Red Sands, page 18
The tradition was at least as old as WWII, and ran counter to one of Finn’s standing orders: “Don’t waste fuel.” But Finn knew that some things were best ignored, and that the warmth of a fire could lift spirits and promote good morale. As could the presence of a pretty woman. Keaton was sitting with the soldiers she loved. And the sound of her laughter made Finn feel jealous. He veered away and continued his rounds.
A wild dog howled out in the darkness, and was answered from somewhere far away. Some creatures were hiding. Others were hunting.
***
Kandahar, Afghanistan
After arriving at his home in Kandahar Wali went straight to bed. His sleep was interrupted by the occasional sound of sirens, the dull thump of a distant explosion, and the sporadic rattle of gunfire. Some of which was fairly close.
That was one of the reasons Wali preferred to spend most of his time at Qila Kom, where such sounds weren’t permitted, and he could enjoy an uninterrupted night’s sleep.
His alarm went off at 6:00 am. Wali’s eyes opened. Today’s the day, he thought. My father would be proud. A Wali as president. Such was his dream.
The thought was sufficient to get Wali out of bed. He showered and brushed his teeth. The beard came last. All it required was a quick trim.
When it came to clothing Wali didn’t want to set himself above the people. So, he chose to wear a pakol, and a peraahan unbaan (shirt-pants) outfit, with a shoulder holster for his Makarov 9x18mm pistol. A vest went on over that.
As for footwear, Wali preferred a pair of highly polished Russian combat boots over traditional sandals because, if things went terribly wrong—he might need to fight.
But, Wali thought, its Abdullah Ghani who has reason for concern. The thought brought a smile to his face.
Once dressed Wali went downstairs for breakfast. It was a meal he chose to consume alone, while reviewing world events on a laptop dedicated to that purpose. He liked to skim The New York Times, the Financial Times, and the China Daily, in that order. All three publications were loaded with western propaganda, but they were useful nevertheless, and gave Wali a feel for world events.
Wali reckoned that the war remained a draw, but was slowly tilting in the Allies’ favor. A reality that he, as president, would be forced to cope with. I won’t align Afghanistan with either group, Wali decided. I will play one off against the other. And the bombs will provide the leverage required to keep the wolves at bay.
After breakfast Wali met with the group of men slated to serve as vice presidents, ministers and provincial governors. The gathering took place in what had been the hotel’s ballroom. As Wali stood in front of them, he saw all sorts of men. Some were young, and some were old, but most were middle aged.
They had things in common too … Most had secular inclinations, were wealthy, and practitioners of the social system called Pashtunwali. An ethical code that imposed strict rules on its members and was used to resolve disputes and sanction wrong doing.
And Pashtunwali was, in Wali’s experience, a much more effective system than the intricacies of civil law, or the needless prohibitions of Sharia law. Did that mean he could trust the men around him? No, not entirely. But for the most part he knew his confidants would keep their promises. And none were members of the Taliban.
Wali spent half an hour going over plans for the transition. Most of which involved purging government departments of al-Molla loyalists, exiling the country’s top military leaders to Pakistan, and seizing control of the media. All of which was to be expected, and no surprise to attendees.
Wali concluded by saying, “Buses will take you to the Mosque of the Hair of the Prophet, where the swearing in ceremony will occur. Please remember that the event will be televised. That will include shots of the audience.
“So, if you fall asleep, or spend a lot of time staring at your cell phone, video of that is likely to be broadcast throughout the country.
“Tonight’s celebration will take place at the old palace. Security will be tight, so arrive early. Bodyguards won’t be allowed to enter. I look forward to seeing you there. May Allah protect you.”
Subsequent to the meeting Wali went upstairs where he spent the better part of an hour returning phone calls and sending emails, before taking a nap. His alarm beeped an hour later.
Then it was time to get dressed again and descend to ground level, where three identical convoys were ready to depart. Two would serve as decoys. And Wali liked to choose the third at the last second, making it difficult if not impossible for traitors to coordinate an attack.
Of course, the Allies had the power to destroy all three convoys. If they were willing to accept the international blowback that would surely result.
But having been bogged down in Afghanistan before, and with a global war to fight, it was very unlikely that the Americans would try to assassinate him. Yes, they were after the bombs—but killing him wouldn’t help—and might even make the situation more difficult. Especially if the nuclear devices fell into other hands.
The Iranians had reason to kill him though. As did those who backed Abdullah Ghani. Including the Taliban. So, security was an important issue.
Wali chose convoy 2, climbed into one of the Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) vehicles the Americans had left behind, and took a seat. Six heavily armed South African mercenaries were already on board and that was a source of comfort.
Fayed was to remain behind where he could take control should something happen to his father. There was a vast criminal organization to run after all. And Fayed had been raised to inherit it.
MRAPs weren’t designed for sightseeing, and Wali was very familiar with Kandahar, so he spent the next twenty minutes going over his speech.
The journey came to an end when the truck arrived at the Mosque of the Hair of the Prophet. According to legend, the hair of Muhammed was kept in a side chapel, stored in a golden sheath. But Wali cared nothing for that. As far as he was concerned the mosque was a stage. A religious stage that would help to reassure the most important mullahs of his religious zeal. Because every member of the audience was a parttime politician, who could lecture the faithful five times a day. A privilege no other politician had.
That was one of the reasons why the Taliban, who referred to themselves as the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, was so powerful. In the recent past, most of Afghanistan had been under Taliban rule. Infighting had weakened their position.
But, if Abdullah Ghani gained the presidency, the Taliban would be back in control. Yet another potential foe. And one Wali feared more than he feared America.
As Wali left the MRAP, he found himself in the midst of a seething throng. Thousands of people had come to witness the ceremony. Or, if not to witness it themselves, to soak in the energy of being there and catch a glimpse of Wali.
A communal roar was heard. “He’s here! He’s here!” people shouted. And Wali’s bodyguards were hard pressed to prevent people from touching him, snatching at his clothes, and begging favors. “Please excellency! My mother is dying! And the hospital won’t let her in!”
“Food!” a woman implored. “My children are hungry.”
“Bless my goats,” a man in a turban demanded. “They’re all I have.”
Fortunately, a company of Afghan soldiers had been sent to handle crowd control. They pushed and shoved their way out to surround Wali’s party and escort it to the Mosque.
The interior was packed with people, all of whom were standing—not out of choice necessarily—but because there weren’t any pews. And it was too crowded to kneel.
Nor was there any applause because, when the Taliban controlled, Kandahar music was banned, women had to wear burkhas, and no one could clap. Would the Taliban return to power? Yes, if Abdullah Ghani became president. So, it made sense to obey the norms.
There was almost perfect silence as Wali made his way to the front of the huge prayer room and turned to face his audience. A famous mullah was there to swear him in. But only after a slightly modified version of a traditional prayer was given:
“Bismillah Al-Rahman Al-Raheem
In the name of God the most Merciful the Beneficent.
Oh Nourisher and Provider of all things.
We offer our thanks and gratitude for each member of our community and the opportunity that we all have to come together to do good.
Dear God, may you bless our efforts and help us sit present with one another, mindful of our purpose.
Bismillahi’wa’ ala Barakatillah
In the name of God and with the blessings of God, let us begin.”
Then it was time for Wali to thank Allah, thank the people who voted for him, and ask them to join him in forging a new and vastly more prosperous Afghanistan. It was a short speech. And that was the best kind, in Wali’s opinion.
Once it was over the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court came forward to swear Wali in. It was a brave thing to do because, if Abdullah Ghani and the Taliban took power, the Chief Justice was likely to be assassinated.
Wali had a copy of the official oath of office ready in his hand, and read it in a loud, steady voice.
“In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful, I swear by the name of God Almighty that I shall obey and protect the Holy religion of Islam, respect and supervise the implementation of the Constitution as well as other laws, safeguard the independence, national sovereignty and territorial integrity of Afghanistan, and, in seeking God Almighty’s help and support of the nation, shall exert my efforts towards the prosperity and progress of the people of Afghanistan.”
And, except for the part about respecting the country’s laws, Wali actually meant it.
CHAPTER TEN
Outside the city of Rudbar, southwest Afghanistan
The town of Rudbar was so small it could barely be seen from space. And Finn liked that. The last thing he needed was to get sucked into a fight with an obscure army unit, a feisty police force, or a local militia.
Just to make sure that the team wasn’t stepping on any toes, Finn ordered the unit to lagger up north of Rudbar, on the south bank of a river running north of town. A goat herder was there, watering his animals, but the location was otherwise deserted.
Once settled in, Finn gave orders to establish Stryker patrols and directed the Reaper pilot “Six-Pack” to keep a sharp eye out. Then he met with Owens and his company commanders. “This looks like a great opportunity for the troops to take baths,” Finn told them. “Make a list, set up male-female changing tents half a mile apart, and rotate people through them. It’s vitally important for Strike Team 3 to smell good.”
Doctor Parcel made a face and said, “Amen.” Everyone laughed.
Finn grinned. “Seriously, it will be good for morale. And make sure that the wrench turners check each vic for maintenance issues. I don’t know what’s coming next, but it might have a lot of hair on it. Questions? No? Let’s get to it.”
First Sergeant Dyson appeared. “Six-Pack says a gun truck is inbound from the south, sir.”
Finn raised an eyebrow. “Just one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, we’re expecting a contact. Pass the word. ‘Don’t fire on the gun truck, unless it fires on you.’”
The land surrounding the site was so flat and dry that a rooster tail of dust followed the Toyota pickup all the way to the point where it was ordered to stop. After a careful search by members of the 53rd, the gun truck was then allowed to proceed.
The first thing Finn noticed was that the machine gun mounted in the bed of the truck was unmanned. The Toyota skidded to a halt, the left side door opened, and the driver jumped to the ground. He was young. No more than twelve or thirteen. And wearing sunglasses with pink frames.
Once on the ground the boy hurried around to the other side of the vic, took a step stool from the back of the truck, and placed it on the ground. Then the youngster opened the passenger side door to help an old man exit.
The Afghan was wearing a turban and a brown robe. His aluminum cane seemed to glow in the sunlight. A CIA agent? Or contractor? That’s the way it seemed.
Finn waited for the twosome to approach. It was the boy who spoke. “My name is Asadi. My grandfather’s name is Jammas Nazar. He is a leader in Tajik tribe. But, because he has no English, I will speak for him.”
Nazar voiced some voluble Pashto at that point and Asadi nodded. “My grandfather says that the bombs are in Qila Kom. And you must take possession of them before Akhtar Wali returns from Kandahar. The task will be even more difficult if he’s here.”
“So, your grandfather knows about the bombs?” Finn inquired.
“Everyone knows about the bombs,” Asadi replied. “Wali has servants. They talk. People listen.”
That, at least, made sense. But what about the big picture? “You and your grandfather belong to the Tajik tribe,” Finn said. “Are you part of the Taliban as well?”
“Of course,” Asadi answered. “How could it be otherwise?”
“Why does the Taliban want the Allies to capture the bombs?”
Asadi put the question to his grandfather in Pashto, listened to the answer, and turned to Finn. “The Allies already have nuclear weapons. Three more won’t make any difference. But Wali shouldn’t have such powerful bombs.”
Finn figured there was more to it than that. But he didn’t care so long as the Taliban was willing to help. “Okay,” Finn said. “Can your grandfather offer any advice on how to get inside of Qila Kom?”
“Yes,” the youngster replied. “He can.”
***
Qila Kom, southwestern Afghanistan
What Doctor Susan Okada thought of as “Bomb 3” was partially disassembled. Her work benches were littered with tools. And all of it was for show. It would take a lot more than thirty days to fully understand the Iranian bombs, and no matter how much time Wali allowed Okada, she wasn’t about to fabricate detonators for him.
She was going to stall in case help arrived. A prospect that seemed less and less likely with each passing day. That’s why she was so surprised when Yusef arrived to deliver the news. “A large force of Allied troops has surrounded the castle and are preparing to attack. One of my men will escort you to your apartment. Later on, it may become necessary to move you to the dungeon under the fort. So, enjoy the luxuries while you can.”
One of Okada’s few luxuries was a large window with a view to the north. The moment the door closed she rushed to take a look. And sure enough, American tanks could be seen, along with Bradleys and Strykers. Somehow, someway, Major Finn had been able to follow the bombs to the castle. Did that have something to do with the messages she’d left behind? She hoped so. Her spirits soared.
***
After confirming Nazar’s identity with Colonel Selton, and listening to the old man’s plan, Finn hurried to recall his troops, smelly or not. By then he knew that Qila Kom was thirty-two miles southwest of Rudbar. And he knew that Wali had been sworn in as Afghanistan’s president. “That means he can send the Afghan army after you,” Selton told him. “So, get to the fort pronto. You’ll have beaucoup air support—so no problem there. Call me once you have control of the bombs.” Click.
It was late afternoon by the time Strike Team 3 arrived at its destination. The sun was starting to set and the fort was a sight to see. It sat atop a hill bathed in purplish light.
Scree covered slopes led up to vertical curtain walls. They were pierced for cannons, although Finn had no way to know if there were any. Maybe Six-Pack could tell him.
Further back, behind the flat area, were castle walls that were easily fifty feet high. They were protected by corner towers from which defenders could fire on anyone trying to scale the walls. More than that, Finn couldn’t see.
But it seemed safe to assume that a maze of corridors lay behind the walls, some designed to funnel invaders into zones, which would still be deadly even now, hundreds of years after the fort had been conceived. And, according to Jammas Nazar, roughly one hundred and fifty South African mercenaries were inside Qila Kom, all armed to the teeth.
Sure, Strike Team 3’s tanks could open up some holes here and there, and kill some of the defenders. But to enter the fort, and take control of the bombs, the men and women of Strike Team 3 would have to battle their way into the castle. A bloody business for sure.
However, thanks to Nazar, his grandson, and some boys from the village of Rudbar, it might be possible to gain entry to Qila Kom quickly—and with a minimal amount of bloodletting. Like any castle its age, Qila Kom required a lot maintenance. Part of which involved inspecting and repairing the fort’s storm drains each year.
The climate was dry most of the time. But, when the rains came, they came with a vengeance. And then it became necessary to funnel a lot of water through Qila Kom’s ancient plumbing in a hurry.
And, for the better part of fifty years, members of the Nazar clan had been paid to do that work. That involved sending workers into the maze of pipes and ducts during the dry season. But as Asadi Nazar put it, “Men are too big for that work. That’s why boys do it. I started when I was six years old. We clean, we scrape, and we patch.
“And,” the boy added, “we know how to enter and exit various parts of the castle through the drains.” Asadi paused at that point to let his words sink in.
Finn frowned. “So, what are you suggesting? That you could let us in?”
“No,” Asadi replied. “There is only one entrance and it is heavily guarded. But you have explosives, yes? And remote detonators. We could plant them for you. The explosions could pull Wali’s red hats away from their defensive positions to investigate.”
That was the old man’s plan, not Asadi’s, but the kid delivered the message like the boy he was. Which was to say a child raised in a war-torn country.
“I like it,” Finn said. “Get your friends and meet us at Qila Kom.”
Then he turned to Nazar. They shook hands. “Thank you for your help, sir. We are in your debt.”
