Dick Hounds the Afghans by Dick Avery - HTML preview

He defined the word indivisible for us. He said that it meant things like church and state couldn’t be separated by a piece of paper. He added that motherhood and apple pie were Native American words that couldn’t be spoken by our enemies in the same sentence. Some at our table giggled and some women clapped at his cute bon mots. In his befuddled mind, they were simply faux pearls thrown before unworthy and gullible swine. But he still managed to shoot back a smile from his bully pulpit. He had no compunctions about doing so since little people were of no consequence in his egomaniacal world. However, the fawns in the audience were still awestruck by his brilliant illuminations. It was a thoroughly crass act on the ambassador’s part, but the assemblage ate it up along with their desserts.

The ambassador went on to say “We Americans are altruistic, principled, and gracious people.” We could tell his emotions were running high since he drooled ever so slightly while carefully mincing his words. At one point, he tightly held his right arm close to his body to keep it from snapping forward. He then regained his composure and concluded his speech.

“Here’s to America, our Motherland!” he exclaimed, raising his champagne flute to the gathering as a gracious toast to our nation.

“Hey, hey, USA!” he chanted over and over to the delight of his parishioners. His enthusiasm was contagious and the crowd roared back with the same refrain. People formed into a slinky, conga line and snaked around the room to the tumultuous chanting. Someone suggested doing the limbo to see how low we could go while balancing drinks on our stomachs. Damn, I just loved traditional Thanksgiving pageantry.

Ambassador Caldwell was a sagacious scholar, a natural leader of men, and a Renaissance man in his own right. Most importantly, he was the senior diplomat of the greatest nation on earth. He represented the best America had to offer to the desperate people of Afghanistan.

“Oh, by the way, please donate any leftovers of our fabulous feast to our underprivileged and undernourished Afghan colleagues at the embassy,” he thoughtfully added, before stepping down from the podium.

But as an afterthought, “Needless to say, I expect the obligatory thank you note from each attendee on my desk by Monday afternoon at the latest and in English, of course.” Like everyone else in the room, I stood and applauded the gentleman’s chutzpah. But the pumpkin pie would have to wait another year because I’d already had more than my fill of Thanksgiving pomp and pomposity. It really was all too much to swallow in one sitting.

I later moseyed back to my room. After many drinks and too much food, DS agents never walked, they always moseyed. Despite my heavy drinking, smoking, eating, and sexual regimen, without other exercise, I still honored my body as a temple. But I suspected at this point in my life, it was much like those in Sodom and Gomorrah.

Sometimes those who served and protected were much too sensitive about the state of their national health and body politic.

I was seriously hung over the next morning and I needed to join a new temple. I had too much merriment at the embassy party and now paying the price for my frivolity. Ok, I felt like shit on a shoe to put it succinctly. However, I still needed to set up an appointment with Chief Special Agent, Craig Williams of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration: the man in charge of our government’s enormous narcotics suppression program in Afghanistan. I wasn’t with the FBI, so I suspected he would deign to speak with me.

I needed a quick primer on the drug trade in Afghanistan. I needed to know the scope and nature of it; who the major players were, how they moved the product, and how they laundered the money. I needed to know everything and I needed to learn quickly. I forced down some Joe along with four aspirins. I had another cigarette before I hit the road. Actually, it was a short walk through the tunnel to the chancery side to get to Craig’s office, but I liked to say hit the road. Again, it was the rough Foreign Service lingo thing at work.

In absolute disgust, I’d finally thrown down the gauntlet and enrolled Fred in flight school. He’d had it too damn easy as far as I was concerned and spent too much time cooling his tail feathers in his catbird seat. He’d laze on his clothesline for hours ogling the pussy walking by. I was jealous. He was getting more kitty than I could ever dream of and he had a rapacious appetite.

It was now high time for him to earn his keep. I’d had enough of his beak talk when he sassed me. I would no longer listen to the birds of a feather crap he dished out when he tried to play me. As they said in West Virginia, “this birddog don’t hunt.” I had to be strong for myself and America. No sir, he’d get with the program or else. Nobody played Avery the Dick for a dodo, most especially Fred the falcon.

I had rescued him from the vile conditions of the souk’s aviary and he owed me his very life. There, he was at great risk of contracting the deadly human papillomavirus from loving, but thoughtless, passing tourists carelessly blowing him kisses. Sometimes people just needed to pay more attention to the health of others, such as those who smoke. If the virus spread to the general bird population, up to half could die excruciating deaths in short order. Other than flying head first into spotlessly clean glass windows, Alfred Hitchcock couldn’t think of a more gruesome way for them to expire. Wild and domesticated birds would suffer alike. It likely would be one bloody birdbath!

Few birds would likely escape the ravages of man and his filthy contagion. Afghan women would scramble to protect the innocent eggs of their chicks. Easter would be an especially unhappy time for the children of the nation. All of the Popeye’s franchises in the country would be forced to close their doors overnight. There would be no Afghan swallows vacationing in California this season. It could be a pandemic of biblical proportion and scale. Like every catastrophe, a few would profit from the misery of others. Enterprising milliners would fashion millions of tiny niqabs to mask the vulnerable beaks of the flying dead. Oh God, the inhumanity of it all.

Worse, the virus could jump species barriers to infect lizards and dung beetles, the most plentiful and nutritious food sources of the people of Afghanistan. Mass hunger would follow famine. Muslims would be incapable of saying Mass to deliver them from this plague. The Afghan economy would lurch backwards in its bid to become a third world, economic powerhouse.

President Karzai’s credibility, along with Obama’s, would plummet overnight. He would be unable to succeed himself in office, despite a strong desire to do so. I certainly hadn’t meant Karzai. He’d already had enough of the shithole and secretly wished to be comfortably self-exiled in Europe or the States. Regardless, this could be the stark future facing Afghanistan and all because of an innocent kiss sent from the heart.

As to Fred, I had saved his butt, but he’d been a total ingrate since. I could’ve vented much more, but suspected I’d already feathered and fouled my own nest enough. However, the message was loud and clear: school was now in session for Fred; this time with a righteous headmaster.

Fred had an important mission in my investigative strategy. He needed to execute his role flawlessly. If he couldn’t straighten up and fly right, all could be lost because he was a key to our success. I assigned Ahmed the task of training Fred since he was a tenacious taskmaster who wouldn’t tolerate any backtalk from a bird. I knew I could count on him to do the right thing. In any case, he certainly wouldn’t just wing his crucial assignment.

Once during the day and once each night, Ahmed would hood Fred, remove his tether and take him down from his perch. He would carry Fred to his brother Rashid’s taxi which was waiting outside the compound. There, Fred would be tied down in the car’s trunk. He would now be a hooded bird flying blind in the blackness of a dark world at midnight in a coalmine. That artless statement meant Fred couldn’t see Jack or anyone else for that matter. Rather, he had to solely rely on his instincts and intelligence to survive the ordeal. I hoped to God that Fred didn’t have cataracts!

For the next two hours, Rashid and Ahmed would aimlessly drive around the city. They would occasionally stop for the fat, naked and seductive falafel openly sold in the street. They often sated their thirsts with chilled RC Colas. Time was never of essence in their task; however, a keen sense of direction was of critical importance, at least for Fred.

Their ultimate destination was the Serena Hotel where they’d take Fred out of the trunk and put him in a cardboard box and carry him to the fifth floor of the building. Rex Gallant would open the door for them and allow Ahmed to walk directly to the balcony. There, he took Fred out of his box, removed his hood, and propped him on the railing facing in the direction of the embassy.

Anytime Fred turned his head, Ahmed would gently snap his neck back into proper alignment. Training was all about focus. Ahmed patiently repeated this regimen until Fred got it right or could no longer hold his head high. Rex and Rashid looked on with rapt attention since they’d never witnessed an Afghan swear so much in Pidgin English.

This same routine continued over many days until we thought Fred had the drill down pat. Communications in a war-torn, third world country like Afghanistan were poor in the best of times. The first storm, terrorist incident, plague, coup or other lame excuse would immediately bring down the electricity grid, the landline telephone system, and all, or most, of the cell towers. Typically, these events were not the result of Mujahideen inspired actions. Rather, it was the fact that every Afghan woman got on her cell phone at the same time to find out what was going on. The situation was exacerbated by the women simultaneously turning on their TV sets to watch the soaps beamed in from Iran.

The most popular one was the touching story of the evil vizier who embroiled his nation in jingoistic foreign wars to pay for the sins of his father. At the end of each show, the emotionally overwrought women would be bushed. The selfish acts of the women simply overwhelmed local power distribution and telecommunications infrastructures. Like most manmade things, they crashed under the enormous weight of feminine demand.

However, the embassy radio network was no better. Its repeater station atop a nearby mountain would be repeatedly sabotaged by the Mujahedeen. It was tough to get a service call answered. But Fred would serve as a vital communications link between Rex and I when things went to shit, as they often did there. He was to be our own Jerry-rigged 911 line. However, the jury was still out on how well it might work.

The proof was in the pudding or the falcon as the case might be. Peregrine falcons were renowned for their speed and cunning. Fred wouldn’t be a clay pigeon for any insurgent sharpshooter since he was too damn quick and nimble. On a good day, when winds were just right, he could easily do Mach 2. We decided to set up a solo test flight and carefully checked the weather conditions. We then filed a flight plan and released him at the embassy compound.

He lazily circled the security K-9 kennels on the grounds a couple of times before heading in the direction of the Serena. That was good because I didn’t want him dogged by any doubt. Fred flew fast, straight and true as I’d hoped. He landed on Rex’s balcony four minutes and ten seconds later. He must have made a slight detour since he plopped a slightly disheveled, pregnant alley cat at Rex’s feet. It was a “seven-fur” in Fred’s book and it didn’t get much better. She wouldn’t be mourned, except by the huge, sewer rodents which had just gotten stiffed on their next meal. Darwin would have been proud. Rex, Ahmed, Rashid and I certainly were.

It was another wonderful day in the neighborhood. I’d finally snagged an appointment with Craig Williams, the DEA chief. He was an incredibly busy and stressed guy and I wondered what he was taking to get through the day. I had asked for a general briefing on the drug situation in Afghanistan; just a primer for those with State Department induced ADD. I had read the stuff everyone else had about poppies, opium, and heroin and knew it was a big problem, but I didn’t understand how big a problem until he finished his brief.

He started with the bad news first. America and her allies were losing the war on drugs in Afghanistan. As you might have guessed, there was no good news. He said there was strong evidence of a downward trend, or at least a leveling off, in the production of the world’s most illicit drugs with one notable exception; heroin, with most of it flowing from one out-of-control province in southern Afghanistan. Its name was Helmand Province and it was the birthplace and ancestral home of President Hamid Karzai.

There weren’t enough resources to control the drug flow, according to Craig. More importantly, there wasn’t a national will on the part of the Afghan authorities to suppress or eradicate the problem. He said the DEA felt like a bunch of many-fingered lesbians trying to plug all the dyke holes in Holland. I admired his feminist allusion and butch smile.

Indeed, he mentioned that opium production had shot up dramatically in the past several years under the noses of the coalition forces fighting the Taliban. In 2002, Afghanistan retook the heroin crown from Burma. The latest Afghan numbers were so large that the country now accounted for 92 percent of the illicit global crop. The annual harvest involved almost three million Afghans and was worth $3 billion as a raw product. That was about 6,600 metric tons. The raw or semi-processed opium was shipped to Iran and Turkey for refinement and subsequent distribution throughout the world. A smaller portion went east to Hong Kong or other Asian cities to satisfy the demands and addictions of the citizenry.

Craig said that from a law enforcement point of view, the higher yields suggested a number of things. One was that the Taliban might be stockpiling heroin in large amounts, particularly in Europe, to flood the markets with cheap, but highly potent narcotics. That would be tantamount to an act of terrorism; a scenario in which illicit drugs would serve as weapons of mass destruction.

However, President Karzai refused to allow the poppy fields to be sprayed since he understood the likely consequences of such an act: mass rioting and civil war. Afghan farmers could make ten times more money growing opium poppies than wheat. Three million citizens would be very unhappy if their cash crop and livelihood disappeared.

The toll though on the local population was high. Heroin addiction was a pervasive problem in Afghanistan. Craig mentioned that in Kabul a single fix could weigh between fifty and one hundred grams. It came wrapped in tinfoil and sold for the equivalent of $1.60. For the majority of heroin addicts, the sum was a real challenge to come up with—several times a day. The average daily wage, for those lucky enough to have work, was three dollars. Petty thievery and shaking down friends and relatives for money were the most common hustles to meet their needs and habits.

According to the government’s own 2005 figures, over one million citizens were addicted to heroin. Many became so as refugees in Pakistan and Iran during the Taliban years from 1996 to 2001. Sixty thousand of these addicts lived within the capital. The majority were males, some as young as twelve years old.

The front line of Afghanistan’s own fight against heroin’s wide grip lay in the outskirts of Kabul. Not nearly sufficient, the ten-bed detox facility went by the name “Nejat Center”, meaning “rescue” in Dhari. Each Saturday, new intakes were welcomed, sent by outreach officials from the country’s thirty-four provinces. For fifteen days, they stayed there going cold turkey through the process of ridding their heroin from their bodies. Under these circumstances, the cure was sometimes worse than the disease.

Craig said the number one drug guy in Afghanistan was Sheik Mohammed, a powerful warlord living in Kandahar. He was Mr. Big and was ruthless and shrewd—he had to be to stay the top dog in a large pack of aggressive curs. He was thoroughly wired to the right Afghan and Pakistani officials. He relied on their help and loyalty and they relied on his generous bribes. It was an amenable and profitable relationship for all concerned. It was the way business was properly done in these parts.

I asked Craig for his telephone number and address. He said it was embassy extension 213, chancery complex building number 3, apartment 303. I asked again for Sheik Mohammed’s number and address in Kandahar.

Craig laughed, saying that everyone knew where the sheik lived since it was the largest, gaudiest palace in the city. It was the one down the street from the only livable hotel in town. It was the one decorated with many swarthy-looking gunsels, rolls of razor wire, and packs of snarling Dobermans. He sardonically added that I couldn’t miss it for my life.

Craig told me he’d arrange for one of his confidential informants to set up a meeting with Sheik Mohammed, if I wished. I most certainly wished because I needed to get some answers. If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain, then Avery Dick would move heaven and earth to go to Kandahar.

I would send Rex and Ahmed to Kandahar ahead to keep abreast of what was afoot. I had a hunch they’d learn much by being afar. They’d stay at the one decent local hotel. I’m afraid I’d have to overnight at the Multilateral Force Forward Operating Base located adjacent to the town because I’d picked the short straw.

I thanked Craig for his candid remarks and his help. I left thinking about my addictions and indulgences: wine, cigarettes, food, and sex. I decided to continue thinking about them.

Sometimes those who served and protected were a little skittish about condoning or condemning the vices of others.

Chapter 11

Untold War Stories

We flew slow and low while a Cobra gunship covered us the whole trip. We stayed directly over National Route 5, the highway linking Kabul and Kandahar. The pilot unerringly navigated the craft using the latest Michelin road maps. We passed small villages and lots of open spaces. One couldn’t deny there was a certain rugged beauty to the country. It became more beautiful as we flew over field upon field of cultivated poppies. The red flowers had green written all over their petals and I would never look at Veterans Day celebrants the same way again.

The chopper set down gently with the dust from the rotors blinding us until we moved a distance away. The chopper did a touch-and-go and then jumped into the air and was out of sight within a few short minutes. There was a small welcoming party from the base to greet us. I immediately puked my guts. Vomit projected from my mouth and cords of snot flowed from my nose—bad timing for a photo op, I thought. Being an action guy, I quickly wiped everything from my face and deposited it on my sleeves and the back of my parachute pants. I then composed myself and shook hands with the camp commander. I did the Foreign Service cheek-kiss thing with one of the better looking women in the receiving line. I just couldn’t stomach helicopter rides.

The camp commander’s name was Dexter Billings and he was from Montana, but everyone called him William. He was a career-impaired Foreign Service officer who was desperate for money. He was successfully hiding out from his ex-wife and his many creditors back in the real world. He remained somewhat lucid and coherent during his briefing, although he slurred his words a little and occasionally drank from a small flask to clear his throat. He was a most mellow master-of-ceremonies.

William actually put on an impressive dog and pony show for us. The State Department borrowed the expression from the Defense Department some years ago after it went out of vogue there. For the State Department though, it took on new meaning. It meant you had better pony up contributions to the annual Combined Federal Campaign or you’d be dogged for the rest of your career. I always donated to the Girl Scouts of America knowing it would be a tax write off and also provide just dessert for my sparse dinner guests.

He explained by map and words what the coalition’s forward operating bases did or supposed to do and where they were located. He said there were a total of thirteen FOBs in the country, strategically located to assist and support the Karzai government’s provincial projects such as building hospitals, schools and roads. They were intended to provide badly needed infrastructure, humanitarian aid, and a measure of security and prosperity to the people. He noted that each FOB was headed by a commander and deputy and had a civilian staff of specialists, along with a military contingent for security purposes. Different nations staffed the various FOBs, but all reported to the multinational force headquarters in Kabul, right next door to the U.S. embassy.

He never slipped once and said SOBs. He also never used the indelicate word pacification to describe what we were doing in Afghanistan. That would have represented a terrible diplomatic gaffe, a frontal affront in front of largely disinterested visitors. Finally, he failed to mention that the FOB concept wasn’t working all that well. Maybe thirteen was an unlucky number after all.

The Taliban repeatedly attacked construction workers and local officials, sent night letters and did anything else to dissuade them from working for the infidel invaders. In truth, the FOB’s operated much like the Alamo during its darkest days. Movement outside the FOB compounds was severely constrained due to the upsurge of Taliban activity throughout the country. You couldn’t leave home unless you were dressed to the nines and armed to the teeth.

There were no hooches here and thank God for big favors. We were billeted in large tents with others of the camp. My bunkmates were a mix of active U.S. military enlisted and civilian contractors. Camaraderie and morale seemed to be good despite the harsh living conditions and the constant threat of insurgent attacks. Someone put on a Johnny Mathias album to break the ice. Chances are I had remembered to bring a box of white Zinfandel with me because I was ready to lock and load. Sorry, that was an inappropriate description under the circumstances. I meant ready to rock and roll. Liquor flowed and tongues loosened and we were all good buds in a short time. That time seemed to exactly coincide with the fourth drink.

It’d been a long day and we were hungry, especially me. I felt my stomach lurch and heard it growl to be fed. We opened bags of MREs or meals ready to eat in military jargon. These contained a limited variety of freeze-dried foods of unimaginable quality and taste. They were the staple diet for soldiers in the field and for much of the Afghan population. They were generously doled out to the locals by the troops as part of our Food for Peace efforts. Each MRE packet also contained a small picture book to reach the hearts and minds of our Afghan friends.

The books used stick figures to get America’s message to its illiterate subjects. Two figures were always prominently depicted in the booklets. One figure was a tall, Anglo-Saxon male holding an American flag in one hand and the Koran in the other. The other figure was always portrayed as a swarthy, Middle Eastern fundamentalist with a full beard wearing a long scimitar at his side. The locals could now distinguish friend from foe, but I suspected they already knew the difference.

The locals were smart in their own backward way though. They kept the matches, the plastic cutlery, pouches of water, the chocolate bars, and the nylons. They fed the rest of the bags contents to their goats. Eventually, concerns over the health of the goats led to a warning label written in Farsi and Pashto. It clearly stated: “Too much U.S. propaganda could be hazardous to your health.” But the goats couldn’t read too well. However, to my knowledge, no product liability suits for choking to death ever arose. For the record, I had chicken Chow Mein with a cranberry juice chaser for dinner.

More drinks followed our feast and people started to open up about their lives and their pasts, especially the younger soldiers. Some of the stories spoke to the perils of fighting in foreign wars. Particularly poignant were the stories the men told of their war wounds they suffered in service to their beloved nation. Each story was more heartrending than the previous one. They would pull up their shirts or remove their pants to reveal nasty looking battle scars. The jagged lines on their skin and the deformities of bone, tissue, and muscle were horrendous to look at. These injuries had been received for protecting the freedom of other Americans and it was almost too much to bear.

My eyes moistened after hearing how they still suffered from their injuries. I turned away from the group several times to dab them dry. These men were real American heroes and men I could be proud to serve with. I was finally among my own element. After listening for almost an hour, I needed to share. More importantly, I needed to tell them I understood their anguish. I understood because I had been there. At that special place and time, we were all one in physical and emotional pain.

I finally broke down and told my story. It was difficult to tell since I had repressed this painful part of my past for many years, but it was time to share my ordeal with my new kinsmen. It was my own personal badge of honor of sorts and my personal agony. I would show them the wound I had suffered during my military service. There would be no Purple Heart or commendation for bravery or gallantry because this wound was much too personal. It wouldn’t be pretty, but at this point I needed to share my experience with my new comrades-in-arms.

It had all started in Indianapolis, the exciting capital of the state of Indiana in America’s generous heartland. I was seventeen and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. My best buddies, Jeff and Eric, were of the same age and state of mind. We enjoyed partying and getting into trouble. Harmless hobbies were expensive and hard to come by in those days so we did a lot of drinking and drugging to keep us on the streets. We were just sowing our wild oats while we could still make hay. The scene didn’t get any more prosaic or Midwestern than that.

We didn’t commit anything more serious than a few B&Es and minor assaults on teachers. We’d never beat the crap out of our own teachers; we all desperately wanted to graduate and get the hell out of Indianapolis as soon as possible. As kids, we weren’t really bad, just misunderstood and totally freaky. We had serious peer pressures to d