Orakzai was very happy to deal with Aburrani, whom he knew very well. They had been involved in the opium poppy industry for several years before Orakzai took his people to the Gharawdara Highlands. Now that the Pashtun mujahideen would cease their fighting activities and get back to farming, they would return to poppy cultivation up in the hidden meadows of the mountains above their village. Zaid Aburrani would see that they were not molested and would have easy access to the old smugglers, who had now taken back the opium trail the Iranians could no longer use.
It was like that old song with the refrain: Boy does the money come in!
.
THE WHITE HOUSE
THE OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
5 JUNE
1015 HOURS
A rapping at the door caught the President's attention. He looked up from the press briefing he was preparing and called out, Come in.
Arlene Entienne entered the office. She was elegant and beautiful as always, but it was obvious she was tired. Good morning, Mr. President.
Hello, Arlene, he replied to the greeting. I heard you came in at four a.m. today.
Yes, sir, she replied. I received a call from Edgar Watson at the CIA a little after three. Operation Persian Empire has kicked up into high gear.
The President got up and walked over to the side of the room where a coffeepot was plugged in. He poured a cup of the brew, then brought it over to Entienne. Here, Arlene. You need this.
I sure do!
Did we hear from Aladdin again? the President asked, sitting back down.
Edgar said it was a quick transmission, Entienne answered. Evidently, he is in a particularly dangerous area. At any rate, he informed us that a compact group of Iranians and Arabs are occupying a fortified area in the far west of the Gharawdara Highlands. When the time is right, they'll make their move. Their objective, of course, is to gain control of the Gharawdara Highlands in western Afghanistan.
A 'compact' group, hey? the President remarked. They evidently don't want to make a big fuss. That's good. We don't want to either.
Mr. President, Entienne said, you gave me authorization to put your special executive order into effect. I did so at a little past five this morning.
Alright, he said. It's amazing when one considers the fact that this sensitive international crisis is going to be settled by dozens rather than thousands of troops.
It's a mind-boggler, alright, Entienne stated.
And now our own so-called compact group will answer the challenge. They will go into harm's way. The President sighed. The worst part of this job is having to put the lives of our finest young people at risk. He stood up and walked to the window, gazing out pensively. I cannot describe how much it distresses me.
Entienne got to her feet and went over to him, standing close to the Chief Executive. Would it make you feel better if I reminded you they were all volunteers?
Not really.
EPILOGUE
SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
7 JUNE
1430 HOURS
TWENTY-THREE men arrived on the latest flight from Kuwait to be added to the roster of Brannigan's Brigands. However, one was not exactly a reinforcement. Petty Officer Second Class Arnie Bernardi was a Brigand reporting back from Kuwait, where he had been TDy on a training mission. Bernardi's initial joy at being reunited with his old outfit was dashed when he learned of Milly Mills' death. His mood spiraled rapidly down as he experienced a combination of sadness and guilt at not being with the detachment during the battles out on the desert. He truly felt he had let his buddies down, and nothing they said eased his feelings of regret.
Bernardi's fellow passengers had been dispatched into the OA for this one specific operation, of which they knew absolutely nothing. They would have been surprised to learn that their new commander was as uninformed as they. This new mission had evolved out of an earlier one titled Operation Rolling Thunder, and was renamed Operation Battleline by the powers-that-be who ran Special Operations in the Middle East. The Skipper found it irritating to be moved laterally from one tactical situation to another without feeling the first had been satisfactorily wrapped up as an undeniable victory. The ever verbose Bruno Puglisi felt the same, and was not bashful about expressing his disenchantment: The whole thing is too fucking half-ass to suit me, he stated candidly and loudly. It's like changing opponents at halftime in a football game.
The C-130 that brought the personnel to Shelor was one of a quartet that had been arriving since the day before. The earlier trio was crammed with ammunition, equipment, rations, and other war-making material. Randy Tooley had been going crazy coordinating unloading, storing, quartering transit personnel, and all the other headaches that go with the preparatory activities for a campaign in the mountains.
Randy's basic attitudes remained unchanged; the senior airman still found it inconvenient to wear a uniform, salute, use the title sir or ma'am when speaking to commissioned officers, or observe any military protocol whatsoever. Because of this new set of circumstances that had evolved into a problematic turmoil, Colonel Watkins, the base commander, became even more tolerant of Randy's unconventional behavior. The kid was fast, efficient, keeping the operations of the facility going along smoothly and in a timely manner through his totally dedicated efforts. Packing him off to the stockade for insubordination would not only accomplish nothing in reforming the young guy, but would create a loss to the Air Force during his incarceration. Things ground to a standstill badly enough when Randy became upset by a dressing-down from some chickenshit NCO or officer and went off by himself to sulk for a day or two. There was an unofficial standing order that he was never to be carried AWOL on base personnel reports.
Randy continued to use the misappropriated desert patrol vehicle that a grateful Lieutenant Brannigan had given him for past services rendered. The young airman, knowing well when guile and subterfuge were necessary, immediately had it painted Air Force blue and stenciled with some phony registration numbers across the hood. He happily zipped around in the purloined conveyance as he tended to his duties.
The new SEAL arrivals, after disembarking from the C-130, were ushered quickly to the hangar Brannigan's Brigands used as a headquarters, living quarters, and warehouse. The newcomers found bunks and mattresses waiting for them, but no blankets or sheets. That meant they would be slumbering in sleeping bags and/or poncho liners. Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins had chow passes for them through the efforts of Randy Tooley, which meant the newcomers could get hot food in the base mess hall rather than have to consume MREs in the hangar. All the facilities at Shelor Field were open to them: BX, base theater, NCO and enlisted men's clubs, and the swimming pool. The only downside to their stay was being confined to the base. For reasons of the tightest security, no one was permitted to wander off the Air Force property unless on official duty.
As soon as things were down to a dull roar, the senior chief called a formation. He and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnar-son formed up the thirty-six enlisted men for a roll call to make sure that everyone assigned to Operation Battleline was all present and accounted for. The two chiefs were relieved to find that each man listed on either the manifests from the aircraft or the original roster for Operation Rolling Thunder was exactly where he was supposed to be. Nobody was AWOL, lost, or wandering aimlessly in a haze of ignorance and uncertainty. The detachment, now with three officers and two chief petty officers, numbered a grand total of forty-one romping, stomping Navy SEALs who were available for the coming combat.
While the enlisted men were being checked in after the arrival of the last C-130, a new officer, Ensign Orlando Taylor, went inside the hangar to find the detachment officers. Brannigan and Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser were in the corner cubicle used as a headquarters of sorts, going over the roster and beginning to organize the assault sections for the coming operation. Ensign Taylor dropped his gear by the door and knocked. The Skipper looked up and noted the somber young African-American. You must be our newly assigned Ensign Taylor. Come in.
Taylor stepped inside the office and rendered a faultless salute. Sir! Ensign Taylor reporting to the
