Seals (2005) (30 page)

"Brigand One, this is Falcon Four," came over the radio. "Our view of the target area indicates it is destroyed. Over."

"This is Brigand One," Brannigan replied. "From where we sit that is great news. Over."

"Anything else we can do for you? Over."

Brannigan grinned. "Are they all dead? Over."

"I'd say them that wasn't wished they was," the pilot replied. "We think a helicopter may have gotten away but we destroyed the other. Anyhow, we'll turn you back to that Navy guy. Good luck. Out."

The next voice was from the aircraft that had followed the beacon signal to the site. "This is Ears Three. It looks like that part of the world belongs to you now. We've passed on your location and situation. Orders have been sent for us to relay to you. You are to remain where you are until contacted. Some choppers will be dispatched to your location. They should arrive tomorrow. Understand? Over."

"Affirmative," Brannigan said. "Who are you, Ears Three? Over."

"We're an EA-6B off the Jefferson," came back the answer.

Brannigan stood in humble silence. His wife and her friends flew EA-6Bs. Those were the same people he had shown so much contempt to back at the Officers' Club at North Island NAS.

.

0800 HOURS LOCAL

THE SEALs were in a line of skirmishers as they moved along the lines that now consisted of nothing more than dead, dying and wounded mujahideen. The weaponry of the F-16s had turned most of them into hunks of raw meat. None of the living offered resistance, only staring in fearful confusion at the men who had somehow destroyed them at a time when they had been assured of Allah's blessing and a quick victory. Most thought the airplanes belonged to the infidels who now walked so confidently among them. The Brigands dropped the canteens they had been using to pick up fresh ones from the conquered foe.

Brannigan noticed that the ragheads had state-of-the-art infantry weaponry and equipment. One platoon seemed to be fitted out in modern American webbing gear. They even had the letters "U. S." stenciled on them. A gift from the CIA back in the 1980s no doubt.

Lieutenant Jim Cruiser joined Brannigan as the tour of the enemy lines continued. Cruiser sighed and shrugged. "It's impossible to make an accurate prediction in regards to the fortunes of war, huh, sir?"

"Yeah," Brannigan agreed. "Did you notice the damaged chopper sitting over there? There was another one that flew out of here after the air support boys left."

"Yes, sir," Cruiser said. "They must have had it stashed out of harm's way. I suppose that means the big chief escaped."

"I hope what happened today is enough to defeat him," Brannigan said. "I sure as hell don't want to see another battalion of those sons of bitches charging over the hill."

"Amen to that!"

"I'm also wondering if we're finally going to be relieved when those choppers arrive tomorrow."

Mike Assad yelled at them from a hundred meters off to the left. "Sir!"

"What'd you find?" Brannigan shouted back.

Mike bent over and stood up, dragging an uninjured man to his feet. "It's a European, sir?'

"Bring him over here."

Mike pushed the survivor along in front of him, up to where the two officers waited. When the stranger arrived, he seemed to be dazed by the aerial attack that had pounded the enemy positions. He recovered slightly by shaking his head, then assumed the position of attention. He raised his hand in the Russian version of a salute, introducing himself in a thick accent. "I am Warrant Officer Gregori Ivanovich Parkolov. Soviet Army."

"There isn't any more Soviet Army," Brannigan said.

"I am prisoner of war," Parkolov, aka Mohammed Shariwal, said. "Warlord Khamami forcing me to be helicopter pilot. When American airplane attack, I run and hide. I want for to go home. I am here for many years." He pulled a faded red I. D. book from his pocket and opened to the front page, showing the Cyrillic writing to Brannigan. "Is my name and is my rank," he explained. An old photograph of a young, rather sad Russian soldier was beneath the printed words:

.

Brannigan could see that the younger man in the photo and the older man standing in front of him were one and the same. "All right," he said. "What do you want from me?"

"I tell you I want go home," Parkolov said.

"I'll see what can be done for you," Brannigan said. "But right now consider yourself a prisoner of war."

"Of course," Parkolov said. He grinned. "I know how to be prisoner. I got lots of experience."

"I'll bet you do," Brannigan said. "And I have a few questions to ask about your former captors. The first is: will they be back here with reinforcements?"

The Russian shook his head. "Nyet--no. You have defeated them. The leader and his staff have run to hide."

"All right," Brannigan said. He gestured to Senior Chief Dawkins. "I'll let you do the rest of the interrogation."

"Aye, sir," Dawkins said. He took the prisoner by the arm. "Let's go, Russki."

Parkolov was deliriously happy. "May I have American cigarette please? Maybe you are having Lucky Strike, nyet?"

Chapter 20

THE BATTLEFIELD 1 SEPTEMBER

0800 HOURS LOCAL

THE platoon stood in the midst of the shrapnel-slashedand-burned corpses that were dismembered and scattered around the area in grotesque positions. Many were naked, their clothing blown off by the violence of the aerial bombardment.

The "chop-chop" sounds of a half dozen UH-60 Black-hawk helicopters approaching in trail could be heard in the distance. When the aircraft were within a kilometer, four of them broke off from the formation, while two came straight in. All six settled down to gentle landings, and when the four that had separated from the flight touched the ground, a squad of 101st Airborne Division troopers came out of each one. The soldiers formed up in two columns, then marched out to take up security positions around the area.

The other two choppers had settled down close to where the fourteen SEALs awaited them. Two figures disembarked from the nearest, walking rapidly toward the spot where Lieutenants Bill Brannigan and Jim Cruiser waited. Lieutenant Colonel Harry Latrelle, the Army civil affairs officer, and Afghanistan government envoy Zaid Aburrani came to a sudden stop when they finally noted they had walked into the midst of charred and mutilated human carnage.

"Holy Mother of God!" Latrelle exclaimed. "Did you guys do all this?"

"Well, part of it," Brannigan said, offering his hand. "The F-16s did most of the killing. How are you, sir? It's nice to see you again."

"Same here," Latrelle said. "You remember Mr. Aburrani, do you not?"

"Certainly," Brannigan said.

The Afghan shook hands with the two SEAL officers. "Your victory is complete, gentlemen. You have every reason to be proud of yourselves."

"Not exactly," Brannigan said. "The big chief got away. All we've got is a prisoner of war, and he's a Russian who claims to have been held by the mujahideen and forced to fly a helicopter for them. He told me the warlord escaped in the one surviving chopper. His two field commanders are evidently among the dead." Brannigan turned and waved at Senior Chief Buford Dawkins and Chad Murchison. The two had a man between them, and they brought him over.

Gregori Parkalov saluted the colonel and nodded to Aburrani. "I am asking for asylum and for return to Soviet--er, that is--Russia."

"It would seem repatriation to your country could be arranged," Latrelle said. "How long have you been here in Afghanistan?"

"Twenty years," Parkalov answered. "I am taken prisoner when my helicopter is shot down by partisan enemy." He looked over at Aburrani and started to say something, but the Afghan frowned at him as a silent signal he mustn't reveal that they knew each other. The Russian turned his attention back to Latrelle. "I am most happy to answer what questions you have for me to ask."

"You can return to Kabul with Mr. Aburrani and me when we go back," Latrelle said. "Our intelligence people will want to have a friendly visit with you. Afterward, if things work out, I'm certain you will be turned over to the Russian embassy there."

"Thank you," Parkalov said.

"Meanwhile," Latrelle said, speaking to Brannigan, "we are going to fly over to the warlord's stronghold. I can tell you confidently that he is defeated and most of his army is wiped out. However, he has great influence in this area and Mr. Aburrani has assured me that he will be most cooperative with us due to the drubbing he suffered here yesterday."

"That is most true," Aburrani added. "He will be useful in the pacification program of the government. Our contacts have assured me that he is ready to practice the Pashtun custom that is called nanawatey. He has admitted defeat and is willing to humble himself before us in total surrender, as well as beg for forgiveness."

Brannigan's voice was cold when he said, "I'd like to put a bullet in the son of a bitch's skull."

"Now, Lieutenant," Latrelle said, "this is just one of many atypical situations that arise in our work in Afghanistan. Believe me, nanawatey is a very serious custom. You are to be congratulated for your efforts in bringing this about. It is the best kind of victory as far as the local people are concerned."

"I'd still like to put a bullet in the son of a bitch's skull:' Brannigan insisted.

"I need to see a very quick change in your attitude," Latrelle said seriously. "You will be going with us to Khamami's fortress. The fact that there are only fourteen of you will serve to impress him and his people of the fighting qualities of the American armed forces. The rifle platoon over there is also for show, but they are fully armed in case of trouble."

"That's fine, sir," Brannigan said. "By the way, I have two KIA buried on West Ridge where we had our base camp. I would appreciate it if arrangements can be made to have them disinterred and returned home." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "These are the GPS coordinates of the graves. We also cached a lot of equipment. Some of it is personal property of platoon members. They would like to get it back."

"Of course, Lieutenant," Latrelle said. "I'll have this information radioed to Kabul. That can be taken care of today. Your equipment and possessions will be put into the Navy's administrative and logistic channels." He nodded to Aburrani. "Are we ready to go?"

"Indeed," Aburrani replied.

"You and your executive officer can fly in the first chopper with Mr. Aburrani and me," Latrelle said to Brannigan. "The rest of your men can take the second."

Dawkins took Parkalov by the arm. "I'll get everyone aboard."

.

OUTSIDE WARLORD KHAMAMI'S FORTRESS

1000 HOURS LOCAL

HASSAN Khamami had set up a large tent some fifty meters from the entrance to his fortress. A carpet had been put on the floor and cushions provided for seating. The warlord and his new chief lieutenant, Amet Kharani, sat inside. With the deaths of Major Malari and Captain Tanijai, Durtami's former assistant had been promoted to this new prestigious post. Now he and the warlord hardly spoke a. word as they unhappily waited for the arrival of their expected visitors.

"Amir!" a guard at the entrance called out. "We can see helicopters flying in this direction."

"Very well," Khamami replied in a resigned tone of voice. Although he hid it well, the loss of his field commanders grieved him deeply. They were old comrades who had shared many episodes of danger with him. Their loyalty and friendship went far beyond mere professional relationships. Khamami took a deep breath of resignation, glancing over at Kharani. "Please go to welcome my guests."

Kharani got to his feet and walked from the tent in time to see six helicopters settling down to a landing. Their rotor blades blew up clouds of fine dust along with small pebbles that peppered the tent behind Kharani and the guards. When the engines were cut, Kharani spotted Aburrani getting out of one of the aircraft, with three American officers. One was in a starched, press BDU while the others appeared as if they had been rolling in the dirt. The Pashtun walked over and bowed low.

"Pakhair," Kharani said, making a Pashto welcome that only Aburrani understood. "It is good to see you again, Brother Aburrani."

"Likewise," Aburrani said. "Does the warlord await us?"

"He is in the tent," Kharani said. "Follow me, please."

He led the four visitors to where the pair of guards on duty salaamed respectfully to them as they entered. Khamami was on his feet, but immediately dropped to his knees, leaning over until his forehead touched the carpet. He began speaking in Pashto, in a low, mournful voice.