Chapter Twenty-Two
Afghanistan
WALKER DROVE SLOWLY ahead thinking about fate and stopped the Hilux a hundred yards shy of the yellow jug concealed behind a pile of rocks.
This close, he was able to see the det cord running through a hole punctured in the five-inch-diameter white screw top and ran his eyes to a flat spot in the road in line with where a vehicle would cross it.
There’s the plate.
He had seen this type of pressure plate a dozen times before.
Most setups were made up of three components: switch, battery, and electric blasting cap.
The pressure plate, or switch, was usually saw blades separated by a nonconductive material and placed in the road where a vehicle’s wheel or wheels would most likely roll, thus creating the “pressure.” Wires would be connected to each saw blade, and when a wheel ran over the pressure plate, the saw blade would bend, touching the other saw blade to complete the electrical circuit, which set off the electric detonator.
The bulk explosive was usually buried on the side of the road or directly underneath the vehicle.
If Walker had the right explosive charge, he could have blown it in place. Too bad he didn’t.
There was also the possibility that this was a hoax IED, set up to get them to drive around and over a more cleverly camouflaged device.
He looked back at Staub, who was watching his every move through binos. He had left his radio with his partner as radio frequency transmissions and IEDs did not play well together.
He turned back to the device.
It was time.
He lay on his stomach and crawled forward, carefully inspecting and probing the ground as he went; one doesn’t want to inadvertently set off a pressure plate or secondary IED.
Sweat from heat and nerves dripped from his pores as he approached the yellow jug.
There was no way to tell from outside of the makeshift bomb how much explosive was inside. The standard insurgent ratio was nine parts ammonium nitrate and one part aluminum powder, and the jugs were usually close to forty pounds, which was more than enough to destroy a Hilux truck or midsize SUV.
Or one dumbass messing with it.
As he got closer, Walker could see the det cord poking out of the lid, attached to a blue wire. If he could sever the wire, he would render the whole thing inoperable.
Well, you haven’t blown yourself up yet. Keep going.
Walker slowly opened the small hook and line kit he had taken with him. He focused on slowing his breathing as he used a “pull line” to attach a “hook knife” to the detonator wire.
Still have all my fingers and toes. That’s a good sign.
Walker slowly backed out the way he had come with the pull line in hand, careful not to inadvertently jerk or pull too soon while still exposed to the blast. When he was about seventy-five yards away he crawled behind a boulder.
He looked back toward Staub but couldn’t see him, which meant he was far enough away and behind cover.
Moment of truth.
Three, two, one.
Walker pulled the line attached to the hook knife, remotely cutting the detonator wire.
Nothing went boom.
Have to check it.
Walker moved back to the IED, slowly and deliberately.
The wire was cut. The explosive was still there, half-buried against the boulder, but Walker verified the electrical circuit to set off the IED was disrupted.
Next, he conducted a quick secondary search to verify there were no other explosive devices.
All clear.
He turned and signaled to Staub that it was safe to drive forward with the family.
He stowed his kit and made his way back to his vehicle thinking that had he been a smoker, now would have been a good time to light one up to calm the nerves. Instead, from a Nalgene bottle he downed most of his lukewarm water flavored with powdered orange Gatorade.
“You good, brother?” Staub asked, exiting the Mitsubishi to check on his friend.
“Yeah. Taliban must know to drive around it. This was set up recently as I don’t see any tracks veering off the road yet.”
“Maybe there’s a route to bypass that starts back the way we came, and we just missed it.”
“Could be. Let’s get Naji and Zahra back in the Hilux. We’re getting close.”
The two-vehicle convoy continued on, slower this time, the four-wheel-drive vehicles eating up the miles to the border.
“You have the papers handy?” Walker asked Naji.
Naji patted a worn leather satchel and smiled faintly. “Right here.”
The road ahead shimmered with heat.
Three klicks later, Walker squinted at the horizon and keyed his radio.
“Checkpoint up ahead. Panel van.”
“Baksheesh?” Walker asked his passenger. Gift?
“Most likely,” Naji said. “They know there will be a surge of traffic to the border with the Americans leaving. They’re going to want to capitalize on it. Opportunists.”
Let’s hope so, Walker thought.
“What do you think?” he asked Staub over the radio.
“I think it’s time to pay up.”
Walker keyed his mic twice in response, then reached into the center console and pulled out a white pillowcase and a thousand dollars in U.S. hundred-dollar bills.
As they approached, two men carrying AK-type rifles stepped out of the van. They were dressed in black.
Walker rolled down his window, slowed the vehicle, and held out the white pillowcase.
“Just be calm,” Walker said as he brought the Hilux to a stop about ten yards from the checkpoint. “Give me your papers.”
He stuffed the money into the pillowcase and stepped out, one hand raised with the white pillowcase, which doubled as a truce flag, the other holding the Agency-forged Taliban travel papers at shoulder level. The fighters watched him advance.
Walker only knew a few phrases of Pashto, which he hoped would be beneficial in this situation.
He was counting on the cash and documents to speak for him.
He was also counting on human nature. If the travel documents were real and these bandits killed people traveling under Taliban protection, they and their families were as good as dead.
Better to accept a “gift” and err on the side of caution.
“We’re leaving the country. Per the agreement,” Walker said in barely passable Pashto. He said it in a way that assumed everyone knew about the agreement, playing on the intellectual vanity of human nature.
The lead fighter, a hawk-faced man with a black beard, nodded slightly.
“Exit papers,” he said.
Walker handed over the forged documents.
“You are a soldier,” Hawk-face replied, in heavily accented English.
“Just a security guard. We are only assisting in the withdrawal from your country.”
The fighter barked something in Pashto that Walker couldn’t follow but he understood the hand signal to mean pay up.
Walker handed the pillowcase to the lead man.
The bandit pulled the money out and seemed to weigh it in his hands. Then he handed it to his partner.
“Go with God,” the man said, throwing the pillowcase back at the American. “And never come back.”
Walker kept his hands up by his shoulders.
“Don’t you worry,” he replied, before turning back toward his vehicle.