own chores in this Persian Empire shit.
Tsk! Tsk! Joplin said. That's no way for a lady to talk.
If I were a lady, I wouldn't be in this job. C'mon!
.
OPERATIONAL AREA
SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN DESERT
15 MAY
1045 HOURS
OPERATION Rolling Thunder had ground down to a dull routine of predictable repetition, useless effort, and a mind-set of unending boredom. It seemed to Brannigan's Brigands that they had gone from the tedium of shipboard life aboard the USS Dan Daly to a short spate of excitement, then had been tossed into a stagnant period filled with dreary terrain and small foreign people who did not like them very much.
The principal duty now assigned them was to take the DPVs out on patrols across the desert, for no other apparent reason than to burn fuel between stopping at villages to make fruitless searches for hidden weapons caches. A reason for this grind was hinted at from the USS Combs after Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan sent a scathing transmission to Commander Tom Carey, bitching about how Operation Rolling Thunder had evolved into a make-work situation. Carey replied that the former warlord in the OA might have been neutralized almost a year earlier, but it was still necessary to continually check up on him and his followers. Carey's message ended with a strong hint for the Brigands and Brannigan in particular to follow orders even if they flew out a window.
Now, after two solid hours of travel, all six vehicles pulled into a small Tajic village they had visited a half- dozen times.
Another procedure they followed was having the Alpha Two vehicle with Connie Concord, Mike Assad, and Dave Leibowitz scope out the area before the detachment actually drove into the vicinity. Afghanistan was a place of nasty surprises where a population friendly one day might turn vicious the next. It only took the Odd Couple five minutes to determine no danger lurked among the huts.
The SEALs had made calls on that community and other similar ones so many times that they had managed to pick up a bit of the Dari language. Their accents elicited polite laughter from the natives, but the Brigands spoke loudly and boldly, feeling as if the less than dozen words they knew made them bi- or multilingual.
As the DPVs came to a stop, all the village kids came running and yelling in anticipation of goodies. Bruno Puglisi had a box of candy purchased at the Shelor Field BX. He stepped down to the ground from the vehicle, shouting at the top of his voice. Hey, you atfal! he yelled out. Get over here damn zut shodan! Chop! Chop! I got zyad candy for you. He began tossing the sweets up into the air, and the kids started a mini-riot of energetic bumping and shoving as they scrambled for the goodies. The adult males, as usual, were the only grownups outside, and they grinned at the sight, each hoping his own children would get plenty to share with the household.
The village chief, an old guy the Brigands had nicknamed Captain, walked onto the scene. He displayed a wide smile and salaamed to Brannigan. Hello, Boss. How are you?
I'm fine, Captain, Brannigan replied.
Me too, the old man said. I am being very fine. Excellent. That is how I am being. His real name was Mohammed Ghani, and his age appeared to be anywhere between forty and ninety-nine. He spoke a strange brand of English, having picked it up in Pakistan, where it is a quasi-official language. Captain had left the village as a young man, snuck across the Pakistani border, and made his way to the capital city of Islamabad. He found low- paying, dirty work at first, toiling as a common laborer until a Pakistani friend steered him to a job in a rather excellent hotel called the Diplomat. He began as a bellboy, but after a few years of loyal and efficient service was named the bell captain. This was where the SEALs got their nickname for him.
Brannigan shook Captain's hand. Have you and your people been good? You don't have guns or anything like that since we were here last.
Oh, no, Boss, Captain said. We are good people here. Yes, sir!
The warlord hasn't brought you anything to hide for him, has he?
Captain shook his head. I am not seeing him for many months now. You are too strong for him, Boss. Ha! Ha! Maybe you are scaring him.
The Brigands had made a couple of rough searches of the village houses in the past, finding a couple of AK- 47s and ammunition. Since there wasn't a large cache of arms, it was obvious the inhabitants weren't dealing in weapons or hiding any for Taliban insurgents, so Brannigan did no more than confiscate the arms. He left the single-shot rifles mostly tooled for the British Enfield .303-caliber since the men needed them for hunting.
You stay good, Captain, Brannigan said. He nodded a good-bye to the headman, then turned to walk back to the detachment. He gestured to Senior Chief Dawkins, and the old salt left where he was standing by the Charlie One vehicle and strolled over to Captain. Hello, Cap'n. You listen to me dihyan, eh? Boss Brannigan he tells us no search your ghar too much this time because we no find much. I tell him that's not a good idea. I tell him I think you hide weapons bohut weapons so we should make another search. But he said no.
Boss Brannigan is a good man, Captain said. He is knowing we do not make lies here. We are good people bohut good people!
Don't bullshit me, Cap'n! Dawkins said. He always played the bad guy during visits, to keep the locals off balance. His normal expression was a scowl, and he was good in the part.
Oh, I am not bullshitting, Captain insisted.
We have machines that can find weapons, Dawkins said. We move the machine across the ground or the floor in a house. If there are weapons, the machines tell us. They say beep, beep, beep!
Captain laughed. You are pagal in the head, Buford. Machines cannot speak.
These can, Dawkins insisted. Maybe we'll bring some back with us the next time.
Oh, you are not having to do that, Captain said. We are good people.
Well, we'll see about that, Dawkins said. He heard Brannigan call out his name, and he turned to see the Skipper motioning him to return to Charlie One. He turned his gaze back to Captain, giving the Tajic a warning glare. You're gonna remember what I told you, sahi?
Of course, Buford, Captain said, already waving. Xuda hafiz!
Xudafiz, Dawkins replied, corrupting the Dari words for good-bye.
Within minutes, the SEALs were in their vehicles and speeding away from the village into the desert. They headed in a generally northwestern direction at a gas-saving thirty-five miles per hour toward the next village on their patrol. After they went about ten miles, Frank Gomez's voice came over the LASH headset. Skipper, I just got a transmission over the Shadowfire. We're supposed to return to Shelor Field by the quickest route. Carey and Berringer are waiting for us there.
Good deal! interjected Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser. As Sherlock Holmes would say, 'The game's afoot!'
Brannigan turned the wheel, whipping the DPV toward a southeastern route as his men followed.
.
THE OPIUM TRAIL
AFGHANISTAN
16 MAY
NOON
THE farmers who cultivated and harvested the opium poppies did so for very good economic reasons. If they planted the usual crops wheat, barley, and corn each family would earn the equivalent of approximately 150 American dollars per year. But the plants from which heroin is made afforded the cultivators 64,500 afghani annually, which translated into 1500 American dollars per year for the average family. It was not surprising that this tenfold advantage in cash encouraged them to cultivate and process the poppies. The growers drew the juice from the unripe seeds of the plants, and air-dried it until it formed into a thick gum. Further drying of this gum resulted in a powder for the final product that was sold.
The farmers' customers were the smugglers who paid them cash for the illicit crops. They took care of the transport to the rendezvous site, to be loaded onto trucks for delivery to the Iranian-Turkish border, to be sold yet again. This time, the transfer of the product was to other illicit entrepreneurs who would see the powder got to the right people. These gangsters were from the criminal organizations who had the means to process it into heroin for
