Combat Alley (2007) (13 page)

Shamroz, also speaking through the interpreter, asked, Are you the one who treated the bad cut suffered by the Janoon brother?

Doc answered with an affirmative nod.

Brannigan continued, We are concerned about the horrible massacre in the Swati village. I took my men there and we saw the dead people. Do you have any idea who might have done this thing?

I know exactly who committed the atrocity, Awalmir replied in a cold voice. It was those demons from the Mahsud tribe. Also I would think the Kharotis, Bhittanis, and Ghilzais were there too. They did it with the Tajik bandits. And we think Russians also.

Brannigan's eyebrows raised. Could it be that Puglisi was right in his assumption that the former Soviet Union was involved? Who are these Russians?

Well, Awalmir said hesitantly, perhaps they were all Tajik bandits or even soldiers from their army. At any rate, whoever they are, we cannot know for sure. It is very difficult for us to get across the international border without having trouble with the authorities.

What do you know about the bandits in this area who may be Russians? Brannigan asked.

Nothing for certain, just suspicions, Awalmir replied. If there are any, someday we will catch them, but I fear it will be only a few at a time. He abruptly changed the subject. Are you going to destroy the next poppy crops?

Brannigan shook his head. No. My orders are to leave the harvest alone. Then he added, Unless the Taliban becomes involved.

Awalmir shrugged. We are not friends of the Taliban.

Shamroz leaned forward. Is this disregard of our harvests permanent?

I don't know, Brannigan answered truthfully.

What are you going to do about the ones who murdered the Swatis? Awalmir asked.

I am waiting for orders from my superiors, Brannigan said. But I know for sure we will be told to hunt them down and capture them for punishment.

What will you do with those that do not surrender? the Yousafzai khan asked.

We will kill them.

Russians and Pashtuns too?

All of them, Brannigan stated.

Even if some are Russians?

We will kill all of them, Brannigan repeated.

In that case, you are an enemy of my enemy, Awalmir said. I will help you in these coming battles. He looked at Chinar. I think the Janoons will help too.

Quajeer has already said he will join the fight, Chinar said.

Awalmir turned his attention back to Brannigan. When you have your orders you tell Quajeer and me. Then we will meet and decide what must be done. He stood up to signal he had no more to say.

At that point the meeting broke up and Chinar handled the protocol of parting, then the Americans went to their horses. Brannigan swung up into the saddle, glancing at Cruiser. The first thing I'm gonna do is contact the SFOB and tell Carey about those goddamn Russians.

As that old American saying goes, Cruiser said with a wry grin, 'the shit is about to hit the fan.'

Chapter 10

USS COMBS

SFOB

27 OCTOBER

BRIGADIER General Gregory Leroux, United States Army, was the angriest man in all of America's armed forces. He was a highly decorated Special Forces-, ranger-, parachutist-qualified graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York; holder of the combat infantryman's badge; an experienced combat leader of units from platoons to entire combined-arms brigades; and had been stuck aboard a United States Navy guided-missile destroyer where he was forced to direct special operations while confined within steel bulkheads in a clandestine headquarters belowdecks. The general swore if he ever found out who came up with the idea of establishing an undercover SFOB aboard a ship, he would wring the son of a bitch's neck.

It didn't matter to the general that this small headquarters was unique since, unlike other such directional centers, his responsibilities of command and control were for very highlevel, special operations far out of the norm. These missions called for an intense focus of effort and concentration with little outside interference. And that was the main reason for the isolation of a floating, movable operational base aboard a warship far from other administrative and logistical sites.

But what really bugged the old soldier was his constant exposure to naval terminology such as somebody replying aye, sir to his orders, having to call a floor a deck, a wall a bulkhead, a latrine a head, refer to left as port, right as starboard, front as fore, back as aft, and dozens of other terms. After being in the assignment for a month, he had posted a sign on the door leading to the compartments he used as offices:

WARNING! DO NOT USE SAILOR TALK PAST THIS POINT

The crew aboard the Combs returned the general's irritation in spades.

.

1515 HOURS

COMMANDER Tom Carey and Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer, naval operations and intelligence officers respectively, sat in chairs across the desk from General Leroux. Over to the side, occupying another piece of metal furniture, was a man who had just been introduced to them by Leroux. The stranger wore a battle dress uniform that bore no insignia of rank or military unit. This individual also sported a 9-millimeter Beretta automatic in a shoulder holster.

This was Spencer Caldwell, a CIA case worker stationed in Khorugh, Tajikistan, in a deep undercover assignment. He was about as happy as Leroux in regards to his present location. The unexpected summons that had brought him to his present physical locality was more than inconvenient; it was downright dangerous. He was one of those unknown entities in a shadow world of intrigue, adventure, danger, and dirty tricks that left the inept and/or unlucky extremely dead when misadventures occurred.

Now he and the two navy officers sat silently while Leroux perused a file of radio messages and INTSUMs from higher headquarters. Finally, the general took his glasses off and laid them down on his desk. He turned his eyes on Caldwell. What we need to know from you is if there are any fucking Russians up in those Kangal Mountains?

Yes, Caldwell replied. They are former convicts of a Soviet Army prison that had been established in that country during the Reds' glory days. He was a man obviously in excellent physical condition, mentally alert and harboring a streak of meanness just under the surface. Most of them were either lifers or condemned to executions that were never carried out.

Why the hell not? Leroux asked. Were the sentences commuted?

It was a typical glitch of the gigantic Communist bureaucracy, Caldwell explained. The paperwork to send them to the place was never followed up with orders to shoot the rotten bastards. So when the Soviet Union came apart at the seams, nobody knew what to do with them. Requests to transport them back to Russia by the new Tajik government fell through the cracks or went unanswered.

Leroux displayed his lopsided grin. So what happened? One day somebody forgot to lock the front gate and the sons of bitches just walked out?

Something like that, Caldwell said. The prison population was run as a gang during their incarceration and continued in that manner after their release. They couldn't return to Russia without proper passports or ID, so they formed into a gangster band and raided across the border into Afghanistan. As ex-soldiers they're pretty formidable, and now have a town all their own up in the Kangal Mountains.

Carey nodded. That was what Brannigan needed to know. A Pashtun village was wiped out a while back, and there was some confusion as to whether some of the raiders were Russians or Tajiks.

Actually, Caldwell said, the ex-convicts subdued the local bandits. Now they claim the Kangal Mountains and Pranistay Steppes as their turf.

Berringer, ever the intelligence officer, asked, Are the Russians independent?

Caldwell shook his head. They have contacts with the local crime syndicate in the city of Khorugh. I'm pretty sure they receive instructions from the big boss whose name is Akloschenko. I've yet to determine if that's a permanent arrangement or just temporary for special jobs.

Do you have a mole somewhere in that mess? Berringer asked.

No, Caldwell replied. I've been working hard on that for the past two years. So far all I've been able to develop is underworld informers. And they're not always reliable.

Tell me something, Leroux said. Have you been turning in INTREPs on this situation to your bosses in the CIA?

Of course I have, Caldwell said, irritated by the insinuation that he had been sloppy in his work.

Then why the fuck wasn't it shared? Leroux snapped.

How the fuck should I know why the fuck it wasn't shared? Caldwell shot back. Goddamn it! I'm over there in that fucking place with no backup, trying to organize a net, and get pulled out to come over to this shit-eating ship to answer a bunch of stupid questions while I got more important things to do.

Leroux, who was never upset by a busy man having good reason to lose his temper, calmly asked, If we saw that you got a Russian speaker, could you get him inserted into that bandit gang?

He'd have to be a native, Caldwell answered. And be able to fit in perfectly. One little slip and he'd be dead meat.

Shit! Leroux cursed.

Wait a minute! Carey exclaimed, suddenly having an idea. I know the perfect guy.

.

28 OCTOBER

0845 HOURS

THE LSPO used the standard arm-and-hand signals as he brought the Super Stallion chopper in for a landing on the Combs' helicopter pad. The aircraft settled down only long enough for a lone figure to leap off to the deck before the pilot revved back up into the sky.

Petty Officer Second Class Andy Malachenko of Branni-gan's Brigands, wearing a rucksack on his back, an M16 rifle over his shoulder, and carrying a seabag, walked over to the superstructure where Commander Tom Carey and Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer waited for him. The two officers greeted the SEAL, then led him into the interior of the ship for a quick trip belowdecks where they went directly to General Leroux's bailiwick.

When they reached the general's office, Malachenko left his gear outside the door but kept his weapon over his shoulder as he followed his escorts into the interior. Besides Leroux, the CIA operative Spencer Caldwell was seated at one side of the compartment. The general waved away the navy personnel's salutes. No time for bullshit protocol. Who's this guy?

The one I told you about, sir, Carey said. He's the man we need for that special assignment.

He looks alright, Leroux said. He spoke directly to Malachenko. This guy beside me has some questions for you.

Yes, sir, Malachenko replied suspiciously.

Caldwell asked, Vi gavarit pa'Ruski?

Malachenko replied in Russian, saying, Yes. I speak Russian.

You are obviously quite fluent in the language, Caldwell remarked. No trace of an American accent.

I was born in Russia, sir, Malachenko said, sticking to the language. I grew up speaking Russian before I learned English in the States.

What brought you to America, Malachenko? Caldwell inquired.

My parents immigrated in 1994 when I was ten, he answered. We lived in Brighton Beach, New York. That's where I learned English.

Did you continue to speak Russian in your home?

Yes, sir. As a matter of fact the whole neighborhood spoke it. Most of the stores had Russian language signs. But us kids picked up English real quick in school, and since we learned early in life, none of us have Russian accents. It's easy when you're young.

Caldwell glanced at Leroux, going back to English. He'll have to be brought up to date on the latest slang. And, of course, he'll need a cover story.

Malachenko was slightly alarmed. What the hell is going on?

Leroux leaned back in his chair. Tell me something, Malachenko. We need a Russian-speaking volunteer to go on a dangerous mission that may last a few months. You will also be exposed to the constant danger of being compromised. If that happened, you would be shot immediately if not sooner if you're lucky. In the event your luck had run out, they would make the execution a three- or four-day celebration. What do you say?

Sure, sir. What do you want me to do?

We need you to infiltrate a Russian criminal gang up there in the Kangal Mountains that border the current OA where your detachment is stationed.