Page 19 of Whisper
Tashkent, Uzbekistan
September 21, 2001
Tashkent was every third-world nightmare Kris had ever had, rolled into one depressing, festering city.
Abandoned Soviet factories lingered like scars on the cityscape. Desperately poor Uzbeks huddled on street corners, their faces lined with weariness and the ravages of decade-old Soviet occupation, war, and endless struggle. Heroin traffickers from Afghanistan flooded the streets with the cheapest grade of their drugs, and high Uzbeks lay in a stupor in ditches and on the side of the road. The rest of the heroin was refined and sent on to Russia.
Everyone was armed. Everyone carried Russian-made AK-47s over their shoulder, and RPGs and machine guns rested on the back of nearly every rusted-out pickup. From the airport, Kris, George and the team sped through the capital to the US Embassy in a blacked-out SUV.
The embassy’s political officer met them, ushering them into empty quarters the Marines had vacated for their arrival.
The political officer and ambassador fed them, spreading out American-style burgers and french fries on a long table in the conference room. There, they got their up-to-the-moment briefing.
“We got word that the Shura Nazar officially invited your team into their territory this morning. We received a cable from Dushanbe station. The Shura Nazar diplomat there gave our embassy coordinates for your entry.”
George smiled. “Fantastic.” He turned to Kris and nodded.
Kris tried to smile back, but it was tight, his lips pressed to his teeth, almost painfully so. Guess that was the only recognition he was going to get for making the connections with the Shura Nazar and guiding Dushanbe station through their negotiations with a completely foreign and unknown potential ally.
What else was new?
Iranian forces were already on the ground. Their Ministry of Intelligence had sent operatives and officers into Afghanistan following September 11 and were already embedded with Shura Nazar units in the south and the west. “Iran, and the Shia government there, hate the Taliban. The Taliban murdered eleven Iranian diplomats when they seized the Iranian Embassy.”
George scowled. “We really don’t want anything to do with the Iranians.”
“They’re staying well away from the locations where your team is planning on inserting. But they sent this through the French Embassy this morning.” The political officer spread out an Iranian-made map of Afghanistan with detailed notes of al-Qaeda and Taliban positions labeled throughout the southern region of the country.
“We’ll have to check this out. Get eyes on. We can’t launch without confirmation that these are actual Taliban and al-Qaeda locations.”
“The Iranians told the French to tell us to ‘keep it’. We wanted you to see it first.”
“Forward it to CENTCOM. See if they can get satellite coverage over the targets. Get them on deck for when the bombing starts.”
“The Uzbeks have reported that the Taliban MiG fighters are grounded. You don’t have to worry about air-to-air intercept. Just surface-to-air.”
“MiGs? Who was flying MiGs for the Taliban? They don’t have that military capacity.” Ryan frowned, his brow furrowing hard.
Kris leaned forward. “Russian mercenaries were flying for the Taliban for a hundred thousand dollars a day. The Taliban could buy that with their drug-and-oil money. But Moscow has told all mercenaries to get out, and get out now.”
“Thought Moscow said they couldn’t control their mercenaries? Hasn’t that been their line for years?” The ambassador’s eyes twinkled.
“Moscow says whatever they need to say, whenever they need to say it.”
The ambassador snorted. “And your Special Forces team arrived yesterday. They’re bunking at the airport. With the way the weather changes, they want to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”
Flying over the Hindu Kush and into Afghanistan was fraught with danger under the best conditions. The mountains pushed most helicopters to their upper limits. The helos shuddered in the thin air, fighting physics and wanting to drop out of the sky. Fog and snow sometimes blinded out the passages, leaving the pilots flying in total whiteout conditions.
“Smart. What’s the weather like?”
“Looks like there’s a break in the cloud cover tomorrow. If all holds, you’ll fly out then.”
The international airport at Tashkent looked like a haphazard series of shipping containers stacked together. Once, it had been painted powder blue, probably by the Soviets, who had a thing for pastels. The flight line was cracked asphalt, weeds filling the divots and cratered holes, never to be repaired. Sinkholes marred the expanse, filled in with cheap tar and sand.
Decrepit MiGs from the days of the Soviet Union languished next to mothballed military helicopters. Nothing had flown in years.
Light spilled from the open doors of a squat hangar, its windows broken, where a team of Special Forces operators sat around a mountain of gear.
The political officer pulled up in front of the hangar. A Special Forces team member stepped forward, a giant of a man with fiery red hair and a thick beard. He waited as they all piled out. Frigid wind whipped through Kris, cutting through his fleece jacket as he stood on the busted tarmac.
