"In other words," Brannigan said, "we're up the proverbial shit creek without a paddle. We were supposed to spend ten days in-country, but that's no longer applicable. The fact we were attacked in lieu of meeting a defector pretty much brings this mission to a screeching halt."
"It's time for an expedient aerial exfiltration," Cruiser said.
Brannigan shook his head. "Those mujahideen must have Stingers. The bastards know we're here now, so they'll nail any aircraft that comes in the area and tries a landing. There's a big possibility that we're going to have to get out of here by ourselves. The country west of here is made up of foothills and ravines. It provides damn good cover and concealment, but would mean a long walk through unfriendly territory in both Afghanistan and Pakistan. One big downside is that Al Qaeda is split up and scattered all through those areas. It would just be a matter of time before we attracted the sort of attention that leads to complete disaster. The situation would really have to deteriorate before I'd choose that particular option."
"We'll be needing a supply drop if we stay here much longer," Cruiser said. "Our chow and ammo won't last forever."
"A fast-flying aircraft could make a low drop while spewing out flares," Brannigan said. "That would keep the Stinger projectiles off it."
"But that would reveal our location to the mujahideen," Gunnarson protested.
"Hell, Chief!" Brannigan said. "It's like I said. They already know we're up here. There're only two frigging mountains in this goddamn OA. They've probably figured we're on this one by now. And if they haven't, they soon will."
"One way or the other we have to make a decision," Cruiser pointed out.
"Don't worry about that," Brannigan said. "All decisions will be made by SOCOM. That means they damn well might tell us we're on our own."
The sounds of approaching footsteps broke into the conversation, and they looked up to see the radio operator, Frank Gomez. He knelt down and handed a message to Brannigan. "It's from SOCOM, sir. It's in reply to the SITREP you sent out earlier."
"Now we're going to get the word," Brannigan said. He read the neatly printed missive that Gomez had decoded from the five-letter word groups. "Well! SOCOM seems a bit wishy-washy. This is an order to stand fast and go on the defensive. They need some data to send a resupply mission to us:'
"In other words," Senior Chief Dawkins said, "nobody back in SOCOM has figured out how to pull us out of this shit."
"From what I read into this, it appears that they're concentrating as much on getting us out as they are on giving us another mission," Brannigan said. "Something's going on and we're in the middle of it."
"You can't be sure of that," Cruiser commented.
"Why not?" Brannigan remarked. "They have definite plans to resupply us, and that means there's a task in the offing. It might not be anything more than a potential mission that could be called off later. Either way, I have no intention of us just sitting on our asses in these rocks and thorns to await their bidding. We'll do a little sneaking-and-peeking along with some combat patrols to keep that warlord son of a bitch off balance. I want to create an atmosphere that will strike fear in his evil heathen heart."
"It's as we concluded," Cruiser remarked. "We're going north in the southbound lanes. Even with resupply, we can't stay here forever."
.
VILLAGE OF HERANDBE
WARLORD DURTAMI'S FIEFDOM
THE small community of mud huts consisted of fifteen families, and was under the protection and patronage of Warlord Ayyub Durtami. These farmers worked their fields in a single valley of the high country, pooling their resources and energy for a more efficient operation. If they planted the usual crops--wheat, barley and corn--each family would earn the equivalent of approximately 150 American dollars per year. But they had something more profitable to harvest. These peasants cultivated the opium poppy plant from which heroine is made. The crop afforded the farmers 64,500 afghanis annually, which translated into 1500 American dollars per year for each family. It was not surprising that this tenfold advantage in cash encouraged them to cultivate and process the poppies.
Their broker for the sale of the product was the warlord, who paid them cash for the illicit crops. He took care of the transport and sales to the manufacturers that smuggled the narcotics to European and American markets.
The farmers got the juice from the unripe seeds of the plants, and air dried it until it formed into a thick gum. Further drying of this gum resulted in a powder for the final product that the warlord's men transported to receiving points. From there, the substance was taken to processing centers in Kabul and Kandahar.
The farmers loved this arrangement and were deeply grateful to the warlord for providing them with the opportunity to make so much money. It was easy, fast work, without the backbreaking struggle of plowing and harvesting grain crops. These cultivators considered opiates a blessing from Allah. And if the stuff trapped infidels into the hell of addiction, so much the better. That was what the nonbelievers of Western civilization deserved.
The only food the families grew was taken care of by the women and girls. The females worked their personal vegetable gardens, and from these small plots they were able to get more than enough for a decent sustenance. They also tended the animals that provided milk, cheese, poultry and meat. With the income from the poppies, they could afford to buy enough flour for bread. Life was good under these conditions, and used to endless grinding poverty, these people now lived in what they considered shameless luxury.
The villagers did more for the warlord than produce poppy products. They provided him and his mujahideen with intelligence and backup. Their latest support would be in dealing with some people coming from Kabul to register them for the next national elections. This was the reason that the warlord's second-in-command, Ahmet Kharani, and six chosen men waited concealed in the village for the government voter registrars to show up.
.
0945 HOURS LOCAL
THE white Toyota van covered in dust was preceded by a small Russian UAZ sedan. The two vehicles pulled into the village, turning into the small community square. Three elderly farmers sat on benches by the well, looking impassively as the visitors came to a halt next to them.
Four heavily armed men stepped from the sedan, holding American M-16 rifles at the ready. They were obviously city fellows, a bit soft and dressed a little too fancy for the countryside. These bodyguards looked around at the mud huts, then one of them nodded to his companions in the van. The two young men in the vehicle got out and walked up to the old men at the well.
"Asalaam aleikum," one greeted politely. He was wearing slacks and a white dress shirt opened at the collar. "We wish to speak to your head man, if we may."
The farmers made no reply, but stood up and walked away from the well, toward the nearest hut. As soon as they entered and closed the doors, gunshots detonated from nearby buildings with a deafening rapidity. The four armed bodyguards were caught in a murderous crossfire that pummeled them to the ground, leaving them sprawled in the undignified positions of sudden violent death. The other two visitors looked up in terror as Kharani and a half dozen gunmen stepped into view from their hidden firing positions around the huts.
"Put your hands up!" Kharani growled.
As the frightened men obeyed, two of the mujahideen went forward and roughly searched them for weapons, punctuating the procedure with sharp kicks and punches. Kharani walked over to the van and looked inside. A briefcase lay between the seats, and he reached in and grabbed it. He unbuckled the flap and looked inside. It was crammed with illustrated pamphlets and printed posters for placing on walls. He walked over to the prisoners.
"What is this all about?" he asked.