Chapter 8

8

“Juan, my dear boy. I was growing concerned. Everything copacetic on your end?”

Overholt’s concern was genuine. He had been Juan’s trusted field handler when Cabrillo was a CIA agent. In fact, he had recruited Juan straight out of the Caltech ROTC program, where the young Cabrillo was double-majoring in political science and mechanical engineering. Despite his age, Overholt’s octogenarian voice rang clear and true on the overhead speakers.

“About to test some new equipment. What can I do for you, Lang? By the way, Max Hanley is on the call.”

“Mr. Hanley, I trust you are hale and hearty?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” Max said. “Yourself?”

“I’ll be defending my title as senior club champion again at next week’s handball tournament. Thank you for asking. Now, all pleasantries aside, gentlemen, I have an urgent mission I’d like you to consider undertaking.”

“Shoot,” Juan said.

“As I’m sure you’re well aware, this morning’s presidential daily brief reported that a few days ago an elite Nigerian Army unit, the 1st Expeditionary Force of Niger, was ambushed, presumably by jihadis. Over ninety officers and men were slaughtered.”

The briefing was only distributed to the President, the Vice President, the Director of National Intelligence, and a select handful of top security and intelligence executives with “need-to-know” credentials, including Langston Overholt IV. Cabrillo maintained his top secret clearances, which allowed Langston to provide him access to the briefing and any number of other security documents and emergency alerts.

“I saw that,” Juan said. “The details were sketchy. Why do you say ‘presumably’ ambushed by jihadis?”

“We just received further information on the attack a few hours ago. It turns out there was a lone survivor, a Nigerian Army sergeant who was sheltering in a nearby village while recovering from his wounds. He claims that his unit was attacked by Americans.”

Max and Juan exchanged a confused look.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Max said. “I thought the Nigerians had already ordered us out of the country after the military coup.”

“They did, though technically, we’re still in negotiations to maintain our drone base there. But obviously no American units were ordered to attack the Nigerians who, until very recently, were among our best allies in the region in the war against Islamic extremism.”

“Did the sergeant offer any proof?”

“He reported the presence of several Humvees with heavy machine guns and anti-tank guided missiles, along with at least one Black Hawk helicopter.”

“Since when did we start selling our equipment to African jihadis?” Max asked.

“I assure you that we don’t. The latest report also states that when the Nigerians recovered the bodies of their fallen comrades, they also found an expended M72 LAW rocket launcher and a jammed M4 rifle. We ran the serial numbers on those weapons. Their last known location was in an Afghan Army arsenal near Bagram Air Force base.”

Juan ran a hand through his brush-cut hair, processing the information. This smelled like trouble, big time.

When American forces withdrew in haste from Afghanistan, massive numbers of American weapons had been left behind. Worse, the vaunted army of three hundred thousand Afghan soldiers the Pentagon had supposedly trained and equipped had evaporated from the field of combat the instant the Taliban began its dash for Kabul. It was later learned that most of those three hundred thousand bought-and-paid-for Afghani soldiers never really existed. They were a “ghost” army of fake names, ranks, and serial numbers that corrupt Afghani politicians and warlords created to bilk the American taxpayer for billions of payroll dollars. Equally important, those nonexistent ghost soldiers had been armed to the teeth with expensive American military equipment.

All told, analysts estimated the Taliban was now in possession of at least eighty billion dollars’ worth of weapons and supplies including forty-five UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters, twenty-five hundred armored Humvees, and sixteen thousand pairs of night vision goggles, along with tens of millions of rounds of ammunition for all those abandoned weapons systems.

“I’ve heard of some rifles and grenades getting over the border into Pakistan and into Kashmir,” Juan said. “That makes sense, given the geographical proximity. But Niger?”

“Unfortunately, the Nigerian ambush is just the latest incident. A Filipino special forces unit was slaughtered in a night assault by New People’s Army rebels using American night vision goggles two weeks ago.”

“Also with American serial numbers located in Afghanistan, I take it.”

“Correct. And there have been similar incidents in Colombia and Libya. These arms shipments are tilting the balance of power in these regional conflicts. The U.S. government is deeply concerned with the strategic implications that regime changes incur, not to mention the fact we’re embarrassed that it’s our arms supply that’s causing it.”

“Something isn’t adding up,” Juan said. “The Taliban might have all of our abandoned gear, but they don’t have the means for global transport.”

“We know it’s not the Pipeline,” Max said. With the help of a brave Turkish journalist, the Oregon crew had successfully dismantled the infamous criminal smuggling ring a few years back.

“Any clues as to who’s running the new U-Haul service for them?” Juan asked.

“As of this moment, none.”

“Not even the usual suspects? North Korea, Russia, or Quds Force?”

“We’ve eliminated the Chinese, Russian, and Iranian security forces, as well as the North Koreans.”

“Criminals, like Nature, abhor a vacuum,” Max said. “It’s gotta be one of the mafias.”

“Our Interpol friends assure us it’s all quiet on those fronts.”

“How do we figure into this?” Juan asked.

“I have two assignments for you while you’re in Afghanistan.”

“Does that mean I get to bill you twice?”

Overholt chuckled. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t try.”

“I’m all ears.”

“First, I need you to determine how many American weapons are still remaining in the Afghani caches so we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Can’t the Pentagon give you those numbers?”

“You’re speaking of the same DoD that can’t account for trillions of dollars missing from its accounts. What’s a paltry few billion in missing weapons to them?”

“What you need is an auditor, not an operator.”

“Second, I need you to figure out how the Taliban is managing to transport these weapons. If we can determine that, we just might have a way to identify and eradicate their ‘U-Haul’ service.”

“You wouldn’t be calling me if you had any human assets left on the ground,” Juan said. “A run into the Ghan won’t be easy.”

The Pentagon chiefs not only abandoned weapons and gear, they left behind thousands of loyal Afghanis—the people who fought for the Americans and often died in service to them.

Overholt’s voice dropped an octave. “The ones that couldn’t flee on their own have either been killed or gone underground. You’d be entirely on our own.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Overholt,” Max said. “But did Uncle Sam run out of satellites? Why can’t you just monitor Afghani air and ground traffic?”

“Excellent question, Mr. Hanley. We’ve re-tasked multiple birds over the area for just that reason, and we’re monitoring all commercial air traffic in and out of Afghanistan. The bottom line is that we don’t see how or when or where these weapons systems are being transported. Frankly, I think the transport issue is a bigger concern than the weapons themselves.”

“Agreed,” Juan said. “I’m surprised the DoD hasn’t sent in a Delta team to sniff this all out.”

“They did. Two days ago…” Overholt’s voice trailed off. “They were spotted by Black Hawk helicopters piloted by the Taliban and cut down with Vulcan rotary guns. No survivors.”

“And now it’s our turn to go in.”

“I’m afraid so. That is, if you’re willing to take the assignment.”

“Who else is there to do the job?”

“Indeed, whom? Good hunting, my boy. And Godspeed.”