by Wolf Riedel
Whatever reluctance there may have been about discussing the PB POWDER and its occupants in Qalat, there had been none insofar as the people at SWEENEY were concerned. Kurt, O’Donnell and Shirazi met in a conference room B with the 1st lieutenant commanding the BRAVO Company’s resident platoon, the ANA’s local company commander and his interpretor as well as the kandak commander who had spent the last two days at SWEENEY with some of his staff doing an inspection of his company and an assessment of the situation of the province’s southernmost three districts.
The lieutenant was on his first tour of the area having only taken over from CHARLIE company in mid-January and while he had no particular first hand information as to what the ODA at POWDER may or may not have been up to, he had met Lesperance often enough to state to Kurt with respect Sir, he’s an arrogant prick who insists that we stay out of his AOR. It’s impossible to do any type of liaison with them. They’ve got this fuckin’ elite attitude—beggin’ your pardon, Sir—but no tactical acumen. It’s like they’re more concerned about the gucci gear hanging off their tac vests than getting the job done out here. The point of course was that the AOR did not belong to Lesperance. It belonged to TF ZABUL and the ANA.
The Afghans were more specific.
The town of Shinkay, which they unquestionably did control, sat on the southeastern edge of Shinkay district bordering on Shamulzayi district to the east and Atghar district to the south. Of all of Zabul’s districts, Atghar was by far the smallest with barely eighty-four hundred people. Of these, almost sixteen hundred were clustered around the Zami Kalay village cluster. The rest occupied small farms and villages that hugged the two river valleys that wound their way from east to west through central Atghar. The region was crisscrossed by thousand-year-old underground, karez-based irrigation systems that barely provided sufficient water for the crops which, like much of the south, depended on cycles which alternated between food and drug based crops. In those villages and in those scattered south toward the Pakistan border, the ANA’s influence was minimal principally because of that Lesperance’s ODA.
In the ANA’s mind, Lesperance had fallen in with Mahomed Khan, a local Toki Ghilzai tribe leader from the village of Khalkari located just north of POWDER. Khan was described by the ANA as first and foremost a drug lord that led a confederation of two dozen villages that straddle the Shamulzayi/Atghar district boundary and who was pushing his area of influence west and north. As an aside they mentioned that he had the reputation of being the region’s most notorious pederast.
Was he a Talib? Kurt had asked.
No more than anyone else down there, they had replied. He’s a rapacious opportunist and very much against any central government involvement in the region. The ANP and Border Police routinely desert down there.
They’d spent Saturday afternoon and night at SWEENEY; Paulson and his crew as guests of the 1st of the 4th and their dining facility; Kurt, O’Donnell and Shirazi as the guest of the ANA where they shared a meal of lamb in a spicy pepper sauce, rice, naan, onions and tomatoes. At dawn they had set out for PB POWDER
Kurt’s alarm bells went off at the first sight of Lesperance leaning against the wooden frame of the building’s doorway.
There was an insouciance that seemed to radiate from the man. Short and slight—maybe a hundred and sixty pounds and five nine at best—but wiry and tough. It wasn’t just one thing that stood out but the combination of all. The only piece of uniform that he wore was an army tan t-shirt. His trousers were the white shalwar portion of the shalwar kameez combo that was favored by most Afghans. Instead of boots, he wore a pair of brown heelless slippers over bare feet. A blue and white checkered shemagh was draped around his neck and tied in a loose knot on his chest. His gaunt face was framed in a scraggly dirty blonde beard topped off by a mop of long hair tucked into which was a pair of Oakleys which left his bright green eyes free to stare a challenge at Kurt.
In the gloom behind Lesperance—barely framed in the doorway—stood two equally bearded soldiers, dressed more conventionally in old-style desert BDU trousers and shirts and cradling M4s.
Kurt alighted from the GMV, his M4 suspended down his right front from its single-point sling next to his chest mounted M9 pistol. He suppressed a desire to bring the rifle to a low carry.
I’m not amongst friends here, he thought. Something’s definitely off about this place.
“You’re late,” said Lesperance without any preliminary small-talk or proper military courtesy. “We expected you yesterday.”
“I can’t help your misplaced expectations, Captain,” replied Kurt with emphasis as he strode over to the building, flanked by Shirazi and O’Donnell who had alighted from their vehicles and had joined him. “That’s your problem. Why don’t you start by you introducing your NCO’s to us and then having someone show my sergeant major where my people are going to be accommodated and where we fit into your defence plan while we’re here.”
Kurt watched Lesperance’s eyes. They seethed. But within a few heart beats seemed to compose themselves.
“Sorry, Sir,” he said. “We don’t often get visitors down here.” He gestured to the two figures behind him to come forward.
“This is Master Sergeant Connor McLean and Warrant Officer Kyle Roper, our team sergeant and our detachment 2i/c,” said Lesperance. “Kyle, show the sergeant major where his people can rack out.”
Both men stepped forward and nodded at Kurt as each name was given. Aside from the uniform, McLean appeared to be a carbon copy of Lesperance other than that his eyes were grey but nevertheless displayed the same naked resentment to the intrusion. Roper was a larger and more heavyset man. His beard and hair was more neatly trimmed than that of the other two and, if anything, the look on his face was more one of concern than anger. From their demeanor and the fact that Lesperance had introduced McLean before Roper and flogged the admin work off on Roper, Kurt had pegged the former as the alpha male in the bunch while Roper, despite his rank, was more of a follower.
While Roper led Shirazi away, Lesperance flicked his head and motioned Kurt into the building. Kurt in turn gestured for O’Donnell to follow him.
The interior was a typical gloomy, unimproved Afghan rural farmer’s accommodation. A large dirt-floored room that ran the depth of the building. Two closed doors with low sills, one at either side of the room, presumably led to other rooms. The ceiling consisted of a number of wooden beams with rough hewn planks on top. A ladder led through a hatch to the structure’s second floor. Against the far wall stood two ancient wooden cupboards. Several wooden shelves around the room held a number of pots, pans and other knick-knacks while the floor was covered with several threadbare carpets, four army cots and assorted scattered gear. A low table set against the far wall held several gas cookers, two pressure cookers and boxes of rations, and three tan plastic five-gallon water cans. The place had the smell typical of long-term occupation by unwashed bodies.
Whatever notice they had of our visit, thought Kurt, it still wasn’t enough to get them to clean up this pit.
“Chai?” asked Lesperance as he lay his M4 on one of the beds.
“Sure,” said Kurt.
Lesperance nodded at McLean who also lay down his carbine and set about firing up one of the stoves and filling one of the pots with water from one of the cans.
“Water’s purified,” said Lesperance in response to O’Donnell’s look of concern.
O’Donnell and Kurt shrugged, unslung their rifles, slipped out of their body armor and transferred their pistol tactical holsters to their thighs.
Lesperance swept his left hand to the carpets in the middle of the floor.
“Shall we make ourselves comfortable while we wait for the chai?” he asked. “Nuestra casa es su casa.”
CHAPTER 42
West of Khalkari, Zabul, Afghanistan
Sunday 18 Mar 07 1205 hrs AFT
At an elevation of two thousand, one hundred and twenty three meters, the ridge on which Norowz and Tof
an sat was a mere forty meters higher than the village of Khalkari a kilometer to their east and just sixty meters higher than the American patrol base which sat four kilometers to their south. The ground between them, however, was gently undulating and bare so that they had an unobstructed, dominating view of the comings and goings in both places and more particularly they had an excellent view of the road from the American’s base in the town of Shinkay that skirted the base of the ridge by just a few hundred meters on its way to their patrol base to the south.
Norowz and Tofan had parked their motorcycle on the far side of the ridge and had casually walked to its top to observe Khalkari when a small convoy of the American Special Forces GMVs had driven past from north to south. Tofan had been sending out boys to photograph different enemy vehicles for some time now and had developed a small catalog of who used what. They were sure that this was another Special Forces detachment from Kandahar that had just arrived. They were not yet sure as to what their presence signified for the next day’s operation.
“Do you think those are the team’s replacements?” asked Tofan.
Word had gotten around that the Americans were once again on one of their ridiculous rotations. No one amongst the lashkar could understand why the Americans rotated their troops every year or, even more ridiculously like the Canadians, every six months or so. Just as the troops got to know the area and its people, they were gone, replaced by newcomers. It was a gift to the lashkar from God by which He kept the foreigners hopelessly incompetent.
Norowz contemplated the matter silently as he popped another handful of almonds and raisins into his mouth
“No,” he finally said. “If they were, they would have come by helicopter. This is different. I think these ones are just passing through although I’m not sure how long they’ll stay or where they will go next.”
“This could upset our plans,” said Tofan.
Norowz did not chide him for stating the obvious because he was, of course, quite right. The plan was in place, but to Norowz’s disappointment not yet all the fighters were. Some were still assembling; too many had lost their way through rugged Shinkay District. By tonight the last stragglers will have arrived and Norowz would finalize the plan and brief everyone.
The plan was ambitious yet simple.
The force would move out in three groups tomorrow morning, after Fajr and breakfast, in order to be in place just before Zuhr. At that time the first group would assault the three villages that made up the cluster around Khalkari, and insha'Allah, find and kill Mahomed Khan. Simultaneously the second group would attack a second cluster of three villages that nestled in the high ground some four kilometers to the west of the Americans’ patrol base. While Mohamand led the attack on Khalkari with the bulk of his men, Amanullah and his local fighters, with a few stiffeners from Mohamand’s lashkar, would assault the second. The time of day should find Khan’s men in the fields and away from their weapons caches.
While Norowz and Amanullah were leading the assaults, Tofan, with the third and smallest group, would set up on this ridge half way between the two objectives and overlooking the American’s base. They would initially bombard the base with a few 107 millimeter rockets and 82 millimeter mortar shells and then use a pair of 12.7 millimeter DShK heavy machine guns to block the American’s routes to the two objectives.
The attack should last no more than one hour before they would all scatter and melt away before the American’s air force and quick reaction forces could properly deploy.
“I wish now that we had brought one of the SPG-9s with us,” Tofan said referring to the Russian manufactured 73 millimeter light recoilless rifles.
“Too late for that, Tofan,” Norowz replied. “All we have brought with us is RPGs and not too many of those either. Take ten more for your delgai but we’ll need the rest to attack the villages.”
Tofan nodded. They’d debated the issue briefly in Panjwayi and had decided that the mortars would provide better support for what would basically be an infantry assault. They hadn’t known that there would be a doubling in the number of GMVs in the area on the day before the operation.
Norowz sensed his deputy’s despondency.
“We’ll make it work, Tofan,” he said his eyes locking with Tofan’s; determined yet gentle. “We will.”
— § —
PART 4
CHAPTER 43
Cuartel Militar, Reynosa, Mexico
Sunday 18 Mar 07 2300 hrs CDT
The small convoy of PFP cars, with their armed escorts riding in a half dozen pickups, had sped along Carretera Federal 2D, a four-lane, limited access, toll route known as the Autopista Matamoros-Reynosa. Mark, Sage and Sal rode crowded into the rear seat of Garza’s SUV. Their destination: Reynosa, a city of some eight hundred thousand souls who lived just across the Rio Grande from the south Texas town of McAllen.
Well after the sun had set, and shortly after entering the east end of the city limits, the group turned into the gates and between the guard posts of Reynosa’s principal military barracks in the city. All that Mark had been told was that the barracks—known as the Campo Militar Gen. Pedro Hinojosa—was the home of the 8a Zona Militar as well as the 10o Regimiento De Caballería Motorizada. Tonight they were to meet up with troops from the 10th Motorized Cavalry Regiment for a joint PFP/army operation.
Even in the dark, with the few sparse lights of the base, Mark was impressed with the neat look of the compound; the red-roofed, whitewashed buildings spaced out amongst lush lawns and palm tree-lined roads.
The convoy pulled up on the edge of a parade square surrounded by ten to twelve buildings. Mark expected that they were the usual combination of headquarters, barracks, and messes. Stores and vehicle compounds would be further away.
Already assembled on the square were some three dozen HMMWVs; by the looks of them M1138 troop carriers and older M998 cargo carriers but with longer wheelbases. The M998 were filled with troops in the back and seemed to be used the way the PFP used their commercial pattern pickups. Over and above those in the trucks, several dozen soldiers, carrying assault rifles, congregated amongst the vehicles.
Garza did not linger on the square. He ushered them and two of his PFP officers along a sidewalk bordered by neat hedges and into an immaculate multi-storey building bearing a pale blue sign over its doorway. In black lettering it said:
Comandancia 10o R.C.M. .
Mark was impressed when they entered. The floor was highly polished white marble while the doorways and the antique furniture in the building’s immense foyer were of highly burnished wood. At the opposite end of the entryway, directly across from the main door stood a guidon, a three foot square standard, with a light blue field fringed in gold and bearing a diagonal green white red stripe; crossed sabers occupied the top right quadrant and the legend 10/o R.C.M the lower left.
Next to the standard, framed in the doorway leading to a conference room, three officers wearing olive green field uniforms awaited their arrival.
Garza spoke quickly in Spanish with the individual in the middle of the group. Shorter than the others—Mark estimated him at around five foot six and a hundred and fifty pounds with a swarthy complexion and strong hawk-beaked nose—his uniform bore a shoulder flash identical to the guidon, save that the colors were olive and black. His shoulder boards sported three stars in a triangle configuration and a name tape on his right chest identifying him as J. Ixtlilxochitl.
Most of what Garza said went beyond Mark’s fundamental understanding of Spanish but it was clear from some of the words that the gist of the conversation was that introductions were being made. Mark stepped forward as he heard his name as did Sal and Sage. The short individual was introduced as Coronel Juan Diego—and what Mark understood as close as possible to Ee-h-t-leel-ho-chee-tuhl—comandante de la 10o Regimiento De Caballería Motorizada.
With a hand gesture, the colonel invited them all into the conference room.
The briefing was not long but was as incomp
rehensible to Mark as had been the introductions because, once again, it had been conducted almost exclusively in Spanish. A large scale map of Reynosa hung on one wall. Next to it was a black and white air photo that by its patina appeared to have been taken several years before. Next to that were several eight by eleven printouts that bore the Google Earth logo on the corner and showed what appeared to be a compound for a light industrial industry viewed at different eye altitude levels.
One of the coronel’s staff officers had handed copies of the printouts to Mark and he shared them with Sal and Sage. The grainy close-in view showed a walled compound with one major roofed building—maybe fifteen by fifteen meters based on the scale on the printout—two smaller structures without roofs and a dozen objects that could be either shipping containers or semi trailers. The other printouts from higher altitudes showed that the compound sat on a major four-lane divided roadway that ran through a major built-up area of mixed residential and industrial use. The size of the houses and shops indicated a fairly crowded and poor neighborhood.
Fifteen minutes after the briefing had begun, the three army officers excused themselves—again shaking Mark, Sal and Sage’s hands—and made their way out of the room.
Garza turned to the three Americans.
“How much of that did you understand?” he asked.
“I really wish I’d taken and retained more Spanish when I went through school,” answered Sal speaking pretty much for all of them.
Mark nodded. “I got maybe five percent,” he said. “I heard this involves the Zumas and I get the idea that he expects to find a large weapons cache in that compound. Beyond that I gather they’ll make a cordon and your folks are to go in and make the arrest. In all honesty I got most of that from the gestures on the map more than what was said.”