Quest for Honor (16 page)

But Israel was a very small country, and Iran very large. Two or three nuclear detonations in Israel would devastate their country. One or two in Iran would be very serious, of course, but the nation would survive, until an American submarine showed up. Iran would be utterly defenseless against such an attack, which would complete the job the Israelis had begun.

Next to him, he sensed Ralouf’s discomfort. He glanced at Suleimani, who looked nonplussed. No, he was with the civilians. Fazeed looked back at his president. Ahmedinejad’s eyes were bright. “The time of the Twelfth Imam is upon us,” he said. “Allah’s will be done.” Khamenei nodded his head.

Fazeed knew at that moment that his life would soon be forfeit. He would be incinerated by an American or Israeli nuclear warhead, or he would die before a firing squad. One way meant he would have followed his orders and helped cause the deaths of untold millions. But the other way, by doing something to stop these fanatics, that might mean that only a very few people would die. Perhaps only one.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Afghanistan

T
he village, like
most of the others he’d seen on his tours, probably hadn’t changed in decades, maybe even a century or two. Once again, Mark Hayes marveled at the differences between this country and Iraq. Over there, in what the troops called “The Sandbox”, you could see signs of the twenty-first century in nearly every village: motor vehicles, satellite dishes, cell phones, laptop computers. When you visited an Iraqi tribal chieftain, he might be in traditional robes but would be wearing a digital Swiss watch, take a call on his cell phone, have an assistant pecking away at a laptop. Even there, though, conditions were sometimes beyond belief for the Americans. Mark remembered the overpowering stench of Fallujah, where sewage ran through the streets and high-rise buildings had “shit pits”, open chutes that emptied into holes.

Like virtually every Afghan chieftain he’d ever met, the man sitting on the mat across from Mark had none of those modern accoutrements. He had the traditional clothes, which here meant the low cloth cap, the shirt and jacket, the worn pants and boots. He wore a scruffy beard, dyed red to signify his leadership role, and he might’ve bathed a week or so earlier. The mud-walled compound he and his extended family lived in had no running water or electricity. Mark and two of his officers were sharing tea with the man and his only son, who was his nominal second in command. For Mark, it was a courtesy call to discuss the latest news, go over the progress of the construction projects in the village—a road, a school, and a medical clinic, as usual at the top of the list for American and UN aid for any Afghan community.

This particular village was at the opposite end of his command area from the village he and Solum’s company had been through a week earlier, but word had spread. Once again, Mark was impressed by how quickly these people received news from some distance away, without the aid of telephones or radios. It was an ability that American intelligence operatives were finally figuring out how to use to their advantage.

Mark had picked up a fair amount of Pashto during his tours and was able to hold a decent conversation with the chief, who reciprocated by using some English. As always, though, Mark brought an interpreter along, an Afghan National Army lieutenant who was detached to the base. The ‘terp was young, eager and new; Mark had been forced to arrest his predecessor when they discovered he’d been leaking intel to the Taliban. That guy was now in the Kabul prison, where he was awaiting a trial that might be a long time coming, if it ever came. The Afghan criminal justice system was rough around the edges, compared to its U.S. counterpart. Mark remembered discussing it with some civilians back home, after his first tour downrange. One of the civvies, studying for his master’s at Georgetown, had remarked on how primitive the Afghans were. Mark replied that they had a lot fewer people in prison than America did, even considering the population difference, so maybe they were on to something.

Dealing with the Afghans was an acquired taste. Americans tended to be straightforward, getting to the point quickly, but the Afghans could spend an hour just discussing the weather. The lying was something that had taken Mark a long time to get used to. Lying is part of their culture, he was told on his first deployment, and all these years later there hadn’t been much change. But this
malik
was more progressive than most of his peers, and Mark thought they had finally reached an understanding. Today they opened with the usual pleasantries and small talk before getting down to business. Over the weeks Mark had developed a healthy respect for the chief, who seemed to be genuinely concerned for his village and tribe. In addition to an eighteen-year-old son, he had four daughters and was determined to see them get an education. Six months earlier, two of his nieces had been scarred for life when two Taliban on motorcycles had run them down on their way to school, throwing acid in their faces. One of the first patrols Mark led after taking over the firebase tracked the two men down and dealt with them and their buddies personally. That particular firefight was one of the most one-sided, and satisfying, of Mark’s career.

“Tell me, Colonel,” the chief said through the interpreter, “what news do you have of the medical clinic?”

“Good news, sir,” Mark said, smiling. “The UN doctors will be returning in two weeks’ time. First a team will come to fix up the clinic building, then the doctors and their nurses. Your people will have the best medical care once again.” Mark had been working hard the past several weeks to cut through the red tape and get the clinic back. Two years earlier, Taliban attacks forced the UN to pull out of the area. Now, Mark had convinced them he could provide them with security.

The chief nodded, but his son was not pleased. He barked something at the ‘terp, who started to translate, then stopped. “What did he say, Lieutenant?”

The young Afghan swallowed. “He asks, Colonel, if the UN doctors will be treating the women of the village and the surrounding area.”

“Of course,” Mark said. He looked back at the chief’s son, and said in Pashto, “Women and men.”

What was this kid’s name, Dawud? He had a ratty, teenager’s beard and his father’s gray eyes, but none of their wisdom and maturity. This one’s eyes blazed with the fury of the true believer. He fired back at Mark in rapid Pashto, too quick for Mark to pick up completely, but he did catch something he thought translated as “men command”. “Lieutenant?”

“He quotes from the Holy Quran, Colonel. The fourth Sura, which begins, ‘Men are in charge of women.’”

“Ask him if the Holy Quran specifically forbids women from receiving medical treatment.” Mark knew the answer to that one already. There was nothing in the Muslim holy book that said a woman could not see a doctor, yet on his first deployment Mark had witnessed a horrifying scene, when a group of Afghan villagers who had been mortared by the Taliban allowed their wounded daughters to die while bringing the boys to the Americans for treatment. Sometimes, in his nightmares, Mark still saw the eyes of the eight-year-old girl who had bled out in his arms after he rushed into the family’s hut to save her.

The chief answered before the translator could finish. “The chief asks that we excuse his son,” the lieutenant said. The old man’s words came more harshly this time. “He is still a boy in many respects.”

Mark knew it would not be a good idea to get into an argument with the kid. Instead, he nodded his head at the chief. “I understand completely,” he said. “The young men in my country often speak before they think.” The chief nodded and smiled at the translation.

Would the doctors really get to treat everybody in the village? Mark had heard about problems in other districts. Trying to educate these people in basic hygiene and nutrition ranged from relatively easy to almost impossible, depending on where they were in the country and how much influence the Taliban still had. Afghan doctors, trained by American and European aid workers and physicians, sometimes disappeared, only to be found days later, in pieces. All for trying to help heal the sick, prevent disease. It was tragic; no, that wasn’t the right word. It was barbaric. Growing up in placid, modern Wisconsin, with a clean and efficient clinic in almost every town, Mark would never have believed such things happened in the world.

He knew better now.

“How’d it go, suh?” Sergeant Major Elkins asked when Mark led the ANA lieutenant back out to the waiting vehicles. Elkins had played football at Mississippi State twenty years ago and was still built like the All-SEC linebacker he’d once been. A blown knee ended his NFL career after two years, but it somehow hadn’t kept him out of the Army. The enlisted men thought he was the best sergeant in the Army and it hadn’t taken Mark long to conclude that they might very well be right.

“Okay. Is Doc back yet?” Staff Sergeant King, one of the company medics, was making the rounds of the village, treating what he could. He always had patients, and lately they’d become more eager to see him. Mark took that for a good sign. Whatever the chief’s son had going on, and Mark suspected it had something to do with Taliban cells in the area, it wasn’t cutting much ice with the locals.

“Here he comes now, suh.”

With two female specialists in tow, King snapped off a quick salute to Mark. “All set, Colonel.”

“Any problems?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. That woman I told you about, the one ready to deliver? Well, she did. We got here just in time.”

That explained the happy glow on the faces of the lady specs. “A boy, sir,” one of them said, Quarters, he thought he remembered the name. “Six pounds, two ounces.”

Mark cracked a smile. “A keeper.”

“Yessir,” the other woman said. “The umbilical cord was wrapped around his throat. Might not’ve made it if we hadn’t been there.”

“Good work,” Mark said. “Okay, people, let’s mount up.”

“Oh, by the way, suh,” Elkins said, “got some commo from the base. Word came down from Division. Congratulations, suh, you are now a full bird colonel.” The sergeant snapped an order to the other soldiers. “Ten-SHUN!” The fifteen troopers fired off parade-ground salutes in perfect unison.

Mark smiled as he returned the salutes. He was pleased and a bit surprised at the promotion, and he suspected the General might’ve had something to do with that, crossing one more thing off his list as he was preparing to turn command over to his successor and head back home to begin his new duties as head of the CIA. Mark made a mental note to give him a call when they got back to the base. “Okay, people, let’s mount up and go home. I’m sure my paperwork load has just gone up.”

Mark’s Humvee driver had just started the engine when a man came running down the street toward them, waving his arms and yelling. “Cut the engine,” Mark ordered as he dismounted. The ANA officer hustled out onto the dirt street to join him.

The Afghan looked a lot like the chief, and Mark rapidly tried to place him. Wasn’t he the chief’s younger brother? The man was frantic, jabbering at him, his eyes wide with fear. Mark held up his hands, saying “Slow down!” in Pashto.

With an effort, the man tried to catch his breath. He was panting, and not just from running down the street. Something was very wrong. Mark quickly waved to the rest of the troops. “Dismount! Form a perimeter!” Elkins appeared beside him, his M-4 at the ready, scanning the rooftops.

The ‘terp calmed the man down and asked him to tell them what was going on. His eyes still fearful, the man rattled off several words.

“He says that they have taken his son.”

Mark glanced at the interpreter. “Who took him? How did it happen?”

More Pashto was exchanged between the two Afghans. “His son is eight years old. He was out tending the goats. He went off to catch a goat that had strayed away. Three men came in a pickup truck and took him.”

Oh, shit, Mark thought. “How does he know this?”

“The boy’s older sister was there and saw it. She ran back to tell their father.”

“When did it happen?”

The man jabbered back at the interpreter. “Not too long ago. Maybe twenty minutes.”

Mark turned to Elkins. “Sergeant, take some people and a couple vehicles, take this man out to where it happened. See if you can find anything.”

“Yessuh.” Elkins quickly picked a squad and they roared off, the ANA lieutenant and the villager with Elkins in the lead Humvee.

Mark looked at King and his assistants. “How good is your Pashto?”

“Not bad, sir. Getting better.”

“Okay, come with me. We’re going to find someone and have a little chat. Somebody here knows what went down and I think I know who it is.”

They found Dawud at the wheel of a battered Toyota pickup, cursing at the engine as it failed to turn over. The chief had one of the few vehicles in the village, but apparently his son hadn’t been keen on keeping it serviced. Mark came up from behind on the driver’s side, his M9 pistol at the ready. He saw the young man’s eyes flick to the side mirror and go wide.

“Get out! Hands where I can see them!” Mark shouted it in English, but he knew Dawud would get the meaning. Just to make sure, King was covering the kid with his rifle through the passenger window. Mark knew he was taking a chance by treating the son of a chief this roughly, but he didn’t have time to screw around.

Dawud stepped down out of the cab, hands in the air. He did his best to look defiant, but Mark could see his hands trembling. The chief broke through the cordon of troopers and confronted his son, berating him in rapid-fire Pashto. Mark could follow some of it, and it wasn’t pretty. No doubt the chief had gotten the word at the same time they had.

The chief finished his tirade and waited for his son to say something, but Dawud was silent. Mark ordered one of his men to frisk the kid. “He’s clean, Colonel.” Holstering his sidearm, Mark approached him.

“Do you know what happened to the boy?” Mark asked in Pashto.

Dawud’s eyes flicked away, then back to Mark’s. “No.”

“You are lying.”

“Tell the colonel what you know!” the chief yelled. “They took your cousin!”

Dawud looked away. Mark knew they would have to get something out of this kid quickly if they had any chance to save the boy, but his options were limited. He knew what he would like to do; what he was allowed to do would be something very different, and not as effective.

“In the name of the Prophet! Tell the truth!” the chief shouted. There were gasps from some of the villagers who had gathered to watch. To invoke the name of Muhammad was most serious, and the devout Muslim was required to respond.

Dawud swallowed. “I….I did not know they were going to take Atash,” he said, voice trembling.

“Where did they take him?” Mark demanded.

“I am not sure….”

“Where do they go?” the chief said. “Where do they meet?”

“I think…I think they use a farmhouse, about five kilometers to the south,” Dawud said. He looked back and forth between his father and Mark, his eyes pleading. “I am not one of them! I swear it! They have tried to get me to join them, but I—“