Air Battle Force pm-11 Page 21

  “Destroyed?” Turabi asked. He said it louder than he meant. He didn’t want the men assembled before them to see any sign of confusion or disagreement in the leadership, but they hadn’t discussed this move beforehand. “Wakil, we can hold those pipelines and wells for ransom. The Turkmen or whoever built them will pay us handsomely to keep them in operation.”

  Zarazi glared at Turabi as if the man had pissed on his boots. “And if they don’t, Colonel?”

  “Then we destroy them,” Turabi said. “But I think they’ll pay to keep their precious oil flowing. That means more money we can send back to our clans. Let’s give it a try, at least.”

  Zarazi looked as if he were going to order Turabi to be silent — he appeared angry enough even to strike him — but instead he held his anger in check and nodded. “Very well, Colonel. I shall leave that task in your hands. Make contact with the Turkmen oil minister or their Western puppet masters and tell them that if they want their oil to keep flowing, they will pay.”

  “Yes, General,” Turabi said loudly, thinking that he’d better do whatever he could to show everyone that Zarazi was back in command. “I’ll make the pricks pay out their asses.”

  “Our greatest threat is the infantry base at Gaurdak,” Zarazi continued after giving Turabi a final warning glare. “They have a full brigade there, do they not?”

  One of the Turkmen officers shot to his feet. “Master, they are authorized to brigade strength, but they have been unable to get enough equipment and supplies to fully equip a brigade,” the man said, standing at ramrod attention. “Most have not been paid in many weeks; most of the officers, like ourselves, have not been paid in many months. They have had many desertions and crimes against the local population. Many of the soldiers have resorted to stealing from the locals to feed themselves or selling fuel and equipment to smugglers. Their overall readiness is very poor.”

  “Stealing from the people we are dedicating ourselves to liberate and protect will not be tolerated in my army, is that clear?” Zarazi said sternly. “But I also hereby command that anyone who does not declare himself a true servant of God shall not be entitled to own land, property, or resources under our jurisdiction or protection. That includes the water, the oil and gas through the pipelines, the power that flows from the hydroelectric power plant — everything. If it is under our protection, then either outsiders must swear allegiance to us and our cause, or they must pay for these resources.”

  Now he had all their attention, Turabi noticed. Zarazi had a good number of men here who believed that he was some sort of holy warrior, but most of them were just tired of the old commander and wanted to be paid. Zarazi was promising them a paycheck. He was definitely in business now.

  Zarazi outlined his wishes for patrols, security, and reporting to him, then dismissed the company commanders and their senior noncommissioned officers. The officer who spoke up in front of the others, a transportation and supply officer named Lieutenant Aman Orazov, remained behind, along with Turabi. Orazov was a tall, heavyset man with long, unkempt hair, no mustache or beard, and filthy boots and uniform — Turabi worried the guy might be infested with lice. “It is a great honor to serve you, master,” Orazov said in halting Pashtun. “I am proud to be part of your command.”

  “You are a loyal and brave servant… Captain Orazov,” Zarazi said. The scruffy-looking clerk looked as if he were going to kiss Zarazi’s hand — and then, disgustingly, he did. “I hope you are correct about the base at Gaurdak.”

  “I am, master,” Orazov said. “I do not think they will be a threat to us. They are even more isolated than Kerki; they do a great deal of black-market trading with smugglers and villagers from Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. I think you will find many who support our cause.”

  “We shall see,” Zarazi said.

  “My concern would be for the major and the other company commanders that you are allowing to walk free, master,” Orazov said. “I would be afraid they will spread lies and wild stories about you. They should not be allowed to reach Chärjew.” Chärjew was the location of the largest military base in eastern Turkmenistan, about 180 kilometers upriver. The Turkmen zealot’s eyes brightened, and he fairly rocked from foot to foot in anticipation. “I shall kill them for you, master. Let me organize an attack. We outnumber them. It would be my very great pleasure to lead your loyal Turkmen soldiers on an attack against the oppressors from whom you have liberated us.”

  Jalaluddin Turabi could scarcely believe it, but Wakil Zarazi was actually nodding in thought at this peasant’s psychopathic ramblings. Thankfully, Zarazi responded, “No, Captain. I am grateful for your enthusiasm and drive, but those men are not yet our enemy, only our adversaries. If they organize and return to do battle, you shall lead our forces against them.”

  Zarazi glanced at Turabi. Was he looking for approval or afraid his second in command would object to his giving a command to a Turkman? Turabi remained indifferent.

  “I have given my word they shall not be harmed if they surrender — so it shall be. Now, go. Organize your men and report to me when they are ready for my inspection.”

  The guy could not stop bowing as he made his way out of the room.

  After everyone else had departed, Turabi regarded his leader and longtime superior officer with a mixture of caution and admiration. Zarazi was standing on the platform, staring out through a window at the sunshine streaming in. “I like the plan to take Gaurdak,” Turabi said. “Taking the hydro complex at Kizyl-arvat is also a good plan. We can threaten to blow the plant if we get attacked. I hope that Orazov character is right about the readiness at the base. We’ll need every advantage if we’re going to split our force to take the hydro plant and do an assault on Gaurdak.”

  Zarazi was silent. It was as if he hadn’t even heard him, which infuriated Turabi.

  “Excuse me, General,” he snapped, the edge in the invented title obvious in his voice, “but what is the objective here? What do you hope to achieve?”

  “What is it you wish to achieve here, Colonel?” Zarazi asked without turning to face him.

  “Wakil, our orders from our leaders were to procure money, weapons, and equipment that can be sold to support the Al Qaeda forces in northern Afghanistan,” Turabi said. “Our tribal leaders pledged to do this, and you were given specific instructions to go out and obtain these things. That was the whole purpose of attacking that convoy. That is the only reason these men agreed to leave their homes and wives and children and fight for you — our clan leaders ordered us to raise money for Al Qaeda.

  “You have succeeded far more than anyone could have imagined: You have taken over an entire Turkmen army aviation base,” Turabi went on. “You have men and equipment of enormous power and value. Don’t you realize, Wakil? If you return to our tribal home of Jarghan with even a fraction of these tanks and guns, you will be promoted to the tribal council. If you succeed in bringing back even one of these helicopters, you will most assuredly be made a chieftain. You will be allowed to lead your own clan and be equal to all the other sheikhs and shuras.

  “But now you’re talking about attacking more Turkmen military bases and hydroelectric plants. I agree with subduing Gaurdak — they could cause us trouble when we start heading for home — but why are we wasting time and energy attacking dams, power plants, and pipelines? We might be able to squeeze a few manats out of the people here, but we stand an even greater risk of being trapped inside Turkmenistan, with their whole fucking army, such as it is, coming down on top of us. No one will come to rescue us if we are surrounded.”

  “Our mission has changed, Colonel,” Zarazi intoned.

  “Oh?”

  “We shall not leave Turkmenistan,” Zarazi said. “We are here to liberate this country and these people, not loot them.”

  “We have received orders from the tribal council to—”

  “I have received orders from God,” Zarazi interjected heatedly. “God has ordered me to take this country. He demonstrated that
He is watching over me by saving me from the American attack aircraft, and He guides my hand and my tongue as I lead His faithful across the wastelands to victory. Our success is proof of His love for our cause and us.”

  “Wakil… General, we are successful mostly because the Turkmen forces are weak in this area,” Turabi said. “There’s nothing but empty desert out here. Their aviation battalion has been sitting on their asses doing nothing for ten years. They rout a few smugglers every now and then, take bribes from Northern Alliance forces or Taliban — whichever side wants to cross the frontier to escape the other — guard one river and a few oil pipelines, and go back for another nap. We haven’t faced the real Turkmen army yet.”

  “Colonel, are you afraid?” Zarazi asked. “Are you scared of battle?”

  “First of all, Wakil, I’m not a colonel, and you’re not a general,” Turabi snapped, allowing his anger at being called a coward to erupt despite the warnings in his brain not to allow it. “We gave ourselves military titles as a joke, remember? Whatever the rank of whomever we encountered, we gave ourselves a rank one or two over him. Now, for some damned reason, we’re senior officers! We might as well be wearing a chestful of medals, white gloves, and riding breeches.

  “Get this straight, Wakil: We’re not military men,” Turabi went on ferociously. “We’re jihadi. We fight for our tribes and for our mullahs, not for a nation. And we sure as hell don’t invade other countries, occupy military bases, and capture dams and power plants. And to answer your question — yes, I am scared! I’m scared of any operation that has no real objective! I’m scared of any operation that runs counter to what we have pledged our lives and our future to support and defend! I’m—”

  “You will be silent, Colonel,” Zarazi snapped. “My intentions are plain: We will occupy this territory in the name of God and build a refuge for the faithful warriors of Allah, just as Afghanistan once was, before the Americans and Zionists arrived. You either do as I command or you leave. I will not have you questioning my vision or usurping my command.”

  “Then I will go back to Jarghan, Wakil,” Turabi said. “I didn’t leave my wife and children and travel three hundred kilometers across this shithole of a country so I can play nursemaid to a bunch of chest-thumping desert rats from all over the Muslim world, like your new friend Orazov.” He scanned Zarazi’s face, searching for danger signs — and definitely finding them.

  Turabi averted his eyes momentarily, apologetically — it was not a good thing at all to abandon your leader deep inside enemy territory, he knew, even if you thought he was crazy — and added, “I am going to inspect the site where our scouts saw smoke this morning. It might be a Turkmen helicopter patrol from Chärjew or Mary that crash-landed out there, or it might be whomever those antiaircraft missile batteries were firing at last night. I shall be back by dawn, and then I will form a company-size rear guard and move to Jarghan.” Without waiting for a response, Turabi turned and walked away.

  Zarazi stood for several long moments on the dais, pondering what Turabi had just said. Then he stopped daydreaming and half turned to his right. “What is it, Captain?” he asked the man approaching silently behind him.

  Aman Orazov halted, his breath catching in his throat. “I… I beg your pardon, master,” he stammered. “I… I could not help but overhear….”

  “Speak,” Zarazi prompted him. When the man remained silent, Zarazi turned and faced the Turkmen officer, noting that now Orazov was wearing a sidearm and that the flap covering the holster was unfastened. He had also pinned on captain’s rank, obviously stolen from someone else on post. “You wish to tell me that Colonel Turabi is unfaithful and does not deserve to be part of our mission,” Zarazi said.

  “He is a coward and a disgrace before God,” Orazov said. “How dare he question you? How dare he snap at you like a child?”

  “His faith has been shaken because of the danger and because of our rapid success in battle.”

  “He is a coward, master,” Orazov spit. “He deserves to be punished.”

  “Punished?” Zarazi looked carefully at Orazov, then at the sidearm, then back at the Turkman. “Perhaps…”

  “Let me, master,” Orazov said. “I will deal with the colonel for what he has said to you.”

  Zarazi smiled and nodded. “And so you shall, Captain — but not now. I need the colonel and his men to help take Gaurdak and to start our push westward. Afterward he and any other unbelievers will be dealt with.”

  “Yes, master,” Orazov said. “I shall keep close watch on the colonel. When you give the command, I shall strike.”

  “He will be keeping close watch on you as well, Captain,” Zarazi warned him. “He and his men are skillful killers. They distrust you and all Turkmen.”

  Orazov smiled confidently. “Do not worry, sir. He has great reason to fear us. I shall be alert and ready at all times.” He bowed again, then departed.

  Wakil Mohammad Zarazi watched Orazov leave, then walked back to the large map of Turkmenistan and the surrounding region. Kerki: an easy conquest. Gaurdak: easy as well. Chärjew: not easy at all, their first encounter with Russian officers, and their first encounter with Turkmen regulars. But once Chärjew was taken, they could sweep across the Kara Kum Desert right up to the suburbs of Mary, the largest city in eastern Turkmenistan, with a force almost as large as Turkmenistan’s itself. Even if the Turkmen government made a stand at Mary — Zarazi had no fantasies about being powerful enough to take that combined Turkmen and Russian stronghold — he would control nearly one-half of Turkmenistan’s oil and gas reserves.

  More important, he would control some of the richest land in Central Asia: most of the Amu Darya River plains located inside Turkmenistan, the Kara Kum Canal that ran across the Kara Kum Desert between Mary and Kerki, and the Gaurdak plains, which were extensively irrigated and which grew a wide variety of food and plant products, especially cotton. Even if he was forced to retreat east of the sixty-third meridian, he could still easily control the eastern third of the nation from Chärjew.

  The excitement ran through Zarazi’s body like an electric current. He could do this, he told himself. If he stayed faithful to God and ran this brigade with passion and relentlessness, he could become the undisputed warlord of eastern Turkmenistan, as powerful as the president. He could create a Pashtun stronghold, a haven for Taliban and their sympathizers from all over the Muslim world.

  All he had to do was keep his men in line — or dead — starting with his former friend and fellow tribesman, Jalaluddin Turabi.

  TRANSCAL PETROLEUM CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS, WEST SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  That same time

  “Ladies and gentlemen, here he is, back from his very successful round-the-world travels! Please welcome to West Sacramento, the next president of the United States, Kevin Martindale!” The men and women at the table rose to their feet and clapped as the former president of the United States, Kevin Martindale, entered the boardroom, followed by two Secret Service agents. The large, ornate room echoed from the applause and cheers as Martindale strode to the head of the massive oak conference table, shaking hands with a few of the board members — retired politicians and military men — that he recognized. Behind them, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city of Sacramento sparkled in the clear, sunny winter afternoon, with the Tower Bridge, Discovery Park, the confluence of the American and Sacramento Rivers all presenting the perfect backdrop to this special meeting.

  William O. Hitchcock, the president and CEO of TransCal Petroleum, added his applause to his fellow board members’ after shaking the former president’s hand warmly. He allowed the applause to continue for almost thirty seconds, then invited the board members to sit. “Members of the board of directors of TransCal, I need not remind you that the name of the enemy in our business is OPEC. But for every dragon that terrorizes the kingdom, there is a dragon slayer — and I am proud to say that America’s dragon slayer is this man, the once and future president of the United Stat
es, Kevin Martindale.” Again Hitchcock let the applause run another several seconds, until Martindale finally held up his hands in surrender.

  “While the OPEC ministers were publicly threatening to cut production to absolute bare minimums, President Martindale was meeting with each of them, securing special delivery and storage arrangements that will ensure TransCal’s supply and distribution contracts for years to come,” Hitchcock went on. “With his help we have received very good assurances that prices will remain stable; that no member, no matter how large or powerful, will exceed the production limits; and that there will be enough markets and enough profits available to all, whether a member of OPEC or not. We are happy and proud that he is on our side, and we are honored to be able to support his drive to be only the second man in history to be voted back in as president of the United States after being voted out. My friends, please join me once again in welcoming home and thanking our good friend, Kevin Martindale.”

  After the third round of applause died away and Martindale greeted each of the board members personally, Hitchcock escorted the former president to his office, which was only a bit smaller than the boardroom. Any walls not composed of glass to take advantage of the spectacular city views were covered with rare and beautiful artwork, the immense faux fireplace was New Hampshire granite and Italian marble, the furniture was rich Spanish leather and polished California redwood. Martindale settled onto one of the expansive sofas with a tumbler of orange juice and sparkling water; Hitchcock offered the former president a cigar and helped himself to ice water and a Davidoff. “Good to have you back in the U.S. of A., Kevin,” Hitchcock said as they lit up. “Your trip was more successful than we could possibly have hoped.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” Martindale said. “I was happy to do it. I love the road, and I love confronting some of these Third World big shots. They think the world is scared of the name ‘OPEC,’ and I love seeing them squirm in front of the other delegates.”