Strike Force Delta (19 page)

“See?”
Jabal screamed at Saheeb from the floor.
“They are right on top of us!”

The Syrian pulled Jabal to his feet and in an instant both were out of the Penthouse and running down the stairs, hell-bent on getting out of the concrete structure before it came down around them. The Chief followed, but not so much in a panic.

All three reached the street at the same time. They found many of their
jihad
associates already out here, some having been disturbed in the middle of perverted activities. They were scrambling around, looking up at the sky, trying to follow the trail of exhaust left by the big airplane as it buzzed the city.

“They were taking pictures of us!” someone screamed, his voice almost lost in the growing chaos. “I could see the cameras!”

More people were pouring into the street now and many had weapons with them. Religious policemen and Taliban types, they started firing into the air, only adding to the confusion. The chief screamed at them to stop, but they couldn't hear him over their own gunfire.

That's when things started rumbling again.

Amid the gunfire and the growing racket, someone else screamed: “Praise Allah! It's coming back!”

An instant later, the huge airplane roared over once again, this time even lower and trailing even more of an
earsplitting noise behind it. Everyone got to see it for a few seconds this time. It was big and black and had lots of strange things growing out of it. It resembled a cargotype plane that the Americans in the eastern part of the country always flew, but that bore just a passing resemblance to this thing.

And yes, they
all
saw the cameras this time. Not only a huge lens in a bubble located on the belly of the aircraft—next to a big white ball—but also people in black uniforms were seen aboard the aircraft, hanging out open windows, taking pictures with hand cameras.

The Chief started screaming at his men again—this time to resume shooting at the airplane. But it was already too late. The plane was gone, heading back from where it came, the mountains to the north, the rumbling fading like distant thunder.

Suddenly everything was quiet again. Many people were just standing around, dazed or in shock. Nothing like this had ever happened in Khrash before. They were protected here. Or at least they thought they were. But it had transpired so quickly, so unexpectedly, it had scared them. Wailing could soon be heard coming from nearby homes.

The Patch finally lost it. He collapsed to the ground, hitting the dirty pavement like a ton of bricks. He had fainted dead away.

It took both the Chief and Saheeb the Syrian more than a minute to bring the Patch back around, slapping his face and pushing on his big stomach to make him breathe.

When Jabal finally woke up, his face had completely drained of color.

“Allah, have mercy on my soul,” he gasped. “The Crazy Americans . . . they
are
coming to get me . . ..”

The helicopter landed almost silently. The only hint of its arrival was the small maelstrom of snow and dirt its rotors kicked up as it touched down. This was quickly blown away by the high winds sweeping over the top of the huge mountain. So, too, was the noise of the engines carried away by the gale.

This was Mount Zabul. It was nearly three miles high, covered with snow, and located about twenty-five miles northeast of Obo Field and some forty miles from Khrash.

It was still dark up here, as the mountain was so high and they had landed on the western face, away from the sun. There was a village up here whose inhabitants were not ruled by a subwarlord under the thumb of Kundez Sharif. These people were also known as the Zabul. Mountain dwellers who eked out a living three miles high, eating pinecones and mountain goats, they had a long history of fierce independence.

They'd fought the Russians with as much verve as
they'd fought their decades-old civil war with the authorities in Kabul. Their oral history was replete with stories of both great bravery and cold cowardice. Most of the other parties in the area, from government troops, to the Americans, to the forces of the warlord Sharif, pretty much left the Zabul, known as much for their irascibility as for their nationalistic pride, alone.

The two people in the helicopter waited for the engines to wind down and then stepped out into the wind and snow. One was Major Fox of the DSA contingent of the Ghost Team. The other was Ryder.

They were here on Murphy's advice, hoping to make some friends. That's why there were virtually unarmed.

Adjusting their night-vision goggles, they moved very carefully toward the snowbound village about one hundred yards away. Fox was carrying a hand-drawn map detailing each stone hut within the settlement. There were no armed men or guards watching over the village this windy night. The Zabul lived so far up in the clouds, sentries just weren't necessary.

Ryder and Fox found the stone hut specified on the map. It seemed larger than the rest, was circular, not rectangular, maybe 15 feet around. Fox checked its dimensions against the drawing, then handed it to Ryder. He did the same thing and whispered: “This must be the place.”

They went in the back door, which was actually a series of thick leather hides hanging in place. There was a single candle burning within. Once their NVG vision adapted to the very low light, they found a figure sleeping inside, huddled under wool blankets near a stillsmoldering wood stove.

Fox looked at Ryder, who just shrugged in reply.

“Be my guest,” Ryder told him.

Fox moved over to the sleeping figure, unstrapped his .45 automatic, and very slowly put its barrel up against the person's head. Then Fox shook him awake.

It was a little old man—but when he woke up and saw the pistol barrel he started fighting furiously with Fox. Luckily the DSA officer had managed to put his hand over the man's mouth, so he could not cry out. But he gave Fox such a battle, Ryder had to come over and help keep the man down.

Then Fox started whispering urgently in the old man's ear: “Murphy . . . Murphy . . . Murphy. We're friends of
Bobby Murphy
. ”

Eventually the old man stopped fighting. Still they let a full minute go by before Fox took his hand from the old man's mouth. Finally they let him stand up and brushed him off.

He was no more than five feet tall, with a brown, leathery face, a shock of white hair, and a long white beard. He was stooped over but able to stand without a cane. He was covered by a garment that looked more like a house curtain than a robe; his hands and face were dirty. Yet there was something regal about him.

His name was Tarik Aboo. He was the eldest elder of the Zabul tribe. Why did the Ghosts care about him? A couple hundred strong, the Zabul were just as religious as the people who controlled the Qimruz. But the Zabul also believed Sharif and the people in Khrash to be heathens, a disgrace in the eyes of Allah. Because there was a well-known adage in the Islamic world—
my enemy's enemy is my friend
—the Ghosts were here looking for help.

After his rude awakening, Tarik agreed to talk, only because they'd spoken the magic words:
Bobby Murphy
.

They all sat down next to the wood stove. Tarik crossed his legs, pulling his garment tight around him. He lit up a long black cigarette to calm his nerves.

“Bobby Murphy is an old friend of mine,” he began in thick English. “He is also friends to my brother and my cousin and my cousin's cousin. When we fought the Russians many years ago, I felt Bobby Murphy was here with us, pulling his trigger as I pulled mine. He arranged for us to get weapons. Rockets, missiles, bombs. He got us medicine and food. He helped us throw the Russians out. We owe him many favors.
That
is the only reason I don't kill you both right now.”

Fox and Ryder rolled their eyes. The old guy was feisty; they gave him that.

He took another long drag of his cigarette. “So, then,” he began again, “I recognize the emblem on your shoulder. I know you are the infamous Ghosts and what you have done in your fight against the sheikh bin Laden. But why are you
here?
We are very far away from any battlefields these days.”

“We are after a man named Jabal Ben-Wabi,” Fox explained. “He's a high-up Al Qaeda operative. We believe he's living in Khrash.”

Tarik almost went pale. “The Patch? You're here to capture him?”

Fox just shook his head. “Nope—we're here to kill him.”

Tarik just stared back at them. These men were talking nonsense. “But, as you say yourselves, the Patch is in Khrash. And Khrash is a fortress, with many weapons and people with guns everywhere. Fifteen thousand of them at least. How do you intend to get him?”

Fox glanced at Ryder, who just shrugged. “We're still working on that,” he replied.

The old man still didn't understand. “Are you saying you are the vanguard of some great army? Are there a million more of you just over the hill?”

“No,” Fox replied. “There's only a few of us.”

Tarik looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He chose to laugh. “So what they say is true,” he cackled. “You Americans
are
crazy. Catching the Patch with ‘only a few' of you? Forget it. Didn't you hear me? There are
thousands
of armed people in Khrash. And they are all demons who will protect the Patch no matter what. They are loyal—it will be impossible for you to bribe anyone in the city to help you. And if you fly your helicopters in, they'll point those thousands of weapons up into the sky. Just like the day you tried to snatch Aidid.

“No, the Patch is not only hiding; he's hiding in the right place. You must know the U.S. military won't even bomb Khrash. They won't send troops in because it would only mean a huge fight and they don't want it spilling over into Iran. The swine behind the walls of that city are in a very powerful position. They hold all the cards, as you say.”

Fox shrugged again. “We are still going to try. And we could use some help from people like you. Just name your price.”

Tarik stopped cackling and turned very serious. “You Westerners are all the same,” he said, shaking his head. “You come here, to this country, and you think you know it. The British. The Russians. Now, you, the Americans. You think you're so smart, and that you have
so many clever ideas. And that money can buy you anything at any time. And what happens? You're always wrong. The British. The Russians. And now, you. You're wrong because you
don't
know this place. And you will
never
know it. And you will get tired of
trying
to know it until eventually you will go away, too, just like everyone else.”

Tarik was working himself into a state.

“Now, as a man of God do you think I approve of what is going on in that city?” he asked them. “I will tell you that I have questioned God's very existence on the premise that he would never make such an evil place as that. As a priest, it is my duty to try to change things for the better . . . .”

He sniffled a bit, then lowered his head. “But as you Americans say, you're missing the big picture. Even if I wanted to, I can't help you—for one big reason.”

“And that is?” Fox asked him.

“Kundez Sharif,” Tarik replied, his lips trembling when speaking the name.

“And who is he?”

“He is the god on Earth here in the Qimruz,” Tarik said. “The warlord.
The landlord
. This is his territory. His turf. He allows what goes on in Khrash because the people there pay him tribute. And because they pay him tribute, they know that if anyone goes against them, Sharif will exact revenge on the offending party. That's their deal.

“Sharif is ex-Taliban. He's also a slave trafficker and an opium baron. Very powerful. Very rich. And the man has absolutely no conscience, no regard for human life. If the Patch is in Khrash, you can be sure Sharif will do everything to protect him.”

Tears were actually rolling down Tarik's face now. His cigarette had gone out.

“So while I would love to be the dreamers that you are,” he went on, “and while I would heartily desire to rid my homeland of this sin and idolatry, you must understand why I cannot. For if I helped you, whatever it is you decide to do, Sharif would cut me to pieces. Me, my family. My people. He lets us exist up here only for his own amusement, I think. He would be even happier if he had an excuse to finally wipe us out.”

The Americans listened quietly. Tarik was tough, rugged. He'd obviously lived a hard life, filled with bloodshed and murder. And despite his age, it was clear few things frightened him. But this guy, Sharif, did. To the point of tears.

“Where does Sharif live?” Ryder asked Tarik, speaking for the first time. “Inside Khrash itself?”

Tarik shook his head no. “He would not dirty himself like that,” he said. “He has a compound, maybe ten miles from the city. But this place he calls home, it is as formidable as the city is. Heavily fortified. An army of guards on hand at all times. It sits up high while everything else sits down low. His people can shoot at anyone within five miles of the place. It is here he keeps his weapons. His gold. His opium. On Thursdays, he has a bus of women and girls come up from Khrash and he has his way with them, all against their will of course.

“Be sure you understand this: Sharif is the protector of Khrash. But he lets the religious police and the Al Qaeda Arabs run the place from the inside, along with their Taliban cousins. Again, that's the deal made between devils. That's why the place is such a pool of sin.”

Fox and Ryder had a short, whispered conversation. Then Fox relit the old man's cigarette.

“Wait here,” he said to Tarik. “We'll be back. . . .”

Kundez Sharif's compound was a palace by another name. It was a collection of two-and three-story whitewashed buildings, rambling by Afghani standards, a half-dozen in all. The buildings were made of simple hand-shorn brick, but there were many ornamental touches on their exteriors. Islamic designs of circles within circles, squares, and triangles along the gutters, fountains and trickling waterfalls around the front door. And palm trees planted everywhere. Add in its white-pebble walkways and high ornamental gates, and this place would have been comfortably at home in the Arizona desert.