Chapter 1: Baabaa Hotak and Badi
Wolves in the herd
“A wolf pup will grow into a wolf regardless of being raised by men.”
September 9, 2001
Northeast Afghanistan
Automatic gunfire erupted from the center of the town of Khwaja Bahauddin and just as suddenly stopped. A few moments later, many more AK-47s fired into the air. High-pitched echos reverberated between the dilapidated buildings and over the flat roofs of the old cement structures. The weapons were silenced by empty magazines, not any lack of enthusiasm by the men who fired the guns.
The two Afghani men who walked along the cracked, dusty concrete streets weren’t concerned by the gunfire. They’d been shot at on many occasions in the past, they weren’t worried. Except, perhaps, by any stray bullets that might fall out of the sky. And, sure enough, several of the projectiles hit the street around them. One spent round fell from the sky and struck the windshield of a nearby pickup sending spiderwebbing cracks from one side of the windshield to the other.
The smaller man shook his head with distaste. “These are your countrymen. The least they could do is point their guns outside the city. The goat herders could use the excitement, I’m sure.” A smile crossed his face as he pictured the scene, bullets landing all around a man and his goats, running back and forth, trying to avoid the hot metal raining down, not knowing where the next might land.
“I bet a couple of them came down on top of the shooter’s heads.” His amused partner said.
Like his traveling companion, the shorter man had almond skin, black hair, and a black beard. They looked like a majority of the Afghani men in this region. One feature that told him apart from others was a facial scar that separated his eyebrows from his hairline and ran the width of his forehead. A bullet graze during the Jihad. Hotak never found out where the projectile came from, a Soviet AK-47 or a Jihadist AK-47. They were both shooting at him that day. After he was hit, Hotak had no memory of the heroic efforts of his companion. He only knew that Badi had put him on his shoulder, then fought and ran. He ran down goat trails, over mountain passes, and through a river to escape with Hotak, who remained unconscious and deadweight through it all. Both the Soviets and the Afghani fighters wanted their heads. He learned later the only thing that saved them was when the two forces ran into each other and fought it out, allowing Badi to get his best friend to safety.
Many men had battle scars from the fighting. What differentiated Hotak from everyone else in the city, he wore finely tailored Afghani clothing of the best material. While the fashion was the same as others in the town, his clothes cost what an average Afghani might make in ten years of back-breaking work. He wore a brown vest over the long cotton shirt that hung to his knees in the Afghani fashion. The shirt partially covered long cotton pants of the same grey color. His feet were covered by fine black leather sandals. On his head was a wool Pakul hat. It rolled up until it fit the person's desired style. His sat cocked to the right.
Road dust covered his clothes, hair, and beard from a long, tedious drive over punishing dirt roads from the south. Tall, six feet, by the standards of his Afghani countrymen, it was difficult not to call him short while in the presence of his constant companion and protector.
“Our countrymen,” the giant said with contempt. “We have no more in common with them than we do with the goats they keep in their homes.”
Dressed in a similar Afghan fashion, the giant was tall enough and big enough to be an NBA center. His height, mass, and attitude could have made him a starter on anyone’s team. He didn’t like games unless he had a hand in their design. Violence was always a part of the design.
The road dust that had sprayed up from their pickup’s tires also covered Badi. His spun cotton clothing was not as elegant as his friends, but there was as much filth on him.
“Now, now. Cannon fodder have their uses,” the smaller man said with a smile.
His friend didn’t say anything, but the sneer on the giant’s face turned into a smirk. Several blocks ahead, groups of men walked through the intersection in the direction the gunfire had come from. More men passed the intersection, and the two men joined them.
A loudspeaker boomed over the roofs and drew all to it like a siren’s song.
“All roads lead to the General.”
“All roads start with the General,” the giant corrected.
“Quite.”
Khwaja Bahauddin wasn't a place the two friends had visited before, but it held their futures. Years of contingency plans, bribes, intimidation, betrayal, and worse all hinged on this day. Hotak thought of it as a preamble to the great things to come. Other forces thought they were in control of what would happen today. They thought they had manipulated matters and molded people's wills. And, if the two Afghanis hadn't settled on this event, maybe the CIA, NATO, and the rest would have succeeded in their plans.
In the past different organizations hired the two men and tried to hold power over them, dictating terms as the CIA or KGB saw fit. Hotak and Badi rejected that influence or the control of anyone and made others’ aims subservient to their own. They used violence and betrayal to leverage what they wanted and used them unmercifully to their employers’ regret. In the streets of London, the two learned these lessons to a vengeful degree. Later, in the employ of the CIA, what was learned was refined from the blunt force of a sledge to the point of a knife. It was a means to an end. The carnage today would be in the service of their plans. No longer would they be the pawn in the strategy of a far-off government. Before, the Eagle, the Bear, whoever paid the most had always earned their services, but always to the men’s own end. After many years, dollars, and rubles, neither government had any use for the two men and tried to hunt them down, never succeeding. That was fine with Hotak and Badi, they had no use for anyone who didn't further their plans.
Hotak smiled at passer-by’s a friendly wave ready for anyone. His companion was less friendly to strangers. Stone-faced Badi’s eyes moved from face to face, man to man. To look at the two friends, one might think one was the brains, one was the brawn. The truth was they were both intelligent and if anything, the smaller man was, the more vicious of the two. The difference was the giant took pleasure in his violent nature. His smaller friend did what fit within his corrupt system of values and no more.
No women walked the dusty, dirt-covered roads. They wouldn’t have dared; this was the wrong day to be outside with men from all parts of the north. Had a woman had the courage to walk outside unaccompanied, the big man’s eyes would have scanned her as a possible threat like any man. He took the protection of his smaller friend as seriously as his own life.
Hotak waved his hand, and they slowed. A large crowd of men lingered outside a walled compound. The reinforced and guarded compound looked as if it was being mobbed. Within the walls, hundreds of men stood facing a podium, mostly out of sight to those outside the gate. Many of those inside held their guns’ muzzles up, ready to fire into the sky at the slightest inducement. A microphone’s feedback came through speakers on either side of the podium. It was about to begin. All eyes turned and waited. From the left, a man in a green military uniform walked on stage. The crowd surged forward, the amplified voice of the General drowned out by the roar of the men inside.
Outside the mud-walled compound, the men who waited in a three-street intersection strained to hear the General. The lucky few in front of the wrought-iron gate were able to look over or around the security guards in rapt attention. Here was the man that would lead the Northern Alliance to Kabul, defeat the Taliban, and take power.
Further restricting the view of those outside was a parked pickup truck. In it, a man stood in the truck bed, his attention on the crowd, not the General. His hands loosely held a machine gun mounted on a tall pedestal in the center of the truck bed.
Finally, the amplified voice of General Ahnad Shah Massoud’s quieted the crowd, and he began his speech.
With a slight smile, Hotak reached up and rubbed the scar on his forehead his finger traced the line of the scar from one side to the other.
“This is going to be a while. Let’s find somewhere to wait.”
They knew every detail of the inside of that compound and more. Their past association with the Jihad was enough to know what to expect. Soldiers, bodyguards, flunkies, all of them would be ready for anything. Additionally, a compliment of CIA officers would be nearby. They would hover near the General offering advice and support. Hotak and Badi had dealt with enough CIA officers during the Jihad. They knew the case officers' patterns and behaviors. They weren’t concerned. The late unpleasantness with the Soviets had been a training school for them.
The world was watching. Reporters from around the globe covered the General’s ascendance. The Northern Army, with the CIA's help, would be the new force in Afghanistan. He was the man of the future.
Not everyone’s future.
Above, soldiers on the rooftops manned heavy machine guns. Hotak noted other guards posted on the street corners opposite the compound's walls. The Taliban weren’t pleased with the General and had made death threats against him. If the Taliban were to decide to attack, the number of military weapons and equipment displayed was an impressive reason not to. They wouldn't have stood a chance against the General's men. But there were no Taliban anywhere within a hundred miles. That’s how Hotak had planned it.
Hotak transferred his AK-47 to his other shoulder. Not because of any threat but more because the sling was digging into an old wound. His larger companion carried the same type of weapon. The AK looked like a toy on Badi’s shoulder.
Most of the men had a weapon of some sort, mostly rifles. Some men had unloaded RPGs balanced across one shoulder, across their chest hung three-rocket bandoliers. There was nothing out of the ordinary to see civilians carrying automatic rifles or rocket launchers. It was like the American old west. Everyone had a gun like everyone wore pants.
The cocking lever caught the pocket of Hotak’s vest. He reached down to make sure the very convincing ID he carried hadn’t fallen to the ground. Provided by ISI, the Pakistani Intelligence Service, the IDs had come at a steep price. Hotak expected the price to be well worth it after today's event.
Through the crowd of men, a small shop presented itself, and Hotak motioned Badi forward. The giant eyed the crowd and then followed.
The red plastic seats outside the establishment were old, worn, and faded, but they served the purpose. A good place to wait and observe. Hotak motioned the proprietor to their plastic table near the road. A small cloud of dust followed him to the table to take their order. Tea was brought out in a metal pot, a bowl containing sugar cubes and two small glasses accompanied it. Hotak lifted his glass and nearly dropped it a curse under his breath. The heat of the tea burned through the glass. The Giant smiled, picked up his glass, and drank. He offered no complaint.
Hotak smiled back, then looked around, taking everything in. "Everything we've seen since we've been in Afghanistan, I don't know?” Hotak let his sight linger from one individual walking down the dirt road to the next. "I think I would rather live in that shit ghetto we grew up in London than live here if I was one of these people." He left the thought unfinished. They both knew how luck had played a part in their lives. Both sets of parents, from different parts of Afghanistan, emigrated to London. There two outcast boys met, rose in the underworld, and knew they were destined for greater. They would never have been able to form the grandiose plans they had if they’d been born and raised in Afghanistan.
Badi lifted his shoulders in a massive shrug, his head continued to move with each passer-by.
"Good fortune leads to opportunity." Hotak mused.
"And now," Badi said. He raised his arms to the town around them. His dirty hands and arms widened to encompass the dusty road, the run-down buildings, and the gun-bearing men. “Opportunity."
Both men laughed.
“Hotak!”
They turned as one, their mirth dissipated into ruthless preparedness.
A man dressed in Afghani clothing, a long shirt hanging to the knees, billowy pants, and a vest eyed them from the street.
He waved his friends on and walked over, his head cocked to one side, squinting. He wore a dirty turban over long black hair that merged with a shaggy beard. A plastic flower dangled from the barrel of his AK. That flower might have suggested he was a man of peace.
“I am confused. You two are the last two people I expected to see here.”
There were no pleasantries. They weren’t friends.
The slung AK slid along his shoulder, his hand closer to the pistol grip.
“I said…”
Hotak picked up his tea. “We heard you.”
“Of all the places you could be, two traitors could be, on this day, the General’s Day.” The man gritted his teeth. “You never cared about our country or the Jihad, and yet here you are. I’ll repeat myself.” He leaned forward. “What are you doing here?”
Hotak glanced at Badi and dipped his head.
Badi launched off the chair. The plastic chair remained upright. The plastic table wasn't disturbed. Not a drop of tea slipped over the edge of a glass. With effortless power, Badi came to his feet a blade in his hand. The knife drove under the inquisitive man’s chin and lifted him off the ground. Badi grabbed a handful of shirt and spun the dead man around, and dropped him in the third plastic chair at the table. The knife removed, the dead man’s head hung down to his chest, his back to the street.
Hotak’s eyes followed the blood trickle down the man's chest as Badi watched the crowd on the street. No one came to the dead man’s defense.
Most Afghani men knew about the ongoing feuds in their region. Some knew men involved in those feuds. Few wanted to be drawn into another man’s quarrel. Any onlooker who’d seen the disturbance decided to move on and attend to his own business. The Police who had seen, and there were Police among the crowd who had. They only had to observe the two men for a moment to know there was no advantage in trying to arrest them. There would be no bribes, only bloodshed.
Badi sat. “I never liked him.”
Hotak filled his friend’s tea glass with a slight smile on his face. They clinked glasses and chuckled.
”Agreed,” Hotak said.
The guards at the gate continued to check identifications. Rough hands searched everyone who entered the compound. No exceptions. Guns were an extension of a man here. Explosives were not. A machine gun barrel poked out of a slot in the same bunker.
Hotak lifted his watch, shifted in his seat, and looked down the street they had come from. He didn’t see who he was expecting on the road or in the three-way intersection.
He motioned to the proprietor for more tea.
“It’s almost time.”
“Good.” The larger man looked at the gate then turned his head down the street behind them. Facing forward, he tapped Hotak’s arm with his forefinger.
Moments later, two men passed them on the street. They weren’t Afghani. Hotak watched them as they passed. They were escorted by a couple of Afghani Army Officers. One man had a mustache the other had no facial hair. They wore western-style pants and shirts with beige equipment vests. They appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, not so uncommon an occurrence here as Hotak knew. They stood out, but not enough to cause problems.
With little trouble, the men weaved through the streets and the rough men around them. They weren't the only foreign reporters in attendance. What made them different was the special permission given to them by the General’s aid. Granted a personal audience with the General in his residence, they would present it to the world. In it, he would give his view of a new Afghanistan.
One reporter held a microphone attached to a recording device hung from a sling on his shoulder, his earphones wrapped around his neck. The other reporter steadied a large camera on his shoulder. The heavy battery pack around his waist caused him to fidget and adjust it every couple of steps.
A smile crossed Hotak as he watched guards stop the two reporters, check their IDs, and frisk them. A man from inside the compound opened the double gates, greeted them, talked to the guards, and then escorted them inside.
The proprietor warily ambled over his eyes, avoiding the pool of blood under the dead man’s chair. Badi ordered food for the both of them and their old acquaintance.
The General’s voice rose, the tone of his speech becoming more impassioned he was an excellent orator and took his time. He led the crowd, fed off their enthusiasm, and gave it back to them. The cheers rose and fell with the General's inflection. The speech climaxed with the General’s hands raised over his head, a huge smile beaming at the men below him. The crowd clapped and cheered as their eyes followed him off-stage. One of the General’s closest aids came out next and began his own speech to motivate the masses further.
Hotak and Badi ate their meals in silence. The food was simple, flatbread, rice with raisins, fresh vegetables, and goat. Badi reached over and stole food off the dead man’s plate. The dead man didn’t complain.
Hotak looked at the grime that had built up under his fingernails with distaste and wiped his hands on his expensive pants. Napkins, even the paper kind, were unknown here. He would have eaten more. But, the dirt and the dust and who knew what kind of grime or worse was in the kitchen made his stomach uneasy.
Badi continued to eat, pulling food off the dead man’s plate.
Hotak snorted as Badi reached over with a grin and took the last of the food from their old enemy.
“You’re always hun…”
Neither man flinched when a massive explosion went off inside Massoud’s compound.
The blast reflected off the inside of the mud walls of the compound as a large plume of black smoke rose through the clear sky. For a moment, silence reigned, then shouts and urgent orders were issued.
Badi chuckled. "Sounds bad."
Inside, more shouts and screams were followed by the sound of automatic bursts of AK-47s. Then more shouts, but no gunfire. A man got on the microphone and yelled at the crowd, he issued an order in no uncertain terms. Everyone leave.
Badi chuckled again.
Men began to stream out of the gate. The fear on the faces of some of the crowd caused the two friends to hide their smiles with their hands. Others had stricken looks. While others still stifled their rage. Some of the retreating men, the more self-aware, showed quiet acceptance. It wouldn't be long before recrimination and oppression followed.
Hotak left money on the table, and they stepped into the street. He waved to stop several men. “What has happened?”
“Ahnad Shah Massoud is dead.”
Another man said, “The General,” and stopped.
Hotak had to lean forward to make out the words.
“Dead? How? What happened?”
“We saw it happen,” said another man.
“Two foreign reporters with Shah Massoud,” the third man said. “The man with the camera yelled something, then set off a bomb inside his equipment. He killed Shah Massoud and himself. The second reporter was off to the side, talking to the General's aid. He waited till the first bomb went off, ran to the General, and tried to detonate his bomb. It failed to explode. He tried to escape, but the guards chased him and killed him before he could get far.”
“This is terrible.” Hotak laid his hand across his heart. “Thank you for delivering this tragic news. Go with God.”
They nodded and mumbled, “Go with God,” in return.
Hotak clapped Badi’s massive back and joined the thinning crowd exiting Massoud’s compound. His mind swirled with all the new possibilities in front of them. They remained quiet on the walk back to their pickup truck.
They began their long drive south on the same road that had brought them to Khwaja Bahauddin. The bewildered soldiers guarding the town’s entrance made no effort to stop them.
“That went well. I would have preferred if both bombs had detonated, but it’s God’s will,” Hotak said with a smile.”
The giant laughed. “God's will."
Hotak shifted in his seat to make himself more comfortable for the long ride. “The Pakistanis have done us a great favor today, and we’ll continue to use them for our purposes.”
Badi gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Don’t trust them.” His attitude quick to change from pleased amusement to resentment and anger.
“You know we won’t.”
Badi grunted.
“All the work Massoud did to unite the clans will greatly help us once I take control of them.” The side of Hotak’s mouth lifted into a mild smile. “Our fortunes have turned again. With the North under our control, we will have a majority concern of the opium trade. With that comes the money and power we need to build our empire.”
"The Taliban we have in place after they take control, they will do as ordered. “
“And, stay out of our way?" Badi said.
"I'm confident the ones who love money won't stray from our leash. The others, if they take our money and think they are doing God's work too, fine. As long as their loyalty to us remains stronger than their loyalty to God.”
“If that loyalty wavers, perhaps God will be amused at their stupidity.”
Badi’s eyes remained focused on the pothole-infested dirt road. “It will be slow work. These people are so ignorant they’ll be difficult to work with.”
“True." Hotak smiled. “A great man said, over and over. Rome wasn't built in a day."
"Funny," Badi growled. "Professor Jenkins put me through hell on more occasions than I can count."
"What?" Hotak feigned ignorance. "At that wonderful English boarding school
we attended?"
“I hated that man.”
Hotak chuckled. “Anyway, he wasn't wrong. Rome wasn’t built in a day. I've applied that saying to everything we’ve planned and implemented so far.”
“English prick. I’m glad I killed him.”
They glanced at each other, reliving the memory. Hotak shook his head and laughed. “I’m glad you did too.”
Thank You for Reading!
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