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.
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.
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.
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?
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