group on their own, and each was busy checking and reloading their weapons. Their helicopters had landed further down the mountainside, close to the village. There was no sense in their burning up fuel when their main target had disappeared into the deep clefts and caverns of the mountain.

  “I’ve had my men check the bodies. There doesn’t seem to be any survivors.”

  I looked at Mason. He’d done well, taking charge of the platoon when his officer blundered in and nearly got us all killed. But we were still bitter with the sense of failure. I nodded an acknowledgment and looked up as one of Art Schramm’s men cried out.

  “He’s alive, this guy. One of the insurgents, he must have banged his head when the bullet grazed his skull. He’s starting to come round.”

  I walked over to take a look. Art was already there, bending over him to examine his wounds. He straightened up. “He’s right, the guy’s ok. I think he’s one of their senior officers.”

  I gazed down at him, but he looked like the usual collection of ragged clothes, bandoliers of ammunition and a black turban. His long beard covered most of his face, but his eyes were open, staring at me.

  “What makes you think he’s an officer?” I asked Art.

  By way of a reply, he reached down and pulled the Afghan’s sleeve up his arm. He wore a watch, but not an ordinary watch.

  “It’s a Swiss Gallet. This model is a Flight Officer time zone chronograph, very, very expensive. There’s also this,” he picked a canvas folder off the ground. “It’s a map case. There are a few documents that we’ll have to hand over to the intelligence guys, and a map of this area. A military map.”

  “American?”

  “Pakistani. They actively support the Taliban and supply them with a lot of intelligence data, especially maps like this. So this guy can read a map and tell the time with a watch that would cost an average Afghan ten years’ pay. And that’s just the down payment. He’s a senior officer, no question.”

  For some reason the watch disturbed me. I’d seen it before, or one very much like it. I put it to the back of my mind; it would come to me later. I just knew it was important. But how many ten thousand dollar Swiss watches were floating around Afghanistan? I suspected I could count the number on the fingers of one hand and have four fingers left. The major we’d released came over.

  “He’s an officer alright. That bastard used to enjoy beating us on the back with canes. We had little enough to eat, and he made his men tip it out onto the ground so that we had to eat it like animals. I’d like some time with that gentleman.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure you would, Major, but we’re not like them. Or not supposed to be, anyway.”

  I looked around as we all heard the sound of engines in the distance. It was the Strykers. They had arrived.

  We boarded the APCs and made our way back to Kabul, the long way around. The Deltas climbed aboard their helicopters and took off for a quicker, more comfortable ride. There were no handshakes, no goodbyes. They were soldiers who arrived without fanfare, conducted their deadly business, and left in the same way. Once again we had to endure the bone-jarring ride along the Afghan roads; the ride cross country, following dried up riverbeds and open plains was comfortable by comparison. I had a lot to think about. I knew that the military people at Camp Phoenix would not be impressed by the failure of our mission. Rachel tried to cheer me up.

  “It wasn’t all bad,” she smiled. “We’ll get back in one piece. We only lost one man.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Rains. A pity about him.”

  “A pity he fucked up, you mean. Stupid bastard, he screwed the whole plan.”

  “Maybe.” I felt tired and depressed. Then our vehicle stopped, and I popped open the hatch. We were facing a horde of Strykers, the same as ours, but many more of them. Their remote turret guns all pointed in our direction. It turned out to be a company of American infantry. I got down to face a hard-looking officer who’d climbed out to stand on the track, hands on hips. It occurred to me that he’d seen too many American cowboy films. It was like watching a scene from High Noon, and we were cast as the bad guys.

  “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Vance Everard. Are you Hoffman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We heard on the radio that your mission was a fuck up, Hoffman. We came in to see if you needed any help.”

  He was abrasive, to the point of downright insulting. Clearly, he had no time for me, as a non-military person. I was about to reply, but Art Schramm came up beside me with Vince Mason. The Sergeant saluted, but Everard ignored him. He was about to continue when Art stepped forward to stand six inches from his face.

  “What’s this about a fuck up? Were you there, Colonel?”

  “No, and it’s a pity I wasn’t. Maybe it would have been different.”

  “Maybe it would have been worse. Ask your Sergeant here for a mission debrief, and you’ll find it was an American officer who fucked up, not Max Hoffman.”

  Everard gave him an icy stare and turned to Mason. “Is that true, Sergeant?”

  Mason hesitated only for a few moments. “I’m afraid Lieutenant Rains was ill, Sir. He went off half-cocked and gave away the element of surprise. But it wasn’t his fault, he’d suffered a blow on the head from an explosion.”

  Everard sighed. “I’ll have to talk to the men when we get back. But not a word of this is to get out, you hear me, Sergeant? I don’t want Lieutenant Rains to be known as anything other than a hero. That’s the story his folks in the US are going to hear.”

  “He was a hero, Colonel. He was doing a good job, up until he ran into that blast. All of
these men are heroes. If you’re in any doubt, ask the two American soldiers we rescued.”

  “From the Taliban?”

  I nodded. “That’s right. We also brought back a prisoner. A high-ranking Taliban officer.”

  He finally relaxed. “Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. You need to tell it to General Westwood. He’s waiting at Camp Phoenix for the debrief. Let’s get the show on the road before it gets dark.” He shouted to his troops. “Turn them around. We’re heading back.”

  I heard a ragged cheer. Evidently, his men did not share the Colonel’s enthusiasm for roaming the Afghan countryside.

  We followed Everard’s APCs back to Camp Phoenix. Our driver parked the Stryker near to all the others, a neat, military line of formidable steel and state of the art weaponry. But I thought about Mullah Omar’s escape route. These vehicles could not travel where the hardy Afghan insurgents could run and move around at will. Rachel and I climbed down to stretch our aching, tired muscles. Luk followed with Najela.

  “What’s the next move, Max? Najela and I want to find somewhere quiet for her to clean up and change. She needs to shop for some new stuff too.”

  “You may as well take her,” I replied. “We’ll give the General everything he needs to know. I suggest we meet at the hangar in Kabul International, and we can check out the Twin Otter. I expect Joe Ashford will be chasing us for the next load.”

  “We didn’t deliver the last load,” Rachel reminded me.

  “That’s true, but it wasn’t our choice. He’ll need to talk to General Westwood about that one.”

  She grimaced. “I don’t think Ashford will take it lying down. He’s sure to blame us.”

  “To hell with Ashford,” I muttered. “Let’s get this debrief over with, and we’ll ask Westwood to explain it to him.”