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CHAPTER 1
Joint Patrol
There's been tension and instability all along the 1500-mile-long Durand Line that forms the disputed border between Afghanistan and Pakistan since the day it was drawn in 1896. Created by a treaty between the British Empire and the Afghan Amir, the Durand Line was an arbitrary barrier for political expediency to fix their respective spheres of influence. But it cut the Pashtun and Baloch tribal regions nearly in half. And like a river dam, pressure for tribal reunification began building as soon as it was drawn, driven today by the Pashtun dominated Taliban. It's a line that seemingly no one but the Afghan and American governments had an interest in protecting.
The area around Khost, in the central Kaitu River valley near the Pakistan border, is one of the most active for Taliban operations. This rib of the Hindu Kush Mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan is dotted with small villages along its streams and rivers. Engorged with runoff from the melting snows of the high mountains, they feed a fertile patchwork of agriculture.
Cradled in the foothills of the majestic mountains to the north, far from the bustling city centers of Kabul and Kandahar, the air is crisp and clean. The earthy smells of the countryside get carried on the gently swirling wind currents through the hills and valleys. The smoke and spices from a thousand cooking fires, the herbs and produce from the fields, and the ripening fruit in their groves form an aromatic kaleidoscope of the simple life on the Afghan frontier. But the picturesque serenity of the rugged frontier belies the danger hidden beneath its canvas of soaring landscapes, vibrant colors, and intoxicating smells.
It's a danger that creates a sense of dread that the serenity could rupture at any moment into a deadly fight for survival. It was that feeling of imminent danger that caused the allied patrol to move cautiously along the southeast bank of the Kaitu River about 20 miles east of Khost. This region had gone back and forth between allied and Taliban control for the past two years. Though the Taliban had some supporters in the area, the villagers around here just wanted to be left alone. It was this desire for independence that the commander of the ANA forces, Lieutenant Colonel Abdul Qadir, used for leverage.
With the U.S. drawdown, Qadir, Commander 2 Battalion, 1 Brigade, 203rd Corps, had to work overtime to prepare his Afghan National Army troops to take over security from the Americans. When he wasn't training with his men, he was tirelessly working to build relations among the tribal and village elders in the region. Like the Anbar Awakening effort, the U.S. used to gain the trust of the Sunni tribes in Iraq, his efforts resulted in things being fairly quiet lately. But quiet is a relative term in the Afghan-Pakistan border region.
A calm, stoic, and religious man, Qadir conversed in the deliberate, indirect, almost circular way common in Afghanistan, very different from the direct manner of the Americans. It was a lyrical, noncommittal style, avoiding definitive statements so as not to offend, but always respectful. He had a knack for understanding people and how to appeal to their cultural sense of honor, loyalty, and religion, the bedrocks of Afghan culture. Qadir knew exactly when to use his authority and when to defer to the local elders. He not only listened to them but when he made a promise, he always kept it.
It wasn't just deference to the elders, but Qadir's way of weaving their common religion, traditions, and rich tribal history into everything he did, and said, to gain their trust and cooperation. He understood that every action he and his men took would be watched, analyzed, and judged against the backdrop of local norms not national. So, he demanded that his men adhere to the fundamental tenets of Islam in all interactions with friend or foe. None of this was lost on the villagers Qadir encountered. It solidified cooperation from village elders against the Taliban and had nearly shut down their supply lines through this part of Afghanistan.
Qadir was an imposing figure for an Afghan. At five foot ten and 180 pounds, he was taller than most Afghan men but had a powerful, muscular frame that was obvious under the digital camouflage of his uniform and body armor. With short brown hair, full beard, penetrating eyes, high cheekbones, and angular face, he emanated confidence and authority. He not only looked powerful, but sounded it too. In battle, his deep baritone voice thundered over the din of gunfire with clear, crisp commands. And unlike the indirect communication style he used in conversation, when the lives of his men were involved, Qadir was short and direct. His commands were issued with such authority that they were obeyed without hesitation.
Qadir had fought the Taliban for most of his life. He was a unique commander in the ANA, a Shia Muslim from the mountainous Hazarajat region who'd fought with the Northern Alliance during the civil war. The minority Shia Hazaras not only suffered from discrimination from the much larger Afghan tribes but from the 1400-year-old schism between the sects of Islam. The more radical Sunni elements believe Shia's to be apostates deserving only death. Yet here was Qadir, not only commanding respect from his Sunni men but absolute devotion.
His men trusted him, loved him, and would gladly die a thousand deaths if he commanded it. Quite an accomplishment, considering several under his command were former Taliban fighters, including his most trusted senior NCO. He had a charisma, not the boastful, gregarious preacher type, but a patient, quiet confidence with a deference to the common tenets of Islam and tradition that drew men to him.
Through Qadir's humility, dedication, actions, and words, he changed people's perceptions of both Islam and Afghanistan. He offered them a perspective they had never heard nor imagined, thereby turning enemies into friends, and friends into followers. It was this dedication to and from his men, Pashtun, Uzbek, Tajik, Turkomen, and Hazara alike that made him the only ANA officer who never had an Afghan soldier attack his American counterparts -- a green-on-blue incident, as the Americans called it. And within the ANA, his units came closest to matching the Americans in fighting skills, tenacity, and effectiveness.
The current mission was to check on several villages in a region where clashes with the Taliban were common. Today would take them to Zakar Khel, the last of the villages that straddled the river close to the border. The joint patrol had been out for several days, slowly making their way up the river. So far, they had not encountered any enemy resistance, but every man in the formation knew it could change in an instant.
The patrol had left Kazeh Kalay an hour earlier and was moving along a dirt and gravel road that was slightly more than a cart path on the east side of the river. Qadir was soaking up the warm mid-morning sunshine. The sights and sounds of the villagers working the groves of fruits, nuts, and vegetables, the children's aerial battles with their fighting kites and smells of the village lingered in his memory. He thought fondly of the odors of the kabobs, curry, and vegetables cooking. The smell of Cumin, Turmeric, Cardamom, Cloves, and Nutmeg, common in the milder seasoning of the Afghan cuisine over their Indian cousins, reminded him of his own home and childhood.
"Sergeant Hassam," Qadir called to his command sergeant.
Hassam jogged up next to his commander. He was about the same height but was wiry and muscular with a jet-black beard and brown eyes that looked like dark chocolate. "Yes sir," he acknowledged.
"This patrol's been quiet," Qadir said as he scanned the rolling hills rising from the river.
"Perhaps a little too quiet, sir," Hassam replied.
"Agreed, that's what I think as well. Pass it along for everyone to pay attention to any detail that looks out of place. We're near the end and can't afford to have the men's minds somewhere else," Qadir ordered, knowing he was daydreaming only moments before.
It was easy for everyone in the patrol to get lost in the nostalgia of the countryside and forget about the danger. But while the Americans would spend a year here then go home, many of Qadir's men had been fighting most of their adult lives. The mind-numbing monotony of these patrols, broken only by the adrenaline rush of battle, meant that every soldier was in a constant state of heightened tension. A tension immediately felt by anyone who's ever had to constantly be on guard to react to an unexpected attack. After a kilometer and a half, the river bent northward as a ridge rose to their left in the shape of a fishhook.
Abruptly Qadir raised his fist over his head, "Halt," he ordered.
His voice echoed off the wall of the ridge rising to his left. Something was wrong; he could feel it before he saw it. Across the river, Qadir could see the fields of Kazeh Tala where two men from that village had knelt to pray facing the column of soldiers. The squad leaders immediately signaled each of their squads to take up defensive positions and await orders. The sudden stop caused the tension in the entire patrol to explode into anticipation. The resulting surge in adrenaline elevated the senses of everyone in the formation.
The American commander and his translator quickly moved up alongside Qadir, "What's the situation?" asked Major Watkins.
Major Douglas Booker Watkins, Operations Officer U.S. 2nd Battalion, 27th Infantry Regiment was an equally imposing figure. At six foot five and 250 pounds of muscle, he was a former tight end for the US Military Academy at West Point. Watkins came from a long line of decorated servicemen, from his great-grandfather who fought with the Harlem Hellfighter Negro brigade in World War I to his father in Vietnam. With two tours in the violent Anbar province of Iraq and three in Afghanistan, Watkins was the most experienced officer in theater as well as the most decorated. Having spent the past few months working closely with Qadir, the two had built a strong bond.
"No Kites, no field workers, two men praying on the river bank, wrong direction, wrong time," Qadir replied.
Qadir spoke three languages; his native Dari, Pashto, and English. He had learned English when he went to India for training at their officers' academy and enjoyed talking with Watkins about military history and tactics. But he wanted the translator at times like this when it was crucial to get the information right; men's lives were at stake, and there was no room for misunderstandings.
Watkins understood his meaning immediately; it was too quiet, and subtle details were out of place. He spent long hours in the theater of operations studying his enemy closely to better understand them and predict their actions. He knew the routine almost as well as a native. Islam requires prayer 5 times a day that are regimented at strict times, facing Mecca to the west, and a prayer rug. The morning prayers were already done, and it wasn't time for the next ones. Plus, the two men were praying to the North, away from Mecca, on dirt. They were being watched, and this was a warning.
*
Majeed saw the column come to a halt and take up defensive positions. From his location on top of the ridge, he could see both the approaching allied patrol along the river and Zakar Khel. Armed with an Iraqi Al-Kadesih sniper rifle, he could scan the terrain and provide fire support for the Taliban force in the village and the fields just outside of it.
His brothers in the village were depending on him for information on the movements of the approaching patrol. He didn't know what made the commander stop the column, but it caused him concern. The trap had been carefully set. The villagers had been rounded up when a Taliban spy reported that the coalition was going to check out Zakar Khel. Some of his fellow fighters would be hiding in the pomegranate groves outside the village walls while the rest would be inside. To draw in the unsuspecting allied patrol some village women would be forced to cook to make it appear normal, or their children would be executed.
"Movement from the rear," the spotter whispered.
Just before his spotter spoke, Majeed had already noticed the movement of the American and another man coming up from the rear element to someone in the middle of the formation.
"I see them," replied Majeed.
He carefully watched the meeting between the three men and knew he had found both commanders and their interpreter. They pulled out some papers Majeed assumed was a map and spoke for several minutes. Focusing on the two men talking, he knew who his first target would be.
"Signal the village, the patrol is approaching," Majeed said with a satisfying smile.
He'd been with the Taliban for the past ten years and grown up not far from here, so he knew this area like the back of his hand. The coalition had been working hard to improve relations with the village elders for the past several months and had an ANA commander who was said to be extremely influential. If it was Allah's will, this would be that commander and Majeed would be the sword to strike him down.
Majeed saw the meeting break up and the American commander jog back to his formation. He huddled with his squad leaders giving orders and the ANA commander did the same with his lieutenants. Obviously, the American pig gave his lap dog instructions, and Majeed laughed at the thought of the ANA leading this mission. They had fought many battles with these joint patrols and it was usually the Americans who did the fighting, due to tentative or inept ANA troops.
But these ANA troops looked confident, not jittery like so many others; likely just false bravado of those who hadn't yet felt the sting of Taliban fighters. Majeed was sure his own commander had all possibilities covered. He didn't know all the details, he was the eyes, but he knew where everyone was located so he could support them with long range sniper fire if needed. And if this was that ANA commander he had heard about, he would be the battle's first casualty.
The American was giving hand signals as the rest of the formation started moving again. Majeed and his spotter started scanning the column to get an accurate count when the front of the column started yelling and motioning vigorously at something. Both men spun their focus toward the front of the column and spotted two men across the river who slowly turned to walk back to their village. The column was less than a kilometer from Zakar Khel, but before the two Taliban fighters could swing their scopes back to get a count of the enemy troops, they had moved to the base of the ridge and had begun to disappear around the hook in the river.
CHAPTER 2
Zakar Khel
The dirt road leading into Zakar Khel ran north from the point of the hooked ridge into the village. The village was located between the Kaitu River to the East and the ridge to the West. Just past the point of the ridgeline was a flat field where lush groves of mature pomegranate trees lined both sides of the narrow road all the way to the village entrance. Their striking orange-red blossoms against the dark green foliage looked like a sunset explosion in the warm mid-morning sun. The petals, used in a sweet tea mix, gave off a sweet aroma that enveloped the orchard and the village.
Pomegranates had become the chosen cash crop in the region due to the rich, fertile soil, and plentiful water from the mountains' winter runoff. While opium poppies were still grown in the province, the villagers of Zakar Khel sent their sweet, luscious red fruit to the juice factories in Kabul. The Pomegranates brought in 35% more revenue per acre than poppies, which gave the village inhabitants a relatively comfortable life. Revenues the Taliban were more than happy to tax in the areas under their control.
Zakar Khel was split into two opposing U-shaped compounds, with about 30 meters between open end sections forming a cross in the road at the village center. Rafiq Al-Youssef, the Taliban commander of this mission, saw the mirror flash signal from the over-watch team confirming the approach of the enemy patrol. He was quietly pleased with himself and praised Allah for the battle about to be waged. He had his men prepared, positioned both inside and outside the village. With the harvest still months away, the Taliban commander knew he had to position some of his men in the orchard to work the trees and draw in the unsuspecting allied patrol.
Satisfied he had planned for all contingencies, Rafiq knew it would be a defining battle for him, and the Taliban. The village had been a refuge for his men until a few months ago, when several supply patrols through this area failed to return. It wasn't so much that the villagers around here liked the Taliban, but they feared what would happen if they didn't cooperate. Though the Taliban had some supporters in this region, the villages around here were fiercely independent.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Valley of Stars"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Niels Andersen.
Excerpted by permission of First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
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