Killing Ground

Brognola paced before his colleagues as he quickly reiterated what he’d told Price earlier regarding concerns about the ease with which the Afghan National Army had been striking lopsided blows against the Taliban while the joint U.S.-NATO effort was being stymied at every turn. When he stressed how the ANA’s solo triumphs coincided with growing calls for Western pullouts, all three members of the cyberteam agreed on the need to look for another explanation besides a run of good luck on the part of the home team.

Kurtzman, the crew’s wheelchair-bound leader, was the first to respond after Brognola had completed the briefing. “I’ll start culling sat-cam databases for signs of Taliban movement along the border,” he said.

“Good,” Brognola said. “Also see what you can do about getting one of the orbitals to make a few extra passes over that whole stretch of mountains. BASIC would probably be your best bet, but use my name and pull in markers with the National Reconnaissance Office or some of the private firms if you have to.”

“Will do.”

“You didn’t bring it up,” Wethers said, “but shouldn’t we also be looking into how the Taliban knew where our ops teams were positioned? From the sounds of it, they were right on target when they came out of that tunnel.”

“Not to mention they were breathing down Striker’s neck from the get-go up on that ridgeline,” Delahunt added. “I’m smelling a tip-off.”

Price had just wrapped up her call with Bolan and rejoined the group in time to overhear the last exchange.

“Striker’s thinking the same thing,” she told Wethers. “AI assured him they’re looking into it.”

“All the same, let’s do our own checking,” Brognola said. “Did he have anything new to report?”

“A possible break, actually,” Price said. “A recon chopper came across someone lying wounded in the mountains near Jalalabad a couple hours ago. He was unconscious with multiple bullet wounds, but he was too far from where the ops team was attacked so they’re thinking maybe he’s part of that Taliban crew the ANA took out around the same time.”

“It’d be nice if that was the case,” Brognola said. “Especially if we can get him to talk.”

“It sounded to Striker like it’s pretty touch-and-go as to whether this guy will even pull through,” Price said. “They flew him to Bagram and he’s still in surgery. Apparently he’s got internal injuries and nearly bled out.”

“Let’s hope for the best,” Brognola said. “We could use a break.”

“One other thing,” Price added. “Striker wants carte blanche in terms of his next move. He wants to go with the first strong lead on where they took O’Brien’s body.”

“Not a problem,” the big Fed said. “I’m sure that whole situation is weighing on him.”

“‘No man left behind’? Yeah, I think it’s a concern for him,” Price said. “Can’t say as I blame him.”

“Me, either,” Kurtzman interjected, “but he was following that same code when he went to help the guys being ambushed. It’s not like he was retreating.”

“I’m sure he realizes that, but still…”

“C’mon folks,” Brognola said, stuffing the cigar in his shirt pocket so that he could have both hands free to roll up his sleeves. “We’ve got a big haystack to comb through, so let’s get cracking.”

“Will do,” Delahunt said. “I’m wondering, though…Given the situation over there, is the President still looking to make that photo op in Kabul next week?”

Brognola shook his head. “He’ll still be going to Istanbul for the NATO conference, but he’s scratched the side trip.”

“Smart move,” Delahunt said. “Last thing we need is the Taliban feathering their turbans with an assassination.”

5

Spin Range, Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan

As Brognola was rallying his cybercrew in the Stony Man Computer Room, halfway around the world, high in the arid mountains just north of Safed Koh Range, the enemy the SOG was trying to place in its sights was huddled in an inauspicious farm hut, with dirt floors and windows draped loosely with flaps of leopard skin to fend off the cold winter air. In the center of the room three men sat close together on mats set around a low, candlelit table, warming themselves with hot tea and steamed rice sprinkled with shaved bits of roast lamb. They spoke quietly, barely above a whisper, but their words carried both passion and urgency as they addressed events of the past twelve hours.

General Zahir Rashid of the Afghan National Army, at sixty-three by far the oldest of the three, was out of uniform, dressed like the others in plain shepherd’s clothing. There were streaks of gray in his neatly trimmed beard and a glimmer of intensity in his dark brown eyes. A veteran of Afghanistan’s United Front, Rashid had come into his own once that group’s militia had morphed into the ANA. He was also widely credited as the mastermind behind the string of recent victories Afghan troops had racked up against the Taliban. The previous night, in fact, he’d taken to the field and led the successful defeat of an insurgent squad in the mountains near Jalalabad. However, that one-sided skirmish would never have been possible without the input of the man seated directly across from him.

It was Aden Saleh, a high-ranking member of the Taliban and the warrior who’d eluded Bolan in the aftermath of the Safed Koh conflagration. He’d not only apprised Rashid of the Taliban’s movements in the Spin Range, but had also seen to it that the insurgent group stalked its way blindly into an ambush that had resulted in the deaths of all but one of its men. The ploy had been easy enough to carry out, because for the past six months Saleh had been in charge of orchestrating each and every incursion into Afghanistan made by the black-turbanned renegades. Saleh’s reasons for betraying his own men were simple. As with any organization, there were schisms within the Taliban. The majority of those who’d fallen in the Jalalabad battle, like most of the others slain by ANA forces over the past few weeks, were part of a dissenting minority opposed to a strategy to regain control of Afghanistan, not by acting alone, but by entering into a covert alliance with Rashid and other rogue ANA generals. This alliance also had outside force whose support, Saleh and his superiors felt, would be essential to ensuring that any coup would not be quickly undone by the U.S.-NATO coalition.

Spearheading efforts on behalf of that outside force was the third man seated at the table.

Eshaq Faryad, a native of neighboring Uzbekistan, had been among the first soldiers to set foot in Afghanistan during the 1979 Soviet invasion, and for ten years he’d remained in the country, doing all he could to help fend off counterattacks by the mujahideen. Years after the Soviet occupation had been squashed, thereby forcing him to flee back across the border, Faryad was back, this time in collusion with some of the same Afghan leaders he’d earlier fought against. As before, his primary objective was to place the country under Russia’s yoke. And while Uzbekistan had been awarded its sovereignty following the breakup of the Soviet Union, Faryad’s allegiance remained with Moscow, and all these years the bald, clean-shaved man had continued to receive orders—as well as a steady, sizeable income—from the Russian capital’s intelligentsia apparatchik. In recent years that organization’s official title may have changed countless times, but in his heart Faryad still considered himself KGB—SVR to the rest of the world.

The three men had come together to discuss a number of issues, but two in particular weighed most heavily on them in terms of immediacy.

First was the matter of the U.S. soldier whose body had been hauled away from the ridgeline in Safed Koh by the sniper who’d killed him after he’d triggered a Taliban-set land mine. Captain Howard O’Brien’s corpse lay just outside the hut, stripped and covered beneath a layer of snow brought down from the higher elevations. His weapons, along with a microcomputer, had been confiscated and what was left of the recon officer’s uniform was being washed and mended in hopes some use could be made of it. Meanwhile, the men squabbled over what to do with the body.

Saleh wanted to use the slain officer as barter in hopes of negotiating the release of Azzizhudin Karimi, the low-level Taliban fighter who’d survived the ambush by Rashid’s ANA troops the night before in the hills outside Jalalabad. But Faryad and Rashid opposed the idea, taking the sniper’s word that the other U.S. soldier who’d been on the ridgeline had to know O’Brien was already dead. They knew there was no way the U.S. would exchange a live prisoner for a dead one. For that matter, Rashid was equally skeptical that they would even be able to use O’Brien to secure the return of the bodies of the men who’d fought alongside Saleh when they’d ambushed the Special Ops team in the mountains of Safed Koh. The Afghan general had already learned from his informants at Bagram Air Base that those victims were in the process of being autopsied at the request of U.S. Army Intelligence.

Saleh had been enraged by the news of such desecration, but he realized it was pointless to argue any further for trying to leverage O’Brien’s body as a bargaining chip. This was, he decided, one of those situations when it was best to back off from his position for the sake of maintaining the alliance with those seated across from him. Besides, acquiescence now would likely serve him down the line should a time come when he would need one of them, in turn, to side with him as swing vote on some other matter.

“Very well,” the Taliban leader finally relented. “We’ll make use of his weapons and uniform and just dispose of the body.”

“Preferably in a way that it’s never found,” Rashid added. “If the Americans are kept wondering about his fate, it will be something of a victory.”

“Agreed,” Faryad said.

“I’ll see to it personally,” Saleh said.

“It’s settled then,” Rashid replied. “Let’s move on.”

“Before we do, what about the computer?” Faryad asked.

“What about it?” Rashid said. “We don’t have the access code. Without that, it’s of no use to us.”

“We should try to crack the code,” the SVR agent suggested. “If we can get into the system, it could prove invaluable.”

“If you know anything about hacking, you’re welcome to try,” Rashid countered.

“I know someone,” Faryad said. “I’ll look into it.”

“As you wish,” Rashid said, eager to change the subject. “Now, we need to discuss how to deal with Karimi.”

Saleh’s simmering resentment got the better of him. Before he could check himself, he found himself blurting, “If you’d finished him off when you had the chance, there would be nothing to deal with.”

A sudden tension filled the room. Rashid’s face reddened as he stroked his beard and then busied himself with his tea, buying time to choose his words carefully.

“I saw him go down,” he said, squarely meeting Saleh’s steely gaze. “We were in the midst of a firefight, and I had to deal with those still putting up resistance. By the time we’d taken care of the others, Karimi was gone.”

“He disappeared?” Saleh scoffed. “Just like that?”

Faryad quickly intervened, eager to defuse the confrontation.

“I’m sure Karimi was well-trained, like all the Taliban,” he told Saleh. “And no doubt had tried to slip into a hidden tunnel and make his escape, just as you did—though not as successfully.”

Saleh knew Faryad had resorted to flattery in hopes of appeasing him. Much as it rankled him, the Taliban lieutenant played along, turning back to Rashid with what he hoped would pass for a look of conciliation.

“My apologies, General,” he said. “It’s just that Karimi could prove to be a loose cannon. I know the man personally—he was starting to have his suspicions about the way dissenters were being conveniently killed off in your attacks. If he’s interrogated, he could tip our hand and undermine everything.”

“From what my contacts at Bagram tell me, he’s been unconscious since the Americans found him,” Rashid assured Saleh. “He’s not expected to survive surgery, much less be in any position to be questioned.”

“If there’s any chance he might survive, the risk is still there,” Saleh countered. “And it’s too great a risk to leave to chance.”

“What are you suggesting?” Rashid said.

“The attack we’d planned on Bagram,” Saleh said. “Though we’ve had to call it off, the teams are still in place. I say we make use of them.”

The Taliban leader was referring to an intricate plan to attack the American military base during the U.S. President’s scheduled visit to Kabul the following week. Just prior to meeting with the others, General Rashid had learned that the appearance had been canceled, and before they’d broached the matter of O’Brien’s corpse and belongings, the three men had agreed to suspend the assault on Bagram. They still hoped for a chance to take out the President, but instead of carrying out the mission on their own, the men had decided it would be better instead to lend what resources they could to Kurdish militants from the PKK, whose operatives in Turkey were already targeting the Istanbul NATO conference, which the U.S. commander-in-chief still planned to attend. No contact had been made with the Turks yet, since those involved in the Bagram plot had yet to be diverted from the Afghan capital.

“I understand what you’re suggesting,” Faryad told Saleh, “but even if we could modify the plan and carry it out on short notice, would it really be worth it? Neutralizing a drone like Karimi hardly matches the importance of killing a president.”

“I’m telling you,” Saleh insisted, “if Karimi makes it through surgery and talks, it could set back everything we’ve been working for. Or worse.”

Rashid, seeing a chance to smooth things over with Saleh, ventured, “The medical facility at Bagram would be an easy enough target. And security at the base won’t be as heightened as it would have been for the President. We wouldn’t need to stage a full assault.”

The SVR agent mulled things over, then asked the Taliban leader, “How soon could you be in a position to carry this out?”

“My men could be ready at a moment’s notice,” Saleh said.

He turned to Rashid. “What about the men you have stationed on the base?”

“The same,” the general responded. “Provided I can get through to them, they’d be ready to act within a matter of hours. Maybe sooner.”

Faryad calmly finished his tea, then offered a whimsical smile. “This might well be a way to kill two birds with one stone. If we can silence Karimi while striking the Americans where it hurts, maybe it will give them extra incentive to get out of our way once and for all.”

Saleh rose to his feet, signaling an end to the meeting. “Let’s do it!”

6

Bagram Air Base, North of Kabul, Afghanistan

As he stepped off the bus that had brought him to the outskirts of Bagram Air Base, Nawid Pradhan couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this kind of hope. It was almost intoxicating. It reminded him of how he’d felt years ago, when he’d have friends over to his apartment for dinner and there would be wine, laughter, the squeals of playing children and spirited conversations that lasted long into the night. Perhaps, if all went well and Allah was willing, he would one day have that kind of life again. This day, he was certain, would be a step in that direction, a direction away from the despair and anguish that had dogged him since the Taliban had turned his world into ruin.

So high were the Afghan’s spirits that, for once, he barely noticed how severely the threat of rain had increased the ever-present, gnawing ache in his arthritic hip. Yes, the pronounced limp was still there and Pradhan instinctively winced with each step, but he continued at a brisk pace along the dusty shoulder leading to the bazaar, oblivious to the dark clouds rolling in from the north.

The bazaar was a weekly affair. Just off the road a hundred yards from the entrance to the U.S.-NATO command center, more than a hundred local merchants and fledgling entrepreneurs were busily setting up shop at their usual locations.

Thunderstorms might have been forecast for later in the day, but no one seemed daunted as they went about their preparations. Some had erected sturdy booths inside well-secured tents, while others displayed goods set out on tables shaded by blankets propped on tall, rickety poles. Those with less means made do with arranging their wares on large rugs laid across the ground. There was a wide range of products: everything from small statues, holiday ornaments and bootleg DVDs, to freshly harvested produce, clothing and cigarettes. Most weeks Pradhan was among those looking to do business with soldiers from the base. His specialty was computer servicing, and there would always be at least a few officers looking to retrieve lost data or have their laptops tweaked so they would run faster.

This day, however, Pradhan had come to the bazaar not to sell, but to buy. Before boarding the bus back in Kabul, he’d received his meager weekly stipend from an Internet café where he worked a couple hours each day tending to computers. While a portion of the wages would go toward provisions to bring back to his family, he’d earmarked the lion’s share for a new wardrobe. It wouldn’t do to go to the interview wearing his normal tatters. It was important, he felt, to dress in a way that would make the best possible impression.

Pradhan took his time perusing several booths that featured slightly used Western clothing, finally settling on a pair of tan chinos, a white shirt and rattan sandals with expensive-looking tassels. The ensemble was more costly than he’d anticipated, but he felt it was money well spent. After all, what was a few hundred more afghanis? Once he got the job, it would only take him a day or two to make a return on his investment. And after a few months he would have made enough to afford a change of clothes for every day of the week. If he and his family continued to live frugally, by spring there would even be enough money to move into an apartment. Perhaps it would not be as nice as the one they’d lived in before their forced exile to Pakistan, but it would be a start and a welcome step up from living out of a cave.

Someone was using the makeshift changing tent behind the booth where Pradhan had bought his clothes. While he waited his turn, he bought a bottle of spring water, a bar of scented soap and a sponge so that he could clean away whatever grime he’d missed earlier while bathing in the icy waters of the Kabul River. He would be glad to put that ritual behind him. He’d been told at the job site that there was a shower in the employees’ locker room—a shower with hot water, no less!

Once the changing tent was available, Pradhan went in and shed his old clothes, then hurriedly scrubbed himself from head to toe, anxious to rid himself of the telltale odor he knew would mark him as a transient. It was a laborious task, but he kept at it until his skin felt raw. Afterward, the Afghan hummed to himself as he tried on the new outfit. Everything fit perfectly, and when he eyed himself in a dusty mirror set in the corner, the one-time refugee beamed at his reflection, convinced he’d chosen well. Instead of a hapless vagrant, he looked like a working man, a man with a job and prospects for a better life. He flashed another smile, imagining the look on his wife’s face once he presented himself to her later and gave her the good news. He hadn’t yet told her about the job—he wanted it to be a surprise. After so many years of hardship and suffering, he looked forward to seeing, once again, a flicker of joy in her eyes. He longed, even more, to finally be able to tell her that her steadfast faith in him throughout all their sorrowful tribulations had not been in vain.

Once he’d adjusted the collar of his new shirt, Pradhan retrieved a neatly folded employment application form from the pocket of his old pants, then gathered up the rest of the clothes he’d changed out of and stared at them with disdain before tossing them into a waste container. Goodbye to the years of travail, he thought. As of this day, all that was behind him.

Pradhan was making his way out of the tent when he heard a commotion near the road. Several men were shouting angrily, and by the time Pradhan had circled around the clothing booth, the clamor had increased. A few dozen merchants had left their stations at the bazaar and were congregating around a convoy of three Army Humvees that had stopped alongside the road. A U.S. officer from the base had stepped out of the lead vehicle and was addressing the throng. Behind them, the soldiers in the other Humvees watched on warily, clutching M-16s.

“What’s going on?” Pradhan asked a produce merchant who’d yet to leave his booth. The man’s features were grim, tinged with anger.

“They’ve canceled the bazaar,” he said.

Pradhan noticed the darkening horizon for the first time. “Because we might have a little rain?” he asked.

The merchant shook his head. Gesturing at the soldiers, he explained, “They say the base is in lockdown. No one’s being allowed out or in.”

Pradhan felt a sudden knotting in his stomach.

“Why?” he asked.

“Something about security,” the other man replied skeptically. “As if we’re about to attack them with bananas and CDs!”

“That’s not a bad idea,” a vendor in the next booth called out. “They say we’ll be compensated for being ‘inconvenienced.’ Ha!”

Pradhan was disheartened by the news and as the shouting grew louder, he fought back his sudden anxiety. He hobbled away from the booths, making his way around the periphery of the angry mob.

“It doesn’t mean the worst,” he whispered to himself. Already, the words sounded hollow, though.

When he reached the road, Pradhan continued along the shoulder, heading toward the base. He hadn’t gone far when one of the soldiers called out to him from the rear of a Humvee.

“Where are you going?”

The Afghan pretended not to hear and kept walking. His long, purposeful strides aggravated his hip, and with each step his limp became a little more pronounced. He tried his best to ignore the pain as well as the sound of the vehicle, which had shifted into gear and was backing up toward him.

“Sorry, sir, but the base is off-limits,” the soldier called out to him as the vehicle drew closer.

Pradhan refused to acknowledge the soldier and trudged on, eyes straight ahead. The main gate was less than fifty yards away. He only made it a few steps farther, however, before the vehicle caught up with him and veered sharply onto the shoulder, blocking his way.

“You need to go back with the others,” the soldier said. He was a young recruit, half Pradhan’s age, pink-faced beneath his helmet. He was trying to be polite, but it was clear that he was issuing a command rather than a request, and though his carbine was aimed at the ground away from Pradhan, his finger was on the M-16’s trigger.

“I have an interview!” Pradhan snapped, unable to rein in his frustration. “For a job at the base! Working on computers!”

“All job interviews have been canceled,” the soldier told him. “There’s been a temporary freeze put on hiring while we—”

“I have the job!” Pradhan insisted, waving his employment application. “Ask Mehrab Shah! He recommended me! The interview is just a formality!”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir,” the soldier replied. “All I can tell you is the situation has changed. No one is allowed to come onto the base without proper clearance.”

“Ask Mehrab Shah!” Pradhan repeated. “He’ll tell you! I have the job! I have clearance!”

“Have you gone through processing?” When Pradhan stared back, uncomprehending, the soldier rephrased the question. “Have they given you a background check?”

“I have nothing to hide!” he said.

“That’s not what I asked, sir.”

“I’m a loyal Afghan citizen who lost everything to the Taliban!” Pradhan shouted, his voice trembling with rage as much as desperation. “Four years I spent in the Pakistan refugee camps! Four years! I came back because there were promises we would have a chance to get something back! Empty promises! Now, finally, I have an opportunity!”