Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (2 page)

Again, Bishop nodded his understanding, wondering what all of this had to do with him and
the colonel. Mr. Smith unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and took a small sip. He studied Bishop for a moment and then smiled. “You are no doubt wondering why the DEA or the CIA or some other agency doesn’t mount covert operations against these guys, and that’s a fair question. Let me just say that the fiasco in Iraq has the press on a rampage. No one at the top, in any organization, is going to risk a black op involving government personnel.”

Bishop was beginning to get the picture, but wanted to make sure. “So, you want deniability. You want a bunch of guys to ‘disrupt’ their drug trade, but if something goes wrong, the DEA can honestl
y say they didn’t do it?”

Mr. Smith smiled, “I see now why
the colonel recommended you—not such a clod after all. Yes, you are correct. So here’s how all this is going to work. You and a group of other private citizens will be in-country on a United Nations supported, mineral deposit survey. The gentlemen you will be working with all have similar backgrounds as your own. This survey team will receive coordinates indicating where a shipment is going to be. This shipment is to be disrupted by any means.”

Bishop smiled at the phrase “by any means.” While he had a thousand questions, he decided to wait and see how much Mr. Smith was going to divulge on his own.

“The opium is moved around via caravan. Horses and mules are the most common transport, but some groups have adopted more modern methods, including all-terrain vehicles. The routes snake throughout the deserts and mountains. Some of them have been used for trade going back thousands of years. The paths are actually two-way streets. Along them, the caravans move bundles of opium into the tribal regions of Pakistan, and return with bundles of cash or weapons. We don’t care which direction the convoy is heading, we want the cargo destroyed.”

Bishop again nodded his understanding and then muttered a “No problem.”

Mr. Smith handed Bishop the key to a nearby airport hotel room. “You’ll find all of your travel arrangements, necessary documents and instructions there. The first leg of your trip leaves here at 6 a.m. tomorrow. Good luck.”

Two days later, an exhausted Bishop landed at Bagram Airfield, just outside of Kabul, Afghanistan. As he ambled through the main terminal, Bishop was surprised to see American fast food restaurants.  Lines of US military personnel were waiting in queue for tacos, pizza, and soft drinks. Bishop’s plane had actually landed early, so he asked a passing airman where the PX, or Post Exchange, was located. The aviator corrected him and pointed toward the BX, or Base Exchange. Bishop was surprised to find displays of rifle accessories rivaling any sporting goods store in the States. The size of the facility was evidence of the extensive engagement of Western armies here. Aisle after aisle of shelves was stocked with practically everything one would find in an American grocery store. Another section contained household goods and hardware.

Bishop hadn’t been on the ground for more than 30 minutes when he started sneezing. After an hour, his throat hurt, and he was coughing. He was waiting
alongside the curb for his ride to show up when he noticed that everyone outside was hacking or sneezing. He overheard one man telling another that Bagram had the worst air pollution problem in the world. Bishop believed it, wondering if his lungs would actually feel better if he smoked a cigar.
A healthy dose of nicotine might just dilute the toxic particles in this atmosphere
, Bishop mused.

About then, a white SUV pulled up with lettering on the door indicating it belonged to the United Nations Reconstruction Council. The blue and white colors of the international organization rounded out its
branding. After an exchange verifying who was who, Bishop hopped in the front seat and shook hands with his driver.

Mike Wagner was a Canadian from the Toronto area, and immediately came across as a hard ass. After one of the shortest handshakes Bishop had ever experienced, the man immediately announced he was in charge of the operation and made it absolutely clear
that Bishop reported to him. He smugly informed Bishop of his credentials, having been a member of the
Régiment d'Opérations Spéciales du Canada,
which was French for the Canadian Special Forces. Bishop had worked with his share of Canadians and respected them. Almost every one of them would use the English name for this, that, or the other, but every now and then, Bishop would come across a guy who wanted to speak French just to be elitist. Bishop started to ask the man if Wagner was a French name, but decided against it.

As they made their way out into the Afghan countryside, Bishop was absorbed in the sights, sounds, and smells of a new place. His fascination with foreign lands had always been a weakness while working at HBR
. A good security man observes and analyzes his surroundings, which is different than gawking around like a tourist
, he reminded himself.

Five mostly silent and extremely bumpy hours later, the SUV stopped at a remote Afghan farmhouse, complete with crude fences fashioned out of local stones and two animals that somewhat resembled cows. Bishop was shown to an outbuilding, which served the dual purpose of being a barn and barrack
s. Inside he met the rest of the team.

All seven of the gentlemen looked to be hard cases. Most were in their late 30s or early 40s, and all gave the impression of being in excellent physical condition. As Bishop ran the reception line, his handshake
was met with single names and single syllable greetings. “Hey. Todd,” or “Hi. Jim,” filled the air for the next few minutes.
Not a talkative bunch for sure
, thought Bishop,
maybe the food’s bad
.

Mike Wagner
appeared shortly after Bishop’s arrival and called the group together, reminding the team once again that he was formerly of the
Régiment d'Opérations Spéciales du Canada
. Bishop wondered if this pretentious fuck was going to initiate a wine tasting in the middle of the meeting. Additionally, Mr. Wagner left no doubt that he was the man in charge. What followed was basically a military briefing combined with a short lecture on how to interact with any locals who may wander by—the latter consisting solely of instruction to hide and stay out of sight until further notice.

A few minutes later, a man with a dark complexion joined the meeting and was introduced as Mr. Rostenphuse—the team’s Pakistani interpreter. The new arrival made the rounds, shaking hands and reintroducing himself in case anybody missed it the first time. The way he pronounced his name sounded like “rotten puss,” and Bishop knew immediately that that was what everyone was going to call him.

Weapons were issued next, and Bishop was surprised to find Russian equipment being passed out. AK47s were the norm, with two of the gentlemen being issued Dragunov sniper rifles. This didn’t make Bishop happy at all, but it was soon explained that any evidence left behind could not imply Western involvement. Russian weapons, ammunition, and equipment were the norm in the Afghan countryside. Even the load gear and boots were old Soviet surplus.

Next came the clothing, which was described as “Kamiz Shalwar,” or coat and trousers. The team members immediately set about changing out of their western duds.

Bishop starting wishing he had passed on this trip and had instead chosen reclining on that couch in the company shrink’s office. All of these guys seemed a little odd, and nobody had mentioned using the Russian weapons. When one of the other guys grumbled about his rifle, Mr. Wagner informed everyone that there would be a class in the morning to get everyone familiar with the weapons.
Wow
, Bishop thought sarcastically,
we get a whole day to familiarize ourselves with a completely new blaster? How nice.

About the time the sun began to set, Rotten-puss brought out food, and the group sat around eating some sort of grilled
red meat and rice. Hot, bitter tea was identified as the beverage, and everyone seemed hesitant to inquire about the origination of the entrée that completed the night’s menu. After the meal was finished, Wagner got down to operational business, laying out the details for the squad’s assignment.

The team would receive the coordinates of any opium caravan that was discovered in the area. They woul
d immediately mount up and navigate to a position in front of the target to stage an ambush. Since roads were very limited and quite dangerous in this part of the country, Wagner stressed that everyone needed to be ready for some serious walking.
Great
, thought Bishop,
give us new, poorly fitting boots, and then tell us we will have to hike halfway across the heart of Asia. I’m going to complain to my travel agent.

Wagner told everyone that he had an extensive supply of Russian explosives and mines. If things went according to plan, the detonations would eliminate the need for any shooting. Bishop wondered just how much ordnance this guy had, and
even more importantly, he questioned the logistics of transporting massive amounts of fireworks to the ambush site. He decided to keep his mouth shut and just listen.

Wagner ended his briefing just as suddenly as he began. Bishop was really puzzled when the man did not ask for questions at the end. Evidently, Can
ucks had perfect hearing and clarity of mind, so they didn’t need to ask questions.

The team slept in the barn on military-issued folding cots adorned with scratchy, wool blankets. As everyone settled in, a few of the men began to talk, and Bishop received a basic understanding of why some of them had volunteered. One guy was a recently retired Army Ranger whose daughter died of a heroin overdose. He volunteered for payback—out of frustration that the government couldn’t and wouldn’t do much about the opium growing right under the boots of the US Army.

Another gentleman was a retired US Marine whose son, also a Marine, had been captured by the Taliban some months before. The devastated father had been in Afghanistan causing trouble at the US Embassy and gallivanting all over the country raising hell and looking for evidence of his son. For all his trouble, there was little he could do to accelerate the process, and he was looking for a way to gain a little control in his life.

One guy was like Bishop, it seemed. His boss had arranged his adventure based upon work-related issues. The man was a narcotics detective
in Washington, DC. Reading between the lines, Bishop guessed he had been instructed to go let off some pressure, or he would be kicked off the force. Maybe he didn’t like head doctors either.

Some of the men didn’t disclose their background or reasoning, and Bishop decided to join that club. 

The following morning was spent on weapons familiarization. The teams were driven to an even more remote area and issued ammunition to zero the Russian firearms. Bishop had fired an AK several times, but that had been some years ago. He didn’t care for the weapon for several reasons, but it was an effective battle rifle. His displeasure was mainly due to not having enough time to become “intimate” with a tool he was getting ready to fight with.

The rest of the first full da
y was spent adjusting load gear and clothing, as well as exchanging boots. A couple of the men needed different sizes in order for the disguises to be complete. Rotten-puss disappeared for a while and then returned with substitutes. That evening, Wagner wheeled in a dilapidated, old blackboard, complete with a single piece of chalk and a rag for an eraser. He began briefing the team on how the ambushes would be conducted.

Wagner claimed that the drug caravans moved in a single file formation due to the narrow mountain trails. He distributed pictures of a few examples, and the team members passed them around. The plan was simple. The team would arrive ah
ead of time and deploy in an L-shaped ambush, with explosives at the front. When the caravan reached the tripwire, the explosions would kill the personnel. The team would mop up, gather the contraband, and destroy it at another location. The drug lords would think that their convoy had been attacked by rival gangs or pirates.

Bishop sat on the ground, taking it all in. He watched
without comment while Wagner drew little diagrams on the chalkboard and explained it all. Again, the man finished without taking questions. Bishop couldn’t let it go by a second time.

“Excuse me, Mike, but I have a few questions.”

Wagner looked up and seemed a bit annoyed, but nodded his head.

Bishop looked around at the team and then asked, “What kind of detonators do you have for the explosives?”

Wagner curtly responded, “We’ll deploy tripwires across the trail.”

Bishop was growing very weary of Mike. The man hadn’t answered his question. “You don’t have any sort of remote detonation? What if the lead elements o
f the caravan discover the tripwires? What if they have scouts ahead of the main body, and those guys set off the ambush?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bishop could see several heads nodding in support of his
inquiries. Wagner noticed it as well, and changed his tone. “We have to use what I’ve been issued. I’ll try and get some remote units, but this is all surplus Russian stuff, and there are limits as to what is available.”

Bishop was at
his
limit of patience and began rapid firing at the team leader. “How much of the explosive do you have? How much is it going to take to establish a kill zone the length of the convoys? How old is the explosive? Does it deteriorate over time like our C4? How are eight guys going to carry enough explosive halfway across this gawd-forsaken real estate? We are going to be hitting these guys on fairly flat land. How do we know they travel single file while on flat terrain?”