Red Sands, page 8
Emery surrendered his rope to a PFC. “Yes, sir. What’s up?”
Finn told him about the conversation with Selton. “So,” Finn said, “if they want us to chase the bad guys, they’ll have to give us some supplies. It’s that simple.”
“How do they plan to deliver the supplies?” Emery wanted to know.
“I failed to ask,” Finn admitted. “My bad. But, if I had to guess, I’d say an air drop is the most likely possibility.”
Airdrops involved pushing platforms loaded with supplies out the back of a C-130 Hercules, using a low-altitude parachute-extraction system (LAPES). A drogue chute was used to pull a cluster of large extraction chutes out of the plane. Once deployed the extraction chutes would jerk the pallet load of supplies out of the transport.
Of course, the whole thing was dependent on controlling the ground where the supplies were supposed to land, lest everything fall into enemy hands.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Emery said. “We’ll be ready, sir.”
Strike Team 3 lacked the manpower and supplies to manage prisoners. So, the Iranian POWs were loaded into their surviving vehicles, and sent south.
Would Iranian Intelligence interrogate them? And gain information about the company? Of course, they would. But it couldn’t be helped.
And finally, there were the dead to tend to. A task with which Finn was all too familiar. He went looking for First Sergeant Dyson.
***
Ahura Jafari had departed the encampment, as he always did, toilet paper in hand. But now he was going to need some additional time. With that in mind Jafari went further into the desert, hoping that the additional distance, together with near darkness, would ensure his privacy.
Shortly after stealing the bombs, Haatim sent compressed/optimized JPEG photos of the bombs to Warlord Akhtar Wali, and spoke to him via sat phone. And, according to Haatim, Wali was “hooked.” The haggling had begun. “He wants to speak with you,” Haatim said. “I asked for one million American for each device. He’s offered half that amount.”
Now, in the wake of the conversation with his nephew many hours earlier, Jafari was about to speak with Wali himself. Jafari knew he was at a considerable disadvantage as he dialed the number.
What mattered in Afghanistan was Pashtunwali. A traditional system that depended on interlocking relationships in order to function. That meant every agreement was only as strong as the relationship upon which it relied. And, since there was no relationship between Jafari and Wali, the situation was going to be fluid. And the deal they struck would be good for a limited period of time. So, if the underlying premises were to change, the agreement would evolve as well.
The one thing Jafari had going for himself however was izzat. A term somewhat synonymous with honor, or “good name.” The essence of which was the way a person was perceived by people who mattered. In this case the denizens of the Iranian underworld. People who knew Jafari by another name but would vouch for him.
But would that be sufficient? A man answered the phone. Wali? No, Mr. Wali was busy, but was expecting the call. And looked forward to speaking with Mr. al-Harron.
Al-Harron was the name Jafari used to sell merchandise he’d stolen from the government. And, when Wali came on line, it became clear that the warlord knew that, and other things too. “Mr. Jafari,” Wali said. “This is a pleasure. Congratulations on stealing three nuclear weapons! A first in so far as I know.”
The tone was jocular, but the intent was not. The use of the Iranian’s real name was a threat, as well as an indication of the extent to which Jafari had been vetted.
Jafari felt a chill run down his spine. The conversation was only five seconds old and the warlord already had the upper hand. But what did he expect from the Butcher of Kom? A man who—in spite of his urbane manner—was known for venality, treachery, and violence.
Jafari was way out of his league, but determined to put on a good face. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, no matter how remotely. Are you well?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Wali replied. “As is your sister. She went shopping today.”
The message was unmistakable. Jafari battled to maintain his composure. “Thank you for sharing. I haven’t seen her in months.”
“Hopefully that problem will be remedied soon,” Wali replied. “But, since we live in uncertain times, you never know.
“You are a busy man—as am I,” Wali added. “So, if you have no objection, let’s get to the matter at hand. Your nephew told me that you want one million American for each device. I told him that I would pay one-point-five for the set. And that offer stands.
“I know you want more, but consider this. I will transfer bitcoin worth five hundred thousand to your account today, if you agree. With the rest upon delivery.
“And, by way of a bonus, I will put your nephew in charge of my operation in Tehran. If he performs well, I will give him additional responsibilities. What do you say?”
Wali was offering more than money. He was offering a path into the web of relationships called Pashtunwali. And that opportunity was too good to refuse. “That is extremely generous,” Jafari said sincerely. “Thank you. We have a deal.”
Then Wali made a demand which Jafari had failed to anticipate. And a seemingly impossible task at that. But, with so much money already in his pocket, the Iranian wasn’t about to balk.
Jafari was quick to agree, thank Wali yet again, and wait for the warlord’s secretary to come on the line. Once the financial arrangements were complete, Jafari broke the connection. His spirits soared. He was rich!
***
The sun was coming up. In the absence of new orders from Colonel Selton, or information regarding an airdrop, all Finn could do was inspect the perimeter, chat with the troops, and prepare for some shuteye. He was brushing his teeth when Air Force Lieutenant Linda Pinnick appeared.
There hadn’t been any honest-to-god tactical air control work for the TACP officer to do. So Pinnick had made herself useful by acting as the MQ-9 Reaper liaison, the Intel Officer, and the “weather lady.” “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” Pinnick said. “But a storm is on the way. And it looks like a doozy.”
Finn turned to spit water and toothpaste into the sand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A ‘doozy?’ Is that a technical term?”
Pinnick smiled. “Yes, sir. In this case ‘doozy’ means a shamal—it’s a strong northwesterly wind that blows over Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iraq and Iran.
“In the words of the weather wonk I was talking to, this is a ‘BFS’—big fucking storm. It’s likely to last for two or three days. Our planes will be grounded for the duration.”
Finn stared at her. “You’ve got to be kidding. We need supplies.”
Pinnick shook her head. “No, sir. This shit’s for real.”
“How soon?”
“It’ll be here within the next few hours.”
“All right. Tell my direct reports and senior noncoms to gather by the Mog. We have work to do.”
The sun was up over the horizon and warming the air. As Finn looked west, he couldn’t see any sign of the impending BFS. But, if the National Weather Service said the shamal was coming, then it was.
Most of Finn’s officers and senior sergeants were gathered at the Mog when he arrived.
Doctor Parcel had finished the last surgery by that time and emerged to take part. “Lieutenant Pinnick has a weather report to share,” Finn announced. “Lieutenant?”
Once Pinnick was finished a chorus of groans erupted. Finn raised a hand. “It’s a sandstorm. Not the end of the world. All we need to do is apply some common sense.”
That was when Captain Talha al-Awan raised a hand. Finn pointed. “Yes, Captain … Shoot.”
Al-Awan took a step forward. “With all due respect, sir … Common sense will be helpful. But there’s more to a shamal than that. Sand storms are a fact of life in Saudi Arabia. And Saudi officers are trained to cope with them.”
Finn felt a sudden surge of hope. Could it be? Was al-Awan about to prove his worth? Or would his input turn out to be a large load of camel pucky? He was hoping for the best. “Excellent. Please brief us.”
Al-Awan took three paces forward and turned to face his peers. It soon became apparent that he not only had the necessary knowledge, but the skills to communicate it. Never mind the fact that he sounded like a college professor.
“The shamal that Lieutenant Pinnick referred to is a northwesterly wind that often occurs several times each year. When a storm incorporating a strong cold front passes over the mountains in Turkey, the leading edge of cool air picks up dust, and carries it south.
“A typical shamal dust storm lasts for two or three days, and is several thousand vertical feet deep,” al-Awan added. “And that brings us to the things we can and should do to survive.
“It’s important to find high ground. The greatest concentration of churning sand and dust occurs at ground level. That means the effects of the storm are less severe on the top of a hill.
“But only so long as there’s no danger of being struck by large pieces of debris. A problem common in and around cities.
“As for personal safety, all individuals should be instructed to wear a mask or bandanna, which should be moistened if possible. Additionally, our medics should supply troops with petroleum jelly, and instruct them to use it inside their nostrils to keep their mucus membranes from drying out.
“Last, but not least, our soldiers should seek shelter. And we are fortunate, in that all our soldiers can shelter in vehicles during the storm. They shouldn’t venture out however … That means it will be important to provide each vic with water, food, and a sanitation bucket.”
“Three days in a Bradley with six soldiers and a sanitation bucket?” Bailey inquired. “I’ll shoot myself instead.”
It was funny. And people laughed. But Finn could imagine how badly such a container would stink. He couldn’t say that however, and didn’t. “Thank you, Captain. You are the right person, in the right place, at the right time.” That was followed by light applause. Al-Awan smiled happily.
“Alright,” Finn said. “We need a hill. Have we got one?”
“No, sir,” Pinnick responded. “But there is a ridge roughly five miles east of here. I noticed it as the Raven flew east.”
The hijackers, Finn thought. I need to find the bastards.
“Platoon Sergeant Revell,” Finn said. “Take a Stryker east and reconnoiter. I want to know if there’s enough room for tanks on the ridge. And can we line the vics up in a row?”
“Yes, sir,” Revell replied. “I’m on it.” And with that he left.
“Captain Owens, and Lieutenant Emery … You heard Captain al-Awan. Brief the troops. And the civilians too. Assign each person to a vehicle. And make sure that each vic is properly equipped. Roust anyone who’s asleep. Have them take the tents down. There will be plenty of time for sleeping during the storm.”
Work got underway. Revell radioed in. As far as he could tell the ridge consisted of sand on rock. And the gently rounded top was wide enough to accommodate the tanks. Finn ordered Revell to stay where he was while the rest of the company prepared to join him. And there was a need to hurry.
Off to the west Finn could see what looked like a brown tidal wave headed his way. And the sky had begun to darken. Iranian vehicles were stripped of their water containers. Recalcitrant soldiers were told to improvise face masks. And Finn gave orders for all vehicles to button up and maintain tight intervals as they departed for the ridge. Strike Team 3 was, as tank platoon leader Tim Scott put it, “in deep doo-doo.”
***
All of Doctor Parcel’s patients had been assigned to Bradleys or Iranian fighting vehicles. Jafari, along with an interpreter named Vahid Nouri and the “Docs,” had been ordered to ride in al-Awan’s Mercedes. A vehicle which had proven itself to be quite durable.
Jafari was behind the wheel with Nouri on his right. Larry Beech and Susan Okada were in the back. During the hurry to depart the MERCY, as the Benz was known, wound up sandwiched in between a couple of Saudi tracks. So, all Jafari had to do was follow a pair of taillights.
That left part of his mind free to think about the last-minute concession he’d made to Wali. “I don’t have an air force,” the warlord said. “I can’t drop bombs on people. So I need the means to trigger the bombs on the ground. Remotely, needless to say.
“If you want my money, you’ll come up with a way to accomplish that.”
And you, Jafari thought, fool that you are—agreed. Where in the world will you obtain such a device?
Then it was as if a Shaitan (devil) whispered in Jafari’s ear. “You don’t need to find a trigger mechanism. The people capable of making one are sitting in this car.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Kavir Desert, Iran
Jafari felt a surge of joy. What seemed like an impossible task had been resolved. All he had to do was seize the scientists and deliver them to Wali along with the bombs. No, wait, Beech was a big man. Bigger than Jafari was. Plus, one scientist would be enough. As for Nouri, he was an unnecessary encumbrance. Think, Jafari told himself. Think carefully.
The first step was to turn the SUV’s lights off. Would the driver behind him notice? And say something over the radio? Or, was the swirling dust so thick, that the change would go unnoticed? Jafari was prepared to apologize and turn the lights back on if the driver behind him raised the issue. But there was no response. Jafari smiled. So far, so good.
His next move was to gradually veer to the right, thereby leaving the column of vehicles, and entering the murk beyond. As before, there was no objection.
Jafari was feeling increasingly confident by then. There was a very gentle clicking sound as he turned the child locks on. Would his passengers notice? And object? No. The change went unnoticed.
At that point, with the preliminaries out of the way, it was time to take the final step. The 9mm pistol had been “liberated” from a dead soldier after the recent clash.
Jafari knew very little about weapons, but had seen plenty of action movies. Therefore, he had been careful to pump a round into the chamber earlier. All he had to do was thumb the safety off. So the gun was ready. But was he?
It will be easy, Jafari assured himself. Stop, shoot Nouri, and turn. Beech will react, but too slowly. Shoot him. Okada will try to open her door and get out. But it’s locked. And I’m the only person who can open it.
“Hey, Ahura,” Okada said, as she leaned forward. “Shouldn’t we be able to see some tail lights?”
The pistol was resting inside the pocket of Jafari’s jacket. He braked, drew with his right hand, and shot Nouri from less than a foot away. The sound was incredibly loud. A mix of blood and brains sprayed the air as the interpreter slumped sideways.
Jafari had to turn in order to aim at Beech. He fired twice. One bullet to the chest and one to the head. The double tap wasn’t planned but had the desired effect.
Okada began to scream and worked frantically to open the door.
“Stop it!” Jafari said sternly. “You have nothing to fear. I won’t hurt you.”
Okada didn’t believe that and had her seatbelt off. But all she could do was beat on the back of Jafari’s seat with her fists, fiddle with the door lock, and scream for help. No one came.
Jafari considered opening the passenger side doors long enough to remove the bodies, but decided against it. Not during the height of the storm.
Jafari stepped on the gas. The Mercedes had a built-in compass. He pointed the car east. Haatim and his men were hidden in a cave, waiting for a call. Jafari would make contact the moment the storm abated, drive east, and join his nephew. Okada was sobbing. Jafari smiled.
***
A trip that would normally take fifteen minutes consumed twice that amount as forty mile per hour winds continued to whip sand into the air, and it became difficult for drivers to see the taillights in front of them.
Fortunately, Revell had the foresight required to mark the path up onto the top of the ridge with flares. By staying between the red lights drivers could remain on course.
A “fence,” consisting of additional flares, marked the point where the lead vehicle, an American Bradley, was supposed to stop. The vehicle’s commander put out a call instructing the rest of the drivers to “… close it up and stop.”
It was Owens’s job to take roll. Each name was met with an affirmative answer: “HOT TRACKS.”
“Check.”
“HELL BENT.”
“Check.”
And so forth until she got to the call sign for al-Awan’s Mercedes Benz: “MERCY.”
Silence.
“MERCY, this is Alpha-Seven. Do you read me?”
That was followed by a burst of static and an intermittent transmission. “Crackle-pop … Looking for … Need … Can you hear me?”
“We can,” Owens assured him. “Shut off your engine and stay put. It may take a day or two, but we’ll find you. Over.”
“Yes,” Jafari said. “I …” Finn heard what sounded like a shout at that point, followed by more static, and silence.
“Well, that sucks,” Owens said. “But we’ll find them after the storm abates. Over.”
Finn felt sorry for Jafari and the other passengers, but knew that the Benz had been provisioned, and figured that the wait would be equally difficult on top of the ridge.
Wind driven pellets produced a rattling sound as they pummeled the Bradley. Finn closed his eyes. Now, after a long day, he could finally get some sleep.
***
Mashhad International Airport, Iran
Prior to World War III, Mashhad International Airport had been Iran’s second-busiest, right behind Tehran-Mehrabad. More than ten-million passengers passed through it each year, with flights to fifty-seven destinations in Iran, Central Asia, the Middle East, Asia and Europe.
The airport was also home to a military airbase. And that was its undoing. Rather than allow Iranian or Russian military planes to use the field, the Americans sent B-1 bombers to drop BLU-107 Durandal bombs on the runways. As a result, Mashhad no longer qualified as an airport.
