Rolling Thunder (2007) (16 page)

Excellent, the President said. Get this done as quickly as possible. When we've enough information, I'll call the cabinet in to have a thorough discussion on this problem. He stood up. Well, now! Let's go get that breakfast. I'm starving!

The Chief Executive led the four people out of the office.

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CHEHAAR GARRISON

EASTERN IRAN

2200 HOURS

ARSALAAN Sikes was livid. Fuck this bluddy shit!

Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah understood the younger man's anger. You must take time to put things into proper perspective, Captain Sikes.

The two were seated in Khohollah's parlor at one end of his Quonset hut. It was well furnished with ornate plush furniture and thick carpeting. Sikes had come back from the disastrous encounter with the American forces in a roaring rage, and his temper had not improved a bit since then. Khohollah was sincerely sympathetic and empathetic with him. You must be prepared to deal with reversals and disappointments at this stage of our operations.

There ain't no preparations of no kind! Sikes growled. I got to take me lads out without no reconnaissance, no air support, no artillery support, and no reserves to call in if there's trouble. I ain't got the slightest idea o' what we went up against day before yesterday. We was hit with up-to-date antiarmor rocketry right out o' the blue, we was. In the twinkling of an eye, four of me vehicles was blown apart like they was nothing more than sardine tins, hey? Then six more. I didn't have no choice but to turn and get the hell out o' there. And while that was going on, we lost three more before we got back to that bluddy road through them marshes. And I might add that the Yanks know about it now, so we ain't gonna be using that way into Afghanistan no more, are we?

You're absolutely right, Khohollah agreed. And we're going to have to close down here and pull out. The Americans are going to focus a great of deal attention on this area, so we must disappear.

Now, ain't that great, hey? Wot's gonna happen to me? Am I supposed to crawl back to Blighty and get meself put up before a fucking firing squad as a fucking deserter then?

No, Captain Sikes, the brigadier said. We have another operation ready to launch. It involves that band of Pashtun fighters in the Afghanistan mountains. They are fully armed and ready to go. You are well versed in infantry tactics, are you not?

O' course I am, Sikes said. Me old regiment was armored infantry.

Well, you won't be dealing with armor anymore, Khohollah said. You'll be leading a unit of an insurgent force in hit-and-run tactics.

Sikes calmed down. Guerrilla warfare, hey? His old fantasies of being a great battle leader eased back into his conscious mind. What rank am I gonna be?

This group doesn't use ranks, Khohollah explained. You will be called by your name. He paused, well aware of the Englishman's ego. If you do well enough and earn glory and respect, you could well end up with a large command. They will call you Sikes Pasha.

Blimey! When does this start?

Arrangements are being made even as we speak, the Iranian said. He got up and went to a liquor cabinet. Since you're not a devout Muslim in the strictest sense, would you care for a whiskey?

Sure! Archie said. I didn't know you drank liquor, sir.

Oh, well, Khohollah said, pouring two glasses of Dewars. I'm sure there are Jews who enjoy a ham sandwich now and then. And we know that there are Catholic priests who stray into sexual activities, right?

Right, Sikes agreed. And after wot I been through, I needs me a bluddy good jolt.

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PASHTUN STRONGHOLD

GHARAWDARA HIGHLANDS

23 APRIL

0445 HOURS

NASER Khadid opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling of the cave. The Iranian SF captain did not need an alarm clock to break his slumber. Years of soldiering had turned him into a sort of machine when it came to duties that must be attended to. And having to wake up at certain times was paramount; thus, he had an inner clock that sounded a silent alarm. He stretched languidly, glancing over at the fourteen-year-old girl beside him. Her name was Mahzala and she was his second wife.

The marriage between this thirty-two-year-old Iranian and the pubescent Pashtun girl was the sort classified as muta in Islam. It is a temporary arrangement in which a carefully negotiated contract details the length of the relationship. This can be from a few hours to up to ninety-nine years. Khadid also had a wife back in his hometown of Shiraz who awaited his return with their two children. However, Khadid's assignment to the Pashtun rebel group was going to keep him away from home for a couple of years. He was a lusty man, and going that long without sex was something he wasn't prepared to deal with. Since he could have as many as four wives, he decided to take a second from among the Pashtun females. He worked out a deal with Mahzala's father after seeing her among the women getting water from the communal well. She was young, slim, and pretty. The girl's father knew the Iranian wanted his daughter for no more than a sexual playmate and housemaid, so he offered no dowry. In fact, he pressed his case until Khadid agreed to give him a donkey and to remain married in the muta arrangement for at least two years or pay a penalty. The Iranian captain also had to guarantee he would support any children resulting from the union until adulthood.

Now, at that early hour, he reached over and gently shook the sleeping child bride. She instantly came awake, knowing what was expected of her. She left the covers and went to the fire, stirring up the coals to begin preparing coffee. Khadid then got up and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders to keep off the early morning chill. He went to the long-distance Soviet radio with its wire antenna that was strung along the cave and out the entrance. He turned on the old tube set to warm it up, then slipped the earphones on. He waited for a few moments, then at exactly 0500 hours, the daily scheduled transmission from Chehaar Garrison began sounding its dits and dahs.

The Iranian did not write down the unencoded incoming message verbatim; instead, he jotted just enough to get the gist of the meaning:

serious setback ... heavy losses of armored cars ... Chehaar deactivated within the week ... troops to join you ... includes English defector ... prepare to begin active operations in Afghanistan ... draw attention away from Iran ...

The transmission came to an end. Khadid glanced over at Mahzala, kneeling with her back to him as she put the pot on the fire. He gazed appreciatively at the shape of her rounded buttocks through the thin siltirag undergarments she wore. He decided he should begin getting into her kusi as often as possible in the coming weeks. Once the raiding and ambushes began, he would be spending a long time away from the base camp.

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BONHOMME RICHARD CLUB

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

NOT even the oldest members of the club knew why it had been named after John Paul Jones's famous Revolutionary War ship, though it was widely accepted that the first affiliates were former Naval officers and had probably chosen the name to honor both the captain and his vessel. In fact, nobody even knew for sure when the organization was founded. The only records available, such as minutes of meetings, treasurers' reports, and a few files, showed the earliest date as 1815. However, the Bonhomme Richard Club was referred to in journals and newspapers as much as a decade or so before that, so the organization limited to no more than one hundred gentlemen at one time was estimated to have been in existence for some two hundred years.

It was a little-known part of life in old Arlington where well-to-do merchants, politicians, a few military officers, and other notables drew off to be among themselves. The original requirement to have one's name placed on its prestigious roll was to be a white male, a taxpaying landowner, wealthy, influential, and with something to contribute to the intellectual and social characteristics of the organization. It stayed that way for decades, its quiet stuffy interior a place for harried men of consequence to retreat for a quiet drink, silent contemplation, and stimulating, but hushed, conversation. Later, as politics and commerce became more complicated, members were allowed to invite in associates for clandestine sessions regarding their various political and commercial concerns.

The club had been at its present location near the Potomac River since 1856. In those days, it took a carriage ride into the country to reach its portals. And, of course, the fratricide of the Civil War from 1861 to 1865 made visiting the place an adventure. The membership was split almost fifty-fifty between Northerners and Southerners, and those from the Confederacy who served in their states' regiments were not much in attendance while North and South were busy slaughtering each other. But at the end of the conflict, everyone was gentlemanly enough to let bygones be bygones, and the ex-Confederates resumed their memberships without resentment from the Unionists. However, until the 1920s, it was considered bad form to discuss the war within the walls. Aside from that, everthing went back to the way it was.

In 1973, because of the changing social environment of the nation, these gentlemen decided that African-Americans who met the criteria for membership should be allowed to join their Bonhomme Richard Club. Although the resolution passed unanimously, only whites were invited when vacancies occurred. Then, in 1995, after a staid old boy went off to his reward in that club room in the sky, the ninety-nine survivors each put forth a name for membership. Of that total, seventy-five of the slips carried the name of an African-American; Carl Joplin, PhD, an Undersecretary of State. That broke the race barrier then and forever.

However, even into the twenty-first century, women were not taken into consideration for membership.

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24 APRIL

2030 HOURS

ONE entered the premises of the Bonhomme Richard Club through a foyer where a counter similar to a hotel's front desk was located. There were cubbyholes on the wall behind where the concierge stood. Each one was assigned by number to a member, and incoming messages and notices were placed there for his benefit. Farther inside the building was a large library/reading room with the latest newspapers and magazines from all over the world available to the members with special interests. Comfortable, plush leather chairs were scattered helter-skelter across the expanse, each with a small table and ashtray next to it. A single waiter served the readers from the bar located in the next room. Behind all this were a swimming pool, steam baths, and a gymnasium. Upstairs were conference rooms with tables and chairs for meetings when members had business that required the utmost in discretion. Above that, on the third floor, were rooms convenient for overnight stays.

Dr. Carl Joplin with his guest, Mr. Saviz Kahnani from the Iranian embassy, stepped from the taxi and walked across the sidewalk to mount the steps to the club. Jacob, the doorman, lifted the fingers of his right hand to the brim of the top hat he wore and opened the glassed-in portals. The African-American was always on duty from five to ten p.m. six evenings a week. Besides the top hat, he wore a bright red, gold-trimmed jacket (overcoat in cold weather) and navy-blue trousers with a wide red stripe down the outside of each leg. This was the traditional garb for the job, and went back more than a century and a half.

Good evening, Dr. Joplin.

Hello, Jacob, Joplin said, allowing Kahnani to precede him.

When they entered the lobby, the desk clerk on duty greeted them politely and informed Dr. Joplin that his reserved conference room on the second floor was waiting for him. Joplin and Kahnani walked side by side up the stairs and down the landing to where a door stood open. When they entered the fourteen-by-fifteen room, they saw a couple of plush leather chairs with a table between them.

Joplin chuckled as they sat down. I have never figured out why they call these cubbyholes 'conference rooms.' There's barely enough room to swing a cat around in here. He pushed a button on the table to summon a waiter.

Forgive my rude curiosity, Carl, Kahnani said, but are the dues high in this club?

A bit stiff, Joplin allowed. But a greater percent of its revenue comes from grants and trusts left behind by deceased members. We're able to make substantial donations to charities.

I like this ambience, the Iranian said, his accent slightly British from having been educated in the UK. I feel as if I've stepped back in time.

When the waiter appeared, they ordered drinks and snacks. During the twenty minutes he was gone, Joplin and Kahnani carried on laid-back small talk about mutual acquaintances and interests. The latter included the new Washington Nationals baseball team that both men rooted for. When the waiter returned, he quickly served them, then withdrew and closed the door.

It was time for business.

Saviz, my friend, Joplin said, sipping his vodka martini, it's been a while.

Indeed, Kahnani said, lighting a cigarette. Are we back to the nuclear situation again? He picked up his glass of pi -PSna colada, made with coconut milk and crushed pineapple but no rum. For if it is, I fear it will be a repeat of our last session.

We're beginning to worry a bit less about the Iranian nuclear project, Joplin said. What concerns us is Tehran's organizational efforts across the Middle East to consolidate all Islamic insurgencies into one army to be under their direct command and control.

I know nothing of such a thing, Kahnani said.

Joplin was sure he was not lying. It would be appreciated if you advised the Iranian ambassador of our concern. I am afraid the United States government would be extremely alarmed if this activity continues.