Disavowed (7 page)

Chapter 14

Enroute to Kandahar, Afghanistan

8:02pm AFT, August 24
th

Another surprise waited Cal and the rest of The Jefferson Group after lifting off from Charlottesville. The first came in the form of recently retired Chief Warrant Officer Benny Fletcher, USA. Fletcher had the boyish features of a college cheerleader, not a retired CWO-3. He greeted them all formally like a general’s steward.

“I met Benny passing through Fort Campbell last month,” explained Jonas Layton. “I got turned around and he offered to show me the way back to my conference. I returned the favor with lunch and one thing led to another.”

“Fort Campbell? What did he do before retiring?” asked Cal. He was familiar with Ft. Campbell, having spent much of his adulthood in Nashville. Ft. Campbell is approximately an hour from downtown Nashville.

“He was a Night Stalker.”

The “Night Stalkers” are formally known as the 160
th
Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne). They first cut their teeth in Grenada in the 1980s and soon built a reputation for their night flying abilities, hence their name. They’d been used extensively since 9/11 in special operations roles.

“Really? And you hired him as a flight attendant?”

“Not exactly. I learned a long time ago that when you run into talent, like top notch talent, you hire them first and figure out the rest later. Benny said he’d be happy to help until we found him something better suited for his skill set.”

It was the same way Cal’s father ran SSI. Find the good ones and never let them go.

“Besides, it never hurts to have a third pilot,” said Jonas.

“Where’d you find the other two?”

Jonas turned his head toward the galley. “Hey, Benny, you mind taking over up front? Send the brothers back?”

“No problem, Mr. Layton.”

“You’re gonna have to cut the mister crap if you want to stick around this motley crew.”

Benny smiled, even blushing. “Okay…Jonas.”

Cal leaned over and asked, “Brothers?”

Jonas put up a finger indicating that the answer was forthcoming. A minute later two men walked out of the cockpit. Cal watched them, curious. You could tell they were brothers, same chestnut hair, all-American good looks, probably six foot. Not twins but familial features for sure. They could’ve been military aviation poster models in their
TJG
monogrammed polo shirts.

“Cal, I’d like you to meet Jim and Johnny Powers. Gentlemen, for all intents and purposes, this is your boss, Cal Stokes.”

Cal stood and shook their hands. Firm grips. Military, a cautious look from Jim and a mischievous grin from Johnny. Cal noticed a thin scar running the length of Johnny’s jawline. War wound or childhood prank?

“Jim, Johnny and Jonas?” Cal asked, giving Jonas an amused look.

Jonas raised his palms with a shrug.

“Why Jim and not Jimmy?” asked Cal, trying to gauge their personalities.

Johnny Powers answered for his brother. “He used to go by Jimmy until he went into the Corps. Thought Jim sounded more dignified.” He mimed sipping a cup of tea with his pinky finger out.

Jim gave his brother a dirty look, but grinned. “It’s true. I blurted my nickname the first day of OCS and got reamed. After that I always introduced myself as Jim.” He shrugged like it was neither a good or bad thing, just something he’d done and rolled with ever since. “Jonas tells us you’re Marine.”

Cal nodded. “Seems like a long time ago. When did you get out?”

“A year ago. Finished my commitment and bumped into Jonas on a private hop to Dubai. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“What did you fly in the Corps?” asked Cal, warming to the brothers.

“Started on Hueys then moved over to Ospreys. Spent most of my time at Cherry Point flying over Lejeune.”

“And what about you? Another Marine?” Cal asked Johnny.

Johnny shook his head vehemently. “No way. Big brother was the one with the stick up his ass. Nope, Air Force all the way. I flew AC-130 Spookies, you know, the gunships.”

“What he’s not telling you is that he was a member of the Air Force Special Operations Command (AFSOC), specifically the First Special Operations Wing out of Hurlburt Field. These guys have spent more time over the desert than Lawrence of Arabia did in it.”

Cal was impressed. Two, no three (he’d have to chat with Benny later) high speed aviators. Most people thought that fighter pilots were the tough guys, the real flying heroes. But Cal knew differently, and apparently so did Jonas. It took big balls to fly a squad of Marines into a hot landing zone. The same thing with the AFSOC pilots. Tasked with supporting special operations troops, they were the elite of the elite despite flying the comparatively unsexy AC-130 gunships. Cal had seen the big bird in action and was more than impressed.

Suddenly it all came together, what Jonas had set in motion. They didn’t call him The Fortuneteller for nothing. Without a word from Cal, the brilliant billionaire had added to their army. By hiring the three aviators, Jonas effectively gave The Jefferson Group all the air support they’d need. Need someone to fly a helo, gotcha covered. Commercial airliner? No problem. Hell, aside from fighter jets, which Cal figured they’d never get their hands on anyway, they now had the talent to fly anything. He had to hand it to Jonas. One of the best indications of a man’s worth is what he does when you’re not watching. The guy was good, really good.

“How much do you know about what we’re doing?” Cal asked the brothers.

Jim looked to Jonas who nodded. “Jonas said we’re going in to pick up a couple of Jarheads, under the radar.”

Part of Cal was annoyed that Jonas had said that much, but then he realized that if these guys were going to work for him they might as well know, but they had to get the speech now.

“True. What I’m about to tell you is so over the level of Top Secret there is no classification. The Jefferson Group is a presidentially sanctioned organization tasked with…”

Cal gave them the five thousand foot view. What the president wanted them to do, some of what they’d accomplished over the previous months, and finally why they were on their way to Afghanistan. He included what would happen to them should they divulge The Jefferson Group’s true mission, namely a lifetime incarcerated in solitary confinement. That or a bullet to the head.

There was silence for a moment as the Powers brothers digested the information. Then, to Cal’s surprise, they turned to each other, Johnny smiling wide, Jim more casual. Simultaneously they raised a hand and smacked a high five, just like they were on a baseball field and one of them had done a diving catch at short.

“I told you!” said Johnny.

Jim shrugged.

Cal looked at Jonas, suppressing a smile. “Well, I guess they’re in. Now, if we only knew what Andy and Rich were up to.”

Chapter 15

Somewhere Along Highway 1

Between Gereshk and Kandahar, Afghanistan

8:05pm AFT, August 24
th

First came the shouting, enemies ordering their subordinates to rush the convoy. Then came the swivel of spotlights, illuminating the dusty night air, seeking out the Americans. Finally came the unmistakable revving of humvee engines, the assault was coming.

Latif pulled the two Americans around the left side of the truck, away from the enemy. “We must get to the fifth vehicle.”

There was a lot of space between them and the fifth vehicle, lots of time to be found and killed.

“Why?” asked Isnard, crouching low to look under the product laden truck.

“You will see.”

Isnard looked up at the Afghan. “Fine. I’ll go first.”

It was decided that Andy would bring up the rear. While he usually might have protested, he wasn’t too proud to admit that in his weakened state he really shouldn’t be walking point.

More shouting, large tires crunching their way closer. Heavy machine guns undoubtedly ready, waiting for the Americans to poke their heads out.

Three vehicles up, Isnard stopped, cocking his head to the side, listening. His head snapped around, a furtive glance to his companions, then he was flat on his stomach, crawling under the truck. Andy and Latif followed.

Crowded behind the front right tire, the three men watched as Latif’s men were ordered to their knees, hands on their heads. Only one man, a boy really, resisted, receiving a crushing blow to the head from his aggressor’s rifle. The boy crumpled. Andy knew he was dead.

If there was any hesitation in Andy to fire on Afghan forces, it left him a moment later. The same military and police units he and thousands of coalition troops had trained, men who’d sworn to uphold liberty and freedom, leveled their weapons. Every one of Latif’s men were cut down by not one but two humvee mounted machine guns along with the ground troops. In twenty seconds it was over. Andy knew because he felt and counted each one.
Tick, tick, tick…

Latif pounded the ground with his fist, letting out a barely audible moan. Pure anguish. A common smuggler with transient contractors didn’t mourn. Andy knew in that extended moment that Latif had family in the pile of murdered boys. Family now gone forever.

Something in the Marine snapped. Any weariness he’d felt left him. It was like the air throbbed, thumping in his ears.

His gaze met Isnard’s. They nodded and shuffled back the way they’d come.

With Latif regaining his composure and now bringing up the rear, the three men snuck from shadow to shadow. It was only a matter of time before the opposition came around to their side of the convoy, but for now they were being cautious. The bastards called to them, threatening and taunting. As if they’d just throw up their hands in surrender after seeing so many killed so quickly. They didn’t know the Marines they were dealing with.

The familiar adrenaline rush coursed through Andy’s veins, smell, vision and touch all heightened, drop by drop the bucket filled. Somehow they made it to the fifth vehicle, Latif scrambling in the cargo flap. It felt like forever before the merchant’s head popped out, followed by his hands holding a pair of rocket propelled grenades (RPGs). The Marines each took one, prepping the weapons without thinking.

In under a minute the three men had twelve RPGs stacked on the ground and three more in their hands. The tricky part was going to be the back blast. More than a few idiots had killed comrades by thinking nothing was coming out the back.

“We need to get on top of the trucks,” said Andy, realizing that the tightly parked trucks offered no other room. Isnard nodded and was the first up, keeping his profile low.

Louder shouting and more vehicles. Their time was running out. When Andy finally got his footing on top of the canvas cargo top, he was sure the ancient fabric was about to give way. It was like walking on thin ice, peril a footstep away.

He ignored caution and was the first to stand, the only way he could get a clear shot and compensate for the weapon’s back blast.
Whooosh!
He dropped to his belly reaching for another RPG. 

Men scattered at the telltale sound, the explosion rocking the check point.
Whooosh! Whooosh!
Rich then Latif launched their RPGs, the heavy rounds slamming into humvees. Take out the big guns first.

It was pure chaos on the ground, but the enemy knew where they were. With time limited, Andy was the only one who had time to launch one more, before the three men slipped off the backside of the vehicle, bullets following, chests heaving.

“Now what?” asked Andy.

They’d taken out a couple vehicles and a few men, but there were plenty more who were converging on their hiding spot.

A look passed between the three men. Defiant but resigned to their fate. Surrender wasn’t an option.

“Let’s go,” said Isnard, turning and heading toward the sound of crackling fire, and angry shouts.

He took out two men with his first burst, Andy another with his. They fanned out, walking right down the side of the road like heroes in an old western. Wyatt Earp and his boys taking on the cowboys at the O.K. Corral.

Latif was the first to be hit, a stinger in his right arm. He grunted and kept moving, shifting his weapon to his left hand, disciplined fire.

There were targets everywhere and even more rounds flying overhead. A tiny part of Andy’s subconscious couldn’t believe he hadn’t been shot yet. It was only a matter of time. But the rounds kept coming, flying high, bad aim.

Then he saw them. A line of black SUVs, heads peaking out from behind. None of those guys were shooting. As soon as Andy wondered why the answer came. They were letting the lowly Afghan police take the casualties and hoping they would kill the Americans. Cowards. The thought made Andy smile despite the intense heat of the burning vehicles he was trying get cover behind.

More small arms fire. Luckily they’d taken out the humvees. Andy hated to think what it would feel like with MK19 rounds in the mix.

Isnard sprinted to the next bit of cover, a blasted humvee door, when Andy’s blood went cold.
BOOM! BOOM!

All three men dropped to the deck, waiting for the explosions to take them out. But that didn’t happen. Instead the black SUVs disappeared, reappearing moments later several feet away, fiery hulks.
BOOM! BOOM!

The front of Latif’s convoy exploded a split second later.

Those are tank rounds
, thought Andy. Whatever it was, the few remaining Afghans bolted for any vehicle that wasn’t burning and took off down the highway.

Without the sound of gunfire, the area fell still. There was the snapping and popping of smoldering vehicles, and the death moan of some unseen combatant, but they’d come out relatively unscathed.

As Isnard wrapped a piece of his torn T-shirt around Latif’s upper arm, Andy waited. Soon came the rattle and crunch of tracked vehicles. It wasn’t the hum of an Abrams, he knew that for sure. It was the squeaky turn of ancient parts, the rough screech of gears changing. Not Americans.

He had to find a vehicle and get them away from the check point. Walking wasn’t an option. Any half-ass newbie could track them down, even at night, what with the limited cover in the low lying desert. But every vehicle Andy came to was either burning or disabled, courtesy of the gun battle.

The engine noises rumbled closer as he climbed down from yet another dead truck. Nothing to do but wait. Like most Marines, Andy hated waiting. He didn’t have to wait long. Rolling into the light of the remaining spotlights came four rust-lined Russian tanks. They sagged under their age, like old men taking one last walk into the sunset.

They lined up in a row just off the highway, idling. Then came the sound of footfalls, steps coming from behind. Andy’s eyes went wide. Streaming onto the road were tens, then hundreds of armed men, all dressed like desert vagabonds, nomads, faces hidden, robes scraping the pavement as they surrounded the caravan.

Two men broke off from the others and headed to where Andy now stood with Isnard and Latif. They carried AK-47s pointed at the ground. They stopped a few feet away, first one then the other pulling down the fabric covering their faces. Both men had deep set eyes. Men of the desert. Deeply tanned crow’s feet. Their facial hair blotted out every other aspect of their features. Andy immediately pegged them as Kochi, traditionally nomadic people. The problem was that many of the Kochi people, whether out of ignorance or necessity, had aligned themselves with the Taliban.

“Which one of you is Isnard?” one of the men asked in Pashtun.

Isnard stepped forward.

“And that is Andrews?”

“It is,” replied Isnard.

“And that man?” the larger of the two men asked, pointing at Latif.

“A friend,” said Isnard. “And you?”

“We are guardians of the desert,” the man replied grandly, spreading his arms wide.

“May I call you friend?” asked Isnard.

The two strangers exchanged glances. Number two stranger nodded. “You may call us friends, Isnard. Come. We must leave before the army arrives.”

With their only option standing in front of them, supported by what Andy estimated to be two hundred men and old yet precise tanks, the three men accepted the escort. No one told them to relinquish their weapons and they were offered water from ragged goat bladders. Once satiated, the troop moved off into the night. Andy wondered if it was just another death march. Out of one boiling cauldron and into another.