Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  But I’d already worked out how to keep him at arm’s length if we ever got away. “No. I want full and clear title to my aircraft and airline, all debts paid. You stay out of our hair, that’s all.”

  “All?” he sneered. “I don’t believe you.”

  “There is one more thing, Ashford. You come near us, or any of our people or property, and I’ll kill you.” He started to laugh, but my next words stopped him. “You know Art Schramm and his boys?”

  He nodded. “The mercs, yeah.”

  “Art is a friend of my family. When we get in the air, I’m going to call him up and spell it all out to him. Don’t worry. It’ll be on a satphone, and not over the radio for everyone to hear. He’ll know what you’ve done, and if anything does happen to us, he’ll come looking for you with his men. You wouldn’t like that, Ashford. There’s no way out of that. Not even you could deal with Schramm and his mercenaries.”

  His smile had gone, and he looked grim. “I hear you. You’ve got a deal.”

  “What about the aircraft title and my mortgage deeds? Where are they?”

  “You’ll have them within forty-eight hours. Don’t worry,” he scowled. “I know what’s at stake.”

  “You’d better.”

  We left without another word and climbed aboard the Twin Otter. When we were airborne, I turned to Luk and Rachel. “You know I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this.”

  Luk blushed, but Rachel was all business. “There is something you can do, Max.”

  I nodded. “Anything, all you have to do is name it.”

  “I’m the only fiancée in the world without a ring. You can put that right.”

  I looked her in the eyes. “Is that what you want? Really?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “It’ll be my number one priority. Anything else? Luk what about you?”

  “I’ll talk to Najela,” he grinned. “Then I’ll let you know.”

  It was all surreal; in the midst of so much death, poverty and misery, they were talking about, well, life.”

  * * *

  They could see he was faltering with the hard, fast pace they had to maintain to cross the mountains without being seen by any wandering drones. But he was weakening. Abruptly, he stumbled. There wasn’t room for them to help him along the narrow, rocky path. He walked alone, and he fell to the sharp stony ground. They were horrified.

  “Mullah, are you well? Is there a problem, do you feel ill?”

  He looked up and surveyed them with his one eye. “The air is thin and the going hard. I just need a little rest. Do not worry about me. It was just a stumble, no more. Give me a few minutes, and then I will be refreshed enough to continue.”

  “But, Mullah, it is not safe. The American drones are everywhere. We need to…”

  “If the drones find us, it is God’s will. If God wishes to protect us, so be it. But I cannot go on. I must have a few minutes rest.”

  Rashid Osman knew they shouldn’t have come this way, but there was no choice. That damned American attack had forced their hand, and it was the only way out. Even so, they’d lost a lot of men, too many men. There would be a great many grieving widows when they returned to the village they used as a base. And even more, if they stayed out here in the open, high in the mountains that bordered the Khyber Pass.

  “Sir,” he tried once more. “Can you not make a few hundred yards to the group of rocks you can see in the distance. It will give us some cover.”

  Omar stared at him. “I have spoken, Rashid. We wait here.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He positioned sentries at all corners of their makeshift camp. But what could they do if a drone appeared? Nothing, except maybe shoot it down. He called over four men who carried RPG missile launchers.

  “You know of the danger we face from drones?”

  The oldest of the four men replied. “Of course. We are not children that have never learned how to fight.”

  “Post your men so that they have a clear shot at anything that appears in the sky. Tell them to be ready.”

  The man looked scornful. “For drones? You know how high they fly, and the range of our missiles.”

  “I know, but it is all we have. Make sure you are ready, and if God is with us this day, they will have no need to fire their weapons.”

  “You mean if the Americans do not choose to overfly this area, Rashid.”

  “That too. Now hurry, do your best.”

  He’d done what he could. His men were carrying a light machine gun, an old Soviet Degtyarev DP, nicknamed the ‘record player’ because of its pancake shaped magazines. He considered deploying that but decided against it. Its accuracy was not ideal even for ground operations. No, as an anti-aircraft gun, it was worse than useless. He sat near to Mullah Omar and checked his watch. Five minutes, no more. Then they’d have to move on, even if they had to carry him.

  * * *

  She was tired and almost at the end of her shift. Master Sergeant Carol Wendelski wasn’t looking forward to the long drive home across the Nevada desert, but it was better than living on Creech Air Force base. She was piloting the MQ-9 Reaper. So far she’d fired off all of her Hellfire missiles, and she knew that when they checked the mission camera, they’d find she’d hit precious little. All she had left was a single GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided bomb, and her eyes, of course. If she saw anything, she could call in an air strike. But she was Air Force, and maybe not a fighter jock, but the next best thing. She wanted, no, she craved a kill. And then she saw it, movement high up on the mountainside. She kept the drone straight and level so that the men on the ground didn’t catch any sudden movements and scatter. Then she increased magnification and directed her camera to inspect the target. Yeah, insurgents, had to be. They were too heavily armed, and their direction of travel was too off the beaten track for them to be anything else. She flashed through a mental checklist of her rules of engagement and made a split second decision. She was still operating under the modified RoEs, so she was allowed to go for it. That was good enough for her. She locked the laser targeting system on the party of Afghans, and only then swung the drone over in a hard banking turn that would take it down and directly over their position. As she drew nearer, she armed the Paveway guided bomb at the same moment as she saw the men running around in obvious panic. Two missiles soared into the sky towards her Reaper, and she chuckled. Who the hell were they kidding? Her finger was over the button, the moment came and she hit it. At the last second, she swore she could see a guy looking up. He was in the center of the group, and he had a black patch over one eye. Surely not? After all this time, it couldn’t be that easy, could it? But she’d report what she’d seen. They could make up their own minds; they’d rerun the video and see exactly what she’d seen. The picture disappeared into a blur of smoke and debris. She circled for a few minutes and took another look. There were a few bodies and no movement. That was good enough for her, time to fly the bird back to Kabul and punch out for home.

  * * *

  We landed at Kabul International. I was sick of seeing the place, but we had to clear up some loose ends; not least was the debriefing that I’d been sidetracked from attending. When we landed, Luk hurried of to check on Najela, conscious of the long arm of Joe Ashford. Rachel and I managed to get a lift on a Humvee driving to Camp Phoenix.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We will never allow you to dictate to us how to run our country and whom to employ in Afghanistan. How and where we employ the foreign experts will remain the exclusive prerogative of the Afghan state. Afghanistan shall remain poor, if necessary, but free in its acts and decisions.

  Daoud Khan, former Afghan President

  “Mr. President, Sir. A message from Kabul.”

  President Barrani looked up at the aide. His immediate feeling was one of relief. The meeting to discuss agricultural grants for organic fertilizers was one he would gratefully have avoided, but the delegation was from a marginal district, and the
congressman had begged for his support. He put on his most regretful look.

  “I’m sorry, this shouldn’t take long. Keep the meeting going. I’ll be right back.”

  They all nodded gravely. Affairs of state took precedence. They knew that. When he was outside, he took the aide to one side and grinned.

  “Was this a genuine emergency, or were you just saving my ass?”

  The aide didn’t return the smile. “It’s genuine, Sir. They’re asking for you in the situation room.”

  He nodded. “Ok, let’s go see if World War III has broken out.”

  Inside the situation room, he could see smiling faces. So it wasn’t war, thank God.

  “What’s going on?” he asked General Mathew Mann.

  “It’s good news, Mr. President. At least, we think it is. It’s Mullah Omar.”

  “You think? That doesn’t sound promising. Did you find him or not?”

  “We’re almost sure, and we didn’t just find him. We found him with a GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided bomb, from one of our Reapers. If you’d care to take a seat, Sir, I’ll run the video.”

  He sat and watched the film. It was surprisingly sharp, and in color. Not at all like those grainy images that used to come out of his gun camera when he was attending post mission debriefs on his carrier off the coast of South Vietnam. He saw the man with the eye patch, and saw the smoke and debris. He watched for several minutes as it slowly cleared. The Reaper was circling, keeping the camera focused on the target. Then it cleared, and there was a heap of bodies and scraps of equipment.

  “Is he dead? Really dead?”

  “We think so, Sir.”

  He fixed his Chief of Staff with a hard gaze. “I’m not so sure. Number one priority, General. Find out the truth. Is the reward still in place?”

  “Yessir, ten million dollars. American.”

  “Ok. Make it public that the reward stands, dead or alive. I want to see a body. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir, I’ll get straight on to it.”

  “Good. But well done, everyone, and you can send my congratulations to that drone pilot.”

  He strode out. Please God, let it be true. If he could wind down the war in Afghanistan, and start bringing the troops back, his second term would be a kick-in.

  * * *

  The debrief was like a thick fog, and I fought my way through it, trying to keep my mind focused, but it was hard, very hard. Art Schramm was dead. Two hours before, a bomber had left his vehicle outside the hotel where he was entertaining his girlfriend. The explosion destroyed most of the building, killing Art, his girl and three other mercenaries from his unit, as well as scores of other civilians in the vicinity. After all the actions he’d fought through, the enemies he’d defeated and killed, to be murdered in his bed left me with a sense of disbelief and outrage. I knew who was responsible. There was no question. Ashford. He’d put the word out as soon as we took off from Peshawar. I knew it was a warning to my crew and me. I shouldn’t have used Art Schramm’s name as a threat to him. I realized my mistake and felt responsible. Yet deep down I knew that there was only one person responsible for the bomb, Joe Ashford. One day, I’d find a way to get even. The only way to achieve that end was to kill him. From that moment on, Ashford and I would be mortal enemies, and we both knew it. Each of us could harm the other immensely, that was obvious. I would have to be patient. ‘Revenge was a dish best served cold’, I believe that was the old saying. The Pashtuns had a better proverb. ‘A man taking revenge one hundred years after a slight to his ancestor, would fret that he had acted in haste.’ I didn’t plan to wait that long, but killing Ashford would from here on in would be part of the fabric of my life. One day, I’d find a way to rid South East Asia of his pestilential schemes without any comebacks on me, my friends and my partner, Rachel.

  “To sum up, the operation was a mixed success,” General Westwood said. I looked up. I hadn’t even realized the debriefing was almost over.

  “There were some good points and some bad points. I’ve recommended Lieutenant Rains for a medal, and I expect it to be approved by the time his body is shipped home. More good news, and this time it’s about Mullah Omar. One of our drones got a hit on a party that was climbing the mountain right above where you lost contact with his people. They managed to drop a laser-guided bomb on the party, and as far as they know, all of them were killed. We’re working now to get independent confirmation that Mullah Omar was in that party, but it’ll take time. However, there’s a good chance that he was there. So well done, all of you. Colonel Brooks, would you like to play the video and show these folks what went down.”?

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The blinds were already closed. Someone switched off the light and a video projector came to life. I saw the wide angle shot taken from high altitude, and then the rocky landscape came closer as the drone swooped down low. We could see them clearly now, a group of heavily armed insurgents. They looked up in alarm and launched a couple of RPG shoulder launched missiles. One of the men did appear to have a patch over one eye, but that was not conclusive. In a land of little or no medical care like Afghanistan, many men wore eye patches. Several of them fired their assault rifles, and then the bomb launched to arc down, exploding on the exposed mountainside. When the smoke cleared, there was just bodies. Then the lights came on.

  “We’re certain that we got him. The guy with the eye patch looked pretty conclusive. Our surmise is that you forced him out into the open when you attacked that village. Well done all of you. As soon as we know for sure, we’ll let you know.”

  But I knew then. I had an icy feeling in my guts that it wasn’t him. I could still remember that man in the village of Yaluk staring at me. That stare carried a power that was almost as powerful as the laser that had guided the bomb down to the party of insurgents. The man I’d seen looked similar, except for that one difference. He looked too ordinary. I hoped I was wrong. Mullah Omar’s death could be the catalyst that begun the process of healing to end the war in Afghanistan. But I didn’t think I was wrong. Like everything else in this country, time would give the answers, one way or the other.

  “Lastly, we’re sorry to hear about the death of Art Schramm and his men. I’d ask you to stand and salute the man who fought so long and so hard for what was right.”

  We stood, the men in uniform saluted, and us civilians put our hands over our hearts. Then it was over. There was only one place in Kabul for us to head for, Abe Woltz’s bar. General Westwood laid on a Humvee to take us there but asked me into his office for a quiet word before I left. Rachel didn’t like being excluded, but she gave in.

  “Sit down, Hoffman. This won’t take long, but we may as well be comfortable.”

  I hesitated, but only for a second or two. When Generals give orders, even invitations, they have a way of making the subject go along with them. I sat down.

  “What is it, General? I’ve a lot to do and people waiting for me. Can you make it quick?”

  “Sure, but this business in Yaluk, hunting down Mullah Omar. You did well, damn well.”

  “If he’s dead,” I replied.

  He looked and stared at me. “I gather you’re not sure.”

  “No, I’m not. Frankly, I doubt it.”

  He nodded. “I see. In that case, it makes what I have to say more important. You know that US policy is to employ more security contractors and run down our troop strength?”

  “Of course I do, that’s common knowledge. It cuts down the number of soldiers being shipped home in body bags.”

  “That’s not the sole reason,” he objected. But then he smiled. “But I guess it figures pretty high in the politicians’ thinking. Did you know I offered Art Schramm a long term contract?”

  I wasn’t surprised. “He was a good soldier. He would have been an asset.”

  “Yeah. The thing is, I also need someone who is more mobile, who can fly shipments and personnel around for me. Would you be interested? The money is good. I understand you�
��ve overcome your immediate problems, but this would guarantee a good future for your airline, even expansion.”

  “Who told you about our problems?”

  He waved the question away. “I heard it somewhere. But what do you think, an exclusive contract to fly for the military in Afghanistan?”

  “I’m not comfortable with it, General. I have a policy of not flying weapons and soldiers.”

  “Not what I heard,” he grinned. “But I guess you were forced into it by the CIA.”

  So he knew about Ashford. “That’s right.”

  “It’s like this, Hoffman. The Afghan government is starting to get serious about cowboy airlines flying all over their country.”

  “My outfit is legit, General, always has been.”

  “Sure, sure. But they’re trying to encourage their own people to get involved more. I gather they’ll be looking hard at license renewals for foreigners, and I believe yours is up in a few months time?”

  It all clicked into place then, the quid pro quo. Fly for us, and we’ll keep your licenses valid. Refuse, and you’ll find yourself grounded. Permanently. I felt bitter, and it was a stab in the back. But I guessed it was the way things played out in this country.

  “I’ll think about it, General.”

  “Of course you will. Good man. The kind of thing I envisage is worthwhile, believe me. Extracting casualties from outlying areas, troops who fall sick. Maybe even picking up troops held prisoner by the insurgents, if it’s ever needed.”

  My mind was diverted, thinking about how to transport sick people in the Twin Otter, when my brain picked up the word prisoners.

  “I’m sorry, you said prisoners. That suggests to me that they’d be in enemy hands.”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “General, what you’re describing is more than flying sick troops. You’re talking armed operations into enemy held territory.”