Gunga Din 10

Cptr. 9

Tuesday, Sept. 25, 2021, 10:47 AM. Arlington, Virginia.

“Well, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, your written work on Afghanistan grabbed some attention - and that was before the attacks... Truth is that I was already working on recruiting you when you came to us, so… you got handed off to me…” Chuck sat his bulk back into the car’s seat as the gate lifted; he looked at Ted, “…and I am a gen-u-ine outside guy, a commercially covered officer, Ted. I cannot be seen anywhere near Langley; at least not yet. I currently have a day job for a real company where the only person in the company who knows I’m an ops officer is the CEO… and the owner.” Chuck moved the Taurus out into traffic on the road adjacent to the parking garage.

“Is that what’s planned for me?” Ted asked.

“Not clear at the moment… not entirely. As you might imagine, things are… pretty fluid right now. But just in case, to preserve that cover possibility for you in the future - presuming you’re capable of being a paramilitary case officer and you are, I’m sure. Most of your training will be some abbreviated versions of the longer course, with me and some other folks here in northern Virginia, plus whatever extra paramilitary training you might need to have. You’ll likely get the full course later on…” Ted had the thought, if I’m still alive. He sat quietly and considered the fullness of what he was contemplating as Chuck navigated the secondary roads, then took an onramp for Leesburg Pike headed northwest.

“I know I probably shouldn’t ask this, and you probably can’t answer anyway, but how much time… before we - I mean, not me personally, but the US - goes in, roughly?” Ted asked after a few minutes. He kept his head forward, but out of the corner of his eyes he could see Chuck’s eyes dart momentarily in his direction, then see a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth. Ted heard Chuck take a few deep breaths, each time as if about to say something, but instead silence. Eventually Chuck muttered “here we are” and then a series of turns put them into a nondescript shopping plaza parking lot. Ted scanned the marquees until he saw the Thai restaurant midway along the long leg of the l-shaped building.

Chuck spoke fluidly to the young hostess in her native tongue, who beamed as she seated them.

“So, serious question,” Chuck began, “weren’t you a pretty good athlete out of high school? Is my recollection about that correct? How do you go from that to being an oh-three-thirty-one, a machine-gunner in our beloved Corps?” Chuck arched his eyebrows at the word “our”.

Ted’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit, you were a Marine?” he said without thinking.

“Mister Jones,” Chuck began with a professor’s voice, “a case officer does not blurt out his surprise - tinged with no small amount of disgust I might add - at the possibility that the giant tub of shit in front of him might not have always been so,” Chuck said drily, while motioning for the waitress. Teddy was glad that his skin color protected him from showing the embarrassment that he felt as the blood rushed to his face.

“Shit… Dawg, I’m sorry,” Teddy begin. “I just - I never would have pegged you for a Marine.” He shook his head with a bemused smile. “And you sound like you talked to my mom… about joining the Corps, I mean.”

“Well, Ted, you might consider that this,” and he gestured with his hand down the whole front of his chest and belly, “is a part of my disguise. That it worked to fool another Marine might be an indication of its effectiveness.” Chuck winked. “You let me order for you… you trust me, or are you like, a chicken pad thai only kinda guy?” Ted snorted because it was true, he was a chicken pad thai guy.

“Please,” Ted waved. Chuck smiled and then launched into a discourse in Thai with the waitress that included a gesture at Ted and a brief request to Ted in English, “Beer?” tilting his hand to which Ted assented. After the waitress left, Ted began again.

“I wasn’t big time… I went to a smaller Catholic school, and so I got some love.” He laughed again. “I’m sorry, I -”

“I was an offensive lineman at Dartmouth,” Chuck interrupted. “Found the Marine Corps through some college recruiting and went through the platoon leaders course to become an officer.” It was Ted’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “I was never a three-hundred PFT guy, consistently two-nineties, but believe it or not, I used to run the three miles in nineteen minutes… ‘course, that was back when I ran the forty in four-six-five,” Chuck said wistfully. He sat back as the waitress brought and poured them each a Singha into a glass, then set the brown bottles on the table.

Ted took a tentative gulp, the brew surprisingly crisp, with a strong malt flavor. Chuck took a longer draught at the same time that left foam on his mustache he wiped with a napkin.

“Wow, that’s not what I expected,” Ted said.

“Mm, one of the few joys of my time in Thailand,” Chuck said, then added hastily, “two years in the Peace Corps in the jungles, shitting myself down in weight until I was lighter than when I was in college… I came back disillusioned, but I could express my disillusionment in Thai,” he smirked. “Went to Wharton and got an MBA, and yadda yadda, I wound up doing commercially covered work in that part of the world when it was all said and done,” Chuck threw his hands up.

“Sir, if you don’t mind, what’d you do in the Marine Corps?” Ted took another long pull from his glass while he waited for an answer.

“Comms officer,” Chuck made a motion like he was spinning the crank on a field phone, which drew a smile. “And please, it’s Chuck. We’ll be working together a lot, I expect. I got tired of being relieved by angry battalion commanders because some fucking tanker or track guy ran over the wire my Marines had just spent like six hours laying out,” Chuck rolled his eyes and laughed to himself. “So. You?”

“I found the Marine Corps through boxing, not the recruiter’s office. There was a coach in our gym who was an old Korean War era Marine, Chosin Reservoir vet, boxed as a middleweight a little bit… and never left the sport.” Ted’s eyes went distant. “He had some great stories about serving under Chesty Puller…” Ted took a sip of his beer.

“Oh, damn. Wow.”

“Yeah… just a really influential guy on my life,” Ted went on, “which led me to VMI…”

“-And yet you wound up as a Navy officer?” Chuck asked. Ted shrugged.

“When I got interested in being an intelligence officer, the Marine Corps’ way of organizing, and what typical S-2 guys does in an infantry battalion, none of that really appealed to me. Different kind of intelligence work, so… I had to let that go, kinda shed that skin, so to speak.”

“Mm,” Chuck murmured, topping off their glasses.

“Truthfully, though. I’m probably overstaying my welcome in the Navy…” Ted took a sip, followed by an audible sigh. “Once a Marine always a Marine and all that. The Navy’s pretty gay,” he finished, looking solemn.

Chuck laughed out loud. Then around his beer: “Well, there is that… what was it, about the Royal navy? Rum, sodomy…”

“Don’t talk to me about naval tradition!” Ted raised his fist. “It’s nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash!” Chuck laughed as Ted went on. “Greatest quote ever. Churchill supposedly said it as First Lord of the Admiralty to a bunch of his senior Admirals right before World War One. They were bitching about reforms in how they conducted business. He denied it later, but I’d bet my ass he said it. One of the greatest lines ever.”

After a moment, Chuck began, “Well, a less than perfect segue, I guess, with a World War Two namesake… do you know who Wendy Chamberlin is?” His tone more serious.

“Mmmm… US ambassador to Pakistan?”

“Exactly, yes. Not taking a position on her merits - I’ve only met her once previously at a reception - but she’s currently trying to convince Pakistan to force the Taliban to turn over Osama bin Laden. And that is simply not going to happen for political realities of Pakistan that you know all too well, you’ve written about it. There are very pointed concerns within the Administration, from State, that - given the ties between ISI and the Taliban, Pakistan’s history with political assassination - that the regime cannot- is… hmm…” Chuck gestured with his hand, “not politically robust, let’s say. And it is also a nuclear armed nation.” Chuck took a sip of beer, finishing his glass with “aahhh” and then motioned to the waitress. “Another?”

“The concern being that a coup against Musharraf, and there is a very real possibility of either the Taliban or al qaeda getting nukes.” Chuck spoke with a flat affect out of the side of his mouth. A moment later, the waitress came with two more beers and Chuck was instantly smiling again.

“I can’t believe you’ve never had one of these before. You never did a WestPac as a grunt? No libo in the Philippines or Phuket?”

“East coast Marine Corps, baby. Parris Island and Camp Lejeune - Med Floats only.” Chuck and Ted sat silently as the waitress delivered their replacements and then walked off.

Another young girl followed a moment later with a cart, brimming with a variety of steel-top covered dishes, spoons, and condiment ramekins, quickly maneuvered and ostentatiously placed in front of Chuck, who grinned at all of it. Once it was served, Chuck held up his glass, “Cheers, Ted. To your health.”

After a few sips and bites, Chuck asked blandly. “How long has it been since you jumped out of a plane?”

Ted scrunched his face. “Uhhh, a few years, but… it’s not that hard really on a static line. You get your jump wings?”

Chuck nodded in the affirmative while he shoveled food into his mouth.

He stopped and mopped his beard. “You ever do any free fall?” Ted shook his head in the negative.

“Mm,” Chuck grunted. “But you’re not afraid of going out of the back of an aircraft… at night, for instance?”

“No, I’m not afraid like that.” Ted shook his head side-to side. “The tower didn’t really bother me at jump school. By the time we got to the aircraft after learning to pack and all of that, not really a big deal. I’m not a junky for it, though. I mean, I’ve met some guys bit by that bug…”

There was a pause as the men ate quietly for a few more minutes and sipped their beers.

Chuck finally leaned back with his beer in his hand. “You asked me earlier how long before we go in… the President will ask for and get whatever permission he needs from Congress, but that will take… a little time. There are already coalitions of muslim allies, and need for UN and other allies’ support, but that will all happen quickly.” A pause. “CIA has been given… operational priority because of our history in the area… you know, again, you’ve written in detail about it,” Chuck wiped some sauce off of his face.

“Have you ever been there?” Chuck asked.

“Not Afghanistan, no. But Pakistan, yes. During my Master’s I managed to get over to Karachi for a summer… Did some travel around, too.”

“No problems, I take it? Did they assume you’re Seedi?” Ted shook his head.

“What did you think?”

“Frankly, I think that’s what a failed state looks like, but I don’t know how popular that opinion will be.”

“Because?” Chuck asked flatly.

“They use terrorism as a regular practice of national governance because they hate the Indians so much, they’re government at the local level is so brazenly corrupt it’s hard to travel ten clicks without getting shaken down by some pop-up checkpoint that wants a bribe, and well… I didn’t say this to your colleague earlier, but there’s an awful lot of cousin-fucking going on… and their gene pool isn’t doing so hot as a result.”

Chuck snickered, and then delivered drily: “The purpose of a system is what it does…”

“What’s that?” Ted asked.

“A systems science thing… I got my undergrad in computer science. Islam tells its people they should emulate the Prophet, and well… anyway, the Pakistanis have been enthusiastic adherents to keeping wealth in the family, so to speak. And Rand Corp reports having them as the most anti-American populace in the whole world… so yes, you seem to have a feel for the place.” Chuck put down his glass.

“You’ve been there?” Ted asked.

“Yeah, some of the surrounding countries, on business. Pakistan a couple of times... Comms stuff. Kinda like you, Ted. Niche knowledge, right place, right time, right guy…”

Chuck broke off and twisted the top off a bottle.

“We’ll have to get you out to YPG…” Ted squinted at the acronym. “Yuma Proving Ground. We can get you through a three-week course to get you where you need to be for HALO and HAHO.”

“Oh, nice.”

“Yeah, you’ll enjoy it, I’m sure. You do any scuba diving?”

“As it happens, yes, I do, but I don’t see how that’s gonna help…” Chuck laughed.

“No, no. I don’t mean like that. I’ve just heard some guys describe the course, jumping in all of that gear, as similar to what you need to learn in scuba diving, in terms of manipulating all of the equipment…”

“Oh,” Ted rested his chin on the back of his hand. “I see what you mean. Yeah, I see that. Like diving, except as you fall… specialized suit, the cold, gloves, gauges…yeah.” Ted nodded his head a few times. “Except while dropping like a rock,” he chuckled.

“Yeah. Exactly.” Chuck continued, “There are also on the ground realities, you know, without Mahsoud-” and at this he inclined his head in Ted’s direction.

“-He was a helluva commander. I have a lotta respect for him, si- Chuck, as you know from reading my stuff. I mean, he really was the Lion of the Panjshir; the real deal. A huge loss for us… and for the Afghan people.”

Chuck took another sip of beer.

“And then there’s the problem of Khost province.” He took some more food from a tray and ladled it onto their plates.

Ted spoke between bites of a spicy chicken that was rapidly turning to fire in his mouth. “Every revolution in that country’s history starts or comes through there. Whoo, man, that’s warm!” He took a sip of beer. “I mean, there’s a case to be made for the South’s importance because of the poppy growth, the Karzais, the opium crop there, but-” Ted stopped. “Oh, that’s amazing. Damn, that beer really does help with that heat!”

Chuck laughed and raised his eyebrows, then dabbed his forehead.

“It’s always been Khost where the pivotal events happen. It’s a weird place, it’s location, the Parrot’s beak out into Pakistan, and the Haqqani are… they’re the real deal there, too. Khost has a mishmash of old Soviet Afghan mujahideen, Pashtun tribes, it’s more educated with the university, or at least was, by Pashtun standards before the Taliban… than pretty much anywhere else in Afghanistan… and bin Laden also had his camps there near the border when President Clinton fired the cruise missiles there…” Ted looked at Chuck. “Any truth to the rumors that Clinton missed a shot at bin Laden because he was… otherwise unavailable?”

Chuck smiled wanly, then shrugged, hooking his thumbs at himself. “Outside guy. Me. But, for whatever it’s worth, I have heard that same rumor, make of that what you will.” Chuck finished a sip.

“Khost is the gateway from Pakistan into Afghanistan and to Kabul.”

“…And it’s got that big ass Soviet airfield.” Ted added.

“Yes, it does. And one way or another, we’re going to need that airfield. Sooner or later.”

“Sooner rather than later,” Ted whispered.

“Ted, you’re here because, well, like I said, kinda like me, right guy, with the right knowledge and skills, right place, right time… We don’t need you to be a Navy SEAL or Green Beret, we’ve got those guys, but we’ll need you to be able to travel with them and keep up… You’re a Marine NCO, so that’s not going to be a problem, even on your own. The more important thing is, we need you to inform commanders and teams about all of the background, the political history, the various tribal rivalries and actors, so our guys don’t get just taken to the cleaners… in other words, provide actionable, usable strategic intel that matters. Some experienced Afghan hands, including people from the Soviet days, are… being brought together… you’ll probably get to meet them over the coming weeks and months, people who know and understand the various loyalties, have existing relationships there…”

“This is what I signed up for, Chuck… did you know anyone in the Towers?”

“Yeah… some Wharton classmates at an investment banking firm. You?”

“Two firemen. Guys I went to boot camp with.” He smiled. “Two fucking Micks, one from Noo Yawk, from Brooklyn… and another from New Joisey,” Ted mimicked. He took a sip of beer, then laughed. “Real crackers, too,” at which Chuck laughed. “I mean, you know what I mean… They were good guys… good Irish Catholics… we all wound up in the same infantry battalion, used to go back to New York with them on libo sometimes… to church…”

Chuck held up his Singha by way of reply. “For those who run toward the sound of the canons…”

“Into the Valley of Death rode the Six-Hundred,” Ted held up his class and then both men took long pulls. They sat in silence for a minute or more.

“To your health, Teddy. God watch over you, and all of us.”

“Amen to that,” Ted replied, clinking his brown bottle gently against Chuck’s.