Afghan's Export Isn't Just Terrorism

AFGHANISTAN

EARLY SPRING

   EXPERTLY CUPPING THE BULB in one hand, a Kalashnikov draped over his shoulder, the farmer scored the soft flesh of the flowering plant with a sharp three bladed tool held by the other. He was careful as he made the shallow vertical incision, causing the yellowish-green poppy pod to tear. Glistening in the brilliant afternoon sunlight, a milky substance streamed down the curved surface, congealing as it made contact with the dry air. The farmer moved to the next bulb repeating the procedure - and on to the next one. All day he worked performing the same tedious task. Ten feet to his left and right other farmers, also with Kalashnikovs, did the same, and ten feet from them, more. And so on. Seemingly, as far as the eye could see, such was the activity. And the chest-high flowering plants moved gently; green waves of poppy, swaying in a pleasant valley breeze.

            Carefully surveying the irrigated sloping field, Hamid Ayub sat on a hillside. He was draped in his striped chapan coat, the long tail of a silk brown and gold turban falling over his shoulder. As the regional drug lord, he presided over the crop of poppy, a domain of many acres. He was pleased with what he could see. Hamid managed the poppy crop’s planting, irrigation, cultivation, and refinement. He’d received high marks for his proficiency. He was moving up.

Harvesting is time critical and weather sensitive. Heavy wind or rain disrupts production. The resin would be spoiled. But Hamid was an expert at what he did and used modern farming technologies as well as practices thousands of years old; a dichotomy of the ancient and modern, the Weather Doppler Radar inside his SUV and the stick in his hand.

With the stick he marked lines in the dirt, each line a day - his harvest calendar. The poppy tear would soon dry to a sticky resin that could be harvested the next day, when the farmers, his farmers, would scrape the pod clean. Harvesting would be performed four times, with three days in between each harvest. Just one acre of the ten acres in front of him would yield five kilograms of raw opium, one million dollars worth before being refined into heroin. It was a good business for Hamid, and business was growing.

The farmers once owned the fields that Hamid cared for, growing mostly wheat, but no longer. Already heavily involved in drug trafficking, not to mention labor racketeering, human slavery, loan sharking, hijacking, pier thefts, and assassinations, the Pashtun Mafia wanted to gain a tighter grip on heroin production; control every aspect. Recognizing the burgeoning growth of poppy and the profits involved, the Pashtun Mafia paid the farmers for the rights to the fields. At $300 per kilogram of raw opium harvested each season it was ten times what the farmer would be paid for the wheat crop. Not a trifle sum for “God’s own medicine.”

The Pashtun Mafia, working together with the Taliban, also provided protection.  “Don’t worry about the soldiers,” Hamid told concerned farmers. “We will keep you safe.” And they did. But that cost money, and often required force. No problem. Money was the easy part and was being spread around everywhere by all involved, it seemed. And there was a plethora of money to go around, some even coming in a roundabout way from the CIA. Corruption had always run rampant throughout the history of Afghanistan and now the tentacles of that corruption undulated from highest levels of  government to the family members that facilitated the lucrative opium trade and protected the farmers in the field. A shakedown financed by the American taxpayer to insure the world's heroin - the ultimate irony.

Smugglers were paid $800 per kilogram of opium bricks. National soldiers and national police, both in Afghanistan and Pakistan, needed to be bribed. When force was required, it could be meted out violently. When four members of the DEA trained drug task force were discovered in a poppy field, they were summarily executed – mob style; throats slit followed by decapitation. There was good reason for Hamid and the Pashtun Mafia to go to such extremes – refined heroin. And the real profit, the biggest windfall of all was wrought from the best heroin, heroin “No. 4.”

The crop started in early spring, when the farmers first manually hoed every square foot of Hamid’s fields, then sprinkled poppy seeds across the pulverized soil. After planting, the fields were irrigated, some by underground systems, some by trenches and some by hand, farmers using dried goat bladders to soak the seeds. Three months later the four-foot tubular plant would flower, the brightly colored petals soon littering the ground, exposing a bulbous seedpod ready for scoring.

Hamid examined the instrument for scoring. It appeared rudimentary, but its design was brilliant, three blades uniquely shaped to precisely score the pod for the maximum amount of opium sap. Hamid rubbed the blades with his thumb as he held the instrument, removing a small amount of black residue, rolling the congealed opium between his thumb and index finger.

Heroin was refined from the pure opium in labs throughout Afghanistan, with the final product smuggled into Pakistan through Baramcha, a border town without checkpoints. The army had left the town unguarded several years before. Ahmed Shah, the baron of the drug lords had seen to it. He was the leader of the Pashtun Mafia, and the man that Hamid called his “Godfather.”

A faint sound got Hamid’s attention. He stood. Rubbing his thick dark mustache, he searched with avid interest in the direction of the noise, now growing louder. He knew the sound well, familiar to Afghanistan for many years.

From rich, pink-hued, billowing clouds emerged a lone helicopter. Still small, and miles away, hardly a threat he quickly realized. He relaxed, sitting down again as the helicopter drew closer, now in a turn. Hamid laughed as the circling NATO observer dispensed flares, countermeasures for shoulder-fired missiles that would not be wasted on the unarmed craft.

Hamid calmly signaled an aide in the distance as he descended the rocky Afghan hillside to a waiting black SUV. He limped slightly as he negotiated the slope, the labored gate due to decades old shrapnel lodged deep in his leg.  He slid into the back seat, the door opened for him by a guard. Hamid was on the move - the destination, a laboratory where raw opium was refined into heroin and from there on to the black market to be picked up by smugglers. Speeding away, he gave the NATO helicopter a last passing glance, unconcerned. What can these people do now? This is our land and they will be forced out too!

The lab was hidden in the middle of Chaharbagh, a typical Afghan town of narrow dirt streets and high stonewalls. At one time it was a very poor town of twenty thousand Pashtuns, but now the Pashtun Mafia owned it. Heroin owned its soul. No longer poor and hungry, the many disregarded the old edicts of Islam against drug production. Once having banned opium, even the Taliban now justified heroin production as merely another weapon to be used against the West and the United States, a very deadly arrow in Allah’s quiver that the Mullahs authorized for Jihad.

Hamid’s SUV negotiated the main street, crowded with traffic, and sidewalks dotted with shops engaged in commerce. Women covered head to toe in light blue, intricately designed burqas milled about the street in twos and threes shopping from street vendors and stores. Many shopkeepers were openly selling heroin-refining chemicals, evidence of the prosperity brought about by the illicit heroin production.

Hamid pulled up to a ubiquitous gated property; security cameras at each corner of the building covering every square inch of the perimeter. The gate opened automatically to a covered courtyard, a small fountain in the middle, two boys playing in the water. Another SUV just like his was parked nearby; several armed men standing at the ready. Ahmed Shah was waiting for Hamid inside.

“Pe kher ragle – welcome,” Shah said in the native Pashto language as the drug lord entered the busy lab. He was sitting on the floor surrounded by stern armed guards, an AK-47 in his lap.

“Pe kher ragle Sultan,“ Hamid answered giving Shah his respect.

A small man, Ahmed Shah didn’t look like the most wanted man on the earth. Wearing a traditional wool Pakol hat and loose wool shirt and pants, Ahmed Shah may have been every bit Pashto, but his face resembled a man who was more European than Asian. Those that knew the drug baron before he had a $20 million price on his head remembered an even fairer appearance. Now he dyed his brown hair dark, used contacts to cover light blue eyes, and underwent plastic surgery, changing the shape on his nose, jaw, and cheeks. His was an extreme look, one of defiance – one of anger. Shah stood up.

“What is your daily output at this lab?” Shah asked.

“Sultan we are averaging thirty kilograms each day,” Hamid responded proudly. “And this lab is dedicated only to pure white.”

Shah quickly did the math and was impressed. He smiled. The price of heroin varied. Poor quality brown heroin used for smoking would fetch $1000 per kilo. Pure white No. 4 used by intravenous heroin addicts garnered three times that. The lab was producing almost $100,000 of pure white heroin. That same kilo though would be cut to only five percent pure by the time it hit the street in the United States or London. The “street value” of No. 4 was thirty times that. If Shah could control the distribution to the user, his lab was producing $3 million per day. “Thirty kilos you say. Allah is willing. Show me how we and Allah can accomplish this.”

“Of course Sultan, please follow me.”

Hamid led the group through a hallway into the main portion of the lab. The room was fifty feet by twenty-five feet, with traditional wool carpets haphazardly strewn on the cement floor. Two-dozen workers were engrossed in various tasks at tables throughout the large room and a strong pungent odor of raw opium filled the air, evidence that production was in full swing. A tall, thin man stood up from a table of six boys, all busy preparing the raw opium for refinement. The man was Baz Mohammed, a chemist. If it were a legitimate corporation, Hamid would be the regional manager, Baz Mohammed the plant production manager, and Shah the CEO.

Baz explained the process. He motioned to a large fifty-gallon drum filled with water. There were ten such drums. Attached to each were coils, obviously for heating the water, Shah presumed. He was right. “We first must produce morphine. We do so by heating the water, and I must say Sultan, that our efficiency has been improved with the addition of theses drums,” Bazz explained enthusiastically, the pitch of his voice somewhat elevated. “In the past, you may remember, we used a wood fire and thermometer. Now a computer monitors the temperature of the water, maintaining it at exactly eighty-five degrees centigrade.”

“The computer turns the coils on and off?” Shah asked.

Baz nodded his head, “The computer monitors every facet of the process Sultan. The raw opium is placed into the drums. Small blades on the bottom of the drums stir the mixture until all the raw opium is dissolved. Lime fertilizer is then automatically introduced which separates any organic waste. What remains near the surface is filtered as the solution is poured into the adjacent drum. Let me demonstrate for you Sultan Ahmed.”

Shah watched the chemist turn the water and opium into a chalky, almost milky liquid.

Baz continued, “We are now heating the second drum and adding high concentrations of ammonia. A chemical reaction causes the morphine, which is now a solid, to fall to the bottom of the drum.”

As Shah looked on, the second drum was also filtered through ordinary flannel screens. What remained were chunks of morphine weighing one tenth of the original raw opium brick.

Baz picked up a piece with a rubber-gloved hand and held it for Shah to inspect. “This, Sultan, is what the American Pharmaceutical Companies do not want us to legitimately produce – so we don’t.” The men laughed at the notion.

Shah knew exactly what Baz was getting at. Proposals were floating around think tanks to license the farming of Afghan opium for legal pharmaceutical uses such as painkillers, citing Afghanistan’s increasing opium production, reliance on poppy, and worldwide shortages of morphine. The plan called for opium producing villages such as Chaharbagh to be able to sell morphine and codeine directly to developing countries through preferential trade agreements. The think tanks also argued that not only would the consumption of illegal drugs be reduced, but other health risks associated with intravenous drug use, caused by dirty needles, such as Hepatitis, HIV, and AIDS, would be reduced. The idea hit a big roadblock. Tremendous lobbying efforts against such a plan came from major pharmaceutical companies, who called the idea nebulous. In reality, the drug titans didn’t want the competition. Instead of morphine, Baz made heroin, and in essence the drug companies and Shah were almost silent partners.

“Now I will demonstrate how we turn the morphine into heroin No. 4,” Baz said. “The process is dangerous, as you well know Sultan,” he added as they approached three giant Erlenmeyer flasks made of Plexiglas and held by an electrically powered vice over burners. Each was filled with a solution.

Hamid took over the briefing as Baz attended to a burner one flask rested on. “It is a five stage process. In each flask are ten kilos of morphine and ten kilos of acetic anhydride. They are heated for six hours until chemically bonded. In stage two the impurities are removed by treating the solution with water and chloroform. We then drain the solution into this container here.” Hamid nodded to Baz, who then moved the flask away from the burner, pouring the solution into another Plexiglas container. The chemist then added sodium carbonate.

Intrigued by the intricate operation, Shah moved in closer to study the chemical reactions. “Is this heroin?” he asked, seeing small particles falling to the bottom like tiny flakes in a snow globe.

Hamid smiled. “That is indeed heroin, but not what we export. What you see here Sultan is good for smoking. For our product we have two more stages. Those flakes are filtered using this pump.” Hamid rested his hand on an electric motor powering a suction tube connected to the container. Baz lowered a lid onto the top and turned the pump on. The flakes ran through the tube into yet another container.

“Here the heroin is being purified with alcohol and charcoal. We will then heat this container until the alcohol evaporates. What remains will be placed into a final flask you see Jamal holding.”

A young boy that Shah guessed was ten or eleven years old carried over a smaller Erlenmeyer flask half filled with alcohol. At the bottom of the flask was a plentiful amount of a white substance. “This?” Shah queried with a nod.

“Yes Sultan – that is heroin No. 4, before it has been removed and dried, but for your safety we will not demonstrate the actual process.”

Shah understood, knowing that ether and hydrochloric acid were used after stage four’s solution was dissolved in alcohol. The concoction produced small white flakes that were filtered under pressure and dried. The result was 99% pure. Done incorrectly though, the ether gas could ignite, destroying the lab.

Shah’s control over the poppy production was increasing, in part because of such ruthless tactics. He controlled through fear and intimidation as good as any. Even the Taliban respected him enough to leave him alone.

But Shah also needed the Taliban for protection; the protection of his convoys of heroin that drove into Pakistan and to the ports in Karachi, where ships were waited, ships to transport the No.4 white “directly to devil himself;” New York.

Ahmed Shah had spent years honing his distribution network, and at great personal risk. It wasn’t easy and many sacrifices had been made along the way. Poppy production was introduced to a new age because of his work. As opium production had exploded in the area known as the Golden Crescent, Shah negotiated numerous deals to facilitate the production and distribution of his high quality Afghan heroin. There were many dead bodies along the way too. Fear and intimidation were his primary method of negotiating, the same tactics used by his competitors.

The tour and brief over, Shah was escorted to the exit. As the door was opened to the courtyard, he suddenly felt himself lifted and hurled out the entrance, through the air, his body hitting the front door of the SUV hard, rendering him semiconscious.  He laid face up staring at the blue sky, now becoming obscured from the black smoke of an explosion that had ripped violently straight through the lab. The open door saved his life; a contained explosion would have certainly killed him, but the lab was virtually destroyed in entirety. Someone will pay dearly for this mistake, he decried.

“Sultan, Sultan,” a guard screamed, fearing the worst as he ran to the still motionless body of his leader.

Gradually, Shah stood assuring his men that he was unharmed. The same could not be said for Hamid, who was seriously injured, or Bazz, who now lay dead. Another guard handed Shah a pair of binoculars and pointed up. With ensuing great interest and revelation, Shah knew the explosion wasn’t the fault of a careless lab technician after all. High in the sky, nearly ten thousand feet above him, Shah could just barely make out the shape of a tiny dark gray object, a Predator drone.

            “Americans – they will pay,” he muttered to himself with visceral disdain. But he needed more protection and more money to turn his desire into reality. He’d call on his friends, be it in Kabul or Venezuela; those that could provide exactly what would be needed. But the price would be high.

The Fight At Lake Saif ul Maluk

JUNE 11, 2008
NORTH WEST FRONTIER, PAKISTAN

             A DRAMATIC ALPINE SUNSET, the conditions were just right. Bright pink ribbons of cirrus accented gray jagged rock jutting high out of a massive, meandering glacier. The warmth of the sun now absent, the temperature rapidly fell to freezing. The air was fresh, clean and sweet, a smell that could be tasted. They were many miles from any sources of air pollution. A narrow crescent moon was looming, and the sky was clear. Stars of the Milky Way illuminated everything to a horizon of endless mountain peaks. Tirich Mir was in the distance, the white top glowing in the night.

       Bryan could also easily see everyone in the party, the echelon stretching down the slope. “That could be a problem,” he thought. The Taliban would also have very little trouble spotting them. On the top of ice, some losing their footing on the slick surface, Bryan followed a white slide with his eyes, far down the descending pitch, to a reflection of the moon and stars. The glacier’s cirque was a guidepost to a magnificent lake below, the dark, still waters a mirror for the heavens above. There they found a Prince of Chitral.

        The bivouac Rehman chose was on the embankment of a glacial lake fed by many icy cirques. Lakes such as this were numerous in the Hindu Kush Mountains, a foreboding range that provides a northern barrier to the Indian subcontinent along with their neighbors, the Himalayas. Barren for the most part, trees and stubby brush sprinkled sporadically across the steep rocky slopes, the range has always been inhospitable.

Hindu Kush is Persian, meaning “Slayer of Hindus.” So named to memorialize the tens of thousands of Indus captives that died of exposure in the frigid mountains while being marched to central Asian slave markets. Beginning near Kabul, the mountains stretch west to east 966 kilometers, gradually rising to 7,705 meters, the pinnacle being Tirich Mir and western shoulder of the 8,850 meter Mount Everest of the Himalayas.

Tirich Mir, with tremendous vertical relief over the terrain in every direction, was the center of the High Hindu Kush in the North West Frontier of Pakistan, a place known as the Chitral District. It was an excellent place for Rehman to regroup, reflect, and to pray. He was a Muslim and felt closer to God the higher he climbed the steep mountains. The cliffs were safe as well.  Access to the area was difficult, few natural passes and high elevations making transit somewhat dangerous. Over the centuries, industrious engineers put man’s ingenuity to use, boring a network of tunnels, and constructing mountain paths, yet the trek could only be made on foot in most cases, or occasionally with pack animals. Needless to say, the numerous systems of caves, tunnels, and mountain passes created a porous border between Afghanistan and Pakistan for those industrious and brave enough to attempt it, a border virtually impossible to patrol, or seal.

Rehman’s militia was a combined force of one thousand. They were all recruited from numerous tribes throughout Chitral, the majority being Sunni Muslims from the Kho tribe, as well as other tribes including non-Muslims such as the Kafir Kalash. Prince Rehman and a compliment of his militia, thirty men, were gathered in front of a fire midway up the slope of a steep hill, forty-five degree grade, overlooking the lake. The hill was the northwest quadrant, recessed in a kind of bowl. Bracketed by cirques, the encampment, the only somewhat level spot on the slope, was accessible via two ways; a narrow path from the south, with a hundred foot drop to the cirque if a step in error, or by coming up the steep grade, slick with moss. Partially surrounded by yet another collection of boulders, the largest the size of a small house, the encampment gave them the only high ground with cover for a radius of two hundred meters. Close by however, only one meter to the north of their position, was another hill, with a similar outcropping of rocks and boulders. The hill was lower, but not by much, a potential problem should an attack come from the Taliban. Access to that area could be gained by scaling a rocky ridge from the bank, a path that was hidden from their view. East of the ridge was a sheer drop to the other cirque. They would need to be vigilant. Be prepared!

The Kalash Kafir escorts entered the encampment with Raza and ahead of the team. Bryan and the Lieutenant arrived immediately afterward, signaled all clear, and then joined by the remainder of the team. The Prince was seated with his legs crossed on a small rug about twenty feet from the fire. Four men flanked him on either side. All had a Russian manufactured AK-47 in their lap and several belts of the Kalashnikov’s 7.62-millimeter ammo crisscrossing their torsos. The Prince’s men were well armed; Bryan could see several RPG launchers and rockets neatly laid out in back near the largest boulder.

The standard rule of thumb for a sit down was equal numbers on both sides. Etiquette would have to be forsaken during this gathering however; it was imperative to keep a few members of the team on perimeter, protecting the camp. Bryan, the Lieutenant, and Raza, would again be doing the talking. Bryan took the position in the middle across from Rehman. Everyone had their weapons locked and loaded, the radio volume up.

The Prince looked to be a man in his mid seventies, and appeared to be very fit. Rehman’s face was stern and had a well-worn, deeply etched look of a man that had spent seven decades in the dry mountain air and sun. The deeply carved crow’s feet merged with facial lines overrun by a massive grey beard that began at his cheekbones, ending in a thick point at his sternum. There was no doubt that the man Bryan was looking at was the grandfather of the beautiful young woman he had met earlier that day. His eyes were an intense light blue just like Shamema’s.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us sir. I’m Captain Bryan Craig.”

Rehman nodded. He was drinking a cup of Chai, an Afghan green milk tea. Holding up his cup, he offered them some. Bryan thanked him, and enjoyed the spicy brew made with ginger and peppercorn. Bryan would have preferred it more with sweetener.

Raza translated to Rehman in Khowar, the official language of Chitral. Rehman began to speak.

“He says that he is pleased to meet you and he thanks you for coming here to the lake. It is a great honor for him.” Raza was now translating in unison with the leader of Chitral.

“The honor is mine,” Bryan said modestly. He inherently respected the old man.

“He thanks you for taking up their cause. The Taliban and what they represent are not good for the people of Chitral. They are thieves of everything. They kidnap children from the villages and sell them as slaves. They are poison in the name of Allah.”

“How many Taliban are hiding in the mountains?” Bryan asked.

Rehman held his right hand in the air as he spoke, moving it slowly, methodically, panning it across the mountains. A deliberate and effective affectation, Bryan thought.

“He says thousands,” Raza interpreted. “They are everywhere and with many Al-Qaeda and Yoorish Shaheed.”

“There’s a typical lie. He must want us here real bad,” Thomas said from the corner of his mouth to Bryan.

“Let’s just say exaggeration and keep it at that,” Bryan whispered back. “Ask him how often they’re engaging the enemy?”

“Every day. The Taliban are hi-jacking caravans of supplies, food, and medicines. They are kidnapping children for ransom or taking them to the Yoorish Shaheed. They are murdering at random.” Raza paused for several moments and continued. “They are forcing villagers to transport Khash-khash down the mountains to Peshawar.”

Khash-khash was poppy. Bryan decided the talk of opium was a nice segue. “Was the Russian, Leonid Petrov helping the Taliban?”

Rehman’s voice raised before Raza could interpret. “Yes – Petrov helped terrorize the villagers. He intimidated them into helping them, but never out of their own free will.”

“Tell him Petrov’s dead, Raza,” Bryan said.

“Good, the Russian was a goat, and deserved to be slaughtered,” Rehman suddenly spoke in perfect English, alarming them.

“You speak English – you fooled me,” Bryan said.

“I may have surprised you Captain Craig, but fool you? I doubt that. You don’t appear to be a man easily fooled,” Rehman said with wry smile. ”And you are right, I was exaggerating. The Taliban have a thousand strong here.”

 “Shit – busted,” Thomas said under his breath, grimacing.

“One thousand, huh. Thank you for the verification Prince Rehman,” Bryan said. “Now as for Petrov – yes he’s dead, and he was an important part of the crimes committed not just against you, but the bombings in London and the United States. I’m here to find out who Petrov was working with. I want to know the people ultimately responsible.”

Rehman stared at Bryan, not speaking. The Prince was stoic, his eyes unflinching. The old man reached into his thick wool Chapan tunic, removing something. He began speaking in his native tongue of Khowar again. “Is he playing with me?” Bryan wondered.

Confused, Raza continued on with his interpretation. “He says that his people are very strong, very proud and very noble. They are a very diverse people and need strong leadership to keep them united, as well as protect them. His ancestors were leaders such as that.”

Was he offended? “Prince Rehman, are we asking you to violate your code?” Bryan asked, concerned.

Rehman stood up. The old man was very tall, at least six foot four. He handed Bryan the object he pulled from his coat. It was a very old tintype, protected by a laminated coating, but badly damaged. Bryan took out a penlight, giving the metal cursory once over. Twelve men were in the picture, one elder man of importance in the center, others gathered around him. Several faces were indiscernible. They could’ve been the same Chitralis sitting on the hill now, Bryan thought. The clothing was the same, and the only real difference being the men in the photo were holding Enfield rifles, not Kalashnikovs. The central focus of the portrait must have been the great King, and Rehman’s great grandfather, Bryan guessed. He had a falcon perched on his right hand.

“Is this the Mehtar Aman?” Bryan asked.

“The greatest ruler of Chitral before darkness fell on our land,” Rehman said, shaking his bearded head. “He was a very honorable man and a Muslim - very devout, yet tolerant of those who were not.”

Curious about the falcon, “The Mehtar practiced falconry?” Bryan inquired as he gave the tintype back to Rehman.

“The falcon is the symbol of a ruler - and one of his best weapons. Certainly his most clever weapon when used correctly. It is a symbol of leadership. These are the traditions that should be honored and respected,” Rehman said as he tapped the tin with his forefinger. “Do you have such traditions with your family, Captain Craig?” Rehman asked.

Bryan thought for a moment about his father. There was little doubt that Rehman, Mehtar Aman and Bryan’s father held similar traditions of duty and honor. Bryan responded, “Yes Prince Rehman, my father was a great warrior and I hope to live up to his name one day myself.”

“I understand that you are here to help the people of Pakistan and catch the evil that has attacked your people. And I want to help. But it is a difficult undertaking for me and requires great sacrifice,” Rehman said.

Sacrifice what - the code of honor? “I’m here to find the people responsible for the bombings, and responsible for enslaving Pakistanis – leading them down the wrong path. I’m here to help save them,” Bryan said, feeling a sense of pleading.

“At the end of your journey you will accomplish both. Failing one, you will fail both,” Rehman said, sage-like.

Lieutenant Thomas looked at Bryan with a perplexed expression. Neither one of them really understood what Rehman was getting at. Thomas thinking, “I’ve seen this guy in a movie before – only a quarter the size and five hundred years older.”

“Are you referring to what Petrov was doing here? Who was Petrov the agent of? Was it a man called Wazir?” Bryan asked.

“Of course Petrov. But he was only just a puppet - used to cause pain to the people of Chitral. Wazir was but one of three, and a puppet too.”

Bryan could sense that he was getting close to solving the riddle, but he needed to be very respectful. He feared offending Rehman. The sit down would be over if he pushed too hard. But the Prince seemed to be on a role now. He was obviously agitated and starting to rant. Maybe the best approach now would be to let him continue on and see where it would lead.

“Respectfully Prince Rehman, who was their leader?”

Gradually a story began to unfold, one that explained the entirety of what Rehman believed was happening in the North West Frontier, and what could be corroborated by the Bank accounts in both Karachi and Dubai. As Rehman explained, “Wazir had come to Pakistan and to Chitral at the request of an acquaintance of my dead son, killed many years ago. Wazir had said that he was here to help the people of Chitral and the people of Pakistan, but he would need safe passage through the mountains, and would require safe haven from time to time.” Rehman paused and asked for water from one of his aides.

Bryan sensed a certain discomfort in the old man’s voice. Rehman tentativeness was an indication that he was hiding something. “When did you realize that Wazir had deceived you?” Bryan asked.

“It was the Russian,” Rehman answered. “I learned that he was responsible for killing many Muslims in the past – both in Afghanistan and Pakistan - an evil man, conspiring to send young Pakistanis to their deaths with Yoorish Shaheed. I could not allow that. I banished him and Wazir. They could never be seen with our people ever again. Disobeying that order would mean their death. They did not deserve our honor,” Rehman added, very angered.

Rehman described the events that occurred after his decision to withdraw support. “Petrov and Wazir were transporting opium from Afghanistan - a scheme designed to enrich Petrov and finance other terrorist related enterprises. Khash-khash is strictly forbidden,” Rehman said.

“What did you do about it?“ Bryan asked Rehman in Urdu.

Rehman became stern. “They paid the Taliban to take arms against me,” Rehman said. “The Taliban attacked us and I declared a war against them. You see Captain, we have a mutual enemy - and I know to whom Wazir and the Yoorish Shaheed pay their allegiance,” Rehman added.

“Who? Is it the Sultan Amir Sika Kahn?” Bryan asked. The words sparked an emotion in Rehman, one that Bryan had not yet seen that night – sadness. The old man’s shoulders drooped, his head hung down momentarily, followed by a forlorn expression. For an instant he was trancelike, suddenly snapping out of it. Bryan looked on as Rehman lifted his right arm in the air, bent at the elbow. He turned his hand so that Bryan could see a ring on his little finger, but said nothing.

Rehman pointed at the photograph of his great grandfather. “Aman knew of the problems that would come from outside the Hindu Kush. The people of the three valleys, Birir, Bumburet, and Rambur – the Kalash Kafir – they never knew of violence and murder – that is until the poison of the Yoorish Shaheed.” Rehman put his hand on the Kafir’s shoulder to his left. “This man was forced to learn war.” Rehman was cut short.

Bryan first felt the tiny projectile’s wake turbulence with the fine hairs on the skin of his ear lobe, followed by the shrill sound of the bullet’s whistle after it had passed. The bullet’s impact point was the forehead of the Kafir Rehman was speaking of. The man’s posture stiffened slightly as his Pakol hat flew from his head, landing on the RPG launchers at the base of a boulder. He was already dead as his body crumpled in a heap.

What followed was noise and a maelstrom of automatic weapons fire from a ridgeline on a hill about two hundred meters away. The 7.62-millimeter Kalashnikov rounds ricocheted between the boulders with the rapid sound of a drum roll. It was the kind of unexpected event that Bryan had expected, but didn’t care for.

The first seconds were chaotic as the bright streaks of fire from AK-47 tracers danced with sparks created by rounds bouncing off boulders. Bryan saw Rehman start to stand up, then shrink back to his knees as he let out a grunt. He was holding the tintype in both hands as he fell forward onto the carpet. Bryan leapt on him, providing a human blanket of protection for the wounded leader. The firefight was on.

      The SEAL team had already begun returning fire as Rehman’s men scrambled to retrieve their launchers. They had the advantage of good position on the enemy, most certainly Taliban. The SEALs were protected for the most part, behind the boulders, and on the high ground with great look down. Night-vision goggles gave them excellent situational awareness, and yet another advantage over the enemy.

Thomas radioed Turk to move along the ridgeline high above them, taking a flanking position seventy-five meters to the east of the enemy fire. He would be right on the edge of a cliff, with the cirque three hundred feet below. Suppression fire from Turk’s M60 would deceive the Taliban into thinking that there were a dozen combatants shooting at them from above. And that was the idea. The big man began a crouching run toward an ideal clumping of rocks. There, he set up the counter attack, and radioed, “I’m in position.”

Proton, Sinbad and Hotshot took flanking positions just to the south of the camp. The plan was to funnel the Taliban down the slope from their position, where the three SEALs would cut them down. In the meantime, Cowboy had already climbed to a point near the top of the hill, high above everyone. From his natural “bell tower,” he could take aim on any enemy attempting to flee to the backside of the hill or over the ridge. The attacker would suffer the devastating consequences of being in the crosshairs of his Barrett .50 cal. The Taliban couldn’t go left, couldn’t go right, and couldn’t go up. They were doomed. Yoorish Shaheed?

The flash of an exploding rocket illuminated the enemy’s ridge. Turban heads were as bright as actors on a stage lit by klieg lights. Several Taliban either trying to evacuate, or gain better position, ran into serious problems. As they scurried across the ridge, they were mowed down by the M60, their bodies falling a hundred feet onto the icy slide feeding the lake.  Other attackers, dissuaded by the M60, ran opposite direction, firing their weapons erratically as they scrambled, now putting them into positions directly opposite Rehman’s men.

       Two of Rehman’s militiamen were working as a team effectively deploying an RPG-7. Squatting next to a footlocker filled with fragmentation tipped rockets, a militiaman was tossing rockets to another manning the thirty-seven inch launcher, who’d load and fire. A bright plum would corkscrew to the enemy position, and explode in fiery sparks. The Taliban were pinned, the only way out was down the slope to the lakebed and low ground, a death sentence. With zero options, they dug in, opening up their own automatic weapons fire and RPGs.

Bryan, staying with Rehman, heard the sound of the battle as it echoed throughout the mountains: the whoosh of the rocket-propelled grenades, the unmistakable roar of Turk’s M60 above the pops of Kalashnikovs, the M4s, and the Barrett. He could feel Rehman’s body heave up and down, as the Prince strained to breathe. He was alive, but badly wounded, Rehman’s Chapan tunic already soaked with warm blood. Bryan felt the Prince’s pulse, it was throbbing, but getting weaker.

Bryan saw the medical corpsman checking for signs of life from the first man hit. “Doc. Help me move Rehman to better cover,” Bryan hollered.

They dragged Rehman carefully by the leading edges of the rug under an overhang, in the shadows and protected from the line of fire. He’d be safer there, but Bryan was concerned for the old man. Rehman, still clutching the tin with his right hand, was coughing blood, which began to soak his fine white beard. Bryan could now see the ring on his little finger. Even in the shadows its brilliance was apparent. Doc got busy looking for the wound as the intense firefight raged around them. Crouching, Bryan popped a magazine into the M8 Lightweight Combat Assault Rifle, and sighted a target in the green display of the night vision scope. “Pop-pop.”

“That’s one more down,” he said as the dead Taliban joined his comrades at the bottom of the cirque.

The Lieutenant’s plan had worked, plus he had help from Rehman’s fierce militia, who were blasting the Taliban from a closer position, now less than twenty five meters from the enemy. Their numbers decimated, only two remaining, they got as close to the cirque as they could, and jumped the twenty feet onto the ice. They were wet, but alive. Thomas called a ceasefire and assessment.

The fact the Taliban had attacked with lower numbers from an inferior position left little doubt that by design, it was a suicide mission, or at least one that could never have resulted in a victory of any kind. Had the goal been assassination? Could the SEAL team have unwittingly led the Taliban right to the Chitrali leader, handing them a regional leader doing everything possible to rid his land of his enemy? Bryan presumed it was assassination as he conferred with Doc on Rehman’s condition.

 “Here’s the entry wound sir. He’s hit in the chest. It’s bad,” Doc said now applying gauze to the wound.

“Will he live?” Bryan asked.

Doc looked up at Bryan, narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Not unless we can get a Medevac for him ASAP.” Doc turned Rehman’s slightly, eliciting a heavy sigh from him. “Shit, I’m still trying to find a fuckin exit wound Captain Craig - it tore him up inside. He’s already lost a lot of blood,” Doc warned.

“Keep ’im alive Doc,” Bryan said adamantly, closing his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Can you do anything for him until morning?” Bryan finally asked, knowing a helicopter would be available.

“Morning? I don’t know if I can give him five minutes sir,” Doc hushed. “I can give him some morphine though. Try to make him comfortable.”

Suitable consolation? “Alright - well do that, if that’s all you can do,” Bryan said, setting his rifle down, kneeling by Rehman’s side.

Doc cut Rehman’s pant leg open at the thigh, inserting a morphine Syrette into his leg. A Kafir militiaman yanked the Syrette out before the painkiller was squeezed into Rehman’s bloodstream. He was one of the men in the village with them earlier. The other was dead.  The emotionless fighter shook his head as he moved Doc’s hand aside.

Rehman tried to speak, his words barely audible. Raza’s ears were close, and he heard what Rehman asked. “He says he wants to be moved to the light. He wants to see the lake and Tirich Mir.”

Picking him up from the shadows, they gently moved him near the slope. They propped him up to view the mountains. He was looking beyond the lake, over the tops of the peaks. Rehman could see Tirich Mir.

The end couldn’t have been more sublime. He had cared for his people as best he could, preserving the edicts and tenets of his forefathers from a thousand years before. He had also brought his people closer to the modern age, encouraging education and literacy. But there was something more that he could still do. He motioned for Bryan to come closer.

Bryan called out to the interpreter. “Raza. Get over here. I need to understand everything he says.”

Bryan Craig knelt close to the mortally wounded man, looking into his light blue eyes, so common of his family. Rehman’s men and the SEAL team also gathered close to the fallen leader, the campfire still burning, illuminating their saddened faces. The Kafir knelt behind Rehman to support his wounded body, helping him to sit upright. Bryan leaned close to hear the dying man’s words.

“Captain Craig, listen carefully to me.”

Rehman pulled Bryan in close with his right hand, laboring, but Bryan could feel he was determined to communicate something. Bryan gripped his hand as he did with his closest friends. The man’s hands were unusually large, his grip still strong. Bryan felt the old tintype now pressed in his palm.

“Go to Dubai - Captain Craig,” Rehman said. He coughed a small amount of blood onto his beard, red droplets glistening under the light of the stars.

He struggled. “Go to Dubai…” Rehman grimaced in pain, coughing.

“Get him some water.” Bryan took a canteen from Thomas and held it to Rehman’s lips.

Rehman could barely manage the words. “Falcon - the tower.” Rehman coughed, a gurgled hack.

He pulled Bryan in close to his face, the grip tightening. Their hands were now resting on Rehman’s face, his ring touching his lips.

“Find your falcon,” he whispered in Bryan’s ear.

Rehman looked in Bryan’s eyes as he kissed the white center of his ring, shaped like a mountain.

His hand began to lower as the life ebbed away. Rehman squeezed again, this time with a force that surprised him. Bryan looked into the man’s eyes as he shuddered and started slipping away into eternity. For the moment though, his pupils were still small and intense with life, just inches away. They spoke volumes; things that his voice could no longer say; the history of his people; their culture over thousands of years. He squeezed Bryan’s hand one final time. It was crushing. Gradually his pupils dilated, and the once strong grip lightened. His large hand went limp as life exhaled from his lips in a fog, condensing in the cold night air.

Rehman’s militia gathered around his body, some crying. Bryan felt a touch on his shoulder. It was Thomas. “Captain Craig, we’ve flushed out most of what’s left. Rehman’s men took out the enemy along the ridgeline, with the exception of two that we let get away.”

The plan of the day was to follow the stray bees back to the hive. “Who’d you send to track em?” Bryan asked.

“Proton and Raza are tracking the two. Once the hive is pinpointed, they’ll coordinate with home plate to take it out - then join us back at the pickup point.

“Okay. Let’s get some a rest then. Check the dead for anything that’s high value,” Bryan said.

Thinking of Rehman, he searched for the meaning of his dying words. Who was the falcon, he wondered? Was it Amir Kahn? 

Entering A Village

 

JUNE 11, 2008

NORTH WEST FRONTIER, PAKISTAN

  
 CAUTIOUSLY APPROACHING THE VILLAGE from the west, the team was on high alert for any possible Taliban ambush. It could be initiated from the rocks above them, or from a ridge on the opposite side. The village, like so many others was tucked into the edge of a small valley five to eight hundred feet below the mountaintops. Bryan peered up a nearly vertical rock wall.

The first signs of humans actually came in the form of livestock. The flatter trail they had been on for the last kilometer had turned into a narrow rocky path where a dozen domesticated goats and sheep were milling about, tails perpetually wagging.

After negotiating a rickety wooden plank bridge that crossed fast mountain creek, Bryan could see the village ahead. They came in walking uphill, hugging the path, which was very steep, at least a fifteen-degree grade. The village of less than fifty stone and wooden structures was expertly built on the sharp slope.

“Senior Chief, hang with this guy. Cowboy, jump on the rooftop and follow us in,” the Lieutenant ordered, pointing to a man squatting in front of the first shed that marked the entrance to the village. He was cleaning something that looked very similar to a musket. He’d hardly given the team a second glance.

Villages such as this one had many transients that simply passed straight through. Strangers were never a real concern unless they started trouble, but since many villages were armed to the teeth, the possibility of having about two hundred guns pointed at them was enough of a reason not to start any trouble. Cowboy clambered up to the first house. Once on top, he’d walk the adjoining roofs, covering both sides of the road as the team moved into the center of the village.

“Proton, take the SATCOM and go up to the top of town, “ Thomas ordered.  They didn’t want any surprises from either end of the village. “Looks pacified but err on the side of being prepared,” the team was taught. Be prepared!

As the troupe eased into the village, Bryan thought about the culture and the many influences that the people of the Hindu Kush had seen.  Most tribes in the North West Frontier were suspicious of foreigners, and with good cause. Invasion and conquest was generally the purpose of strangers to the region. The mixture of pagan and now Islamic people were mountain folk that lived in an irregular geographical area of narrow gorges, twisted valleys, highlighted by steep torrents of rivers pouring down ravines. In the distance of course, were the ever-present Tirich Mir and numerous glaciers. All drained into a major valley near the town of Chitral. If the rugged and hostile landscape were not enough, consider the altitude.

The region, which split parts of Afghanistan and Pakistan, was located in the northeast of modern day Afghanistan, bordering the North West Frontier to the east, and approximately five thousand square miles, the majority above ten thousand feet elevation. The high altitudes and jagged landscape of both regions limit trees, vegetation, and animals, to only the most hardy. In lower elevations, thickets of wild vines and shrubs line numerous streams that run down the mountainous slopes. Various fruit trees grew near most villages, apricot and apple, giving the villagers another supplement for an all round diet. As the slopes rose to higher elevations, pine and cedar forests give way to juniper and cedar, gradually thinning to only small birch here and there, or a willow patch. Life ceases above five thousand meters with the exception of moss, sparse flowers, grass, but always the ever-present rocks. During winter months, all was blanketed in deep snow. “White and more white, covered by white,” Bryan recalled.

Animals of the land were typical of what would be expected in high mountains. Wild goat, sheep, bear, and leopards, all make their home in the Hindu Kush. While trekking across a ridge earlier in the day, Bryan, skirting a high ridge next to Thomas, spotted a rare animal, shy and seldom seen. “Look over there, Tim,” Bryan said quietly.

“Isn’t that an Ibex?” Thomas replied, his voice low.

“That’s right – how amazing is that?” Bryan whispered, as they both knelt behind a boulder to avoid being spotted.

A regal species of wild goat, the Himalayan Ibex lives in high altitudes at elevations up to five thousand meters. An endangered animal, at first glance it appears to be completely unsuited for a life surrounded by steep rocky cliffs. A fairly large cousin of the Ram, weighing as much as two hundred and twenty five pounds, it stood more than one meter at the shoulder. With a thick and wooly, dark brown coat that shed completely in late spring, the dorsal was light, almost white.

It was a magnificent and spectacular mountain animal. What made it magnificent were its horns. Massive ridged horns that curved back one meter, three quarters of a complete arc, and then tapered to slender points. What made it spectacular was its ability to leap great distances from narrow rocky ledge to ledge, displaying uncanny agility. “People have a harder time walking on a marble floor,” Thomas said, astonished at the site of the Ibex’s leaps and bounds.

“Capra sibirica hemalayanus. That's the Latin classification. Third time I’ve seen the slammer,” Bryan had said as he leaned on his rifle, and searched for a bottle of water in his vest. He was referring to the male’s battle tactics when fighting challengers for a potential female mate. The males square off, charging into each other with such force that the clacking sound of the horns slamming together can be heard over a mile away.

“Like the falcon, it’s the altitude that gives this guy the advantage,” Bryan said.

“How so?”

“If they were down low in the valley, they’d be just another goat or a sheep, happily wagging their little fuckin tails and blissfully waiting to be sheared, milked, or slaughtered. But up here, they’re slammers. Masters of their realm, just like a falcon,” Bryan said taking a sip and passing the bottled water to the Lieutenant. “Speaking of falcons, did you ever hear the story about one that made its nest in the Tower of London?”

“That’s right, you live there. No, I haven’t.”

“Well, interestingly enough a falcon-hawk made its home there for a while.”

“No shit. It must have made life miserable for the fuckin pigeons,” Thomas said, thinking of the dirty birds with disdain.

“The tower ravens actually, which is why the nest was finally removed,” Bryan corrected.

“Right, the superstition of the tower ravens. Yeah, I’ve heard about that from some Brits back at Bagram. Falcons always seek a high place to nest, like the Ibex – altitude serves it best,” Thomas said with a wink.

“Nice rhyme Lieutenant.”

Other villages were warlike. Many had been slave owners. The slaves themselves came in two varieties, the domestic, or house slaves, and artisans. All women had been domestic slaves, the wives and mistresses; and by their own laws, men could own more than one of each. Adultery was permitted in the pagan clans as well. The women were required to work the fields and gardens, and if a pack animal was not available, women were responsible for hauling loads, regardless of the weight. Artisans had been the second classification of slaves, and included woodcrafters and musicians. 

Houses of the mountain villagers tended to be clustered together on the side of a hill and designed with a foundation that allowed for a small basement or additional room. Built with multiple levels, they tended to be grimy and dirty, littered with slaughtered animal bones and horns. The bottom level was primarily used as an open pit latrine, the smell of urine and stored manure emanated throughout the additional levels. Weapons and other family valuables were kept on the middle level, and the actual living spaces on the third and final level.

The village was active, Kalash Kafir women scurrying about, busily preparing the midday meal. Reputed for having an exotic appearance, and deservingly so, their light brown hair was parted or multiply braided in the middle and framed a face accentuated with high cheekbones, light brown eyes, narrow nose, and somber mouth. Sometimes they wore magnificent headdresses of colorful plumes or other features. Their ears were always adorned in silver, or for women of higher status, gold. Each was dressed in a traditional black goat hair robe embellished with layers of multi-colored necklaces, and tiger cowry shells of marine animals found in the East Indies. How the shells found their way to the Hindu Kush was still a mystery. Kalash Kafir villagers, Kafir meaning infidel, had never been out of the mountains, let alone seen a beach or an ocean. They just didn’t know. The women always had them.

The Kalash Kafir men were master woodcraftsmen, a skill passed down for more than two thousand years.  For centuries their carvings had been works of art, dedicated to the creation of intricate wooden idols to their deities, and carved out of the indigenous cherry or oak. They had always been a very kind people, peaceful, but now continually harassed by the fundamental Muslims of the Province, particularly Islamists, who were intolerant of their love of wine, open affection for the opposite sex, and particularly the woodcarvings to gods. But as hostilities spilled over into Pakistan from northern Afghanistan, some warlords saw other uses for their skills with wood: the making of rifle stocks. Artisans were being induced to apply their skills to weapons of war under threats of attack. Violence and fanaticism was spreading and impinging on the culture of the Kalash Kafir.

Kalash craftsmanship was in high demand in the lower North West Frontier of Pakistan. Carved from a hard wood, the finished product was carried by pack animals down the mountain and through passes to Peshawar where they were fitted with barrels and sold.  The artists carved intricate designs into the wood while sitting on the porch for better light, while young apprentices, with their keen eyesight could stay inside, sanding and polishing the wood to perfection.

Every square inch of a home was dedicated to their industry. Finished rifle stocks were lined up side-by-side, leaning against inlaid wood walls. Now and then a gun shot was heard when a new design was fit with a temporary barrel, tested and fired. Civilization had snuck up on these people in the form of conflict.

The team made their way into the center of the village. There they began to draw the attention Bryan expected, as the artisans noticed the unusual weapons the SEALs carried. They pointed and murmured their approval. Wide smiles formed on their wrinkled faces.

Several barefoot boys, perhaps four or five years old, sprinted towards the men for a closer look. They liked what they saw. Their light eyes widened, mouths forming smiles as they marveled in astonishment, touching the alien composite material with delight.

“Don’t touch my weapon,” Hotshot barked at the boys, shooing them away.

“Just keep your eyes and ears open,” Thomas said. He whistled and yelled, “Cowboy?”

“Yo el-tee. Everything good from up here.” He was crouched on a rooftop, the Barrett in carry position.

Thomas pointed at the guide. “Raza, keep those kids away from the weapons.”

Raza yelled out something in Urdu, and then in Pashto, but only got blank stares from the boys. “They don’t speak Urdu or Pashto, I think only Kalash, but it’s a strange dialect.”

“Well, figure it out or just shake your finger at em.”

The team must have looked very unusual to the boys in spite of their futuristic firearms. The Kafir men were strong, as most mountain people, but didn’t look anything like SEALs, who when not practicing for operations, lived in the gym. Turk being the tallest at six-five was also the strongest and could bench three hundred and fifteen pounds, twenty-five times. The boys’ fascination soon moved from the weapon to Turk’s tattooed biceps.

Two tribal men approached Raza and began talking with him. Bryan could tell by the Kalashnikovs and ammo belts draped over their shoulders that they weren’t rifle-stock salesmen. The group followed the two inside a house on a corner of the village where the rock path turned forty-five degrees.

The largest shelter in the village, it was the only one with a tin roof. There was also a sign on the front of the structure written in Urdu. Since the villagers were predominantly illiterate the sign would have been meant for visitors, travelers wanting to stay the night. Bryan got a chuckle from the one tie to the world beyond the village; a motel for guests. Who had stayed here? Passing through the “motel lobby,” a small room with a low ceiling, they sat down in an adjacent larger space, completely covered in ornately woven wool rugs. Even the walls were covered. It was there that Bryan saw her for the first time.

A young woman was sitting on the floor in a seiza position, her buttocks resting on her feet and toes pointed back. Her posture was straight, and her shoulders square. Delicate hands were at rest on her thighs, palms partially turned to the ceiling. What a vision! Bryan couldn’t believe how extraordinary she was. She was wearing a brightly colored outfit similar to that worn by Muslim women to cover their body, with the exception of the face and hands. Called a Sharqyat, it conformed to the Quranic codes of modesty for women. But the beauty Bryan now saw, departed from the fundamentalist guidelines of women’s dress. The blouse, which came to her knees, was made of wool, with a variety of colored patterns, from pink, to garnet, and decorated with embroidery and small beads in random arrangements.  Her pants were black and also made of wool. Instead of an under-scarf, and shawl, she opted for a white silk shawl only, dark brown hair peeking out from the sides. Although the women of the area were known for their exotic appearances, perfectly applied make-up accented her natural beauty. She was far more beautiful, and her eyes were blue. Baby blue! He was instantly mesmerized.

Raza introduced her. “This is Shamema. She is the granddaughter of Prince Rehman. She speaks English very, very good.”

Bodyguards of sorts, the Kafir men sat cross-legged on either side of Shamema, weapons in their laps. Bryan took center position sitting across from the hostess, flanked by Thomas on his right, and Raza on his left. Don’t out number the other party! The remaining team was outside, Turk still entertaining the children, now numbering five, the others keeping a vigilant eye.

“Captain Craig, I am pleased to meet you,” she said slowly, but with surprising annunciation, and a hint of aristocratic influences. “You have been expected.”

Expected? “Thank you for welcoming us to Chitral and to this village. Where did you learn to speak English?” Bryan asked politely.

“In Pakistan, of course, and England where I have studied as well. Besides the languages and most dialects here, I also speak French, Greek, Arabic, and Farsi,” she said smiling, visibly embarrassing Bryan.

She then went on. “I am here at the request of my grandfather, who apologizes for not meeting with you in this place.” She turned and spoke with the two Kafirs.

Raza understood this particular dialect and whispered in Bryan’s ear. “She's telling them something about you, sahr.”

“What?” Bryan asked.

“And she also wants to show you something.”

“What?”

“It’s a book, sahr.”

“Please Captain Craig, my grandfather wishes that you sign this book as a friend, one at peace with his people.” She handed Bryan an old leather bound book. The title was faded, but legible. Registry?

Bryan pointed the cover in the direction of the Lieutenant. “It’s a hotel guest book,” Bryan said to Thomas.

“That it is sir.”

Holding the book gingerly, he carefully opened it. The inside of the cover revealed the book was bound in London in 1890, and the binding glue had started to decay. Bryan didn’t want to cause any further damage. There was a thin cloth glued to the inside back cover not part of the original biding. It covered something shaped square, the size of a three by five. Lightly running his fingers over the shape, he could feel something hard. He wondered what it was. He turned the pages back to the front and scanned the entries. Reading the first three, Bryan was astonished.

                         Captain John Graham Robinson

Royal Engineer Corps

Twenty Eight July Eighteen Hundred Ninety Two

Rudyard Kipling

Lahore, British India

Twenty Eight July Eighteen Hundred Ninety Two

Captain Algernon Durand, C.B., C.I.E      

Military Secretary Viceroy of India

Ten September Eighteen Hundred Ninety Eight

“Who was this? “ He held the book up pointing to the first name so that Shamema could read the entry.

”The British officer, Captain Robinson - our first guest along with Mister Kipling.”

“Rudyard Kipling, impressive,” Bryan said. Thomas and Raza both leaned over to see the historical signature.

“Captain Robinson presented the book as a gift to Aman ul Mulk II, my ancestor who was the Mehtar when Chitral was still an independent district.” Mehtar was Persian for “Mighty,” and the title given to the ruler, or King in Chitral.

“That was during the time the Durand line was made. Isn’t that right?” Bryan commented, noting the dates of the entries.

“You are correct, and your knowledge of our history is impressive Captain Craig,” she said smiling with approval. Her teeth were perfectly white. “It was only a few years later that Captain Robinson was unfortunately killed fighting the Nuristan Afghans. His grave is in Chitral,” she added.

“Along with a number of other British soldiers,” Bryan said.

Shamema nodded in agreement, her smile disappearing. “There was conflict then - as now.”

Bryan knew the story. The Nuristanis were an Afghan tribe, and the subject of the Rudyard Kipling short story “Man Who Would Be King.” Bryan guessed the British Captain had been killed in one of the many skirmishes that occurred along the Durand line of the North West Frontier of India at the time. The British Government of India had drawn brand new, contentious boundaries, as they did throughout the old empire. The line tended to anger most warlords affected. The Nuristanis took the lead in doing what Afghan warriors love most, killing invaders. “He must have bought the farm in one of the battles near Chitral,” Bryan thought.

A relative of the Foreign Secretary of the British Indian Government, Sir Mortimer Durand, made the second entry. Sir Mortimer authored the dividing line that separated British India and Afghanistan. It was a blatant example of gerrymandering, and a line questioned ever since, Afghanistan considering it illegitimate.

Bryan started to turn the page, but two additional entries at the bottom got his immediate attention.

“Lieutenant Thomas, look at these.” He handed the book to the Lieutenant with his index finger marking the spot.

Thomas read the entries.

         Lieutenant General Arthur MacArthur Jr.

         United States Commander Department of the Pacific

         Twenty Four July Nineteen Hundred and Six

         Second Lieutenant Douglas MacArthur

         United States Army Engineers Philippines

         Twenty Four July Nineteen Hundred and Six

He looked at Bryan. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Looks like we’re in good company here,” Bryan said.

Bryan took the book and found an appropriate place to sign.

  Captain Bryan Craig

  United States Navy

 Eleven June Two Thousand and Eight

He handed the registry to Shamema. “That was an honor, thank you.”

“You may thank my grandfather in person when you see him,” she said smiling. She became serious and began,  “My grandfather is Rehman ul Mulk and Prince of Chitral. He is very interested in speaking with you.”

Why the interest with me? “What does he want to talk about?” Bryan asked.

Shamema’s eyes narrowed “My grandfather wanted to meet with you here, but to do so would endanger the people of this village. And it is because of the Taliban. They have become very cruel, and now responsible for many atrocities throughout Chitral.”

 Neither Bryan nor Lieutenant Thomas was surprised at what they were hearing. The Taliban had been raiding livestock, robbing travelers, stealing weapons, and had been a general scourge to the indigenous people of Chitral for the last seven years. Shamema continued. “The Taliban have forced their ways on to peaceful people, for example, the people in this village. The Taliban consider the Kalasha people to be infidels. They brutalize these people every chance they have.”

“And the government can’t help?”

She opened her arms.  “The government would like to help. Islamabad believes in ethnic tolerance, and will not force people such as these to convert to Islam. They are doing much in the lower lying areas of Pakistan where they have shut down dangerous Madrasahs training very young children to hate infidels. But the mountains make it very difficult to stop the Taliban here. The Taliban do not believe in the same intolerance and have kidnapped, even killed some of these Kalash Kafirs.” Putting her hands on her lap and tilting her head, she added, “Here, we appreciate what the Americans have done for us, when the government cannot - but I know that many people in Pakistan do not have the same feelings as my grandfather and I have. That is unfortunate.”

Bryan understood. He recalled that many of the Muslims in Pakistan considered the outlaw terrorists and Taliban in the same light as Americans had their own outlaws in the Wild West. They were sympathetic folk heroes, romanticized icons, a common theme for the poor and oppressed. Most Muslims in Pakistan hated the United States, and glorified the terrorists that indiscriminately killed Americans. Children in many Pashtun villages had fallen under the influence of the Taliban or other Jihadists, who were bent on destroying the west. The innocents were being taught from a very early age that America was evil. “They’re bloody Robin Hood and we’re the Sheriff of Nottingham,” Bryan recalled a counter-terrorism man from British Military Intelligence, MI6 once saying.

The Taliban were a collection of Sunni Islamist Pashtuns from Afghanistan and the North West Frontier of Pakistan that had come into power in the aftermath of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. Unlike the Kalash Kafir, the Taliban, were not fair-haired, with light eyes, but instead they were dark skinned, with heavy eyebrows and low foreheads. With a reputation as plunderers, assassins, and opportunists, they lived by the gun and died by the gun. Fighting was a way of life, seeking revenge and killing was sport.

The Taliban came into power by pure chance. The Democratic Republic of Afghanistan had been overthrown which led to competing warlords vying for control of the country. The Taliban were able to organize a military force and ultimately impose its rule on Afghanistan. The fanatical organization reminded Bryan of the Mob. The Taliban became the head family in a country filled with smaller families, AKA warlords. The Godfather was a self-proclaimed cleric who had never completed the required Quranic studies to hold the title of Mullah. Disputes between families were a given, murders and assassinations commonplace.

As for the terrorists on the run from Coalition Special Ops teams, in the past a roadblock of honor and tradition stood in the way. Tribal elders held fast in harboring terrorist fugitives, protecting them from Coalition forces. Pashtun and Kafirs would give their lives before violating the code. But the Taliban overstepped their welcome when they turned into thugs, targeting the very people that hid them. The mountain tribes wanted the marauders out. Armed conflict between the natives and the unwanted “guests” was unavoidable.

Prior to 9/11 the Taliban had been recognized as a legitimate government by Pakistan, the UAE, and Saudi Arabia, the only countries to do so. All three were progressive Muslim countries and very friendly to the United States. Afghanistan under the Taliban was an Islamic State. A theocracy. Was it a payoff to the Mob? But the reign of the Taliban was one highlighted by severe Human Rights violations, cruel discrimination of women, and absolute intolerance of all religious practices other than strict interpretation the Quran. As oppressive as the Taliban were, surprisingly enough to Bryan, Saudi Arabia provided funding to the Taliban during their rule. However, as a strong opponent of Shi’ah Islamists, the relationship between the Taliban and Iran rapidly deteriorated and came near to the brink of all out war when the Taliban seized Iran’s consulate and summarily executed all of the Iranian diplomats.

Dismayed, Bryan couldn’t help but wonder at the never ending conflicts that continued to brew between Shi’ah and Sunni fundamentalists. Both believed in uniting the Islamic world, yet their disagreements were rooted in thirteen hundred years of history. Both believed in the same five pillars of Islam, but categorized in a different order. The discrepancies were enough to start a feud that had lasted for more than a thousand years. Recalling Shannon’s story “No wonder that a couple of Paki taxi cab drivers would almost come to blows over some triviality. These people can be as passionate as they are stubborn.” The Taliban added barbarism to the equation.

Once in power, the Taliban instituted very strict Islamic law, Sharia resulting in punishments that included beatings, amputations, and stoning. In addition they banned television, radio, music, sports, or any form of imagery, including photography. All citizens were required by Islamic law to comply with traditional dress, men grew beards and women were required to keep their bodies completely covered under the codes of modesty. Bryan read the scriptures that Islamists literally adhered to in enforcing women’s dress codes.

“ Say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what must ordinarily appear thereof. " [Quran: 24.31]

" Say to the believing man that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that will make for greater purity for them, and God is well acquainted with all they do. " [Quran: 24.30]

Strict interpretation of the first led to simple guidelines for modest Islamic women to follow:

1. Clothing must cover the entire body. Only the hands and eyes may remain visible.

2. The material must not be so thin that one can see through it.

3. The clothing must hang loose so that the shape and form of the body is not apparent.

4. The female clothing must not resemble the man's clothing.

5. The design of the clothing must not resemble the clothing of the non-believing women.

6. The design must not consist of bold designs that attract attention.

7. Clothing should not be worn for the sole purpose of gaining reputation or increasing one's status in society.

Strict interpretation of the second meant that men could look at a woman once, but not twice, for in doing so would encourage lustful thoughts from the woman. Failing that, Taliban women would be severely beaten, or worse.  Men got a pass.

Besides their oppression of women, religious intolerance, and other Human Rights violations, including encouraging the persecution of minority groups, the Taliban harbored Al-Qaeda. That was their real crime. The two radical Islamic organizations had formed a cabal of sorts. In fact, the Taliban gave the okay for the Al-Qaeda to operate terrorist training camps; a state supported haven for terrorists. The Taliban had also taken the surprising measure of integrating Al-Qaeda militants with their army.

Following 9/11, the United States made five demands of the Taliban controlled Afghanistan and failing those demands, the Taliban faced possible military action from NATO and the United States. The demands were easy to understand. Bryan remembered the words from the President’s speech to Congress by heart.

“By aiding and abetting murder, the Taliban regime is committing murder. And tonight the United States of America makes the following demands on the Taliban:

-- Deliver to United States authorities all of the leaders of Al-Qaeda who hide in your land.

-- Release all foreign nationals, including American citizens you have unjustly imprisoned.

-- Protect foreign journalists, diplomats and aid workers in your country.

-- Close immediately and permanently every terrorist training camp in Afghanistan. And hand over every terrorist and every person and their support structure to appropriate authorities.

-- Give the United States full access to terrorist training camps, so we can make sure they are no longer operating.

These demands are not open to negotiation or discussion.”

Insular in their attitudes to the leadership of democracies, the Taliban rejected the ultimatum. Clearly understanding the implication of the demands, the UAE and Saudi Arabia no longer recognized the Taliban as a legitimate government. The two Arab countries were correct in their assessment. A new sheriff was in town! Never an empty threat, military operations commenced the following month. Rabbit Barnes was the Joint Task Force Commander and Bryan had his Special Ops. Oust the Taliban and wipe out Yoorish Shaheed! The Taliban were forced out of Kabul and Kandahar, ultimately taking refuge in the mountains with their terrorist stepchildren.

“Now we have an even greater problem,” Shamema said, holding back tears. “The Taliban have allowed a new, even more evil group of Islamists to hide with them in the mountains of the Hindu Kush. They are independent of any Al-Qaeda, and much more sinister. They have been kidnapping young boys from throughout the district and training them in new Madrasahs. There they are being taught to kill in the name of Allah by killing themselves. They are all Pakistanis and are called Yoorish Shaheed.”

 Yoorish Shaheed! Bryan felt a chill when he heard the words again. Religious schools run by sociopaths teaching the illiterate children to blow themselves up in the name of God. And the movement was tied directly to Wazir and Petrov. The dots were being connected at last. The money?

“How are the schools paid for? It can’t be just the Taliban,” Bryan asked.

“I am certain that it is illegal activities. The government has found that it is impossible to control because of the many secret passes and tunnels through the Hindu Kush. The opium smuggled from Afghanistan is much greater than ever before, and the Taliban and Yoorish Shaheed are paid to protect the shipments and farmers growing poppy,” Shamema answered.

Bryan thought about the laborers. “What about human trafficking?”

“They are committed to that too, I am certain of. I know of a Russian – a very brutal man, who bought young children from their fathers. The children were used as jockeys for camel races in Arabia and the Emirates,” she said.

“Is his name Leonid Petrov?” Bryan asked.

“I believe that is his name. My grandfather will verify that for you.”

 Petrov again. The trail was becoming warmer. “Would this same Russian be involved in the manual labor businesses for construction in Dubai? The businesses defrauding Pakistanis.”

“We know he helped build labor staffing businesses. Those same businesses literally stole money from workers. It destroyed many families,” Shamema said, her beautiful face becoming distraught.

“How do you know all of this Shamema?”  Bryan asked curiously.

Her voice quivered. “My life is dedicated to stopping such things. I build shelters for the homeless displaced from natural disasters. We lobby the government to enforce laws against human trafficking. We seek to protect women who are victims of violence and honor abuses by their husbands. Helping people who are suffering is my business.”

Shamema was passionate. They were both on common ground, similar missions. What separated Bryan from Shamema would be their dissimilar courses of action, but not their mutual determination to succeed in saving people and preventing further suffering. Shamema was inherently kind. Nonviolence and peace were her approach. Death would be in Bryan’s wake.

 “We’re here to help you Shamema, but it’s important that I meet with your grandfather as soon as possible. Can these men take us to him?” Bryan asked, gesturing towards the fierce Kafirs. 

“Yes, of course. He is up in the mountains - at a lake.” She smiled at Bryan. “These two will take you to him.”

They stood up. She was tall, perhaps five foot eight, maybe an inch more. She shook Bryan’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.

Lieutenant Thomas stopped Bryan after they stepped outside.

“Captain Craig, just what exactly is our mission up here besides getting you and Rehman together? I didn’t plan on sweeping these mountains for Taliban or the Yoorish Shaheed, which must be some faction of Al-Qaeda. I don’t mind sir; we can adapt, we’re SEALs. I’d just like to plan a tiny bit, or at least let me have the eight by ten photo to study, not the wallet size.”

Bryan put his sunglasses on and placed his hand on the SEAL’s shoulder. “Here’s the eight by ten glossy – get me up to Rehman. The meeting is a must. The Russian she mentioned was murdered last week. He was working with the Yoorish Shaheed and they’re the ones responsible for the Memorial Day bombings,” Bryan said emphatically.

“Are we going to be active in seeking out the Taliban and these Yoorish Shaheed guys, or is the ROE to fire after being fired upon?” 

“If we run into them on the ground, and I’m very confident that we will, we’ll engage them. Is that clear?” He’d essentially just bumped up the Rules of Engagement one notch.

“What’s your intent with Rehman?”

“I want him to fully understand that we’re on his side. That he needs to look at us as his ally. It‘s important that we establish credibility with him as a friend, not just up here to get what we want, and then take off for good.”

“I’ve met with him on a sit down before, and we really didn’t get anywhere,” Thomas said, thinking about the Special Ops team that operated for five years searching for key Taliban and Al-Qaeda leadership.

“Times have changed Tim. The Taliban, Al-Qaeda and now the Yoorish Shaheed have been responsible for crimes against Rehman’s people and evidently he’s completely fed up with them. We’ll do what it takes to help him where the Pakistani government can’t. It’s in our best interest.”

“Captain Craig, I think you’ve just given me the eight by ten.”

The Lieutenant radioed Sinbad and Cowboy to move up to the center of town. The team was on the go again. Doc pried Turk away from the children, who were being curled three at a time while they hung from his forearms. Rendezvousing with Proton at the edge of town, the team followed the two Kafirs.

Giving the village one last glance as the team moved on, Bryan thought about the people there, the simplicity of their lives and their link to the vastly different world of Dubai, with its massive towers stretching to the limits of man’s engineering skills. The people of the Hindu Kush still stood taller. In echelon once again, they marched on. Turning to the north, they climbed further up into the mountains.