CHAPTER 34
BUTKHAK, AFGHANISTAN
Twenty kilometers east of Kabul on the Jalalabad Road was the village of Butkhak. Of the several small NGOs working in this village, only a handful could afford security. One such group was Clean Water International. Though they weren’t one of Gallagher’s richest clients, they were one of the steadiest, and that meant a lot to ISS’s bottom line.
Baba G liked to joke that instead of referring to themselves as CWI, a more appropriate acronym for their organization would have been PSH, short for pot-smoking hippies.
Afghanistan was awash in vacant real estate, and Gallagher had seen an opportunity for ISS in being able to provide not only physical security for NGOs in the form of armed manpower, but also safe places for them to be housed.
Most Afghans didn’t know the first thing about marketing to the Westerners who were flooding into their country. All they knew was that if they could land even the smallest of fishes, they could make big money.
Through one of Gallagher’s many Afghan contacts, he’d been offered a sizable, walled property in Butkhak. The area was booming with reconstruction projects, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he found a tenant. The main house also had something he’d never seen before in Afghanistan—a Jacuzzi. Gallagher had agreed to represent it on the spot.
What had sold him on the compound had also sold the pot-smoking hippies. From the moment they had seen the Jacuzzi, they were hooked. It was only later that he realized that the property also included a dilapidated greenhouse, which the hippies gladly repaired out of funds from their own pockets. Though the rent and security package Gallagher had sold them was likely a tad more than their office somewhere in Europe had budgeted, the money always arrived on time in Gallagher’s account every month.
There were several structures on the property, one of which Baba G had excluded from the hippies’ lease. It was here, inside a long, stone, garagelike structure, that he and Hoyt kept their most important investment.
Gallagher referred to it as the “Golden Conex,” and as he unlocked the twenty-foot-long shipping container he quoted a line from Willie Wonka, “A small step for mankind, but a giant step for us.”
Harvath let out a whistle. The ISS team had put together quite an impressive collection of small arms. In addition to crates of fragmentation grenades and RPGs, there were neatly stacked rows of battle rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns. Along one wall a pegboard had been mounted and from it hung a myriad of pistols. There were belt-fed weapons along the back, crates of ammunition, boxes of spare magazines, as well as an armorer’s bench. It was like stumbling into Santa’s workshop.
Leaning right up front was a pink M-16 covered in Hello Kitty stickers. “Who does this belong to?” he asked.
“Oh, that?” replied Gallagher. “That’s Hoyt’s.”
“Come on.”
“It’s a surprise for Mei’s birthday.”
“He better hope she loves it,” said Harvath with a shake of his head as he picked up a considerably more manly LaRue Tactical Stealth OSR—Optimized Sniper Rifle. It had a SureFire suppressor, Magpul Precision Rifle Stock, Harris bipod, and a Leuopold Scope.
“I’m running a special on that one today,” said Gallagher.
“Oh, yeah?” replied Harvath as he got comfortable with the weapon in his hands. “How much?”
“For you, mister, yak dollar.”
“Sold,” said Harvath, setting it aside. “How about these?” he asked, pointing to several Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns.
“Those are particularly fun. They scare the shit out of the Afghans, especially when you attach the suppressors.”
“Why?”
“Most of them haven’t seen that kind of weapon before. Plus, I don’t have to tell you how good they are for CQB work.”
No, he didn’t. Harvath had done a lot of close quarters battle with the MP5 and knew it was an exceptional weapon. “I’ll take it,” he said.
“Take two,” joked Baba G with a wave of his hand. “They’re small.”
“I think one will be fine.”
As they decided on the rest of the gear they would need, there was the sound of tires crunching on gravel outside. Harvath looked at his watch. Daniel Fontaine was right on time.
He stepped outside and greeted the former Canadian counterterrorism operative as he climbed out of his truck. “Did you get everything?” he asked.
“You owe me two hundred dollars,” said Fontaine as he shook Harvath’s hand.
Harvath looked at him. “On top of the stack of cash I gave you in Kabul?”
“I got stopped at a checkpoint on the way out of town,” said the Canadian with a shrug. “It was either one hundred bucks and they take half of the stuff, or two hundred and we call it even. I decided to call it even.”
“Good choice,” replied Harvath as he followed him around to the back of his SUV.
Fontaine lifted the tailgate and threw back the blanket covering the cargo area. Underneath were several cases of beer and hard liquor.
“And Hoyt said all your late nights in Kabul would never amount to anything,” stated Harvath.
“Obviously, he was wrong,” replied Fontaine.
“Obviously.”
“But wait,” said the Canadian as he stepped away from the tailgate and over to the rear passenger-side door, “there’s more.”
Harvath joined him as he opened the door and flung back another blanket, revealing a case of sugar-free Red Bull on the backseat. Looking at it, Harvath said, “There’s one missing.”
“Fine,” replied Fontaine. “Take five bucks off what you owe me.” But after thinking about it for a second, stated, “Better yet. F*ck you. That’s what you get for waking me up at three in the morning.”
Harvath laughed, peeled two hundred bucks from a wad of bills in his pocket, and handed it to him. Though Afghanistan was an Islamic country, there was still alcohol to be found. Getting this much of it, especially on such short notice, was a considerable feat. Fontaine had done well.
Still plagued by jet lag and not having had much sleep, Harvath appreciated the gesture and helped himself to a can of the energy drink.
“Tough night?” asked Fontaine as he watched Harvath pop another one-thousand-milligram Motrin in his mouth and wash it down with a swig of Red Bull.
“Just an underground party,” said Harvath as he slid a couple of cans into his pockets and closed the door. “You didn’t miss much.”
“Where’s Baba G?”
“Santa’s in his workshop,” said Harvath, pointing toward the structure, “checking off items on my Christmas list.”
Fontaine smiled, and after covering up the booze with the blanket, closed the tailgate. Following Harvath toward the building, he said, “I’ve got first dibs on the Hello Kitty rifle. The Taliban hate Hello Kitty.”