The Warlord of Tora Bora Read online

  HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN

  THE WARLORD OF TORA BORA

  By Eric Meyer

  Part of the Heroes of Afghanistan series

  Copyright 2017 by Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Prologue

  A dark, ragged scar marred the landscape carved deep in the shadows; hiding beneath the majestic peaks that soared high toward gloomy clouds rolling across the threatening sky. Tumbled boulders partly hid the entrance to the caves. Crevasses and treacherous cracks offered to trip and trap the unwary that tried to negotiate the forbidding approaches. Some of the caves were natural, others made by the hand of man, used over the centuries for shelter, and as strategic bases to strike out at those who would invade Afghanistan. Lately, the area had been peaceful, since the last occupants left; driven out by relentless attacks from Afghan troops, bolstered by their American allies.

  Now the fighting men had gone. The savage insurgents who once made the caves their base of operations were either dead or dispersed. A short time after the humans left, wild animals took up residence in the dark, hidden places carved into the rock. A watcher may have seen gray wolves, foraging for food, flitting from shadow to shadow on the White Mountain, or Spin Ghar, using the cave complex known as Tora Bora for their temporary home. Tora Bora, the Pashto name for The Black Caves, a name synonymous with the worst Islamic mass-murderer in modern history.

  Three weeks ago the gray wolves left, startled by the arrival of a new predator. Man. The human being who came to Tora Bora caves was a solitary figure. Thin, almost to the point of emaciation, he carried his worldly possessions in a cloth bundle slung on his shoulder. In his hand he gripped his most precious possession. A Koran, well thumbed, bound in leather that had seen a lifetime of wear. Mohammed Tarzi was tall, spare, and sported a long, unkempt beard. Almost a parody of the man whose memory he idolized, Osama bin Laden. Yet there were differences.

  A genetic accident had given him the eyes of an albino, vivid red irises, and a marked contrast with the surrounding white scleras. Those eyes regarded everything with an intensity that people found frightening. People held him in awe, and a very few even dared to whisper he could be a messenger from God. A notion he actively encouraged. Others scoffed at the very idea. Even so, they gauged his every movement and waited for the strange hermit, the ascetic, to announce his intentions to the world. Only then would they decide whether to follow him, or to execute him as the abomination a few claimed him to be.

  Tarzi had occupied the main cave at Tora Bora for three weeks, living a solitary existence while the word spread. Studying and praying, eating little, and drinking the icy water that trickled down from the mountain range of the Hindu Kush. Most days he used the bright sunlight to sit cross-legged at the mouth of his cave, studying the words of the Prophet. On the fourth week, two men arrived and begged to study with him. Three days later, a larger group of men arrived, and he allowed them to join him. Thereafter, day after day, the numbers grew. After three months, they numbered in their many hundreds, and the shrine to a mass-murderer had become a living, breathing hub of worshippers; waiting for the word from The Sheikh, for an instruction that would set them on the path of the righteous, the path to jihad, and the killing to start once again.

  A week later, he assembled his tiny group of followers for morning prayers. They squatted outside the mouth of the cave, enjoying the clear chill air. They crowded around the surrounding rocks wherever they could find space. Every eye focused on the man they were coming to regard as their savior. The man they would follow into death itself, for they had dedicated their lives to the teachings of the Prophet. They waited eagerly for him to deliver his homily. The man who hinted he had the ear of the Prophet. The man who could be the long-awaited messenger sent directly from God. At last, he raised his hands for silence.

  “My friends, this country no longer belongs to the faithful. The Islamic State of Afghanistan has fallen under the control of the infidel.”

  His voice went up to a higher pitch, almost as if he’d been rehearsing the delivery of his speech for maximum effect. “The infidel occupies our homes, defiles our women, and our holy places. His very existence is an insult to Islam!”

  He was shouting now, hoarse with passion, and gobs of phlegm flew from his lips. “Are you prepared to sit and do nothing while our country falls into apostasy and heresy?”

  “No!” hundred of voices shouted in unison, “Sheikh Tarzi, Sheikh Tarzi,” they chanted.

  The honorific ‘Sheikh’ was one his followers had attached to him, and he did nothing to make them desist. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, as if communing with some unseen spirit, or perhaps he just wanted it to look that way. When he opened them, he surveyed them for long minutes, and a shiver went through the crowd. They were about to hear a momentous message, for this holy man was a mouthpiece for Allah.

  His mouth opened, and they tensed. “The time is ripe for us to act. You men are the anointed of God. His holy warriors, ready to give your lives to defend this fair land. The word is crystal clear, given to me by God. The time is right for you to reclaim what belongs to Allah, and to the faithful of Afghanistan. It is time for…”

  He paused and stared at them, his red eyes roaming around the gathered throng. By some mystery, or perhaps a trick he’d learned on his way to becoming a skilled orator, each man felt for a fraction of a second those eyes rested on him alone. At last, his mouth opened. He spoke one word, yet it rang around the boulders, around the jagged slopes and crags, like the reverberation of a massive explosion.

  “Jihad.”

  They went wild, and the roar of the mob was like an ancient echo of the citizens of Rome; clamoring for blood inside the arenas that provided them with their gory entertainment, clamoring for death.

  “Jihad! Jihad! Jihad!”

  Tarzi folded his arms, and his faraway expression molded into one of satisfaction. His eyes seemed to glow a deeper shade of red, and he raised his arms again. They fell silent.

  “Jihad it shall be. We will spread out across this blessed land, and take back what is ours. If God wills it.”

  He stepped back inside the darkness of the cave, listening to the raised voices, assessing their enthusiasm, and analyzing their bellicose threats to kill the infidels. They were almost ready. Soon, they would be on the path he had chosen for them, and the enemies of Afghanistan would tremble. The warriors of Mohammed Tarzi were about to scorch a path across the country. They'd raise his bloody ba
nner in a violent jihad. The world would know of the arrival of the Warlord of Tora Bora.

  * * *

  Major Paul Gibbons eyed his aircrew and smiled at their youthful enthusiasm.

  A B-52H Stratofortress, nicknamed the BUFF, or Big Ugly Fat Fucker, was a sophisticated aircraft, requiring highly trained specialists to fly it and operate the complicated weapons and defense systems. His flew with a co-pilot, weapon systems officer, navigator, and electronic warfare officer, and they were the best, every one an Air Force career professional. There were times when they acted more like high school kids, like now, in the briefing room of Andersen Air Force Base, Guam; a remote posting in the Pacific, a flyspeck two thousand kilometers off the coast of the Philippines. A posting calculated to inspire boredom in the most dedicated of flight crews until an operation went up on the board.

  That was the word they’d longed to hear, and it had come. The forthcoming operation, the reason the crews of the twelve B-52s based on Guam had been called to the briefing room, to be staged in the coming weeks. The boredom had vanished. They’d worked hard on the prep and achieved a state of readiness that would take their two-hundred-ton aircraft to the target and back. Although so far, they had no word of the destination, and anticipation ran high. This morning they’d spell it out. They had to. Where they were going, and who was about to receive hundreds of tons of bombs, missiles, or whatever their Air Force Chiefs wanted them to drop.

  “Tenhut!”

  They climbed to their feet as Air Force General Gus Steiner stalked into the room. A tall, ramrod thin, and erect career officer, he ran Andersen by the book. Some said he made the air base run like clockwork as if a Swiss watch, a nod to his Swiss great-great-grandfather, who emigrated to the U.S. to escape French persecution during the Napoleonic wars of the early nineteenth century.

  He regarded them for almost a minute, and Gibbons knew something was wrong. General Steiner always came straight to the point. After what seemed an eternity, he dropped the bombshell.

  “It’s off.”

  For a few seconds, chaos reigned. Men mumbled, a few shouted in disbelief. They’d worked damn hard for this one. Steiner held up his hands for quiet.

  “It’s not my choice, men. You’ve all put maximum effort into this one, I know, but this is the way it has to be.” He grimaced. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not the Pentagon who sent the cease and desist, I promise you. This time it’s Kabul, the Afghan government. They won’t go for it, don’t want us dropping several hundred tons of ordnance on their territory.” The grimace became a smile, “I can’t imagine why.”

  No one laughed. He coughed and went on. “We told them over and over about this new guy that’s threatening to start a whole new insurrection, but they said they can’t countenance a major strike, didn’t go into reasons. So it could be anything. Someone paid someone off, objections from the Paks, they get pretty antsy about bombing raids close to their borders, or…” He paused, “It could even be the environmentalists, worried about us knocking off some of the local insect life.”

  That raised a tiny ripple of laughter. “However, whatever the reason, the mission if off, so you’re ordered to stand down. Normal training activities will resume at 07.00 tomorrow.”

  He ignored the groans. “Dismissed. Major Gibbons, stay behind. I want a word.”

  They glanced at him with little surprise. It was an open secret that Paul Gibbons was the stepson of the White House Chief of Staff, James Carver. Carver married Paul’s mother and subsequently divorced her. He remarried and had a daughter, Sara, to whom Gibbons had become more than close, and they met regularly for dinner when they were both in Washington. Then his Air Force career took him to distant postings, and the dinners were interrupted, so he hadn’t seen her for several months. But it wasn’t Sara; his stepfather was the man who interested General Steiner. He waited, and when the room was empty, Steiner spoke.

  “They’ve left us in the dark about this one, Major. I’m not happy about it. I believe my crews deserve to know the reasons for carrying out a bombing mission. Or for cancelling that same mission.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “The thing is, you have a conduit to the White House, and if you should happen to hear anything, I want to know about it. Unofficially, of course. I’m not asking you to spy or divulge any secrets, you understand.”

  “I do, Sir.”

  “Good. It’s just that if my crews are to be called to carry out this mission in the near future, I want them to know what they’re up against. What is in the minds of the men who give us our orders? What’s the problem with Kabul, what they’re thinking. The kind of stuff that lies behind the orders, you understand me?”

  “I know what you mean, General. I call my stepdad once a week, so next time I talk to him, I’ll see what I can find out. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “Do what you can, Major, that’s all anyone can do. I’m pretty sure it’ll turn out to be politics, the usual reason, but I’d like to know.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s all, dismissed.”

  Gibbons left the briefing room and thought about how to tackle his stepfather. James Carver was no fool, and would know where the request for information had come from. He was also a fair man, and he’d give him whatever he was able to. He carried on walking to the maintenance hangar and regarded the huge aircraft sitting on the concrete stand. Ground crews were working on the tens of thousands of intricate electrical and mechanical parts that made it what it was. Old and outdated, yet with its enhanced electronics and weapons capabilities, still a weapon capable of terrifying devastation, if the brass would let them loose to use it.

  Later that day, he put through the call, and couldn’t help smiling to himself. James Carver was as canny as ever, and when the conversation ended, he was little wiser. He reported the conversation to the General and told him the little he’d gleaned.

  “He hinted at an unofficial ground operation against the target, General. That’s all. Said someone else would take care of it. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged it off with a smile. “It was worth a try. Let’s just hope something else comes up to give your crews the chance to use their toys against the enemy. I know they’re as keen as hell to get into action.”

  He chuckled. “They are that, Sir. I guess you wouldn’t want them any different. They’re flyboys. They want to do what they trained for. Kill the enemy.”

  * * *

  She pressed the speed dial and heard the customary answer. “White House, how may I direct your call?”

  “Please connect me with the Chief of Staff’s office.”

  A pause. “Who do you wish to speak to in that office?”

  “The Chief of Staff.”

  Another pause. “Uh, Ma’am, he doesn’t take calls directly. If you would like information on…”

  “He’ll take this one from me.”

  Perhaps it was the confident tone that made the operator decide she may have legitimate business with James Carver, the President’s long-term friend and closest advisor. “Would you give me your name, Ma’am, and state your business.”

  “Surely. I’m Sara Carver, his daughter. As for my business, I want to speak with my father.”

  There was no pause this time. “I’m putting you through on his direct line.”

  A few seconds later, she heard the familiar voice. “Carver.”

  She smiled to herself. “This is Carver. Hi, Dad.”

  “Sara, baby, how are things going since you left the military?”

  “They’re okay, Dad, no problems.”

  They chatted about family business for several minutes, and she sensed he was anxious to bring the call to an end. He always was. Running the most powerful nation on earth wasn’t a part-time job. She decided to come to the point, and she knew he wouldn’t like it.

  “Dad, I called to say goodbye. My new employer has a job for me. You know who I work for these days?”

  “O
f course I do, honey. Where are they sending you?”

  “Afghanistan.” She heard the sharp intake of breath and grinned. No surprises there.

  “You’re not serious? Sara, I don’t think that’s wise. You haven’t been back long since you were out there with the Army. You had a rough time of it, as I recall.”

  The voice had changed, and she knew he’d be working out how to keep his little girl out of danger.

  Some chance! I served as a second lieutenant in Afghanistan, and he couldn’t stop me then. His little girl has grown up. Sorry.

  “This is a new assignment, Dad. They say it’s important. Besides, it won’t be for long, a couple of weeks at most. Then I’ll be back, and you can buy me dinner, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “I don’t like it, Sara. Maybe I should have a word with them. You shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “No, Dad. Absolutely not.”

  “Hmm, well, I think it’s wrong, but if it’s what you want…”

  “It is.”

  “Okay, we’ll meet for dinner as soon as you get back. Say, Paul called earlier today, did you know he’s serving overseas?”

  “I know.”

  “Right. It’ll be nice for us to get together sometime, the three of us. We see so little of each other.”

  “That’s the work we do, Dad. Find out when he’s back in the U.S., and we’ll meet up when I get back to Washington.”

  “I’ll do that. You know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “He’s serving on Guam, which is a pity. That’s about seven thousand miles from Afghanistan, so there’s zero chance of you to getting together while you’re over there. Otherwise, I’d have asked him to look you up.”

  He meant check up on her, and make sure she was safe. “There’s no chance of that, Dad. I must go. I have a plane to catch. Love you.”

  “Love you too. Call me again soon.”