Rolling Thunder (2007) s-4 Read online

  To make sure the restless Turks stayed in their own country, strong armored units of the Iranian Army had scheduled maneuvers in the immediate area. They were well prepared to deal with any incursions into their own native land. The armed Toyota pickup trucks were arranged in such away as to provide an effective defense in case the Turkish authorities decided to use harassing fire to break up the confab.

  No money was exchanged at the site. Those individuals involved in the commerce conducted the financial end of the business through banks in Switzerland. Dummy corporations in Asia were used to launder the dollars, euros, pounds, francs, and marks that filtered through the elaborate system. Even agencies of the United Nations were involved, as shady agents of the international organization gave priority to the narcotics trade over humanitarian efforts when there was a great deal of money to be made.

  Arsalaan Sikes Pasha stood to the side as the bundles were transferred from the trucks to the smugglers' vehicles. These intrepid Turkish criminals had already worked out alternative routes for getting the goods through their nation's law enforcement nets. While the dealing was going on, Husay Ban-gash and a couple of other Pashtuns made purchases on credit from peddlers who offered tools, housewares, food, clothing, and other items from the West. These were the goodies loaded on the donkey train that would be taken from the rendezvous point back up to the stronghold in the Gharawdara Highlands. The debt would be paid out of the shares due Yama Orakzai and his people from the poppy sales.

  Captain Naser Khadid stood beside Sikes as the exchanges went on. Well, Sikes Pasha, the Iranian SF officer said, now you can see why the Pashtun people appreciate all that Pepsi and potato chips and the other items that Bangash brings back with him from these journeys.

  I was looking over there, Sikes said. I noticed some boxes of chocolate biscuits. Those should be popular.

  And this time there are also canned fruit juices that had not been available before, Khadid said. Peach and apple flavors will make a nice change. It is unfortunate there is no ice to make them taste better.

  Them Pashtos don't know the difference, hey? Sikes remarked. If you'd never tasted icing, you wouldn't mind just plain cake, would you? He turned his glance over to the bundles still being off-loaded and on-loaded in the exchange. It wouldn't seem there'd be enough money in these runs to pay for a war.

  This exchange is just part of it, Khadid explained. Our government is also involved in the sale of the finished product. Every time a Western drug addict or some rich person using the narcotics for recreation makes a purchase, they are financing not only our operation, but other similar ones all over the world.

  Yeah, Sikes said. And there ain't no bluddy way the Western world can put a stop to it, is there, hey?

  Khadid shrugged. Only if they made the drugs legal. Then the prices would drop to a point where it would be only as profitable as the buying and selling of candy bars.

  That ain't likely to happen, is it? Wot about all them coppers and others who get payoffs by letting the stuff slip through their systems, hey? They'd be out a pretty penny or two, you can bet on that.

  I must admit we depend on the greed and immorality of the authorities, Khadid said.

  The two slipped into silence as they watched the activity continue while the sun rose toward its daily zenith.

  .

  BOSTON

  19 MAY

  1600 HOURS

  PENNY Brubaker's packing was almost done. The two maids with her in the boudoir were placing the last things in her trunks after carefully leaving her traveling wardrobe out for the next day's flight to California. The luggage would be shipped by UPS Air within a week.

  Her cousin, Stephanie Gilwright, came into the bedroom, glancing at the work going on. I see you're about ready as well.

  Are all your things packed, Stephie? Penny asked.

  All ready except for Harrington, Stephie said. She and Penny looked so much alike, strangers thought them sisters. The only real difference in their physical appearances was the fact that Stephie had raven-black hair. He's still balking at the whole undertaking.

  Then you'd better keep an eye on him, Penny warned her.

  Not to worry. He's downstairs sulking.

  We need to fetch him up here, Penny said. I think I should give a rather stern warning to my cousin-in-law.

  Stephie laughed. I was hoping you would say so. He's always had a crush on you. Even if he puts up an argument, he'll do exactly as you tell him.

  I always felt a little awkward about his feelings toward me, Penny said. I was afraid you might resent it.

  Not a bit, Stephie said with a slight giggle. He married me because I look so much like you. And I married him because his family is so rich. Even richer than my own. Harrington doesn't have to work and as long as I don't interfere with his drinking, he pretty much lets me have my way. It's really quite convenient, and I'm given a generous allowance. Between him and my trust fund, I have some seventy-five thousand a year to fritter away.

  And as your most loyal shopping companion, Penny said, I bear witness to your extravagant frittering.

  The let's get Harrington up here.

  Mildred, Penny said to one of the maids. Go downstairs and tell Mr. Gilwright to come up here.

  He'll be the half-drunk little sot in the library, Stephie said. The maid stopped her packing chores and left the room.

  Don't worry, Stephie. He's just being stubborn.

  The maid returned within a couple of minutes with Harrington Gilwright behind her. He joined his wife and her cousin. He was an incredibly slim young man with thinning hair and a weak chin. His face was flushed from a couple of quick cocktails and his thick eyebrows were knitted into a frown. What d'you two want?

  What we want, Penny said, is for you to stop being such an asshole.

  Well, why shouldn't I be? he said defensively. I'm not at all sure I want to live in California.

  You'll absolutely love Coronado, Stephie said. The winters are very mild. You can sit out on the veranda in the sun even in January and drink yourself into glorious stupefaction.

  They have patios, not verandas, in California, Penny said. Anyway, I've already leased us a very nice house on San Diego Bay.

  Harrington's frown increased. The only reason you're taking the place is to be close to Chadwick. I don't see why you don't just go out there alone, and leave Stephie and me in peace.

  I cannot go by myself because my grandmamai will not permit it, Penny said. Although I'm of age, she is an old-fashioned woman.

  Tell her to mind her own business, why don't you? Harrington said.

  She still has control over my trusts, Penny said.

  Harrington had a perfect understanding of that situation since it was trusts that kept him from having to be gainfully employed. But he wasn't through arguing. Well, she let you go to the United Nations, didn't she?

  Grandmamai is a staunch limousine liberal from Massachusetts who believes in the UN, Penny said. But all that is beside the point. She would only give in if Stephie came with me. And Stephie can't go unless you go without creating trouble on your side of the family. So you are going, Harrington. Give in and avoid a lot of trouble.

  We'll be there too long! Harrington snapped. I don't like being away from the New England social scene any more than I have to.

  I won't need you and Stephie to be there for very much time, Penny said.

  Yes, you will! Your whole idea of going there is to trap Chadwick into marriage, Harrington pointed out. That could be, like, never ever. I really don't think he wants to marry you since he's become a seal or a walrus or whatever those brutes call themselves.

  Ha! Penny laughed. Men don't know what to think when it comes to getting married.

  That's right, Stephie agreed. That's one subject we women have dominated since time began.

  And another thing, Harrington said, you have no idea when he's coming back from the Middle East. He might be over there for another year or two.

 
; Then I'm sure you'll have learned to really love California by then, Penny said.

  Well, we must go, Stephie said, grabbing Harrington's arm. There's still a lot we have to attend to before tomorrow's flight.

  Let's stop for a drink on the way home, Harrington begged as he was dragged from the room.

  Penny turned her attention back to the maids and her trunks.

  .

  NORTHERN OA

  20 MAY

  0700 HOURS

  THE SEALs were in position to hit the smuggling column when it returned from its delivery. The Bravo DPVs were a half-dozen kilometers to the west, well concealed in a stand of boulders. Their assignment, under the command of Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser, was to report when the bad guys passed their position, then discreetly follow them, remaining out of sight. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had his Charlies to the east, lying in wait.

  The action would begin when the smugglers reached a point directly in front of the Alphas. That was when the Skipper and Petty Officer Connie Concord would take their vehicles into a direct attack on the enemy. The action would be the signal for the Bravos and Charlies to launch their own assaults. Because of the rugged high country to the south, the smugglers would have no choice but to go directly toward one of the SEAL sections if they decided to fight back. That would leave the other two the leeway to play the game in the best way possible, depending on how the battle developed.

  But at that particular moment, there was nothing to do. The Skipper sat on the hood of Alpha One sipping a cup of MRE instant coffee. He glanced around at his men in the vicinity. Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz were playing a brand of pinochle they called Cutthroat ; Malachenko was using a notebook and pen to explain the pronunciation of the Cyrillic alphabet to Connie Concord; and Guy Devereaux lay on his poncho, reading a paperback adventure novel.

  Hurry up and wait.

  Chapter 21

  THE OPIUM TRAIL

  21 MAY

  0745 HOURS

  THE Iranian Army trucks that hauled the opium powder during the trip to Turkey were now empty of the narcotic cargo. The mujahideen who had endured the first leg of the voyage on top of the bundles could now stretch out comfortably in the backs, enjoying intermittent naps interrupted from time to time as the convoy bounced and rolled across the desert on its way back to the rendezvous site.

  Two of the vehicles were filled with food and comfort items that were destined for delivery to the people at the stronghold. These would be packed into containers and placed on the backs of the donkeys that the smugglers thought were waiting patiently back at the rendezvous site.

  Some new items were among the goods, such as Oreo cookies, butterscotch candy, and small packages of cheese and crackers. These would make welcome supplements to the usual load of potato chips and Pepsi. Bolts of cotton and woolen cloth, sewing kits, kitchen butcher knives, and miscellaneous items of clothing were also among the things purchased by Husay Bangash from the itinerate Turkish peddlers who had accompanied the buyers of the poppy powders.

  These sellers' collective profits soared near 1000 percent, but the isolated Pashtuns, without access to legal markets, had no choice but to meet the outrageous prices. The Turkish merchants had a monopoly that afforded them the advantageous position of not having to bargain with their bucolic customers.

  The crews on the Toyota pickups could relax their vigilance a bit during the return journey since their valuable cargo was sold and no cash had been given them. The tremendous amount of money paid for the narcotics delivery was still in Swiss banks, but would soon be transferred through international financial institutions until arriving in Tehran. From there, the profit would go to military disbursement centers to meet the expenses of the Jihad Abadi, the scheme that American intelligence had dubbed Operation Persian Empire. Part of the payout would go to the coffers of Warlord Yama Orakzai for his personal profit and expenses. Orakzai Messer would have been angered if he knew what a small percentage of the overall profits he actually received.

  Arsalaan Sikes Pasha was in the cab of the same pickup truck he had ridden from the rendezvous site. But his garb was decidedly different for the trip back. The English turncoat was clothed in the proper battle dress of an Iranian combat arms officer. The epaulets bore the subdued black on olive drab insignia of an eight-pointed star that designated his rank of sargord in the Iranian Army. He had also put away his puhtee Afghan cap and replaced it with his old keffiyeh and its aka. Sikes thought the headdress in combination with a Western-style army uniform made him better fit the proper image of a true pasha.

  He also decided that those of his Arabs waiting for him back at the stronghold would also return to wearing their own keffiyehs. He had noticed that several of his men had adapted the puhtee as he did, since it served better than the Arab head coverings in the cooler climate of the Afghan mountains.

  Sikes, during the hours of riding in the truck, had turned his daydreaming from fantasies of martial glory to the more practical matters of what he was going to do with his twenty-man force that was the remnant of the former armored car company. The Iranian Special Forces showed every intention of allowing them to remain under his personal intimate command, and Sikes wanted to take advantage of the situation. He had every intention of using them as the cadre of an elite strike force.

  The first thing to do, of course, was to make it obvious they belonged to him. The outfit needed an impressive name, and Sikes now knew enough Arabic to come up with something. At first he considered Rafir-min-Sharaf (Guard of Honor), but that seemed too plain and commonplace. Any bunch of soldiers marching at the head of a parade as a color party could be referred to as an honor guard. He needed something that would translate into the English language in a most impressive way; after all, his twenty men would eventually be increased in size to at least a brigade-size unit. That meant it would be reported about in tones of awe by television commentators all over the world for decades to come.

  Sikes was completely lost in thought as the Toyota bounced across the desert. After nearly an hour of staring blankly and unseeing out the windshield while his creative mind whirled with ideas, he finally came up with the name he was looking for; and it was simple, direct and impressive: al-Askerin-Zaubi the Storm Troopers. He was ignorant of the fact that Adolf Hitler used that name for his Nazi street thugs during his rise to power in pre'World War II Germany.

  Sikes' countenance assumed a smug grin as his imagination once more created the sound of a frightened BBC news commentator beginning the evening news that would be heard all over the UK. The upper-class, cultured voice began dancing through his mind as he sat in the passenger seat: The fanatical and elite al-Askerin-Zaubi, the Storm Troopers of Field Marshal Arsalaan Sikes Pasha, struck today at...

  There was naught but glory and fame ahead for Archie Sikes of Manchester, England.

  .

  NORTHERN OA

  0815 HOURS

  PETTY Officer Second Class Garth Redhawk leaned across the boulder with his binoculars up tight against his eyes. The field glasses were in perfect focus, providing a clear image of the desert out to the front of his position. The young Kiowa-Comanche from Oklahoma was doing what sailors did better than anyone else, keeping watch on an assigned area of responsibility. For Redhawk, this would be the expanse of terrain across which the returning smuggling convoy would travel on their way to their rendezvous site. He grinned to himself, wondering what they would think or do if they knew their destination was a pile of smashed mud structures filled with the battered corpses of their buddies.

  Pech Pecheur, sitting down beside Redhawk, leaned against the boulder. He yawned and stretched. Cain't you see nothing yet, Garth?

  Just a few dust devils spinning and hopping around.

  Pecheur spit. I hate this place. Man! I come from the swamps where things is wet. Hell's fire! Even the air you breathe is wet. And it's hot, y'know what I mean? Like folks has got boiling pots all around.

  Well, it ain't like Oklahom
a either, Redhawk said. It gets right warm back home, but if that prairie wind is blowing hot and dry on a summer's day, you feel like you're in a furnace.

  In the summer in Louisiana, folks say that it ain't the temperature, it's the humidity that's uncomfortable, Pecheur commented.

  In the wintertime back home, they say it ain't the temperature that makes it cold as hell, it's the wind, Redhawk pointed out. He pulled the binoculars from his eyes just long enough to blink a couple of times to get some tears flowing for moisture. Anyhow, I don't like mountains no matter what the weather is like. You can't see far 'cause the terrain gets in the way. Out on the prairie, you have almost an unlimited view all the way to the natural horizon.

  Gutsy Olson, trying to snatch a morning's nap nearby, angrily sat up. Will you two guys shut the fuck up? It's bad enough sitting out here in the middle of nothing without having to listen to a couple of dickheads carrying on a boring conversation. I wish to hell you'd-

  Target in sight! Redhawk interrupted.

  Both Olson and Pecheur jumped up and pulled out their own binoculars. They peered out over the desert as Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser and Doc Bradley joined them. By the time Pete Dawson came up, the sight of the convoy could easily be discerned in the distance.

  Alpha One, this is Bravo One, Cruiser said into his LASH. The enemy is in sight. I can't get an accurate count on 'em because of their formation. But they're five hundred meters distance, traveling due east at approximately thirty to forty miles per. Over.

  Roger, came back the Skipper's voice. Charlie One, did you monitor that transmission? Over.

  Affirmative, Senior Chief Dawkins replied. His section was to the east, directly in the path of the approaching convoy. We're ready. Out.

  .

  SMUGGLER CONVOY

  THE dozen vehicles, consisting of six transports and six armed pickups, moved at fifty kilometers an hour at a slight east-by-south course across the firm terrain. The layer of fine dirt was thin in the area, and they kicked up a minimum of dust clouds as they rolled toward their objective. The Iranian drivers were thinking about the cold fruit juices and hot food awaiting them, and the Pashtun mujahideens' thoughts were of getting back up into the Gharawdara Highlands and how happy their families would be with the delicacies and other items on the donkeys' backs.