Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (9 page)

“Why didn't they announce first?” the commander mused. “This looks pretty damned suspicious. Why in hell are they bringing it to us?”

“I see the commander up in the cupola. He's wearing a blue helmet,” the sergeant said. As the trucks got closer to the spotlight along the checkpoint, he could make out more details. “Looks like they might have gotten into a firefight, sir. I see damage to their radio antenna. That could be why they didn't radio ahead. There could be casualties in the back of the pickup truck. They might be lost in the sandstorm, too.”

“Incompetent imbeciles! All those blue-helmets think if they have their precious little GPS receivers, they'll be fine. This is what happens when you rely on them too much and they crap out on you.”

“All their lights are on, sir. They're certainly not trying to sneak in.” A moment later he said, “The commander and one other man are dismounting, sir. Looks like United Nations troops to me. Can't tell his nationality.”

“Bring the T-72 up. I want the gun right in their nose,” the commander ordered. “I want to teach those blue-helmets a lesson. They just can't drive up to a border post in an armored vehicle. Somebody might think they're terrorists and blow their shit away for them.”

“But, sir . . .”

“I know, I know. We don't have any ammo for the main gun,” the commander said. “
They
don't have to know that.” No one at headquarters expected a tank battle out here in the middle of nowhere, especially with Northern Alliance progovernment forces in charge again in Afghanistan, so rations of critical ammunition supplies such as rounds for the main tank guns were reserved only for the army units in the cities and Caspian Sea ports, not the border outposts. They were lucky to have any ammo at all. “Get to it, Sergeant. I want to see the commander of that detachment right away. I'll chew on him for a few minutes while you find some bunk space and rations for them.” As angry as the commander was for being roused late at night, no Turkmen would ever consider being inhospitable to anyone traveling across the desert. Even a professional military officer in the twenty-first-century Turkmen army was only a couple generations removed from his nomadic roots. Every real
Turkman knew the etiquette and rules of survival in the desert, and the prime rule was that any unarmed man riding into an oasis, even an artificial one such as this border outpost, was to be made welcome.

“Wakil, they're moving a tank up to the gate!” Turabi radioed. “We've been discovered!”

“Relax, Jala,” Zarazi said. “I'm not worried about the tank just yet. I'm worried about the barracks. If we start to see troops running out of those tents, we may be in for a fight.”

Troops soon did start emerging from the tents, but only a half dozen or so. Zarazi could soon see that they were rushing toward one of the supply buildings and emerging moments later with their arms full of carpets. He realized with amused surprise that they were preparing to bunk down the newcomers. “Steady. I think they want to make us feel welcome.”

Several minutes later the gates opened and a soldier walked out and greeted Zarazi. He spoke in Turkmen first, which Zarazi understood, but he thought it best to pretend he did not.
“Zdrastvooy,”
he said in Russian, raising his right hand. The soldier smiled and made a short bow—Turkmenistan had been heavily Russified over the years of Soviet occupation, and only recently was Russian replaced by Turkmen as the national language. Zarazi quickly searched for the soldier's rank, saw he was a major in the border guards, and went on, “I am Colonel Petrovich of the Republic of Ukraine, representing the United Nations High Commission on Refugees. Our column was ambushed by marauders outside of Andkhvoy, and we have several wounded. Can you help us?”

“Da. Ya paneemayoo,”
the soldier replied. He removed a glove and extended a hand.

Zarazi shook it, then gave him a curt embrace and patted his shoulder.

“We picked up some transmissions of some sort of skirmish east of here, but we couldn't make out what happened.” The soldier motioned to the Toyota pickup. “Were they Taliban?”

“Bzduns!”
Zarazi said, turning to spit on the sand. “They hit us before we knew they were in the area. Luckily for us, we insisted on going on patrol armed. We suffered a few casualties before the cowards ran off.” Zarazi motioned to the detainment facility, where a number of the men inside had gotten up and moved toward the fence to get a look at what was going on. “Did you capture anyone in the past few hours?”

“Not since this morning,” the soldier said. “But you are welcome to look them over and interrogate them if you wish. Speak any Pashtun?”

“Nyet,”
Zarazi lied. “But I have men who do.”

“The base commander wishes to meet with you. You are welcome. You'll have to keep your vehicles outside the compound until we have our ordnance men look them over, but we can help you with your dead and wounded right away. Come.”

“
Spaseeba bal'shoye.
I am grateful,” Zarazi said. He turned toward the BTR and stepped out of earshot of the Turkmen officer—which wasn't too far in this weather—and said into his radio in Pashtun, “Come on in as we planned. Don't destroy the tank. Neutralize the guards around that detainment facility and see if there's anyone inside from our tribe. Then get them ready to move.”

A few moments later Zarazi was brought before the base commander, an older man who seemed to be struggling to stay awake. His Russian was even better than his deputy's. The pleasantries were short and strained. Then: “You are fortunate, sir, that my culture and my conscience prohibit me from turning you away in the desert. Don't they teach you blue-helmets anything about approaching a border crossing in military vehicles? We could have destroyed you at any time.”

“Ezveeneetye,”
Zarazi said. He did not remove his helmet or his sand goggles, a move that obviously irritated his host. “It's been a long day, sir. It won't happen again.”

The commander narrowed his eyes even further when Zarazi spoke. The Afghan terrorist knew that his time was running out quickly. He had made the mistake of telling the major he was a Ukrainian, but surely the Turkmen had heard from and dealt with plenty of Ukrainians in the past—and Zarazi definitely didn't sound like one. The commander tried to erase the alarmed expression on his face and even managed to give Zarazi a slight smile and nod. “Well, in this weather, with what you went through, it was an honest mistake. You and your men are welcome.” He picked up the telephone. “I'll make sure we have suitable quarters for—”

Zarazi drew his sidearm. “I'm sure your quarters will be more than suitable for me,” he said. “Put the phone down, turn around, and get your hands up on the wall—
now.
”

The old officer did not look surprised as he replaced the receiver on the cradle, then did as he was told.

“You stupid old man. Law of the desert or not, you never open your gates to an unidentified military force. Didn't the Russians teach you anything?”

“The Russians taught me to hate the Mujahidin. I had no reason to do so, until now,” the old officer said bitterly.

As if to punctuate his statement, the sound of gunfire was heard outside. The old man turned toward the telephone on his desk, hoping he would get a report saying that his men had captured or executed some terrorists—but his shoulders slumped and the corners of his eyes drooped when the gunfire subsided and the phone did not ring.

“What is it you want? Weapons? Fuel? Food? We are in short supply of all these things.”

“Then the fewer men we have here on this base, the better,” Zarazi said calmly—and he put a bullet into the old officer's forehead. Zarazi then stationed a Turkmen-speaking man inside the office to cover the phones and went outside with gun in hand to see how Turabi was progressing.

“It went smoother than I ever expected,” Turabi reported. “The border guards here are all conscripts, none more than twenty-five years old. We found one career officer and one career NCO and executed them. The conscripts practically kissed our boots in return. We shouldn't have any trouble with them. They are refueling our vehicles now.”

“Very good.” Zarazi motioned to the detainment facilities. “What do we have there?”

“Women and children in there, men over here, existing just a little bit better than a herd of cattle,” Turabi said disgustedly. “Damned Turkmen—they think their country is so special. What do you want to do with them?”

“Release the women and children with enough rations to last them a couple days. By then they'll either be discovered by relief troops or they'll decide to walk to Andkhvoy.” Turabi nodded. “As for the men—if there's anyone willing to join us, they may.”

“They'll
all
want to join us, Wakil. Either that or starve.”

“Then weed out any who are from hostile tribes, foreigners, unbelievers, or anyone who doesn't wish to join us, and execute them,” Zarazi said. “Keep one or two of the older men here to supervise the rescue of the women and children. Make sure they all understand that if they tell anyone what happened here, I will return and execute them and their entire families. Put the others to work burying our dead and collecting weapons, ammunition, food, and water. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“Where are we headed”—Turabi paused, then added with a smile—“Colonel?”

“ ‘Colonel' will be fine—Major,” Zarazi said with a smile. “North, to Kerki.”

“We're going to stay in Turkmenistan? Why not head east back toward home?”

“Because the Northern Alliance, the United Nations, and the Americans will pursue us and hound us until we are destroyed,” Zarazi said. “The Turkmen garrison at Kerki will have more ammunition, weapons, and supplies, and we'll be safe from our pursuers.”

“What about the Turkmen army? They'll pursue us even more relentlessly than the Americans.”

“If the state of this border guard detachment is any indication of the state of the Turkmen army, I'm not concerned,” Zarazi said. “The Turkmen government is weak and corrupt. Taking what we want shouldn't be too difficult for us. Even if we had to assault this border post, we would have had no trouble.”

Zarazi stared out into the darkness to the north and fell silent for several long moments. Turabi thought his superior officer was entering some kind of trance. Just before he was about to ask if anything was wrong, Zarazi went on, “And I have been chosen by God to be His instrument of revenge against the nonbelievers,” he said. “God saved me from the American robot planes. He wants something of me, Jala, I know it. Something great. Something important. I will not stop fighting until I have accomplished it.”

One
|

The next morning

I
apologize for holding this press conference in this kind of weather, with no shelter,” former president of the United States Kevin Martindale began. As he did, the early-morning downpour seemed to intensify. “Out of respect for this place, I chose not to set up any tents or shelters and add any more to the circuslike atmosphere I'm already creating here. It's also why we're out here in the visitors' parking lot instead of on the grounds themselves, and why I requested that no cameras be aimed toward the cemetery itself. But I did come to Arlington for a reason.”

Despite the weather, Kevin Martindale, standing on the running board of his armored Suburban, looked as groomed and polished as if he were in a television studio. In his early fifties, tall and handsome, a former two-time vice president and one-term chief executive, Martindale still looked every inch the political pro and commander in chief. He kept himself in good shape; he still dressed impeccably; he had shaved his beard and cut his hair for this appearance. The famous “photographer's dream” was still there, even in the rain—the two locks of silver hair that automatically mirrored his mood. If he was angry, they curled menacingly across his forehead, as they did right now; when he was contented, they swept gracefully back across his salt-and-pepper mane.

“I asked you to meet me out here today so I might make an observation and an announcement,” Martindale said. “The weather happens to match my mood pretty well.

“Today is a very solemn anniversary: the twelfth anniversary of the last postwar combat deaths of Operation Desert Storm. Two weeks after the Iraqi army was decimated and a cease-fire was declared, a U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopter went down in bad weather over Kuwait, and six brave soldiers were lost. Some of those heroes are interred here in Section H at Arlington National Cemetery. That these losses happened at all is a huge tragedy, but to suffer such a loss after such a great victory against the Iraqi army makes the loss even more grievous.

“Yet it
was
a great victory for freedom. The mission to release Kuwait from the clutches of Saddam Hussein took only six weeks to accomplish; Iraq surrendered just one hundred
hours
after the ground war began, after being pummeled into submission by forty days of continuous aerial bombardment. Coalition forces lost just five hundred brave soldiers, against nearly one hundred thousand Iraqi casualties. It was clearly one of the most lopsided wars in history. Those soldiers' deaths were tragic, but it was a mission I feel the United States needed to accomplish. They did not die in vain.