Allies

by Wolf Riedel

  “Don’t be too long,” she called to Mark and Max’s retreating backs. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”

  Mark waved his acknowledgment back to her and, leaving behind the smells of a beef stew, which could easily wait an extra half hour, headed for the pool.

  “Swim?” asked Max.

  “Sure buddy. Where are your trunks?” Mark asked.

  “Don’t need no steenkin’ trunks,” giggled Max, mimicking Mark from the week before. He pulled off his shirt and shorts and leaped into the water stark naked. Mark watched him as he paddled to the truck inner tube and float toys that the breeze had gathered together in the far left corner of the pool. Not for the first time, Mark made a mental note about what to say in front of his little parrot.

  Mark too, jumped in and made his way to the inner tube and settled himself in with his body in the water and his head and shoulders supported by his armpits on the edge of the tube.

  Kristin, carrying a can of beer in each hand, came out to the edge of the pool, sat down with her feet paddling in the water and handed Mark one of the cans. They both stared up at the blue sky sporting a few, slow moving fibrous wisps of high cirrus clouds which were already starting to be tinged on their western edges by the red glow of the setting sun.

  “Was it the girls this morning?” Kristin asked.

  “Yeah,” Mark said solemnly. “We think so. Autopsies tomorrow.”

  They sat quietly at the pool’s edge while Max paddled in the middle of the pool. Ever more quickly, the shadows around them lengthened and deepened.

  CHAPTER 14

  S Bay Blvd., Anna Maria Island, Florida

  Tuesday 06 Mar 07 1820 hrs AFT

  There was usually more than enough parking available at Kurt’s house to cater for his guests. Since he left his car at the marina near the airfield, Kurt’s sole island vehicle, a moped, easily fit within one corner of the two garages that were built into the ground floor level of the beach house. Coral colored pavers formed the bulk of the front yard from the house to the street, save for a fifteen-foot stand of three leafy, short stemmed palms that dominated the center of the driveway and rows of palmettos on its boundaries with the neighbors. There was easily room for four cars at one time.

  Today that space had been challenged. Heather had brought Tara home after a day visiting the Ringling Circus Museum in Sarasota. Her rental car had been the first there that afternoon. O’Donnell and his wife Tracey-Ann had arrived within a few minutes of Jackson; together they took up two more spaces. Then Shirazi had arrived with his rental car but rather than simply filling in the last spot had parked on the narrow street to report in to Richter. Kurt and Tara had met him at the door.

  “Sergeant Major!” Kurt held out his hand. “Welcome to Florida.”

  “Thanks, Sir,” said Shirazi taking it. “It’s good to be here. Anything to get out of the freaking office is a real treat.” He turned his attention to Tara. “How’s it going, Sprout?” he asked her.

  Tara came forward in a rush and hugged him. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “That’s cause you don’t get up to Ottawa much since your dad left,” he said hugging her back.

  “So. You can always come down to Kingston or the cottage,” she said.

  Master Warrant Officer Cyrus Shirazi had hailed from a military background. His father, a former colonel in the army of the Shah of Iran had bundled his family off to St-Jean-sur-Richelieu in Quebec after the revolution. In Canada, he had done well as a civil engineer; his wife ran an import-export business.

  Cyrus had followed in his father's military footsteps becoming a reservist in the Fusiliers Mont-Royal while attending university in Montreal. Upon graduation he had transferred to the regular force as an enlisted member rather than as an officer and was posted to the 2nd Battalion of the Royal 22nd Regiment in Quebec City where he served as a sniper with the battalion's reconnaissance platoon, then with the operations cell and finally as a rifle section commander.

  In 1998 he was posted to JTF-2 at Dwyer Hill where he first met Kurt, Kurt’s wife and Tara and saw action with him on a number of small operations and in Afghanistan during Operation ANACONDA.

  Subsequent to that, his contacts with Kurt and Tara were frequent as Shirazi quickly rose through the rank of Warrant Officer to Master Warrant Officer before being posted to the Land Force Requirements Directorate in Ottawa, a job he had disliked when he had first started there but had since then grown to thoroughly despise. At thirty-three years of age, hard and tough, standing just a few inches short of Kurt’s height but weighing in at a few pounds more, Shirazi felt he was still too young to be holding down a desk; he wanted back to the field with a vengeance especially now that so many of his peers were seeing combat every day in Afghanistan.

  “Where would you like me to park?” he asked.

  Kurt glanced up the road just in time to see Phil’s car slowly picking its way along the narrow street. Phil had an almost fanatical attachment to his car, a 2004 Dodge Viper SRT-10 Mamba, a very limited edition black car Dodge had put out with a black interior with red stitching and trim. Behind him a black SUV held Phil’s current close protection detail.

  “Tell you what,” he said to Shirazi and nodding toward the Viper. “Let’s leave this spot for the general’s car and you can park over there.” He pointed at one of six parking spots a few yards up on the far side of the road. “Those are for visitors or for anyone needing to get to their boats in the canal behind. I’ll give you a hand with your gear.”

  Shirazi glanced at Phil’s car. “Sweet ride.”

  Kurt reached into the ice and beer filled galvanized steel tub and drew out two bottles.

  “Pilsner good?” he asked as he handed one to Shirazi. Shirazi had gone up to his room to put away his gear and freshen up after the flight. He had now come down to join the party.

  “Yeah. Fine,” he said. “That’s quite the view,” he casually pointed the bottle seaward in the direction of the twin sails of the Sunshine Skyway bridge that connected St Petersburg on the north shore with Terra Ceia on the south shore of Tampa Bay. Golden rays from the setting sun glinted off the suspension cables. Beneath, the choppy waters were rapidly emptying of the fleets of sport fisherman.

  “Not so fine when you have to motor your way underneath it twice every day.”

  “I heard about that,” Shirazi said with a laugh. “I had a hard time picturing it but now that I’m here . . .” He shook his head.

  “Believe me,” said Kurt. “The novelty wore off quite some time ago.”

  “I was going to say: now that I see it I can’t believe it.” Shirazi shook his head again. “Twice a day, eh? There must be times when it’s too rough.”

  “That’s when I resort to a taxi,” Kurt said. He looked down sheepishly. “Unfortunately I’ve done that more than I’d like to.” Kurt steered Shirazi over toward where Phil, O’Donnell and Jackson were sitting on the edge of the low sea wall, their bare feet splayed out in the soft sand of the narrow beach. Kurt noted that the party had already divided into two groups, the ladies, including Marie, occupied the lounges on the other side of the pool.

  “Cyrus, you old reprobate,” said O’Donnell holding out his hand. “You’ve managed to dig yourself out of the snowbanks I see.”

  Shirazi took the hand but gave Kurt a quizzical look. “Why does everyone down here think it’s always snowing in Canada?”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Cyrus.” O’Donnell smiled. “I’ve been there at this time of year. There’s snow. It’s cold. It’s damn cold.”

  Shirazi sat down between O’Donnell and Jackson. “Nah. It’s heaven on Earth, Colin. Heaven on Earth.” He took each of Phil and Jackson’s proffered hands in turn. “Gentlemen.”

  “Good to see you again,” said Phil. “We really appreciate you making the time available to come down here for this.”

  “Believe me, Sir. The pleasure is all mine,” said Shirazi.

  “Told you,”
said O’Donnell.

  Shirazi shook his head.

  “Well, whatever,” said Jackson with a grin. “Colin has all the details for you but you can just relax tonight. There’s lots of time to go through the whole thing with him tomorrow.”

  Kurt felt an arm slip tightly around his waist and noticed that Heather had come up behind him.

  “There’s a phone call for you, sweetie,” she whispered in his ear.

  Kurt had taken the steps to the master bedroom on the second storey two at a time. The room was on the back of the house with a small balcony overlooking the bay. Tara had helped him furnish the place and had picked out a small glass and chrome desk and brown leather office chair which fit nicely into the alcove leading to the balcony looking outwards over the shimmering waters. The SOCCENT J6 staff had arranged for the installation of both classified telephone and computer access in addition to the commercial systems that Kurt had put in on his own nickel. This call was on the open, unsecured line.

  “Richter.”

  “Colonel,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “It’s Alonso Tejeda. How’re you doing tonight.”

  “Good Alonso. You?” asked Kurt. Winters had given him a heads up about the reporter’s inquiries relating to the Ocala murders.

  “Good as well. Thanks.” There was a short pause. Kurt didn’t interrupt to ask what the reporter wanted.

  Let him make the first move, he thought.

  Tejeda finally gave in. “The word’s going around that you’re heading out to Afghanistan to look into this Marines’ thing.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” asked Kurt.

  “Confidential source” replied the reporter.

  “In SOCCENT?” asked Kurt. “There’s a stool pigeon in SOCCENT that talks to you. I’ll have to have CID look into that and shut it down.”

  “C’mon Colonel. Everyone knows you’re the General’s dog robber. He’s got a problem with those guys so who else to send but you?”

  “Well you’ve got it wrong Alonso. I am going to Afghanistan but I’ve got nothing at all to do with the Marines. There’s a lot of good people in the Army. They don’t call on me every time something needs to be looked at.”

  “For sure?”

  “Look Alonso. I sure as hell won’t tell you everything that I know or that I do, but I won’t lie to you. The bottom line is I’ve got nothing to do with the Marines.”

  “But you are going to Afghanistan?”

  “I said that I was.”

  There was a long pause in the conversation.

  “You’ll tell me if anything newsworthy comes your way?”

  Kurt had little doubt that he would. Tejeda had a good attitude about military stories. He generally ran them straight up without spinning his own agenda. For that reason Kurt had dealt with him in the past and would again. In short he would use Tejeda as much as the reporter would use him.

  “Yup. If and when I can.”

  “Is there an investigation going on about the Marine incident?”

  “Unattributable?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Yup. There’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “But not you?”

  “Not me.”

  “Okay then. Have a good trip.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Bazaar-e-Panjwayi, Kandahar, Afghanistan

  Wednesday 07 Mar 07 0930 hrs AFT

  There was still a chill in the morning air and Norowz Mohamand tightened up the shemagh around his neck and fastened the upper button on his quilted jacket. The jacket was a maroon civilian pattern one that he wore during quiet days around the town; not the old Russian combat jacket that he liked to wear in the field. His deputy, Tofan, had several times offered to get him something newer from their stocks but the Russian jacket reminded him of his days amongst the mujahideen fighting the communists; he took comfort from that these days. The truth was Norowz was becoming more disillusioned with what they were doing every day.

  Emal Noorzai had appeared that morning for what he always termed a staff visit. The Pakistani Inter-Service Intelligence lieutenant colonel from Quetta had been one of the primary handlers for the southern Taliban for years and was the ISI officer directly responsible for dealing with Norowz and his local lashkar—Lashkar-e-Shaheen—the army of the Peregrine Falcon.

  Norowz was the leader of an assembly of mostly autonomous groups; delgais of between a dozen and thirty men each. Every delgai had its own commander, a commander who had pledged loyalty to Norowz.

  With the exception of what were now three core delgai who served full-time, the several delgai made up of local part-timers were once again becoming more-and-more fickle. If given broad guidelines to conduct autonomous operations such as harassing attacks or laying explosive ambushes, they generally did well. Large scale coordinated efforts were another matter; there Norowz needed to push them hard, cajoling them, begging them, brow-beating them and, above all, using constant personal contact to let them know they were being watched and that their sacrifices were appreciated by the Taliban’s Quetta leadership and, more importantly, met their obligations to God and their faith. Deep down, however, Norowz knew that what really kept the delgais coming out was the cash and weapons that Quetta sent out on an irregular basis.

  Emal’s visit had not come out of the blue. For several days now there had been much talk about a new offensive by the British in Helmand province. The British had already been busy in Helmand during the last month. As had the Taliban. Now, however, there were new troops on the way so everyone knew that there would be a new offensive.

  At the beginning of the month Mullah Abdul Ghaffour had led his lashkar of three hundred fighters into the Helmand town of Musa Qaleh thus ending a truce there which had been established by the village elders with the British and the Taliban and which had lasted almost a half a year. Ghaffour had justified his action based on the death of his brother who was killed in an American air strike in what he considered part of the protected area. It mattered not what his reason was. Ghaffour himself had been killed in an air strike a few days later.

  Throughout, the British had run several small operations and, in the middle of the month, in a bigger one, hundreds of them had successfully cleared the area around the Kajaki Dam on the Helmand River at the northern end of the province.

  Emal had been moving new fighters from Pakistan into the region; nearly seven hundred in this last push. There had been boasts from Mullah Abdul Qassim, Helmand’s top commander, that fully four thousand of Helmand’s nine thousand fighters were now in its northern region where thousands of British and other foreign soldiers and government troops had launched yet another new major operation.

  Emal was here to cajole Norowz to move west and join the fight. Norowz was equally determined to avoid it. This morning as they had broken their fast with a meal of chai, raisins, nuts and heavily buttered naan bread, Emal had started his hectoring but Norowz had waved him off and instead had called for Tofan and had started reviewing with him the state of their casualties. Throughout the meal, one-by-one, Tofan reviewed each man in the lashkar who had been wounded or who was sick and where he was recuperating while Emal fumed in the background.

  There were forty-seven in all: twenty-five alone had been wounded during the heavy battles at the end of last summer that had raged on Ma’Sum Ghar and in front of Hajji Nurmohammad. An equal number had been killed and quickly interred, with honors, amongst the numerous cemeteries scattered around the district. Martyr’s pennants now snapped in the wind above their stony graves.

  Last winter had been a change in fortune for Norowz’s lashkar as a result of the Canadians’ big operation around the village of Howz-e Mada. The village, lying to the north of the Arghandab River near Highway A1—near the masjid in Sangisar where Mullah Omar had founded the Taliban—had been a major stronghold. The Canadian’s operation had been designed to force out the hard-line Taliban regulars and separate them from the local part-time fighters through a propaganda campaign.
While over sixty fighters had been killed, the rest had displaced southward. Many, including several foreigners and many wounded, had joined Norowz’s forces and, over the last month, had been integrated into the lashkar.

  Norowz had successfully stalled Emal throughout the meal and immediately thereafter announced that they would visit the wounded. Giving Emal no time to object Norowz had picked up a walking staff and made his way through the town to a house located in the midst of Panjwayi’s district center where three of these men were recuperating.

  Most Afghan casualties, whether government or Taliban recovered from their wounds and injuries in private homes, looked after by friends and family. The Taliban casualties with the worst injuries might first circulate into the clinics and hospitals in Kandahar or even be evacuated back to Quetta, like Norowz had been last summer. Eventually, however, they were distributed to private homes just like this one.

  “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatu Allah,” Tofan said to the fighter standing in the dim room supported on a crutch. Another sat on a carpet leaning against the wall while the third struggled to support his upper body from the bed he was reclining on. The room held an odor of putrefaction. “You are looking much better today, Jalil,”

  “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatulah wa barakatuh. Praise be to God,” answered Jalil. “I am better commander. The doctor thinks that in another week I will be able to get off this crutch and then will need to start exercising the muscles in my leg.”

  Jalil had been lucky. The Canadians had started their operation with a barrage of artillery and heavy weapons fire from their LAVs and the new massive Leopard tanks that were now seeing heavy action. A shard of steel, probably from one of their big 155mm M777s, had tumbled a long way from its point of impact, almost, but not quite, expended of all energy. The shard had ripped into Jalil’s right calf but luckily not severed any major nerves, tendons or blood vessels. A quick witted comrade had quickly carried him to an aid post where his wound had been washed, well saturated with antibiotic powder and wrapped tightly in a sterile bandage before he was escorted southward out of the combat area.