Against All Enemies

4 THE GOOD SONS

Moore and his local contact Israr Rana had driven some two hundred ninety kilometers southwest into North Waziristan, one of seven districts within Pakistan’s FATA, or Federally Administrated Tribal Areas, which were only nominally controlled by the central and federal government of Pakistan. For centuries, mostly Pashtun tribes had inhabited the remote areas. In the nineteenth century the lands had been annexed by the British, during which time the British Raj tried to control the people with the Frontier Crimes Regulations (FCRs), which became known as the “black laws” because they gave unchecked power to local nobles so long as they did the bidding of the British. The people continued with the same governance, right up through the formation of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan in 1956. During the 1980s the region became much more militant with the entry of mujahideen fighters from Afghanistan during the Soviet invasion. After 9/11, both North and South Waziristan gained notoriety for being training grounds and safe havens for terrorists as the Taliban and Al-Qaeda began entering the region. The locals actually welcomed them because the Taliban appealed to their tribal values and customs, reminding them that they should remain fiercely independent and mistrustful of the government.

All of which reminded Moore that he was heading into a most dangerous and volatile place, but Rana had told him the trip would be worth the risk. They were going to meet a man who Rana said might be able to identify the Taliban in Moore’s photographs. This man lived in the village of Miran Shah, which during the Soviet invasion had housed a large refugee camp for displaced Afghans who’d fled across the border from Khost, the nearest village in what was a remote region of the country. In fact, many of the roads leading to Miran Shah were frequently impassable during the winter months, and the only electricity available to its inhabitants came from a few diesel-powered generators. To say they were entering a town stuck in the dark ages was an understatement, yet anachronistic evidence of Western influences took Moore aback as he spied tattered billboards for 7Up and Coke strung between a pair of mud-brick buildings. Dust-covered cars lined the streets, and kids chased one another along garbage-laden alleys. A man wearing a grease-stained tunic and leading a pet monkey by a leash shifted past them, along with a half-dozen other men wearing long cotton shirts draped over their trousers and bound at their waists by long sashes. Some of them carried AK-47s and broke off to examine a bombed-out building in the main market area where a whole group of men and women were still sifting through the rubble. Somewhere nearby a goat was being roasted over an open pit; Moore knew that scent quite well.

“Another suicide bomber,” said Rana, who was behind the wheel and tipping his head toward the building. “They were trying to kill one of the tribal leaders here, but they failed.”

“They did a nice job on the building, though, didn’t they?” said Moore.

At the end of the road they were accosted by two more riflemen, members of the Pakistan Army who’d been providing added security, since Miran Shah was suffering from more frequent attacks from pro-Taliban militants camped in the surrounding hills, no doubt the home of that suicide bomber. The government had been taking action against the “Talibanization” of these tribal regions, providing added personnel and equipment, but their efforts had only limited success. Moore had studied the region well, and there were just too many opportunities for government troops to be bribed by the Taliban-backed drug lords, and Khodai, if he had lived, was going to name names.

Rana told the guards at the checkpoint that they were going to see Nek Wazir, who chaired the North Waziristan Shura, or executive council, and was known to speak out strongly against the Taliban chiefs in the area. The guard returned to his associate and checked a clipboard, then came back and asked for their IDs. Moore, of course, had expertly falsified documents that described him as a gun maker from Darra Adam Khel, a small town devoted entirely to the manufacture of ordnance. Travel to Darra by foreigners was forbidden, but merchants from the town routinely moved throughout the tribal regions making deliveries. The guard was quickly satisfied with Moore’s papers, but after their car was searched, he held up a hand. “Why no delivery?”

Moore grinned. “I’m not here on business.”

The guard shrugged, and they were waved through the checkpoint.

“How do you know Wazir?” asked Moore.

“My grandfather fought against the Soviets with him. They both came here. I’ve known him all my life.”

“They were mujahideen.”

“Yes, the great freedom fighters.”

“Excellent.”

“I told you when you hired me that I have very good contacts.” Rana winked.

“This is a long drive, and I told you my bosses are only giving me two days.”

“If anyone knows who those men are, it’s Wazir. He is the most well-connected man in this region. He has hundreds of spotters, even some in Islamabad. His network is amazing.”

“But he lives in this dump.”

“Not all year. But yes, this ‘dump,’ as you call it, provides ample cover and limited scrutiny from the government.”

The dirt road turned lazily to the right, and they climbed up into some foothills to arrive at a pair of modest-sized brick homes with several tents standing behind them. A pair of satellite dishes were mounted on the roof of the larger structure, and generators hummed from beneath the tents. Farther back were pens for goats and cows, and to the left, in the valley below, lay hectares of tilled fields where local farmers grew wheat, barley, and a Persian clover called shaftal.

Two guards appeared on the roof, bringing their AK-47s to bear. Nice. Wazir had built himself a protected headquarters here in the hills, thought Moore.

They were met at the front door by an old man whose beard fell in great white waves across his chest. He wore light brown robes and a white turban with matching vest, and he clutched a water bottle in his right hand. There wasn’t much remaining of his left hand, the fingers gone, deep, ragged scars stitching across the back of his hand and up his arm, toward the sleeve. Moore checked again and realized that part of the old man’s left ear was missing. He’d been caught in an explosion, all right, probably mortar fire. He was lucky to be alive.

The introductions were brief. Moore’s cover name was Khattak, a Pashtun tribal name, and with his darker hair and complexion (both inherited from his mother’s Italian/Spanish ancestry), he could almost pass for a Pakistani. Almost.

Wazir chuckled when he heard the name. “That is not you, of course,” he said in accented English. “You’re an American, and that is okay. It gives me a chance to practice my English.”

“That’s not necessary,” Moore told him in Pashto.

“Let me have my fun.”

Moore pursed his lips and nodded, then broke into a smile. You had to respect the old man. His weathered blue eyes had most certainly gazed on the deeper levels of hell. Wazir led them inside.

The noontime Muslim prayer, Dhuhr, had just finished, Moore knew, and Wazir would no doubt be serving some tea. They shifted into the cool shadows of a wide living area with colorful cushions arranged around an intricately detailed Persian rug. Three places had been set. The cushions, known as toshaks, and the thin mat in the center, a dastarkhan, were all part of the “ceremony” that was daily tea. Something was cooking in one of the back rooms, and the sweet aroma of onions and something else wafted throughout the room.

A young boy appeared from a back hall and was introduced as Wazir’s great-grandson. He was seven or eight and carried a special bowl and jug called a haftawa-wa-lagan. They carefully washed their hands. Then the boy returned with the tea, and Moore took a long sip on his, sighing over the flavor, which always reminded him of pistachios.

“How was the drive?” asked Wazir.

“Without incident,” Moore answered.

“Very good. You have the photographs?”

Moore reached into the small pack he’d had slung over his shoulder and withdrew his tablet computer. He thumbed it on and handed it to Wazir.

The old man deftly thumbed through the intelligence photos, as though he’d used such a device before. And Moore asked him about that.

“Let me show you something,” he said, then called to the boy, who helped him to his feet.

He led them down the hall and into a back room, an office, that left Moore’s mouth hanging open. Wazir had banks of computers, two wide-screen televisions, and at least a half-dozen laptops all running at the same time. His electronic command post resembled the bridge of a starship. News websites and television programs flashed, along with screens showing bulletin boards and social-networking sites. The man was plugged in, all right.

And there, on a nearby table, were several tablet computers just like Moore’s.

“As you can see,” Wazir said, waving his good hand across the room, “I like my toys.”

Moore shook his head in surprise. “I’ve been here for, I don’t know, two, three years? Why haven’t I heard of you until now?”

“That was my choice.”

“Then why now?”

The old man’s smile evaporated. “Come on, let’s finish our tea. Then lunch. Then we’ll talk.”

After they returned to the living area and took their seats, the boy brought in an onion-based quorma, or stew, along with chutneys, pickles, and naan — an unleavened bread baked in a clay oven. The food was delicious, and Moore felt stuffed by the time they were finished.

Wazir pierced the silence with a question: “What is the most difficult thing you’ve ever done in your life?”

Moore glanced at Rana, whose body language said, This matters.

With a resigned sigh, Moore faced Wazir and asked, “Is this important?”

“No.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“Because I’m an old man, and I’m going to die soon, and I believe that brotherhoods are formed in life’s sacrifices. I’m a collector of nightmares, if you will. It’s the recounting, in the cool of the day, that allows courage and truth to flourish. So, in the name of brotherhood …what is the most difficult thing you have ever done in your life?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever faced this question before.”

“Are you afraid to tell me?”

“I’m not afraid, I’m just …”

“You don’t want to look at it. You’ve hidden it away.”

Moore gasped, and he was unsure if he could maintain his gaze on Wazir. “We’ve all done many difficult things.”

“I need the most difficult. Do you want me to go first?”

Moore nodded.

“I yearned to make my father proud. I wanted to be a good son.”

“And how was that difficult?”

Wazir raised his stump. “I got hurt early in the war, and with that the paternal glow of pride, each time I entered the room, was quenched from my father’s gaze. His son was a cripple now, no longer a warrior. It was never the same with him after that. And there was nothing harder for me to do than make him proud.”

“I’m sure you succeeded.”

The old man smiled. “You’d have to ask my father.”

“He’s still alive?”

Wazir nodded. “He lives about an hour from here by car. He must be the oldest man in the village there.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s proud of you now. I was not a very good son. And by the time I learned what a fool I’d been, it was too late. My father died from cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. All we wanted to be were good sons, yes?”

“It’s never that simple.”

Moore’s eyes began to burn — because he knew the old man was going to press him again. He did.

“The hardest thing?”

Moore glanced away. “I’m sorry. I can’t look in there.”

The old man sat quietly, sipping on his tea, letting the silence reclaim the room, while Moore forced his thoughts onto deep, dark waves of nothing. And then he looked up. “I guess if I don’t tell you, you won’t help me.”

“If you told me too quickly, I wouldn’t believe you. I understand that the pain is so great that you can’t talk. I know this pain. And I will help you. I must help you.”

“I just …I once made a decision that to this day I’m not sure was the right one. Every time I think about it, I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

Wazir’s eyes widened. “Then put it behind you! That was some of my best stew you’ve eaten!”

Moore grinned over the joke.

“Now, the two men in the photograph. I will find out who they are, but I think they’re unimportant. It’s the men they work for that you have to stop.”

“Do you have names?”

“You’ve seen my office. I have more than that.” Wazir took them back to his computers, where he showed Moore photographs of two men he identified as Mullah Abdul Samad and Mullah Omar Rahmani. Samad was the younger of the two, in his forties, while Rahmani was pushing sixty.

“Are these guys Taliban leaders? I…I can’t believe I haven’t heard of them.”

Wazir grinned. “They don’t want you to know who they are. The best way to explain it is that there are Taliban within Taliban, the more public figures you are familiar with, and a special group that works as secretively as possible. Rahmani is the leader of that group here. And Samad is his fist. They are the men responsible for killing your friends, for killing the colonel who wanted to help you.”

Moore threw a wary glance at Rana, who had told the old man much more than he should have. Rana shrugged. “I needed to tell him what was happening — in order to get his help.”

Moore made a face. “Okay.” He regarded Wazir. “Now this man is missing.” He handed Wazir a picture of Agent Gallagher, with his long, gunmetal-gray hair and scraggly beard. Gallagher’s parents had emigrated from Syria to the United States, where he was born. His real name was Bashir Wassouf, but he went by Bobby Gallagher and had his name legally changed when he was a teenager. He’d told Moore about all the discrimination he’d suffered as a kid growing up in Northern California.

“Leave me a copy of this,” said Wazir.

“Thank you. Do you know anything about the other man? The Hispanic guy?”

“He’s a Mexican, and they’re buying a lot more opium than they used to. They were never very good customers, but their business has increased tenfold in recent years, and as you discovered, the Army has been helping them move their product through Pakistan and out of the country, to Mexico, to the United States …”

“Do you know where these men are? I mean right now.”

“I think so.”

“Wazir, I want to thank you for the tea, for the stew …for everything. I mean it.”

“I know you do. And when you’re ready to talk, come back to me. I want to hear your story. I’m an old man. I’m a good listener.”

During the drive back, Moore thought a lot about “his story” and the darker waters he could have tread …Fairview High School, Boulder, Colorado (home of the Knights), was where Moore met a kid named Walter Schmidt during their freshman year. Schmidt was a year older than everyone else because he’d flunked out his first time around. He’d been proud of that fact. He boasted of cutting classes, mouthing off to teachers, and smoking pot on school grounds. He repeatedly tried to get Moore involved, and while the temptation had been great, the thoughts of escaping from the turmoil of his parents’ divorce incredibly enticing, Moore had stood firm. Even so, Moore was no scholar himself, barely passing his classes, and watching with some envy as Walter grew more popular, attracted girls who would actually have sex with him, and seemed to wriggle his brows at Moore, as if to say, You could have this life, too, bro.

Finally, near the end of the school year, Moore’s defenses had weakened. He’d decided to attend a party thrown by Schmidt. He would try pot for the first time because a girl he liked would be there, and he already knew she smoked. As he rode his bike down the street toward Schmidt’s house, the flashing lights of police cars quickened his pace, and when he drew closer, he caught a glimpse of Schmidt being shoved out of the house like a rabid dog by two officers. Schmidt battled against the handcuffs, cursed, and even spat in one cop’s face.

Moore stood there, breathless, as the rest of the partygoers were arrested and taken away — including the girl he liked.

He shook his head. He’d been that close to getting arrested himself. No, that wasn’t a life. Not his life. He wasn’t going to waste it like these jerks. He’d turn it all around. His father, a nerd who worked for IBM, was always browbeating him about having no direction, no future.

But that night Moore made a decision. He would finally listen to someone else who’d been trying to inspire and encourage him: his high school gym teacher, Mr. Loengard, a man who recognized in him something no one else had witnessed or discovered, a man who made him realize that his life was worth something and that he could make contributions to this world that were immeasurable. He could rise to the call and become a very special breed of warrior: a U.S. Navy SEAL.

Moore’s father had told him that the Navy was for drunks and idiots. Well, he was going to prove the old man wrong. He kept himself on the straight and narrow, graduated high school, and by the end of that summer was up in Great Lakes, Illinois, at the Navy Recruitment Training Command for eight weeks of basic training. Moore had to get through the “confidence course” twice, ship training, weapons training, shipboard damage control, and the memorable “confidence chamber,” where he’d had to recite his full name and Social Security number while a tear-gas tablet hissed at his feet.

Upon graduation, Moore slid on his U.S. Navy ball cap and was sent to the Navy Law Enforcement Academy in San Antonio to complete the LE/MA (Law Enforcement/Master-at-Arms) six-week course. He’d found this interesting and exciting because he’d gotten to play with guns. While he was there, his instructors noted his marksmanship, and finally, after much pleading, he received that highly coveted recommendation. Upon graduation, Moore was promoted to Seaman (E-3) and sent off to Coronado, California, home of the U.S. Navy SEALs.

Blood, sweat, and tears awaited him.