Page 15 of Whisper
Mortification singed Kris’s soul, burning him from the inside out. He couldn’t see the laptop screen anymore. Letters moved around in a haze, a fuzzy disconnect from reality. There was a fire building, that same flame he’d fanned throughout high school, throughout college, when people had told himno. He thought he’d banked that, turned the coals over on top of the rage and the hurt and the years and years of everyone telling him he wouldn’t measure up, he wasn’t good enough.
“I graduated third in my class at The Farm.” Kris’s voice rang loud and clear through the conference room. He stared at George, and then at Ryan. “I did better than two Special Forces guys and three FBI agents.” He shrugged, going back to his cables. “In case that was important.”
Silence.
George cleared his throat. That was the end of his and Ryan’s huddle in the corner. He headed for the whiteboard at the head of the conference table. “We’ve got a lot of work to do and five days to do it in. What do we need to get to Afghanistan, and, more importantly, what do we need to stay alive while we’re there?”
Weapons. They needed as many weapons as they could get. Handguns for every member of the team, long guns, ammunition as if they were going to war.
Food. MREs, water purification kits. Iodine tablets.
Computers. Lots of them. Field-grade laptops in indestructible bulletproof suitcases. Portable satellite dishes. They needed to be able to connect to both the CIA’s geosynchronous satellite network in high orbit and access the low-orbit network, the communications satellites that tracked across the sky, circling the globe every ninety minutes. In the mountains of Afghanistan, the low-orbit satellites would be almost useless, the signal cutting in and out. But they had to have a backup. They also needed to integrate into the military’s web of communication and observational satellites. Somehow, between the three systems, they’d have communication capability with the world outside Afghanistan. Hopefully.
Derek announced he’d been reviewing the specs on the helo they were picking up in Tashkent. It needed servicing and an overhaul before it could make the flight into Afghanistan. They’d have to do that on the ground in Tashkent.
“We’re still working on getting approval from the Shura Nazar so we can even enter Afghanistan under their official invitation. If we don’t get their cooperation, it will be a lot harder to stage in-country. We need their cooperation.” George circledShura Nazaron the whiteboard three times. “Caldera—” He turned to Kris, sighing. “—that will be our job. Political affairs.”
“So, Uzbekistan is playing ball with us, but do we have clearance to fly over Tajikistan airspace yet? It would be far better to insert directly over the border of Tajikistan into Shura Nazar territory.” Derek hunched over maps of the Uzbekistan-Tajikistan-Afghanistan border region. “Flying south from Tashkent and crossing the Uzbekistan border puts us right over Taliban territory. We’d have to fly over Taliban-held land for hundreds of miles until we get to the mountains and the Panjshir Valley. The Taliban have antiair weapons, right?”
Kris nodded. “The US gave the mujahedeen in Afghanistan about four tons of Stinger antiair missiles when they were fighting the Soviets. They’re still around, all over the country. The Taliban seized most of them, so we can expect to be facing our own weaponry when we engage.”
“Great.” Derek snorted. “US-made shoulder-fired rockets.”
Jim tried to lighten the mood. “At least it’s tech from the eighties.”
“A Stinger antiair missile is a Stinger antiair missile. It will shoot you out of the sky just as dead today as ten years ago—”
“That’senough.” George silenced Derek and Jim. Derek shook his head, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “The seventh floor—” The political power of the CIA. “—is working directly with the Uzbekistan government on allowing us access. Understandably, there is some resistance to the idea of allowing the US to use their nation as a launching pad for a CIA invasion force. If they keep stonewalling, the director will go to the president. Apparently, Russia has offered to twist some arms in their old Soviet enclaves for us.”
“Russiais offering to helpus?”
George stared at Derek. “The Twin Towers are still smoldering. The entire world knows we are coming. Knows we’re going to react, violently. What countries are lining up to oppose us right now?”
Derek’s lips thinned. He looked down.
“What are our living conditions going to be like?” Ryan chewed on the end of a pen. “Are we talking camping outdoors? Living in caves? Will we be in mud huts? Are we going to have local food or will we be eating MREs the entire time we’re there? If so, how long until we can expect a supply drop? We can’t bring MREs for three months for twelve men. What are our exact conditions going to be?”
“Right now, we have to assume we’re planning for bare essentials. Everything we will need, we have to bring with us. Everything,” George repeated.
Kris breathed out slowly, flexing his fingers.
“George, the weather is going to turn nasty very soon. The Taliban are hoping to bog us down in deep snows. Will we be staying in-country throughout the winter?” Ryan asked.
“If it comes to that, yes.” George looked around the table, into each man’s eyes. “We’re going on this mission with no end date. Come winter, the road through the mountains will close, and any helo that tries to make the flight over the pass will ice up and fall out of the sky. So, we’d be wintering in Afghanistan. The military has promised they will air-drop supplies to us if and when we need them. The best estimates right now say that we will spend autumn and winter working up the Shura Nazar, and then there will be a spring offensive mounted against the Taliban. We’re going to move heaven and earth to do better than that.
“But...” George frowned, his tone turning cautionary. “But we need to be ready for the worst. I got the seventh floor to authorize each of us two grand to buy personal supplies, and another four grand for the mission. When it comes in, we’re going shopping.”
Two days later, the money arrived. George tossed each member of the team a folded envelope stuffed with cash. “Time to get our gear.”
They rode together, piling into George’s SUV and heading to the nearest camping store. Kris sat squished between Jim and Derek, with Ryan riding shotgun and Phillip in the back. When they arrived, Phillip and Derek disappeared, scattering to the far corners. George, Ryan, and Jim huddled at the front of the store.
“Kris, come over here.” Jim waved him into the group. “Let’s get what we need together.”
They started in the clothing section, picking out cargo and tactical pants. Heavy snow gear for the winter. Layered shirts and zip-over fleece vests, fleece pullovers, and thick waterproof winter jackets. Wool hats and gloves, and leather overgloves.
George, Ryan, and Jim grabbed the basic colors: black, blue, and white. Kris riffled through the racks, coming up with burgundy and forest green, cream and burnt umber turtlenecks and layers. When they reunited to head to footwear, George and Ryan gave his cart a long, long stare.
“Well, no one will confuse your clothes.” Jim elbowed Kris, chuckling. “Leave it to you to be the fashionable one.”
