Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (45 page)

“Don't try your hand at politics here, General—you're no good at it,” Sen'kov interrupted. “I suggest you send out probes to keep watch and maybe harass the Taliban as they move. Eventually they'll get tired of being plinked off one by one and decide to leave.”

“I don't want to get our forces bogged down in guerrilla warfare with a bunch of fucking desert reptiles, sir,” Gryzlov said. “We lost the advantage in Afghanistan not because we used airpower but because we didn't use
enough
airpower. If we go in, we must go in not just with adequate force but with
overwhelming
force.”

“We don't need an invasion force to take out a handful of ragheads in the open desert.”

“We can't take the chance, sir,” Gryzlov emphasized. “Let's move into Turkmenistan in force. Let's not make the mistakes we did in Chechnya or Afghanistan. I can send three wings of heavy bombers over those rebels in twelve hours and wipe out their armor, artillery, and air defenses
in one night
. I can have thirty thousand troops on the ground in Turkmenistan in two weeks, which should be more than enough to destroy what's left of the Taliban. In two months I can have another fifty thousand troops in place. We can protect every drop of oil we pump out of that place.”

“And have the entire world watching on CNN while we bomb the hell out of a bunch of desert ragheads?” Sen'kov retorted. “Out of the question. You can send in commando teams to keep an eye on those pigfuckers, but I don't want to slaughter them unless I absolutely have to.”

“Sir, they've already killed Turkmeni and even Russian troops,” Gryzlov said. “We're fully justified in sending in troops to destroy them. We should—”

“Denied!”
Sen'kov said. “I want our troop movements kept quiet. I don't want to be accused of starting another Chechen-style holocaust. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Sen'kov motioned at the door, and Gryzlov got the hell out of there quickly.

“Mr. President, you have a right to help defend Turkmenistan,” Kurban Gurizev said. “Russia helped build this country, and we still have a sizable Russian population here. You don't need to tiptoe around the damned Americans and their pipelines. They are raping our country—the entire world knows it.”

“No one seemed to mind when Niyazov signed that oil project with the Americans and cut Russia out completely.”

“Most people don't know the details of the TransCal deal,” Gurizev said. “At least Russia pays for Turkmen oil, instead of leaching off every barrel pumped by someone else. I may have been born in this country, Minister, but my loyalties are with Mother Russia—as long as you are there to back me up. Otherwise, I have no difficulty at all in accepting the American oil companies' money.”

“Don't try to play both sides here, Gurizev,” Sen'kov said. “We'll back you against these Taliban, but we don't want to hear about you making any special backroom deals with the Americans. Your future is in Russia. That's what you wanted, and that's what we agreed to, once the Russian oil companies can take over those new oil and gas fields discovered by the Americans. You just play this game exactly how we planned it and you'll get your reward—a first-class ticket back to Russia, with the money you've embezzled from the Turkmen treasury safe in your pocket.”

Gurizev quickly decided to change the subject. He was dismayed to learn that the Russians knew about the frequent “enhanced-benefit receipts” he'd been drawing from the treasury. “The Americans have asked to meet with myself, the Russian ambassador, and even the Taliban leader,” Gurizev said. “I think it would be unwise not to allow them to visit—it might help defuse the situation here. What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them the situation is extremely dangerous and the government cannot guarantee their safety,” Sen'kov said. “If they still want to come, let them—but do everything you can to discourage it.”

“I should let the Americans meet with those Taliban?”

“Damn it, I hope to hell you've killed those Taliban insects long before the Americans arrive,” Sen'kov said angrily.

“I don't know what to say to an American delegation—”

“Gurizev, you simply tell them you are serving your country,” Sen'kov said. “Just get your picture taken with whomever they send, then let your underlings handle it. Your job for now is to mobilize that army of yours and squash those Taliban insurgents—
immediately
.” He terminated the call with an angry stab on a button. “He had better get off his ass and do something, or we'll have to replace him—sooner rather than later.”

“Sir, General Gryzlov seemed pretty adamant about sending in a powerful force to knock back those Taliban outside Mary,” Minister of Defense Bukayev said. “Maybe we should let him mobilize a good-size force. No one in the world would argue if we sent several air regiments to Mary. We still have a sizable training force in Turkmenistan.”

“The general needs to have his insubordinate ass kicked!” Sen'kov shouted. “I have become the hellmaster of Chechnya in the world press because of him! Now he thinks I'm going to approve of another similar operation in Turkmenistan? He's crazy! If he can't handle this operation with a few commando units, he shouldn't be in charge of the Russian military.”

Days later

Jalaluddin Turabi had to admit that the swelling tide of victory was compelling, even addictive. Wakil Mohammad Zarazi's little band of Taliban raiders had turned into a real army now, with over twelve thousand fighters and another two thousand support personnel spread out over much of eastern Turkmenistan. They left a garrison of a thousand troops and support personnel in Chärjew to guard that vital city against the Russian and Turkmen forces that had fled the country across the border into Uzbekistan, but it was doubtful if that was even necessary—their victory in Chärjew had been complete.

The people of Chärjew were solidly behind Zarazi for one simple reason: Zarazi had money, and lots of it. He had made a deal with the American officials of TransCal Petroleum to keep the pipelines and pumping stations safe and had been paid well. Zarazi wisely disbursed the money to the Turkmen officials of Chärjew in exchange for loyalty, and it had worked. Zarazi could safely leave the security of the pipelines to local police and militia, with only a token force of his loyal soldiers to oversee things and watch for any incursions from the north. Zarazi also gave quite a bit of money to the local population as well as to his soldiers. His flanks were secure.

It had been the perfect opportunity for Turabi to leave Zarazi and take command of the garrison at Chärjew. Except for his raid on Khodzhayli Airport, where almost a hundred Turkmen and Russians had been killed or wounded, Turabi had gone easy on the Turkmen army as he moved into Chärjew, and the Turkmen people seemed thankful for that. He could have easily, quietly watched Zarazi's back as he moved his ever-growing army down the main highway toward their ultimate clash at Mary. Why did he not ask Zarazi if he could stay behind in Chärjew?

Two reasons: fear and curiosity. Yes, he was afraid of Wakil Zarazi. When his old friend and leader told him to do something, he did it. Zarazi did have some sort of powerful effect on Turabi. It was more than clan loyalty: Turabi was genuinely afraid of Zarazi's going drunk, or even crazy, with the power he was accumulating. He hated to think what Zarazi would do if he sensed any weakness or betrayal in any of his senior officers.

Turabi was also very much afraid of Aman Orazov, their Russian-Turkmen turncoat who had maneuvered himself in as Zarazi's confidant and adviser, almost on a par with Jalaluddin Turabi himself. Since the successful occupation of Chärjew, when everyone else seemed to treat Turabi like some kind of battlefield genius, Orazov had been standoffish, perfunctory, and even hostile toward Turabi. Was it because Turabi took on Turkmen regular-army soldiers and defeated them—or was it because he was far more popular with the Turkmen, even ones he'd defeated in battle, than Orazov ever was?

Whatever he thought or whatever the hell was going on, one thing was certain: Wakil Zarazi was marching on Mary, the largest and most important city in eastern Turkmenistan—and their destiny.

Zarazi's army of about ten thousand soldiers had reached the outskirts of the Turkmen city of Bayramaly, about thirty kilometers east of Mary. This area was part of the expansive Merv oasis, one of the largest oases in Central Asia and an important stopover on the ancient Silk Road that ran between Istanbul, Turkey, and Shanghai, China. The city itself was in the center of the oasis, fed by a number of natural and man-made irrigation ditches that connected the Kara Kum Canal, a large irrigation project completed by the Soviets, and the Murgab River that flowed south.

Turabi had never seen anything like it: cotton everywhere, as far as the eye could see. Thousands upon thousands of acres of white plants dotted the landscape on either side of the highway ahead of them, which made it look as if an immense, fluffy white blanket had been laid across the harsh desert. “My God—they can hide an entire corps in those fields,” Turabi said, studying the terrain with field glasses. “It looks like tough maneuvering in that stuff besides. We're too accustomed to maneuvering in the desert.”

“God will show us the way to victory,” Zarazi said woodenly.

Turabi looked at his former friend and tribal leader with an exasperated expression. Then, sensing he was being watched, he turned—and saw Aman Orazov staring at him. That rat bastard was constantly hovering around when he was with Zarazi, watching—and surely reporting—Turabi's every word, action, or expression to Zarazi.

“Do you not believe that it is God's will we should be victorious, Colonel?” Orazov asked suspiciously.

Turabi ignored him. “Even so . . . I've deployed the Fifth and Ninth Motorized Rifles and the Second Air Mobile to reconnoiter those cotton fields north and south. I asked for a report on soil conditions and any problems they encounter driving through that stuff. The last thing we want is for a ton of unpicked cotton jamming up our tracks.”

“Very well, Jala,” Zarazi said. “All good precautions.”

Turabi looked at Zarazi with faint surprise. “Thank you, sir,” he said. He hesitated before speaking his mind, then said, “You know, Wakil, that's the first time in weeks you've called me by my first name. It felt good. Just like in our youth.”

“Our youth,” Zarazi said with a chuckle. “It seems like centuries since we played in the corrals and fields of our youth.”

“It seems like centuries since we crossed the border into this godforsaken country,” Turabi said.

Zarazi looked at Turabi with a serious expression. Turabi thought he was going to get chewed out again for using God's name disrespectfully—but instead Zarazi said, “I know what you mean, Jalaluddin.”

Well, this was certainly a change in attitude, Turabi thought. “It's a shitty business, Wakil. We're far from home, far from our wives and children.”

“I feel my life is changing here, Jalaluddin,” Zarazi said. “I . . . I don't know what it means. I have felt the hand of God on my shoulder before—but I don't feel it now. I don't think He has abandoned me, but . . . but I don't hear His voice right now. We stand here, on the threshold of the enemy, and I can't hear Him. I don't know if this is a test of my faith or if He thinks we can do this task using our own poor mortal brains.”

“It's called precombat jitters, Wakil,” Turabi said. This was amazing, a relief,
wonderful
—for the first time in many days, Zarazi wasn't talking like some kind of religious zealot. He sounded like a regular guy, like any other military commander ready to step onto the field of battle and face the enemy. It was a welcome and heartening change. “We've done everything we need to do. We've deployed our scouts, deployed troops to our rear to guard against flanking maneuvers and protect our best escape route, and set up reserve forces. We've got pretty decent intelligence, and we're still getting good recruits coming forward to join our army, even though we're closing in on Mary. We've done everything we need to do.”

“Will it be enough?”

“That's something I can't answer, Wakil,” Turabi said. He paused for a moment, then said, “Wakil . . . my friend . . . listen to me. Why don't we pull back to Chärjew? If you feel there's something we missed in our planning, let's fall back, regroup, get some fresh intelligence reports, build our forces a bit more, and plan it again.”

“You mean . . . you mean
retreat?
”

“Wakil, running away in a disorganized fashion is a retreat. Pulling back in an orderly fashion with three full companies as our rear guard is not,” Turabi said. “Chärjew is ours, Wakil—that's undisputed. We have our hands on the taps of fifty thousand barrels of oil and five million cubic meters of natural gas
per day
there. We have the twelfth-largest company in America paying us thousands of dollars a day to ‘guard' their pipelines. We're in control in Chärjew, Wakil. Out here we're not in control of anything, not even what's sticking to our tank treads. The apprehension you feel is a soldier's sixth sense. It tells you when danger is nearby. Listen to it.”

Wakil looked at Turabi—then, to Turabi's joy, looked behind him, back to the northeast, toward Chärjew. It was such a slight movement, such a casual thing, but to Turabi it spoke volumes.

They had marched almost two hundred kilometers from Chärjew in less than a week across the barren, burning Kara Kum Desert to get here, fighting off attacks to their flanks by Turkmen guerrillas, chasing away scouts, burying their dead, taking captives and executing spies, and planning their final assault—and not once in all those days had Wakil Mohammad Zarazi ever looked backward. He hadn't looked backward once since getting jumped by American bombers in northern Afghanistan, since he'd first heard the word of God and set out on this quest.