Jack Terral - Seals (2005)

Now, in the early hour of dawn, Khamami climbed from his blankets and walked to the front flap of his tent. His instincts, developed during years of fighting in this sort of rugged, isolated terrain, gave him a solid feeling of optimism. Somehow he did not think he faced an enemy that was particularly numerous. He could tell by their actions that there was no chance they could overwhelm him. That was the reason for the ambush and sudden withdrawal. Had they been a stronger force with support weapons, they would have stood fast and slugged it out with the mujahideen.

On the other hand, they were well practiced in the type of warfare the Westerners called unconventional. But with both Major Karim Malari and Captain Lakhdar Tanizai in the field, Khamami was confident that victory was only a matter of time. Malari and Tanizai were veteran combat commanders and were now using every tactical trick they knew to track down the foreign devils who had intruded into this land. The situation his foes faced reminded him of what he had learned about a certain infamous American general who fought Indian warriors in that country's West many years before. The commander's name was Custer. Good luck in past battles had made him reckless, and the day finally came when he paid for that overconfidence with his life and those of his men.

A servant scurried forward with a hot bowl of chat tea for the warlord. Khamami took it, treating himself to a sip of the stimulating brew. He glanced over to where his air force of two helicopters stood waiting for the day's activities to begin. Just beyond them were the one hundred men of the disgraced Ayyub Durtami. Their former warlord had joined the ragtag group in time to come out on the last airlift. He and his mujahideen lay sleeping with their ancient rifles, eager to atone for their past actions, both in Khamami's eyes and those of Allah.

This was one of those times that Khamami was most appreciative of religion. Not because of any personal devoutness on his part; but because such beliefs made it easier for him to send men to their death on his behalf. There was nothing like a good jihad to pep the lads up. He took another drink of tea as he looked at the sleeping men who faced a battle they could not possibly survive.

Their bodies would soon be soaking up bullets as sponges do water.

.

WADI KHESTA VALLEY

0800 H0URS LOCAL

WHEN the Odd Couple rounded a sharp turn in the ravine, they came to a sudden stop. Stretched out to their direct front was a large valley that appeared to be at least an eighth of a kilometer wide. Although it did not have a lot of cover along the tops, scrub brush grew abundantly on the gentle slopes of the sides.

Mike Assad stayed as security while Dave Leibowitz went back to the column to report to Lieutenant Bill Brannigan. When he met the platoon coming toward him, he went straight to the Skipper.

"Sir, we've just run out of ravine," Dave said. "There's a pretty big valley about fifty meters ahead. It ain't the Grand Canyon, but it's maybe a hundred meters wide. We don't know the length of the place, but there's lots of vegetation on the sides. That could be a sign of water."

"I sure as hell hope so," Brannigan said. "We're about to start having a great big fucking problem with thirst if things keep going the way they have been." Most of the men had popped at least one pep pill, and the resultant dryness in their mouths was becoming uncomfortable. They were forced to resort to the old Apache Indian trick of sucking on a couple of pebbles to keep the saliva flowing. Brannigan felt a little better now. "Let's take a look at this magnificent terrain feature you and Assad discovered."

The column began moving again, going on down the ravine. They turned the same corner of the big gully as Mike and Dave had, stepping into an extremely wide valley that had a varying depth of between ten and fifteen meters. The feeling of security the platoon had formerly enjoyed in the ravines quickly evaporated. They felt positively exposed, and instinctively went on the alert, hoisting their weapons to high port.

Senior Chief Buford Dawkins trotted up to the Skipper. "Sir, what do you make of this?"

Brannigan shrugged under his combat vest. "I was hoping we'd find some water, but the farther we go the less I think that's going to happen."

"This ain't a place for water, sir," the senior chief commented. 'Them thorny shrubs around here is the type of bushes that don't need a lot of water. That's why it's growing so good up on them dry slopes."

"I was afraid of that," Brannigan said. "You better pass the word to the men to take it easy with the canteens until further orders."

"I already did, sir," Dawkins said. "But most of 'em had figgered that out already."

"All we can do is keep moving and hope for the best. And suck those pebbles."

"Right, sir. See you later."

Dawkins turned and headed back down toward Bravo Fire Team.

THE WADI KHESTA VALLEY

ABDULLAH and Ashraf were veteran mujahideen who had spent their entire lives in the wilds of Afghanistan. Both were small men, wiry and illiterate but possessed of a natural intelligence and cunning that made them the best scouts in Warlord Hassan Khamami's army.

As Pashtun boys they had been raised in the warrior traditions of their people, living hard lives of deprivation and poverty in an unforgiving country where the weak and unwary succumbed early in life. Their nameless home village was precariously perched on the side of a mountain, the crude homes built of the natural rocks that abounded in the area. A single well served the population of ten families, and three out of five babies, born to women worn by cruel toil, died before attaining three months of age. These were people who took nothing for granted. Bad weather was more than an inconvenience; it could herald natural disasters such as drought, howling windstorms, and thunderclouds that sent immense sheets of water to splash down across the mountains, causing avalanches and flash floods. Additionally, an injury that would only be bothersome in gentler living conditions could kill the unlucky with infections and gangrene. However, anybody reaching the age of ten could reasonably expect to live to the ripe old age of thirty-five or forty, since their bodies had proven to be resistant to all the illnesses and diseases of that environment.

Abdullah and Ashraf, like all the boys, were introduced to firearms early in life. They took their turns standing guard at night, watching for marauding bandits who might raid their village. Their weaponry consisted of old flintlock smoothbore muskets, a few percussion muzzle-loading rifles, and bladed instruments of war that included Indian shamshirs, Arabian scimitars and even some heavy British cavalry sabers taken during a nameless battle over a hundred years before.

Hunting was not a sport for the Pashtuns. It was a way of obtaining protein. The favorite game in those barren mountains was gazelles, but the meager herds had been hunted to near extinction. Now the most numerous animals were hares that had stringy, hard-to-chew meat on the haunches and back legs. Another, better source of meat was the domestic animals of other villages obtained through outright thievery. It was this latter activity in which Abdullah and Ashraf developed their skills in reconnaissance and raiding.

By the time the big troubles with the Soviets came along, the two friends were in their teens. They joined Warlord Khamami's band to fight against the invaders, and found themselves in a world of constant warfare. One of their main jobs was to dog Russian patrols to keep track of the activities and whereabouts of the infidels. Even though they were daring to the point of recklessness at times and had many close calls, Abdullah and Ashraf were never discovered by their prey, and guided many detachments of mujahideen to successful ambush and attack sites.