Warriors (9781101621189) Read online

  ALSO BY TOM YOUNG

  FICTION

  The Renegades

  Silent Enemy

  The Mullah’s Storm

  NONFICTION

  The Speed of Heat: An Airlift Wing at War in Iraq and Afghanistan

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Tom Young

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Excerpt from “Bosnia Tune” from Collected Poems in English by Joseph Brodsky. Copyright © 2000 by the Estate of Joseph Brodsky. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Young, Thomas W., date.

  The warriors / Tom Young.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-62118-9

  1. Parson, Michael (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Gold, Sophia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Soldiers—Fiction. 4. Afghan War, 2001—Fiction. 5. Afghanistan—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3625.O97335W37 2013 2013009343

  813'.6—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  FOR THE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE 167TH AIRLIFT WING, WEST VIRGINIA AIR NATIONAL GUARD

  CONTENTS

  ALSO BY TOM YOUNG

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  EPILOGUE | TWO YEARS LATER

  THE STORY BEHIND THE WARRIORS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In the towns with funny names,

  hit by bullets, caught in flames,

  by and large not knowing why,

  people die.

  —JOSEPH BRODSKY,

  “Bosnia Tune”

  1

  A COLD FRONT SWEPT ACROSS the steppes of Central Asia like an invading army. The wedge of dense, frigid air slid underneath warmer air, lifting the warm air higher until thunderheads spawned and stalked through Kyrgyzstan. The black clouds assaulted the terrain with lightning, and booms reverberated like the peals of distant air strikes.

  At Manas Air Base—officially called Transit Center at Manas for political reasons—Lieutenant Colonel Michael Parson stood in the control tower with American and Kyrgyz air traffic controllers. The controllers fretted about the weather, and so did Parson. His new job had him watching weather conditions pretty closely. He’d arrived in Kyrgyzstan only yesterday to start a yearlong assignment as the base safety officer. Parson welcomed the noncombat position after seeing more than his share of action in Afghanistan and Iraq as a U.S. Air Force aviator.

  Manas served as a major stopover for troops and cargo on the way into and out of Afghanistan, but at least the base wasn’t in a hostile fire zone. Parson considered the place a relatively laid-back outpost: You could sip a beer in your off-hours. Even during the duty day, you could take a break and go to the coffee shop, get an espresso, and pet the big gray cat that always slept on one of the chairs. Parson thought he’d like Manas, except for the weather.

  “Shall we call a ground stop?” a Kyrgyz controller asked in good English.

  “Not yet,” the American tower chief said.

  Neither man looked at Parson, because Parson exercised no authority over the controllers. But he understood their dilemma. Cumulonimbus the color of wrought iron loomed to the north. The low-level wind shear alert system already indicated trouble near the approach end of Runway Two-Six. But a lot of traffic needed to come in today, and wind shear always presented a problem at Manas. Every chart for every approach carried the notation: Heavy turbulence with downdrafts and wind shear may be expected on final. You could eliminate the risk only by not flying at all.

  The controllers had the tower’s VHF frequency on the speakers. A pilot with an Afghan accent called.

  “Manas Tower,” the pilot said, “Golay One-Three is Afghan Air Force C-27 on VOR/DME approach to Runway Two-Six.”

  Parson recognized the call sign, though not the voice. He thought of his tour as an adviser to the Afghan Air Force, and he felt proud to hear an Afghan crew on an international flight. Parson wondered where they were going, what they were doing. During his year working with Afghan crews, he’d made a lot of good friends, but most of the pilots he knew flew helicopters. This C-27 Spartan was a twin-turboprop cargo plane.

  “Golay One-Three, Manas Tower,” a controller called. “You are cleared to land, Runway Two-Six. Use caution for low-level wind shear.”

  “Golay One-Three cleared to land,” the pilot acknowledged.

  Parson peered through the tower’s windows, scanned for the Spartan. At first he saw only roiling clouds bearing down on the airfield. Large raindrops began to smack against the glass, and a gust of wind swirled dust outside on the tower catwalk. A controller raised his binoculars and pointed. Parson spotted the aircraft just under the cloud layer, in a right turn onto final approach.

  The plane rolled out of the turn, leveled its wings. The landing gear doors opened as the aircraft descended, and the wheels came down and locked into place. The wings rocked a bit; Parson could almost feel the turbulence jolting the airplane. He’d made a few landings here himself in a C-5 Galaxy, riding down the glide slope with the jet crabbed sideways, dancing on the rudder pedals at the last moment, and always keeping his thumb on the GO AROUND button in case the wind shear got so evil he had to abort the approach.

  The rain fell harder. Drops pounded the roof until the sound rose to a dull roar. Water streamed down the tower windows, and outside visibility dropped by half. Parson could still see the C-27, though, now on short final. The aircraft continued its descent—a little too steeply for Parson’s comfort. The Spartan should have flown a nice, gentle approach angle of about three degrees, but this looked like six or eight. At this rate, Parson thought, the aircraft might even touch down short of the runway. Time to climb away for another try.

&
nbsp; But the Spartan continued to descend. By standard procedure, the crew should have set up a stabilized approach by now: configured to land, on glide path, within a few knots of approach speed, and descending at no more than about seven hundred feet per minute.

  These guys weren’t even close to stable. Parson guesstimated their descent rate at around fifteen hundred. Harder to judge their airspeed, but the approach looked a good twenty knots hot. What the hell? All the Afghan pilots he knew could have done a better job. Their stick-and-rudder skills weren’t usually the problem. Parson had preached the fine points like checklist discipline, not basic piloting skills. But whoever was flying that C-27 couldn’t find his ass with both hands.

  “Go around, you idiot,” Parson muttered under his breath.

  Most crashes happened on landing. Airplanes were especially vulnerable to wicked weather on final approach. The nearer the ground, the thinner the margin for error. That’s why a good missed approach beat a bad landing any day of the week.

  The pilot’s voice came over the radio again, the resin of tension in his voice:

  “Golay One-Three going around.”

  So the clue light finally came on. Parson thought he heard the aircraft’s engines advance, though the rain noise made it hard to tell. As the C-27 flew closer, he saw the landing gear retract and the nose pitch higher. But the aircraft did not climb. The Spartan’s descent continued, only at a slower rate.

  Caught in a downdraft, Parson realized. Or maybe even a fully developed, honest-to-God microburst that could slam a plane into the ground. That’s why you don’t dick around in weather like this, he thought. Now cob those throttles and get the hell out of Dodge.

  Lightning speared the ground. Veins of quicksilver spiderwebbed across the sky, so bright they hurt Parson’s eyes. The Spartan roared along the runway, clawing for altitude, gaining none.

  Parson could imagine the scene in the cockpit: the pilot pulling back on the yoke while watching the flight director’s pitch steering bars. The ground prox warning system blaring, DON’T SINK, DON’T SINK. And the vertical speed indicator still showing a descent.

  Then came the moment when Parson knew what would happen but could do nothing. The Spartan pitched up even higher, near the verge of a stall. The aircraft floated just a few feet above the pavement, seemingly in slow motion. Inevitably, the tail dragged the ground, and the C-27 pancaked to earth.

  The propeller blades struck the pavement, bent backward into fishhooks. The left engine tore from its mount under the wing. Flames blossomed as fuel and hydraulic lines ripped open. The engine shed its cowl panels and prop as it cartwheeled forward, ahead of a spreading black-and-orange fireball. The grinding sound of metal across pavement joined with the boom and crackle of flames.

  All four controllers rose to their feet, uttered epithets in English and Kyrgyz. As the aircraft continued to come apart, the tail section separated and skidded sideways out of the flames. The bulk of the wreckage slid forward along the concrete. Streamers of fire erupted from the exploding wings. Metal fragments shot clear of the smoke and bounced along the taxiway.

  A Kyrgyz controller reached for a touch-screen computer and tapped a red icon marked PCAS. That button activated the primary crash alarm system, and in seconds Parson heard the sirens of crash trucks. Three yellow-and-red Oshkosh trucks charged down the taxiway, red lights flashing. The first truck braked to a stop just short of the flames and opened a blast from its foam cannon. The other trucks positioned themselves around the front of the wreckage, sprayed white chemical onto the burning fuselage.

  Firefighters in silver proximity suits jumped down from their vehicles. One man took hold of the plane’s crew door handle and pulled. The handle would not budge, so another firefighter lifted a crash ax from his truck and slammed the ax at the crew door. When the door finally dropped, smoke rolled from the opening. One of the foam cannons sprayed through the doorway, and two firefighters climbed inside, breathing from air bottles mounted on their backs.

  Parson leaned on the back of a chair, closed his eyes. Felt his skin grow flush. He’d lost too many friends and crewmates in accidents and shootdowns. He didn’t know this crew, but he knew plenty of people like them. And he knew they all had family—spouses, parents, children. When one of the controllers made the next radio call, the words barely registered in Parson’s mind.

  “Attention all aircraft,” the controller said. “Manas is closed for emergency operations.”

  Parson then heard the controller talking to a KC-135 tanker jet, giving the crew instructions to enter holding over the Bishkek VOR.

  Two ambulances converged on the crash site. Parson appreciated the quick response. He especially admired the courage of the firefighters, but he doubted they’d find anyone alive inside the Spartan.

  The two firemen who’d entered the C-27 came back out carrying a limp body. They took the crewman well away from the smoke and flames and laid him down. The medics went to work, but in a few moments Parson could tell from their gestures that the man was dead.

  The same thing happened when the firefighters brought out the other two victims. Though Parson watched from a distance, the appearance of their clothing suggested that at least the crew had not burned to death. Their Nomex flight suits still held the original desert beige coloring. When exposed to fire, flameproof Nomex would not burn, but it would discolor to nearly black. Apparently all three—pilot, copilot, and loadmaster—had died of some combination of crash force trauma and smoke inhalation.

  Part of Parson’s mind was already investigating, analyzing. Though powerless to prevent the crash, now he would lead in determining causes. He had hoped he would pass his time as safety officer without handling anything more serious than a maintenance guy falling off a stand. But sadly, his new assignment had begun with a Class A mishap, defined as an accident causing loss of life, loss of an aircraft, or more than two million dollars in damage. This crash covered all three.

  Parson sighed hard, looked at the floor. Ignored the chatter on the control frequencies. When he looked up again, he saw three arcing streams of foam attacking the tallest flames—those rising from the tangled metal of the wings. No one remained alive to save, but the crash team kept working, making sure fire and cinders spread no farther to threaten aircraft on the ramp. The three parabolas of foam seemed a grotesque tribute to the lives just lost.

  Life seemed so fragile now to Parson. He used to consider himself master of his own fate, someone who steered events instead of merely reacting to them. But time and time again, he’d seen events overcome even the strongest and the most skilled aviators—not to mention boneheads like the crew who’d just flown that Spartan into the ground. The Air Force talked about risk management as if a hazard were something you could get your hands around. Choke it and drown it in a bathtub. But a hazard needed little opening to cause harm. Just a miscommunication or a failure of equipment. A moment’s inattention, an ounce of bad judgment.

  Parson struggled to turn off his emotions the way he might use an isolation switch in an airplane to de-energize a bad electrical circuit. He had a lot to do, and his feelings would only get in the way. First, he needed to identify witnesses and make sure the crash site didn’t get disturbed any more than firefighting required. Even though he’d seen the disaster himself, he wanted to record the statements of other onlookers. Then Parson would turn to the big picture: examine the size and shape of the debris field, take photos, establish a grid to pinpoint where all the parts had come to rest. As a safety officer he was not an expert. But he would gather evidence and information, call in experts as needed.

  He thought he already knew the cause of this accident: a wind shear event with an unsuccessful recovery. Tragically straightforward. A major contributing factor: stupidity.

  However, he couldn’t help thinking maybe the crash was a little too straightforward. Avoiding the accident would have been so easy. For now,
he would just let the evidence tell its story. And he felt that story might lead to places where he didn’t want to go. Parson had expected this assignment to turn out easier and safer than some of his previous deployments. But this part of the world had long served as a crossroads of continents. Down through the centuries, East invaded West; West attacked East. All sorts of trouble had ebbed and flowed across these steppes that led the way to Europe.

  2

  FOR THE FIRST TIME in years, Viktor Dušic felt fulfilled. Not because of his money, though he had plenty. But because of his new sense of purpose. After more than a decade in the arms business—building connections, making deals, showing he could deliver the goods anywhere needed—Dušic controlled a network of suppliers, buyers, and discreet middlemen that spanned a third of the globe. And now his wealth and the breadth of his network had reached a tipping point: Perhaps he could not only profit from events but control them.

  Luxury had its place: He enjoyed his Lamborghini Aventador, his Patek Philippe watch, his cognac, his women. But a warrior didn’t let those things distract him. Not with a mission yet to accomplish. Dušic felt he possessed the talents, the audacity, and, at last, the resources to bring his people the justice, the land, and the glory that rightfully belonged to them. He had so much to do.

  By now, Dušic thought, Greater Serbia should have become a powerful nation, free of Muslims—or Turks, as he called them. However, meddling from the UN, NATO, and especially the Americans had denied Dušic and his people a richly deserved victory. So he had bided his time, formulated plans, maintained hope.

  In his Belgrade office, on the right bank of the Sava River, Dušic picked up the phone and punched a number. Normally a man of his stature would have his secretary initiate his calls, but Milica, faithful though she was, did not need to know of this conversation. The number rang at a flat in Sarajevo, and the call went unanswered for so long that Dušic nearly hung up. But on the ninth ring, a gruff voice answered.