As Dr. Whitney Azoy of the Middle East Institute noted in his book Buzkashi: Game and Power in Afghanistan, “… leaders are men who can seize control by means foul and fair and then fight off their rivals. The Buzkashi rider does the same.”

  There were two versions of the game, Tudabarai and Qarajai. And on that occasion Wali had chosen Tudabarai, the simpler of the two, because of the extra weight the players would have to pick up before heading for the goal.

  Grabbing the corpse usually involved taking hold of Ghani’s left arm or right leg. Then the Chapandaz had to jerk the remains of the politician’s body up off the ground, throw it across his saddle, and aim his pony in the right direction.

  Meanwhile, having seen the player take possession of the grisly prize, riders from the opposing team would close in, and attempt to snatch the floppy chunk of meat away. Of course, that brought the first Chapandaz’s teammates in to defend him, and the brawl intensified.

  Clouds of dust rose to obscure some of the action as men shouted and horses brayed. The air temperature rose along with the sun, vendors hawked their wares, and at one point a stray dog ran halfway across the field only to be trampled.

  Tela Afridi and his posse were ahead at the end of the first forty-five-minute period. But Fazel Sarban dominated the second half, in spite of two iffy calls by the referee, and managed to score a last-minute goal by sending Ghani’s much abused body whirling over Afridi’s head to land in the goal. A move that brought everyone, Wali included, to their feet, as the final whistle blew.

  Though it would have been preferable to have Afridi win, Wali was pleased with the overall spectacle, and the way he’d been able to finesse Ghani’s murder, having not only gotten away with it, but combined the assassination with his inauguration.

  Ghani’s skull seemed to watch as Wali awarded a purse to each rider, waved to the crowd, and withdrew to his tent. Colonel Zazi was waiting there. The colonel was a soldier’s soldier who, during his fifty-three years, had fought against governments and for them. “Tell me Colonel Zazi, what of my home?” Wali inquired.

  “The Americans and British captured it,” the no nonsense officer replied.

  So, they have the bombs, Wali thought. But I will get them back. “How many soldiers do the infidels have?”

  “Estimates vary,” Zazi said cautiously. “But no more than a battalion. They have airplanes and helicopters though … And we don’t.”

  “Understood,” Wali replied. “And how many fighters do you command?”

  “A brigade, sir. Roughly three thousand men.”

  “We will depart immediately,” Wali said. “I will ride with you.”

  ***

  Qila Kom, southwestern Afghanistan

  By the time the sun rose in the east, the last shots had been fired, the surviving red hats had been confined to the castle’s ancient dungeon, and the Allies were getting ready for the counterattack that was certain to come.

  Preparations included the creation of revetments along the top of the curtain walls where the tanks could serve as artillery. Maneuvering the M-1s into position was made difficult by the narrow service road the machines had to negotiate, but was well worth the effort. Once in place the 105mm cannons could drop a variety of ordinance onto targets more than a mile away.

  The Bradleys occupied positions in between the tanks, and parked on downward slanting ramps; that would allow gunners to sweep the slopes below with fire from their M242 Bushmaster chain guns. And the presence of their resupplied Iron Fist systems would provide some protection for the neighboring M-1s as well.

  Javelin teams were concealed lower down, where they could engage Afghan vehicles should any make it onto the switch backing road.

  Meanwhile the supply trucks and two fuel tankers had been driven into the castle’s inner courtyard, where they would be relatively safe from artillery. Assuming Wali allowed Afghan troops to shell his ancestral home, that is, which seemed unlikely.

  Finn was dog tired as he made his way up to the top of what he thought of as “Tower 1.” It was a four-story structure at the northeast corner of the fort, where his lookouts were most likely to get their first sight of the enemy. However, the harsh, arid land was empty of life at the moment and he was glad.

  The sat phone rang. Finn glanced at his watch. Colonel Selton was right on time. “This is Major Finn.”

  “Good morning, Sean,” Selton replied. “How’s it going?”

  “Work continues, sir … But we should be in good shape by noon.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Selton replied. “It’s about two hundred and seventy-five miles from Kandahar to Qila Kom. And, according to the NRO people, lead elements of President Wali’s force are headed your way. It seems safe to say that they’ll arrive by late afternoon.”

  Finn made a face—the fighting would certainly begin before dark. “Sir, yes sir. So, when can we exfil?”

  “A lot of smart people are trying to figure that out,” Selton replied. “None of our helicopters have enough range to reach you. The possibility of in-air refueling is under consideration. But it would take a lot helos, and a lot of airborne tankers. So many, that the operation might have a negative impact on the rest of the theatre.”

  Finn took a moment to survey his surroundings. “There’s another problem as well, sir. The castle doesn’t have one helipad, never mind a dozen.”

  “Yeah,” Selton said. “Wali could have constructed a pad, but he didn’t, and the NRO geeks have a theory about that. They think Wali was afraid that his enemies would use a heliport to land assassins. He could land helos outside the castle. But that option may well be foreclosed to you.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Finn wanted to know.

  “Like I said,” Selton replied. “A lot of smart people are working on it. Your job is to protect the bombs. I’ll keep you in the loop.” Click.

  Finn was exhausted. And, based on the briefing from Selton, he knew he’d be up all night. After checking in with Owens, he called on Lieutenant Emery for a guide, and was led through a maze of corridors to a large apartment. More than that, what might be Wali’s private living quarters, judging from the antique weapons decorating the walls, and a closet full of neatly hung male attire.

  But Finn was too tired to appreciate the décor. So after a quick shower, he went face down on the bed. And rather than take the time to get under the covers, he pulled the bedspread up and over his body. Sleep came quickly.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On Highway 1, west of Kabul, Afghanistan

  A beefy MRAP (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected) truck led the 1st Brigade of the Afghan army south and west on Highway 1. A black, red and green tricolor flew from its antenna and snapped in the breeze. The MRAP was followed by a phalanx of Toyota gun trucks, each armed with a machine gun, and loaded with uniformed soldiers.

  A column of venerable M113 armored personnel carriers (APCs) followed the pickup trucks. Nearly identical machines had served in Vietnam. And the United States Army still used M113s as command vehicles, mortar carriers, and ambulances. Each “track” was armed with a light machine gun but was otherwise impotent. They could do about 40mph on pavement.

  Not so the Russian made T-62 tanks. Their aging engines were hard pressed to maintain a consistent 30mph on the highway, and they were gradually falling back. A pall of black smoke marked their progress.

  Though no match for an MBT like an M-1, the T-62s were armed with 115mm smoothbore cannons which could theoretically inflict significant damage on wheeled vehicles and massed infantry. A menagerie of troop transports, supply trucks, fuelers, wreckers, medical units, and towed artillery followed the tanks at the same sedate pace.

  President Wali was seated inside the MRAP which, thanks to former president al-Molla, was quite luxurious. Too luxurious in Wali’s opinion. Just one of the many things he would attend to after butchering the pigs who were desecrating his home.

  Colonel Zazi had been on the radio, and came back to speak with Wali. “Our scouts are on the scene, sir. It seems that the enemy is dug in, and plans to stay.”

  Wali had been forced to brief Zazi on the bombs. “The Americans have what they came for,” Wali observed. “Why stay?”

  “They are fearful that if they try to leave, we’ll catch them out in the open,” Zazi replied. “You know the Americans. They will send helicopters. They always do. Then they’ll run.”

  Wali wasn’t so sure. Zazi was a competent tactician, but not much of a strategist. That was a good thing though, because strategists were almost always in search of power and, if left to their own devices, likely to seek the presidency.

  That’s why every officer over the rank of colonel had been granted a full retirement, ordered to pack their household goods, and sent to Pakistan—where at least some of them would find employment in that country’s army.

  So, what to do? I’ll test the infidels, Wali decided. Who knows? They have airplanes. But I have men. Thousands of them. And I will spend their lives as I see fit.

  ***

  Qila Kom, southwestern Afghanistan

  After four hours of deep sleep, and a hurried meal, Finn was on the top level of the northeastern tower scanning the landscape through his binoculars. The sun had started to set, and a soft pink light suffused the desert. And there, a few miles away, Finn saw a glint of reflected light. From a vehicle? Or a shard of broken glass?

  After a minute or so a beefy MRAP appeared. One of many the United States had left behind during the hasty withdrawal from Afghanistan.

  Had the withdrawal been a mistake? Yes, in Finn’s opinion it had. But U.S. citizens had grown tired of the so-called “forever war.” And the toll the conflict took on lives and treasure. He understood that. Unfortunately, an even larger conflagration followed.

  Now, as Finn looked on, dozens of gun trucks followed the MRAP across the arid land toward the castle. They spread out to form a line running east to west.

  Soon thereafter the M113s began to arrive, immediately followed by a coterie of elderly tanks, which stopped well beyond M-1 cannon range. A wise decision indeed. “Are they fucking serious?” Pinnick inquired. “The Warthogs will have a field day if they are.”

  Finn lowered his glasses. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to intimidate us. Put the A-10s on notice. We might need them in a hurry.”

  “Roger that,” Pinnick replied.

  “I have an Afghan officer on the horn,” a radio operator said. “His name is Colonel Zazi. Shall I put him through?”

  “Yes,” Finn said, as he accepted the handset. “This should be interesting.”

  “Hello, this is Major Sean Finn, United States Army. Would you like to surrender?”

  Finn heard a spluttering sound. “Surrender? Never! You are the one who must surrender. Or we will attack.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Finn replied. “You realize that we are on a hill, that we are dug in, and that our ground attack planes are circling above you. I have no desire to kill hundreds of your men but, if you attack, I will. Over.”

  “We will pile your bodies in the desert,” Zazi said darkly. His words were followed by static.

  It was nearly dark. Finn turned to Pinnick. “The Ravens are up?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What can you see? Do they have artillery?”

  “Yes,” the TACP replied. “They have the M114, 155mm howitzers we gave them to use against the Taliban.”

  Finn swore. “So, we’re in range.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Would Wali allow Zazi to fire on the castle? Finn had no desire to find out. “Order the A-10s to take them out. All of them.”

  As Pinnick spoke to the A-10 pilots, hundreds of headlights came on. It was dark by then. And the combined glare from dozens of high beams made it difficult for the defenders to see as the gun trucks charged the fort.

  Crisscrossing streams of red tracer seemed to float up from the oncoming vehicles before falling on the castle. The bullets were fired randomly, and fell randomly, like hail. Some of the bullets found targets. Calls went out for medics.

  “This is Six,” Finn said. “The Bradleys and the Javelin teams will return fire. Everyone else will take cover. Out.”

  The response was something to behold as roughly half of the Bradleys opened fire with their Bushmaster chain guns. Each weapon could fire 500 rounds per minute and hit targets up to 9,000 feet out. They were firing M792 High Explosive-Tracer rounds. And, thanks to their infrared sights, they could “see” the enemy vehicles in the dark.

  Some of the incoming pickup trucks collided. Others exploded into flames. Finn saw one hit a pile of rocks, cartwheel, and land upside down.

  The Javelin teams scored hits as well, as they sent their heat-seeking, fire-and-forget anti-tank missiles into the seething mass of trucks, where they invariably found targets. Celebratory shouts were heard when they scored.

  Meanwhile flashes of light, a series of dull thumps, and the rattle of secondary explosions were heard as the A-10s went after the howitzers. Pillars of fire rose to light the desert with a ghastly glow as the jets raced away.

  “That’s most, if not all of them,” Pinnick announced, as a supply truck was transformed into a fireworks display.

  “Tell the hogs to take a break,” Finn ordered. “We made our point. Let the enemy pull back if they want to. Maybe they’ll turn tail and run.”

  ***

  About three quarters of the gun trucks made it back to the area where Wali’s MRAP and the support vehicles were parked. Colonel Zazi gave orders for medics to tend the wounded, and for mechanics to repair the trucks, knowing that they might be sent out soon. President Wali was impatient. And unlikely to spend time on a siege.

  A runner arrived with orders to report to the president, and Zazi felt queasy. He’d seen the impalements on television. Everyone had. Not to mention the grisly sight of Abdullah Ghani’s head on a pike.

  So, it was with a feeling of trepidation that Zazi made his way to the MRAP, where he returned a sentry’s salute, and climbed aboard. “There you are,” Wali said, as the officer appeared. “Tell me Colonel, how did it go?”

  Wali was toying with Zazi and the officer knew it. All he could say was, “Not well, sir.”

  Wali nodded. “That’s correct. And, thanks to the honest reply, you will be allowed to live. But, some sort of penalty is in order. Place your hand on the cutting the board.”

  The cutting board was resting on a fold down table. Slices of cold lamb were trapped in a pool of congealing grease. The remains of a meal eaten while hundreds of Zazi’s soldiers died? Yes.

  Zazi could hear his heart pounding. The possibility of pulling his sidearm and shooting Wali occurred to him. But a red hat was present with a weapon in hand. So Zazi did as he was told.

  “Good,” Wali said. “Now, take the carving knife, and slice a finger off. You can choose which one. I suggest you make the cut at a joint rather than try to hack your way through bone.”

  Zazi took hold of the knife with his right hand, flipped it into the air, and caught the blade. It was a difficult throw, but Zazi was an expert. The knife penetrated the red hat’s throat. Blood spilled onto the front of his uniform. The mercenary looked surprised, made a grab for the handle, and was falling as Zazi went for his pistol.

  He was fast, but not fast enough. Wali fired. The bullet slammed into Zazi’s chest. The officer crumpled to the floor.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Wali said out loud. “I thought he would do it.”

  ***

  The muted thump of an occasional rifle shot could be heard through the fort’s stone walls as sniper fought sniper under a sky of blazing stars. Flickering lights could be seen in the distance where Afghan soldiers were crouched around gas-fed fires drinking tea.

  Finn was lying on top of Wali’s warlord sized bed with documents spread all around him. Lighting was subdued and the corners of the room were lost in darkness. His radio burped an intermittent flow of status checks as Keaton appeared in the open doorway and knocked. “Requesting permission to enter, sir.”

  Finn laughed. “Since when did you request permission for anything? You speak Pashto, right?”

  “Yes,” Keaton said, as she came over to perch on the edge of the bed. “I do.”

  “Can you read it too?”

  “I can,” Keaton admitted. “But I’m rusty.”

  “That’s why I wanted to see you. There’s a lot of stuff here. Material that might provide us with some insight regarding Wali’s character. Take this document for example. It was in a frame and hanging on the wall. The question is why?”

  Finn passed the document to Keaton who immediately started to translate. She was hesitant at first. But soon began to read with increasing confidence.

  “My dear Akhtar. You are seventeen and a full-grown man. That is why I am free to leave Qila Kom and join the effort to push the Russians out of our country.

  “But war involves risk. So, there is the possibility that my jihad will end in Jannah (paradise), rather than here with you. Should that occur, it will be your task to defend Qila Kom, and write the family name in flaming letters across this land.

  “A Russian named Sergey Nechayev wrote the following words: ‘The end justifies the means.’ That’s my motto boy … Let it be yours as well.

  “Your loving father,

  “Naeem.”

  Keaton looked up. “Well, that says a lot.”

  Finn nodded. “Yes, it does. Let’s see what else we can find.”

  The next hour was spent going through papers which included everything from some eye-popping spreadsheets, to a short story by Marquis de Sade, and a translated copy of Caravans, by James A. Michener. “Okay,” Finn said finally. “That’s all I can take. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Keaton replied. “Can I ask for a favor?”

  “Of course,” Finn replied. “Name it.”

  “I haven’t had a shower since we left the airbase,” Keaton said. “I was about to take a dip in the river when we came here.”

  Finn made a face. “That makes two of us. The bathroom is through the door over there.”