“Get him on the phone and wipe that smirk off your face, sister, or I’ll sic Kevin Martindale on you again.”
“Hey, I can put up with a lot of nonsense for the kind of money that guy has,” Meiling said. “A whole lot.”
Five
For the thousandth time in just the past few days, Jalaluddin Turabi asked himself why he was there, why he chose to march with Zarazi’s army into the heart of this godforsaken country. Why in hell was he standing on this armored personnel carrier, protected only by several thousand acres of cotton — while what appeared to be the entire Turkmen army was marching toward them? Wakil Mohammad Zarazi’s campaign to capture the western half of Turkmenistan and turn it into a training ground for Muslim holy warriors did indeed seem to be blessed. Except now the blessings of Allah were going to be severely put to the test.
Up to that morning their campaign seemed to be not only blessed but plainly miraculous. They captured Gaurdak with barely a shot fired. After their victory at Kerki, the Turkmen soldiers at Gaurdak fairly rushed into their arms. Their army nearly doubled in size overnight. They had over six thousand fighters plus dozens of attack and scout helicopters, weapons of all kinds, from pistols to self-propelled artillery pieces, and vehicles ranging from motorcycles to main battle tanks.
Turabi was simply caught up in the emotion of their victories. When the army started marching westward along the Amu Darya River, he couldn’t help but come along. His original idea was to remain behind at Gaurdak, in charge of the “rear guard,” and then prepare to bug out at the first sign of a Turkmen army counterattack. However, they had captured the hearts and souls of not just the Turkmen army, but the people there as well — there was clearly no need for a rear guard. Zarazi’s army started moving westward, and Turabi could do nothing but march as well.
When Zarazi’s brigade was one day’s march away from Chärjew, the largest city on the Amu Darya River and a major nexus for oil and gas transshipments across Central Asia, an armored personnel carrier, its fifty-seven-millimeter cannon removed and a white flag flying in its place on the turret, came out onto the main highway to meet them. A young man wearing a leather jacket, a bump helmet over a pair of headphones, and knee-high tanker boots was standing in the APC’s cupola. Zarazi, Turabi, and Orazov — the Russian-speaking Turkmen traitor was now seemingly inseparable from Zarazi — rode out in their own APC, with the cannon installed, to meet him.
“I am Captain Rizov,” the young Russian officer said. Orazov translated the Russian for Zarazi. “I am aide-de-camp for the commander of the Turkmen Seventeenth Mechanized Infantry Brigade, Colonel Yuri Borokov.”
“Why couldn’t the colonel come out here himself?”
“Colonel Borokov does not negotiate with terrorists,” Rizov said. He was remarkably calm, Turabi noticed — the confidence and fearlessness of youth, no doubt. Rizov had probably never been in battle and thought he was invincible sitting in that little APC. “He is busy planning his operation to grind your little band of raiders into the sand. I offered to negotiate on behalf of the colonel and the people of Chärjew.”
“Then your colonel is a coward for sending a junior officer to do his dirty work for him,” Zarazi said. “You have shown great courage by coming out here alone and unarmed. I admire that. You do not deserve to die. You may withdraw; I guarantee your safety.”
“Thank you for the compliment, sir, but I don’t need your guarantees. What I need is your cooperation to avoid any violence,” Rizov said. “If you move your forces any farther west, Colonel Borokov will attack without warning. That is my guarantee.”
“I could use a young, courageous fighter like you in my force, Captain,” Zarazi said. “You could command one of my tank companies.”
“Then I’d be commanding a company of corpses,” Rizov said. “You cannot hope to win an assault against Turkmen regulars. The Seventeenth has a total fighting force of eight thousand soldiers in seven combat battalions—”
“My intelligence says the Seventeenth has a total of thirteen thousand soldiers in eleven combat and three support battalions, Captain,” Zarazi interrupted. “Elements of the Twenty-second Infantry Brigade from Mary joined up with you yesterday, along with three reserve battalions — old men and youngsters, hardly real fighting men, but still a fairly successful call-up of reserve forces for a country with virtually no army at all. In addition, the Fourth Attack Wing from Ashkhabad, with one squadron each of MiG-23 and Sukhoi-25 bombers, has reportedly been deployed to Mary and should be ready to begin close air-support operations by tomorrow. I am told you moved an artillery company to Khodzhayli, but even my most conservative intelligence estimates cannot tell me if the unit is ready to fight or even if the batteries are real or just fakes. I congratulate you for trying to disguise your numbers, but I am very well informed of Turkmen troop movements. Is there anything I’ve left out, Captain?”
Rizov fell silent for a moment. Zarazi had indeed left a few things out, but Rizov was amazed at what the Taliban fighter did know. “What is it you wish in Chärjew, sir?”
“If you join my army, Captain, you will learn everything,” Zarazi said. “Because of your courage, you may still withdraw with safety if you refuse to join me. But I warn you: If you do not join my army, you will be killed the next time we meet.”
“Sir, I did not come here to listen to threats,” Rizov said. “I agreed to come out here like this to learn what you want. We know that TransCal company officials are prepared to offer you large sums of money to keep their pipelines safe. I understand their concern. They make more money if the lines are undamaged and their product is flowing. Frankly, I believe that the Turkmen government thinks similarly. If you agree not to harm the lines and withdraw, the Turkmen government will see to it that you are paid, promptly and generously.”
“So your commander will pay me not to fight? What kind of soldier is he, Captain?”
“A practical one, sir,” Rizov said. “If it is money you are after in Turkmenistan, then we offer it to you. I am carrying a sizable amount with me right now. Withdraw your forces immediately, and by the time you reach the Afghan border, I will deliver it to you.”
“How much are you carrying?” Jalaluddin Turabi shouted.
“Quiet, you idiot, or I will have you shot,” Zarazi growled, speaking out of a corner of his mouth and not turning toward Turabi so as to not indicate that there was any discord in their ranks.
“We are here to gather funds for our tribe and for the Al Qaeda cells that we support,” Turabi said in a low voice. “If he is offering money, we should take it.”
“I said shut up, Colonel. Now,” Zarazi ordered.
“I am authorized to pay you one hundred thousand dollars in gold bullion if you agree not to move any farther west,” Rizov said. He still had his tanker’s helmet on, but Turabi could tell by his expression and by his tone of voice that he had indeed heard Zarazi’s angry comment and was pleased that they were arguing. “A helicopter from Ashkhabad will deliver another two hundred thousand dollars in gold to the town of Mukry, on the Afghan border south of Gaurdak. You may even have the helicopter to transport the gold out.”
“One hundred thousand dollars just to hold our position?” Turabi exclaimed to Zarazi. “Offer to do it for five hundred thousand, Wakil, and it’s a deal.”