SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Nasseer Niaz ignored the jolt of pain stabbing his jawline as he reached the edge of the gorge in time to see the parachute blossom after the ejection seat’s short parabolic flight. A moment later, a blast echoed up the mountain, a column of smoke billowing skyward, marking the crash site.
Massaging the swollen gum around his diseased molar with the tip of his tongue, Nasseer observed the camouflaged canopy as it veered in the breeze along the southern face of the mountain, its pilot motionless, perhaps injured, or worse. And just above the crash site, an eastern imperial eagle searched for prey while contemplating the havoc below, its massive wingspan riding the thermals in wide, lazy circles.
The Shinwari warrior considered the opportunity, weighing the risks against the benefits. This was, after all, Taliban country, and though his soldiers were battle hardened, any unnecessary exposure could telegraph his presence.
Like going after a downed American pilot.
On the other hand, delivering that pilot to the Ba’i meant advanced weapons, like the Javelin missile, certainly a cut above the M32s he had negotiated for the laptops, smartphones, and the dead Canadian soldiers.
As Nasseer made his decision, Hassan and the rest of his team reached the wide ledge, followed by his trainer wielding one of the new grenade launchers.
“Will you help us, Aaron?” Nasseer asked. “Will you help us secure that pilot?”
“That’s not your kind of war, Nasseer,” Aaron replied, loading shells into one of the M32s and walking up to the edge of the plateau. He was a tall man, and as broad as Hassan.
Nasseer didn’t respond.
“See that smoke?”
Nasseer turned to see the distant haze coiling high above the trees.
Aaron used the M32 as a pointing device. “That area will be crawling with Taliban within the hour. Why on earth would you want to be anywhere near it and risk getting burned?”
Nasseer gave him a slight shrug.
At his silence, Aaron added, “Your strength comes in your ability to operate without being seen, using the intelligence that we provide, yes?”
Nasseer couldn’t disagree with his trainer’s logic, but he chose to ignore him, turning to keep an eye on the descending canopy, which looked about three or four miles away, an easy hour’s hike, or less.
“Look,” Aaron continued, “this is the best time to hit their hideouts, especially the rebel camp marked on our map—while they’re away chasing a lone pilot for bragging rights.”
Nasseer almost laughed. That was certainly no rebel camp. It was a very large and well-protected Soviet concrete bunker from the 1980s that would require much planning and firepower to breach.
But Aaron always lived up to his promises, providing training and intelligence on enemy positions, which made Nasseer’s raids much more effective—and safer, given his much smaller and nimbler force. Their arrangement was a win-win for both Aaron—wherever he was from—and the Shinwari, using their combined skills to put a significant dent in the Taliban.
Aaron had arrived yesterday after traveling nonstop from Jalalabad aboard one of Nasseer’s supply trucks. He was claiming to have broken one of Osama bin Laden’s own cousins, who had pointed him to that old Soviet compound.
“Besides,” Aaron added “that pilot looks dead.”
“Maybe … maybe not,” Nasseer finally said, tilting his head while massaging his bearded jaw, working a thumb into the base of the damn molar. “Either way, the Javelins are worth the risk.”
With a heavy sigh, Aaron looked at Nasseer, then at the parachute, then back at the Shinwari fighter. “Fine, but we’re taking the pilot with us. We need to hit our objective first—and as soon as possible. Then you can go back to the base and trade, okay?”
Nasseer considered that for a moment. Aaron was always fair, and he could tell that this mission was of high importance to his people, and it was apparently time sensitive.
With a single nod, the Shinwari chief gave the order to his men, and they headed single file down the incline as the parachute sank beneath the trees.