Pashtun by Ron Lealos

Author:Ron Lealos
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2014-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

The road to Qalat was the main north-south highway from Kabul to Kandahar, turning west, then north, and ending in Herat. We didn’t want to travel through Kabul’s traffic and hordes of watchers, so we used the only shortcut available that would connect us to pavement without being exposed in the country’s capital. Driving out of the base just after daybreak, Washington steered us down the Valley of the Kunar on a surface that would be marked 4 Wheel Drive Only in the states, but a vast improvement over yesterday’s trail into the foothills. On our left, the Khyber Pass to Pakistan through the Himalayas. On the right, the Hindu Kush.

Leaving the relative green of Jalalabad, we were soon in the tan of the valley, the vista broken by scrub trees, bushes, and piles of jagged stone. White-capped peaks towered on both sides across the uneven plains. Thirty kilometers southeast, and we would stop this back-crippling leg and be on asphalt.

Within a few klicks of Jalalabad, vehicles and people disappeared, leaving mostly goats and a few mud huts. Men seemed to be on the porch, smoking cigarettes at every hovel, not waving a greeting and glaring at us with chalky eyes. Jeeps and Army trucks passed occasionally in a veil of dust, soldiers unsmiling and staring at the sides of the road, trying to spot any hint of IEDs. A few burned out pickup hulks tried to sprout weeds, but there wasn’t enough water beyond a few meters from the trickle in the river bed. It was another crackling-clear day in Afghanistan and, this low, it was easier to breathe. We were at five thousand feet and would soon drop below three thousand.

Washington concentrated on driving, after a while giving up swerving to avoid bumps. It was all one big pothole. He was reciting his continuous mantra of “fuckin’ shit, man” every time a hole caused our backs to fuse with our heads. If we took our helmets off, we’d certainly leave brain matter on the roof of the cab. While Washington swore, I thought.

Too many intangibles. My usual brief was to follow orders and a defined operational plan. The variables were accounted for and alternatives available in case of a glitch. Or disaster. This mission almost felt rogue, believing it was only Dunne and Finnen who really knew what we were up to. No communiqués to Langley or Northern Alliance headquarters that I knew about. No request for more intel from CIA Southwest Asia analysts admitted to by Dunne. And certainly no chance this time to call in the Drones. We were flying bare, and our targets weren’t Taliban.

Washington had described them as “white-bread civilians with no social skills” and that even Thorsten’s feeble attempts at conversation had met with silence, making me believe they might be from the Firm. Or some other intelligence agency, foreign most likely. Special Ops for sure. Then there was the Taliban. But there was a puppet master in play with deep pockets and a long reach to organize something as delicate and complex as this operation.

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