“I don’t want to get our forces bogged down in guerrilla warfare with a bunch of fucking desert reptiles, sir,” Gryzlov said. “We lost the advantage in Afghanistan not because we used airpower but because we didn’t use enough airpower. If we go in, we must go in not just with adequate force but with overwhelming force.”
“We don’t need an invasion force to take out a handful of ragheads in the open desert.”
“We can’t take the chance, sir,” Gryzlov emphasized. “Let’s move into Turkmenistan in force. Let’s not make the mistakes we did in Chechnya or Afghanistan. I can send three wings of heavy bombers over those rebels in twelve hours and wipe out their armor, artillery, and air defenses in one night. I can have thirty thousand troops on the ground in Turkmenistan in two weeks, which should be more than enough to destroy what’s left of the Taliban. In two months I can have another fifty thousand troops in place. We can protect every drop of oil we pump out of that place.”
“And have the entire world watching on CNN while we bomb the hell out of a bunch of desert ragheads?” Sen’kov retorted. “Out of the question. You can send in commando teams to keep an eye on those pigfuckers, but I don’t want to slaughter them unless I absolutely have to.”
“Sir, they’ve already killed Turkmeni and even Russian troops,” Gryzlov said. “We’re fully justified in sending in troops to destroy them. We should—”
“Denied!” Sen’kov said. “I want our troop movements kept quiet. I don’t want to be accused of starting another Chechen-style holocaust. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Sen’kov motioned at the door, and Gryzlov got the hell out of there quickly.
“Mr. President, you have a right to help defend Turkmenistan,” Kurban Gurizev said. “Russia helped build this country, and we still have a sizable Russian population here. You don’t need to tiptoe around the damned Americans and their pipelines. They are raping our country — the entire world knows it.”
“No one seemed to mind when Niyazov signed that oil project with the Americans and cut Russia out completely.”
“Most people don’t know the details of the TransCal deal,” Gurizev said. “At least Russia pays for Turkmen oil, instead of leaching off every barrel pumped by someone else. I may have been born in this country, Minister, but my loyalties are with Mother Russia — as long as you are there to back me up. Otherwise, I have no difficulty at all in accepting the American oil companies’ money.”
“Don’t try to play both sides here, Gurizev,” Sen’kov said. “We’ll back you against these Taliban, but we don’t want to hear about you making any special backroom deals with the Americans. Your future is in Russia. That’s what you wanted, and that’s what we agreed to, once the Russian oil companies can take over those new oil and gas fields discovered by the Americans. You just play this game exactly how we planned it and you’ll get your reward — a first-class ticket back to Russia, with the money you’ve embezzled from the Turkmen treasury safe in your pocket.”
Gurizev quickly decided to change the subject. He was dismayed to learn that the Russians knew about the frequent “enhanced-benefit receipts” he’d been drawing from the treasury. “The Americans have asked to meet with myself, the Russian ambassador, and even the Taliban leader,” Gurizev said. “I think it would be unwise not to allow them to visit — it might help defuse the situation here. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them the situation is extremely dangerous and the government cannot guarantee their safety,” Sen’kov said. “If they still want to come, let them — but do everything you can to discourage it.”
“I should let the Americans meet with those Taliban?”
“Damn it, I hope to hell you’ve killed those Taliban insects long before the Americans arrive,” Sen’kov said angrily.
“I don’t know what to say to an American delegation—”
“Gurizev, you simply tell them you are serving your country,” Sen’kov said. “Just get your picture taken with whomever they send, then let your underlings handle it. Your job for now is to mobilize that army of yours and squash those Taliban insurgents—immediately.” He terminated the call with an angry stab on a button. “He had better get off his ass and do something, or we’ll have to replace him — sooner rather than later.”
“Sir, General Gryzlov seemed pretty adamant about sending in a powerful force to knock back those Taliban outside Mary,” Minister of Defense Bukayev said. “Maybe we should let him mobilize a good-size force. No one in the world would argue if we sent several air regiments to Mary. We still have a sizable training force in Turkmenistan.”
“The general needs to have his insubordinate ass kicked!” Sen’kov shouted. “I have become the hellmaster of Chechnya in the world press because of him! Now he thinks I’m going to approve of another similar operation in Turkmenistan? He’s crazy! If he can’t handle this operation with a few commando units, he shouldn’t be in charge of the Russian military.”
Jalaluddin Turabi had to admit that the swelling tide of victory was compelling, even addictive. Wakil Mohammad Zarazi’s little band of Taliban raiders had turned into a real army now, with over twelve thousand fighters and another two thousand support personnel spread out over much of eastern Turkmenistan. They left a garrison of a thousand troops and support personnel in Chärjew to guard that vital city against the Russian and Turkmen forces that had fled the country across the border into Uzbekistan, but it was doubtful if that was even necessary — their victory in Chärjew had been complete.
The people of Chärjew were solidly behind Zarazi for one simple reason: Zarazi had money, and lots of it. He had made a deal with the American officials of TransCal Petroleum to keep the pipelines and pumping stations safe and had been paid well. Zarazi wisely disbursed the money to the Turkmen officials of Chärjew in exchange for loyalty, and it had worked. Zarazi could safely leave the security of the pipelines to local police and militia, with only a token force of his loyal soldiers to oversee things and watch for any incursions from the north. Zarazi also gave quite a bit of money to the local population as well as to his soldiers. His flanks were secure.
It had been the perfect opportunity for Turabi to leave Zarazi and take command of the garrison at Chärjew. Except for his raid on Khodzhayli Airport, where almost a hundred Turkmen and Russians had been killed or wounded, Turabi had gone easy on the Turkmen army as he moved into Chärjew, and the Turkmen people seemed thankful for that. He could have easily, quietly watched Zarazi’s back as he moved his ever-growing army down the main highway toward their ultimate clash at Mary. Why did he not ask Zarazi if he could stay behind in Chärjew?
Two reasons: fear and curiosity. Yes, he was afraid of Wakil Zarazi. When his old friend and leader told him to do something, he did it. Zarazi did have some sort of powerful effect on Turabi. It was more than clan loyalty: Turabi was genuinely afraid of Zarazi’s going drunk, or even crazy, with the power he was accumulating. He hated to think what Zarazi would do if he sensed any weakness or betrayal in any of his senior officers.
Turabi was also very much afraid of Aman Orazov, their Russian-Turkmen turncoat who had maneuvered himself in as Zarazi’s confidant and adviser, almost on a par with Jalaluddin Turabi himself. Since the successful occupation of Chärjew, when everyone else seemed to treat Turabi like some kind of battlefield genius, Orazov had been standoffish, perfunctory, and even hostile toward Turabi. Was it because Turabi took on Turkmen regular-army soldiers and defeated them — or was it because he was far more popular with the Turkmen, even ones he’d defeated in battle, than Orazov ever was?