Jack Terral - Rolling Thunder (2007)

Boss Brannigan is a good man, Captain said. He is knowing we do not make lies here. We are good people bohut good people!

Don't bullshit me, Cap'n! Dawkins said. He always played the bad guy during visits, to keep the locals off balance. His normal expression was a scowl, and he was good in the part.

Oh, I am not bullshitting, Captain insisted.

We have machines that can find weapons, Dawkins said. We move the machine across the ground or the floor in a house. If there are weapons, the machines tell us. They say beep, beep, beep!

Captain laughed. You are pagal in the head, Buford. Machines cannot speak.

These can, Dawkins insisted. Maybe we'll bring some back with us the next time.

Oh, you are not having to do that, Captain said. We are good people.

Well, we'll see about that, Dawkins said. He heard Brannigan call out his name, and he turned to see the Skipper motioning him to return to Charlie One. He turned his gaze back to Captain, giving the Tajic a warning glare. You're gonna remember what I told you, sahi?

Of course, Buford, Captain said, already waving. Xuda hafiz!

Xudafiz, Dawkins replied, corrupting the Dari words for good-bye.

Within minutes, the SEALs were in their vehicles and speeding away from the village into the desert. They headed in a generally northwestern direction at a gas-saving thirty-five miles per hour toward the next village on their patrol. After they went about ten miles, Frank Gomez's voice came over the LASH headset. Skipper, I just got a transmission over the Shadowfire. We're supposed to return to Shelor Field by the quickest route. Carey and Berringer are waiting for us there.

Good deal! interjected Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser. As Sherlock Holmes would say, 'The game's afoot!'

Brannigan turned the wheel, whipping the DPV toward a southeastern route as his men followed.

.

THE OPIUM TRAIL

AFGHANISTAN

16 MAY

NOON

THE farmers who cultivated and harvested the opium poppies did so for very good economic reasons. If they planted the usual crops wheat, barley, and corn each family would earn the equivalent of approximately 150 American dollars per year. But the plants from which heroin is made afforded the cultivators 64,500 afghani annually, which translated into 1500 American dollars per year for the average family. It was not surprising that this tenfold advantage in cash encouraged them to cultivate and process the poppies. The growers drew the juice from the unripe seeds of the plants, and air-dried it until it formed into a thick gum. Further drying of this gum resulted in a powder for the final product that was sold.

The farmers' customers were the smugglers who paid them cash for the illicit crops. They took care of the transport to the rendezvous site, to be loaded onto trucks for delivery to the Iranian-Turkish border, to be sold yet again. This time, the transfer of the product was to other illicit entrepreneurs who would see the powder got to the right people. These gangsters were from the criminal organizations who had the means to process it into heroin for the markets of the West.

The cultivators loved this arrangement, and were deeply grateful for the opportunity to make so much money. It was easy, fast work without the backbreaking struggle of plowing and harvesting grain crops. These planters considered opiates a blessing from Allah. And if the stuff trapped infidels in the hell of addiction, so much the better. That was what the Nonbelievers of Western civilization deserved.

SURPRISE and astonishment registered on the expressive face of Archibald Sikes Pasha when the donkey train from the stronghold reached its destination. He, Naser Khadid, Malyar Lodhi, Jandol Kakar, and a couple of dozen mujahideen came down from the Gharawdara Highlands onto the plains after several grueling hours of foot travel under the direction of Husay Bangash. Within a quarter of an hour of trekking across the desert, the travelers reached the rendezvous point. This was where the caravans formed up to take opium shipments out of Afghanistan, across Iran, and into Turkey.

In Sikes' mind he had pictured a crude bivouac with more donkeys or maybe camels gathered around an oasis of some sort. Instead, he saw a small cluster of buildings around which were parked six modern military trucks and a dozen civilian pickups that had machine guns mounted on top of the cabs.

Khadid glanced at his English companion, grinning in delight. This is not what you were expecting, was it, Sikes Pasha?

Not by a bluddy long shot, Sikes remarked. He glanced at some more military vehicles on the other side of the buildings. Who're them blokes over there then?

Afghan Army officers, Khadid explained. Their units bring the stuff this far, then we'll put it on those trucks which belong to the Iranian Army, by the way and take it the rest of the way to Turkey.

Now that makes me nervous, Sikes said. I ambushed an Afghan motor patrol, remember?

The multiple conspiracies going on in modern Afghanistan create a bewildering pattern of inconsistencies, Khadid explained. These Afghan soldiers are not concerned about what you've done or where you've been.

That's a relief, Sikes said. Now wot about them civilian trucks?

Those are Toyota pickups that have been fixed up with machine guns, Khadid said. The weapons are most excellent German MG-3 seven-point-six-two-millimeters that have proven very dependable in the past.

I wouldn't think those would be necessary, Sikes remarked. It looks like the law is on the smugglers' side in this operation.

Kakar interjected himself into the conversation. Our opponents are other smugglers. Rivals, actually.

Who're the brave lads that handle the German machine guns?

Iranian soldiers, Khadid replied. They have already proven themselves in some rather large battles in the past. We have to be prepared for the worst. By the way, we'll be riding in the cabs of the pickups during the journey. The mujahideen will be in the Iranian vehicles.

I see, Sikes said. Do Turkish soldiers take over when we cross into that country?

Bangash, who had been listening to the conversation, shook his head. They're the bad guys, dude. The last people we want to see is a column of motorized Turkish infantry roaring our way. That's when the law is against us. But we don't have to sweat that shit till we get close to Turkey. Sometimes, it's best for us to stay on the Iranian side of the border. He strode ahead, motioning the others to follow him. Those other guys will take care of the donkeys. They'll stay penned up here till we get back from the run with all our goodies. Then we load them up and trek back to the stronghold, where everyone is happy as pigs in shit to see us and the stuff we bring.

The four followed the head smuggler over to the buildings, where a group of military officers stood waiting. Sikes noticed both Iranian and Afghan uniforms among the Army men. When they arrived, Khadid greeted them as old friends. There were some customary Islamic hugs, kissing motions, and backslapping. The Iranian pointed to Sikes. This is Orakzai's new field commander. He's going on this run to familiarize himself with this part of our operations. Quick introductions were made, but the names went right by Sikes. He really didn't give a damn who they were anyway. What he did make note of was the fact that they didn't seem too surprised to see him. That told him all the military men had already been fully briefed on his background.

As the group stood in conversation, another officer over by the Iranian trucks called out something in Farsi that caught Khadid's attention. He took Sikes' arm and led him over to the man. After an exchange of salutes, a large envelope was handed to Khadid. He immediately passed it on to Sikes. The Englishman frowned in puzzlement. Wot's this then?