Before the Dead Walked, page 11
With the crack of dawn, the Rangers were on the move again. They skirted along the rocky crags, ducking in and out of steep ravines and narrow gaps. Always alert, their progress was slow, but it was necessary to prevent stumbling into the enemy. Besides, the trip wasn’t really that far.
Although the roads were logistically vital for American troop movements, they were always in terrible shape. Much of the asphalt was gone, and in large parts, especially on the northern side of the Salang Pass, the road was a few-hundred-kilometer long obstacle course of enormous puddles after rains, mud traps, and dirt gorges from which a car couldn’t climb out. It was true the road was constructed to have one lane in each direction, but Afghan drivers tend to approach it as a four-lane highway, madly passing each other on all sides and jostling with big supply trucks for the right of way on the cliffs of the Hindu Kush.
If a car broke down or collided with another, the whole road was absolutely paralyzed and all movement halted for hours. Not surprisingly, the road and cliffs were littered with the corpses of trucks, cars, and unidentifiable parts. Every 100 meters or so, there were remnants of a vehicle that drove off the mountain or toppled on its side on the edge of the road. Many of the wrecks were fresh. Others dated back to the 1980s, when the mujahedeen loved to attack the road and blow up Soviet oil supply trucks.
So instead of taking the easy route, Darby had decided to scale the spectacular sharp peaks and gorges. His men were inspired by the snow-capped peaks, the brown mountainsides coated with fresh grass and wild flowers, and with the fertile valleys along rushing rivers that supported wheat and vegetable fields.
The next night, under the cover of darkness, the six Rangers headed over one of the many mountain passes between Afghanistan and Turkmenistan. There was a sliver of moonlight, but they couldn’t be in a hurry. It took deep concentration to not only watch where each man was going, but to also carefully listen to the sounds of the night.
It was about 2:00am, when Darby called a halt to rest their eyes and sore feet.
“I hope we don’t have to make this entire trip on foot, Top,” Specialist Powers whispered as he rubbed his tired ankles. “It’s a long ways to walk.”
The First Sergeant nodded. He had been thinking the same damn thing.
The Afghan mountains were only partially encased in snow, but the nights were still chilly. The Rangers kept moving, which kept them warm. It was important to get to the other side before dawn, so they could seek cover. Darby was well aware that Turkmenistan sent out regular patrols to keep tabs on the Taliban.
Just two hours before dawn, the trail they were following became increasing more difficult to follow. It became apparent that this specific area had been the sight of previous combat. There were obvious signs.
“What the hell?” Specialist Thomas cursed as he tripped over something sticking up out of the path.
The wreckage was strewn across the hillside, a Soviet Mi-24 Hind D gunship helicopter had been shot down. A faded big red star on one section of metal gave the only clue necessary.
“I bet it was nailed by a Stinger missile,” CWO Collins commented, after taking a quick look at several larger pieces of airframe.
The Rangers continued on down the mountainside, until they found a strategic overlook. When the mountains finally released them on the other side, the goat trail descended from the shrouded peaks of snow and bare rocks into a beautiful sunny valley of aspens and blooming redbuds and cherries along an azure blue stream. This was a picture postcard area of mud and stone houses terraced on slopes, which looked neither as poor nor as precarious as the shacks on the Afghan side.
“We’re going to go native to a certain degree, but that’s only because there’s no sheep-dip officer around to tell us what not to,” Darby told them.
“You can move further, move faster, and you can run farther,” CWO Collins said, describing the tactical advantage of adopting lightweight tribal dress. “You can take cover more quickly. You can carry more ammunition, you can carry more water. It is an absolute no brainer.”
So it was that village that unwittingly donated six local men’s outfits to camouflage the American Rangers. Clad in Turkmeni clothes, the soldiers set out to find a safe place to rest during the daylight hours. It was too dangerous to travel in the open, with Taliban recruiters, local warlords, and corrupt security police patrolling this near to the border with Afghanistan.
It was late afternoon when Sergeant Stillwell, who was on security, spotted a truck ambling its way up the crumbling track. The pavement, if one could call it that, had deteriorated long ago and really was nothing more than chunks of asphalt. However, what caught the sergeant’s attention was the Polish flag painted on the door.
Taking a considerable risk, Stillwell flagged the driver down. The Morska truck was probably older than any of the Rangers, but it still ran, so that was something. The driver pulled over, climbed out, and gave the sergeant a huge hug.
He was as drunk as a skunk.
CWO Collins, who grew up in Chicago and had plenty of friends who were of Polish descent, knew just enough vocabulary to get by. The other Rangers emerged from their hiding places, but since they were all dressed as natives, with AK47s slung, the Polish transport trucker figured they were locals. However, with a bribe with American dollars, their journey was assured. Piling in back, along with the black market goods, Collins joined the driver up front.
The Morska pulled back out onto the main track, bouncing from one pothole to another, never going faster than 40 miles-per-hour. Painfully slow, the truck rumbled through the constant clouds of dust. This was the Rangers’ first experience with Turkmenistan roads and it wasn’t good.
“At this speed it will take approximately six hours to get anywhere,” announced CWO Collins through the window, who was the designated guardian, resignedly looking at the bumps ahead.
It would be hours-and-hours of absolutely nothing, which was a form of therapy for their tired minds. While Maxwell Darby slept, the other Rangers had their eyes closed and their thoughts far away.
Specialist Powers tried to concentrate on his muscle car restoration project back at Fort Benning as his poor kidneys got belted by the constant pounding. Specialist Thomas, on the other hand just stared through the slats. The pancake-flat world simulated travel on a camel’s back. The sandy sea was just the natural continuation of the steppe. What lay on one side merrily mirrored what was on the other. The sky captured them with blue all around, not a cloud anywhere, sealing the horizon in each direction. Somewhere, many miles and clouds of dust away, lay Aktau, the city that came packed with non-filtered internet, short skirts, cash machines and seated hosts that cooked incredible chocolate desserts. It was an oasis in a land where fresh water came from the sea and the earth was dotted with oil derricks.
The simple, barren beauty of the landscape was unbearable. Unanimously, the Rangers opted to rest on the outskirts of Beineu, another dusty, windy town in the middle of nowhere connected to other dusty, windy towns by hundreds of miles of straight mud road line of emptiness. The silent grandiosity of Sherkala was replaced by fresh tracks of humans and stray dogs barking at flying plastic garbage. The sunset was a puff of pink and the Rangers received their gift of rest.
While the trip was indeed kidney-jarring, the passengers realized they would be able to avoid the usual scrutiny of locals and especially paramilitary forces that patrolled the road for intruders. It quickly became obvious that the Polish driver, who Collins discovered was named Artur Kowalski, was a common sight on these roads.
It was agreed that before Kowalski reached the Kazakhstan border, the Rangers would pile out and cross on foot, meeting up with the orange-colored Morska on the other side. Darby led his men through the scrub brush, ducking into wadis and runoffs whenever possible. Sure enough, the soldiers met up with Artur on the other side of a small plateau and they jumped in for another stretch of jostling and thumping.
The occasional marmot, camel, or golden eagle brought relief from the otherwise endless stretches of barren land. Kazakhstan, for such a large country, didn’t seem to possess very much. It was mostly barren wastes, with the occasional village cropping up alongside a stream. However, Kowalski had gone on at great measure about vodka and cheap blowjobs, so Collins remained entertained and amused.
Miraculously, upon arriving at a tiny harbor town, the Rangers managed to escape both the piles of rubbish and the passionate hugs of the drunken Polish truck driver. Kowalski continued on his way, singing and farting with great gusto.
None of the Rangers felt comfortable being exposed in the open, so all six of them meandered into the local bar. It was a wise decision, even if they weren’t prepared for the reality of Kazakhstani hospitality.
The typical Kazakh drinking session started with vodka at 7am. Tumblers were laid out on the bar, filled almost to the brim, and each Ranger in turn downed his glass and cheered. By 10am, the participants moved onto beer, something a little lighter to pace themselves. At first glance this might not have appeared as unusual for a night out in Chicago, Boston, or Atlanta, but it was still in the morning, for god’s sake. The problem was that in Kazakhstan, you’re talking about am, not pm.
Rangers, who are known the world over for holding their own in any drinking contest, were definitely challenged. The Kazakh locals were delighted to partake in some serious drinking, especially since they were wise enough to figure out their competitors were fucking Americans. The dollar bills that floated across the countertop might have had something to do with their conclusion.
By noon, everybody was silly drunk and acting like complete fools.
Then, as if it was no big deal, the natives suggested it was time to eat!
On the floor, leaning up against the spectacular wooden bar, Specialist Thomas and Specialist Powers realized they had puked on themselves. Rather than try to clean up, they simply broke into laughter and settled down for breakfast.
The crowd, who in short order had become good friends, tucked into fried eggs and bread, washed down with tea and coffee. There was a tremendous chorus of belching, farting, and laughter, followed by more bodily noises.
Hung over and sick, the Rangers received new directions to the coast. One minute they were entirely alone in the desert dust, and the next they were on top of a petrol station and a number of low-rise buildings. Aral was a large waystation, seemingly well-served by roads and a railway line. Giant statues of lynxes were mounted on the welcome gate as they drove into town, and an elaborate mosaic at the station proclaimed proudly the moment in 1921 when Aral’s fisherman fed their starving comrades in Mother Russia with fresh fish.
After their sand-filled voyage over roads that should have been termed beaches instead, the covert Americans were greeted by Aral. This insignificant harbor was no longer a port, but merely sand dunes decorated with the rusting hulks of abandoned fishing vessels.
Aral’s glory days were long gone, because only a ghost town remained. The Aral Sea, the source of the town’s prosperity, had shrunken to a poisonous puddle, the port town of Aral is now 30km from the sea and few fish can survive in the extreme salinity of the remaining water.
Just an hour’s drive from Aral was the so-called Ship Graveyard, but the same scene of desolation was far closer to home. The Rangers took a casual stroll around, mostly because there wasn’t anybody there to see them. A modern school and domed sports club were the only signs that the area was not actually deserted. As they cast their eyes across the sand and stagnant pools of slimy mud, buildings slumped unfinished or derelict, cranes stood like rusted skeletons, and rubbish littered the roads.
Dodging the debris, they picked their way along the harbor’s former mouth. A sand track wide enough for cars to pass now marked the channel’ edge and, as the soldiers reached the top of the embankment, they stood side-by-side, aghast. Rotting, rusting hulks were scattered across the scrub. There were 8-10 ships sticking out of the sand and they were not insubstantial in size. These weren’t mere dinghies, but sea-going trawlers capable of bringing home many tons of catch from a single fishing trip. The sight of their plight, symbolizing as it did the plight of the whole community, their livelihood, way of life and environment, was utterly devastating.
“It’s no wonder the people around here need a stiff drink,” CWO Collins said quietly.
The Rangers, still hung over and sick, managed to make their way to what was left of the harbor. Not trusting their liquor-impaired sense of direction, they used compasses to plot their course to the Caspian Sea.
As another eagle flew overhead, Specialist Thomas tried to get the radio to work. Even with the fan antenna and cell phone booster, he couldn’t reach anybody.
“Forget it, Timothy,” Specialist Powers said. “Just ditch it. You don’t want all that extra weight to lug around anyway.”
Thomas looked at Darby.
The First Sergeant nodded and said, “Just make sure you destroy it.”
After smashing the radio to pieces and setting it on fire, Specialist Thomas rejoined the others. “It’s all taken care of, Sarge. I buried it too.”
Darby just nodded.
“I think we should sit down and eat all this wonderful food they gave us,” Specialist Thomas suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Stillwell said.
In Kazakhstan, people eat meat. First served was shashlik, which was goat kebab, then manty or stuffed goat dumplings, steak, laghman, which is meat and spaghetti in broth, and finally spiced sausage. Kazakhstan was not the place for vegetarians. Not once did they stop to realize they were eating goat.
While devouring their treats, a healthy wind blew up from the west. It was remarkably blustery, and the Rangers were forced to take cover so they could enjoy their feast. Eventually stuffed, the soldiers decided to stay where they were and make the trek to the Caspian Sea the next day.
The Caspian Sea was the largest enclosed inland body of water on Earth by area, variously classed as the world’s largest lake or a full-fledged sea. It is listed as a basin without outflows, located between Europe and Asia. It was bounded by Kazakhstan to the northeast, Russia to the northwest, Azerbaijan to the west, Iran to the south, and Turkmenistan to the southeast. Over 130 rivers provided inflow to the Caspian, with the Volga River being the largest. A second affluent, the Ural River, flows in from the north, and the Kura River flows into the sea from the west.
The most pressing concern for First Sergeant Darby was the unsettling fact that all five Caspian littoral states maintained naval forces on the sea. Most of these were missile gunboats of Soviet design, which meant they were fast and heavily armed.
His plan was to seize a fishing boat and stay as close as possible to the coastline, in case escape wasn’t feasible. To pull off this hoax, it would be necessary to actually fish along the shores of the Caspian Sea. That meant casting nets to trap sturgeons, which were pretty big fish and would fight to get free. All sturgeons had highly valuable meat and were always caught in large quantities, as well as the delicious product produced from them, world-famous caviar.
All up-and-down the shoreline, the classic wooden double–ended fishing boats were tied up. Most of them were painted with bright blue interiors and yellow exteriors, with huge nets hung up to dry nearby.
Unfortunately, at the moment, two missile ships of the Turkmen navy were taking part in an anti-terrorist naval exercise on the Caspian Sea, occasionally stopping fishing craft randomly, searching for drugs or guns.
So Darby decided to postpone their departure at least for a few hours, just in case the ships doubled back.
The Rangers hunkered down amongst the rocks and took time to catch some shuteye. They had been pushing for days on end and this was a good opportunity to rest.
Sergeant Bailey Stillwell worried about his wife and two children back in North Carolina. Later, when he shipped out from Fort Bragg, he had assured his wife, Isabella, over the phone, that even though he was in a combat zone, his hazardous duty pay would keep them comfortable. Sure, the on-post living accommodations weren’t that great, but once he was home again, they would buy a house.
Now, with everything he had seen up to this point, he wasn’t so sure. What if this goat disease somehow spread? When he watched all those people devouring each other in Kabul, he wondered if there was a god. Ever since he had joined the US Army, all he saw was suffering and death. If god was so damn loving how could he allow such terrible things to happen?
Bailey thought hard about his two sons. Nathan was like him, athletic and really into baseball, football, and soccer. Michael, however, was so much like his mother, caring, empathetic, and received incredible grades in school. He was proud of both of his boys, but knew he was missing so much of their young lives.
“Let’s go,” Darby called out.
The men manhandled the fishing boat into the water and climbed in. There was a small motor, but since they were stealing the craft, everyone agreed to paddle for an undetermined distance. Once they were in deeper waters, Specialist Thomas deployed the net.
“What do we do if we catch anything?” Specialist Powers wondered.
“We keep it and either eat it or sell it,” CWO Collins replied with impatience. “Unless we go too fast or the net is twisted, it’ll be pretty hard to avoid catching some fish.”
After rowing for a few miles along the coast, Darby started the motor. The boat went put-putting along and the Rangers tried to look busy.
As predicted, after only an hour, they were forced to reel in nets and dump the fish into the bottom of the boat. Flip-flopping about, it was a pretty decent haul.
“I wonder if you can eat it like sushi.” Sergeant Stillwell asked. “I love sushi.”
Sergeant Ramirez crinkled his nose. “We don’t have any soy sauce, no wasabi and no rice!”
The rest of the men laughed. Only Pedro would be so concerned about condiments.
