BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 68. Pakistani Baitullah Mehsud sent 600 tribal leaders each a needle, some black thread and 1000 rupees for their death shrouds.

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CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

As Americans continued to be plagued by multiple localized problems within their borders, the heroin trade of Afghanistan was brought to the attention of President Little during his daily briefing of the war on terror.

“Director Manners couldn't make it today, so I'll be handling the daily report, Mr. President,” said Tom Riley, the Deputy Director of CIA, as he greeted Jackson and took a seat on the couch.

“OK, Tom. Let’s hear what you've got.”

“Well, as you know, Afghanistan is the major supplier of heroin for all world markets. And, up until now, we’ve needed the support of these drug warlords to help institute our particular political and socio-economic agendas. In effect, even having our troops in that country has in no way disrupted the flow of drugs and the almost half-a-trillion dollars in profits from these operations.”

“Yes,” said Jackson, “I’ve received an earlier briefing about this ridiculous and ironic situation: supporting the heroin trade indirectly to manipulate the government over there. I brought up the point that there must be a better way to handle the matter than to be a facilitator for sales and distribution of one of the world’s most dangerous and invasive drugs. This makes the ‘just say no’ stance of the 1980s seem like a pitiful and cruel joke. This can’t be tolerated a minute longer.”

Riley shifted in his seat, resettling himself before responding.

“Well, Mr. President, if we just went out there and eradicated the poppy fields, more than half of that country would starve to death in a matter of months. It’s their main cash crop, and has been – in Pakistan as well – for centuries. So we can’t really see the upside of destroying or killing our allies from a sudden reactionary attitude.”

“Yes, but aren’t the tremendous profits also used to buy guns for the tribal factions, Taliban, other Al-Qaeda elements?” argued the President. “With these groups armed to the teeth, maybe even bargaining for nuclear bombs, doesn’t it make sense to stop the flow of funds by blocking the drug trade?”

“Well, it is a fine line to ride, that’s for sure.” Riley was still trying to sidestep the deepest secret in the world of spooks, that the CIA themselves earned billions from their covert, drug-related activities, both in the Middle East and at various South American stations. The senior H.W. Bush administration was said to have skimmed eight billion off its Air America drug shipments – somehow that figure had become public knowledge. Since the Company couldn’t depend on Congress to always pass funding bills in support of their questionable activities, the secret heroin profits insured that their deep-op missions would proceed. The faint-at-heart liberals never got a chance to sound the alarm.”

“I just don’t believe we can continue to operate as both intelligence organizations and pro-drug entities in these countries.” President Little was losing his patience with Riley. “I want the drug cartels stopped now, the growing brought to a halt, and the immediate introduction of new, replacement crops put into effect.”

After a pause, the President gave his final directive. “I want a full report on all the numbers: the precise amount of profits derived from heroin trade in Afghanistan and where the cash is spent. I want to know the true size of the problem.”

“Yes sir,” was the only acceptable response, and Riley gave it, then excused himself. Jackson then made a phone call to his uncle-in-law, Jim Benton, his wife Cissy's uncle, who had helped him understand and navigate the secret CIA motives in the days leading up to his election. There was no question that Riley had been pushing the Company line and wasn’t going to divulge the pertinent facts about the heroin operations. It was time to contact Jim and see if he could explain the unofficial policy, and how it actually affected that hostile region.

As the phone rang, Jackson let three big questions form in his mind: (1) Why had the heroin trade in Afghanistan survived through both Russian and US occupations? (2) who was protecting it, and (3) who exactly was profiting from its huge cash flow?

After three rings, Benton checked his cell phone, spotted the White House prefix and answered. “Benton here.

“Jim, it’s Jackson over here in the gilded cage. How’re you doing?”

“Pretty good, and great to hear from you. Didn’t know that they still allowed you to operate your own devices over there.”

“Well, not always. But I have some personal things I’d like to discuss. Probably can’t go the underground garage route anymore, so how about a visit through the big front door this time?”

“Of course,” said Benton, with a chuckle.“Never tried that before.”

“Fine then. When’s your earliest convenience? My private quarters upstairs can still get a pretty good full menu after 10 PM.”

It was settled that Benton would heading over on Wednesday night, 9:30 PM, after Cissy and the kids were off visiting with her mother in Alexandria. That gave the men a clear deck to sort out the complexities that only someone like Benton could help decode. On the appointed night, Benton was ushered through the White House to a first floor security station. Jackson met him in less than a minute, happily greeting his old friend.

“Jim, so good to see you,” said Jackson as the two men climbed the stairs. “Thanks again for this over-ground meeting.”

“Yes, still in cloak of night, but with some rather valuable art on the walls.”

Jackson was relieved to see that Benton still maintained his signature drollness, even in such upscale circumstances. Entering the Presidential quarters, Jackson gestured toward an oval dinner table surrounded by cushy French nouveau chairs, taking his seat right after Benton settled in. His quick order to the kitchen set the men free for business.

“Have you heard of TTP, the Tehrik-I Taliban Pakistan?” asked Benton, jumping right to the heart of the matter. “Or maybe Tehrik-e?”

"I think I have,” said the President, knowing that the multi-case names caused him some confusion. “Are those the ones who threatened to bomb us on this side of the pond?”

“Yes, the same. By 2004 this organization – all the splinter groups – had assassinated over 200 tribal leaders to take over lands and power in important regions of Pakistan. That brings us to Baitullah Mehsud, whom the Taliban selected to bring all the various factions of TTP together, in opposition to US interests.

“With almost 50,000 battle-hardened fighters – consider each man equal to four or five other mercenaries over there – this army protected Osama bin Laden until his death, and was responsible for repelling anything President Obama threw at them to ‘stabilize’ the region. Keep in mind, Pakistan is a country with a nuclear stockpile. Make no mistake, Mehsud and his band will use nuclear weapons when they acquire them. My fear, at this moment, is that they already have some in their possession.”

“My god! You’re kidding? He’s threatened to blow up London, New York, the White House! You’re saying that he can now?”

“‘Fraid so. For the record, I would have called this meeting if you hadn’t, old friend. Can’t let my people be incinerated, you know.” Benton only allowed a couple seconds of silence before plowing ahead. “Keep in mind that in 2005, Baitullah Mehsud sent 600 tribal leaders each a needle, some black thread and 1000 rupees for their death shrouds. Shortly after that mailing, they were ALL killed. He had the ability, then, to make whatever he said come true. And he still does now. The question must be, how can we stop him?”

The President had heard of Baitullah Mehsud, been told of large troop buildups, but the needle-and-thread story was completely new information. His CIA advisors hadn’t bothered to share that terrifying bit of intel. And they had carefully controlled his opinion of these rogue tribal fighters, soft-pedaling their actions by describing them as ‘rug peddlers’ and ‘freedom fighters.’

“The TTP pays for its arms and transportation, food, everything, through criminal activities,” said Benton, continuing to paint the picture. “They demand protection money, and rob banks and individuals, including other drug dealers. They are like the mafia in New York in the early days, the 1920s, except for one thing. They’re not out to make the people love them. They insist on respect and allegiance. And if they don’t get it, people die. The only alternative is an early grave. Maybe a word should be said about the basic structure of the family unit of these drug-running, ‘mercenary’ Taliban soldiers.”

“Sure. Don't really know how they spend their days, what kind of cable reception they get over there.” President Little tried to lighten up the mood, but Benton didn’t take the bait. The topic was just too serious.

“Imagine every relative you have, all living with you in one large studio room, with thick adobe walls. Outside there may or may not be a narrow garden or walkway on each side, but the entire compound is protected by very high adobe walls and a very secure, locked-down gate at the public entrance. If you are an important person with many enemies, you can expect to have at least four armed guards posted at the front and rear of the property. At any rate, try and visualize your grandmother and grandfather, possibly even their parents, children of all ages, sitting around, inhabiting one corner or another of the large studio room. Entertaining themselves. Think ipods or iphones with earphones these days. Now, there may be a TV, but its volume is fairly low. Those who want to listen to it are huddled in close.”

“OK,” said the President. “I get it...cramped space. And the kitchen is somewhere in there too, right?”

“That’s correct.” Benton prepared to make his most important point. “Now Imagine if one person from this large family unit is dishonored, either by another Taliban member, or worse, much worse, by someone outside their culture. An American serviceman, for instance. Everyone in that room knows the greatness of their family’s lineage. It can be traced back, probably at least 800 years. They know who they are. From the smallest child to the oldest senior citizen, they can name these ancestors. They have that respect. And nobody, NO ONE, will ever be allowed to make a slur on that history. If they can’t kill the offender right away, they will hunt down that person and make an example of him or her, preferably with a rather slow and excruciating death. That’s how seriously they take their personal honor.

“That Taliban soldier across the way isn’t just that one guy, in his mind. He carries the honor of everyone from that dingy, low-lit adobe room. For him to back down, make excuses or fail in his mission, is just completely unthinkable. Death would be his gift if he did such an unfortunate thing. He’s so ready to die to protect his own family history and honor that he has become one of the most fearless fighters the world has ever seen. Keep in mind that he has access to AK-47 machine guns, grenade launchers, and now, most likely, nuclear devices.

“In combat, he has no problem shooting from the waist, traveling light, walking up and down steep mountain trails without body armor, living in that rugged terrain for weeks, months, years if necessary. Sorry if I seem to be building up these fighters here, but these aren’t exaggerations. This really is the case. Our soldiers just don’t have these skills – motivation, willpower, self-knowledge of their ancient family history – or the balls to deal with these Taliban. We are overmatched, I’m afraid.”

Before Jackson could respond, Benton wrapped up.

“Yes, our over-flight drones can kill a few of them here and there, anonymously from the air, but that’s not enough to beat these guys. And you can bet they’ll figure out a way to neutralize that high-tech nuisance.”

President Little let himself digest the information. He quietly repeated Benton’s word to himself. “Overmatched” Benton remained silent. He knew it wasn’t easy for his friend to get up to speed, realize that this seemingly under-equipped, primitive army could be so lethal to the US. It was time for President Little to ask a very direct question.

“What would you think, Jim, if I told you that the US is considering sending another 30,000 troops into Kabul by the beginning of the next year, totally black-op. Mostly Delta Force alumni”

Jim shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to oversell his answer. “Well, I think your wrist will get tired from writing all those condolence letters to mothers of military sons. Of course since we’re officially troop-reduced over there, the condolence letters will have to be classified.”

Bang. A dead fish flopped on the desk. Minus the newspaper wrap. President Little sat speechless. The pressure from his political advisors had come to him via his operations secretary. US polls supposedly revealed the public’s interest in “returning to Afghanistan” again. It had happened in every preceding war – Vietnam, Iraq I & II. Benton saw it as a human response to loosing at the betting tables. If you’re down in chips then double your bet and try to get even. A sure way to walk away busted.

“The Joint Chiefs are on me about this,” admitted Jackson. “They feel that more troops will help turn the corner on...”

Benton couldn’t help interrupting the President of the United States.

“Jackson. Sorry. I just can’t listen to this again. I’ve heard it for over 40 years and seen many fine young lives destroyed.”

“But Jim. It worked before. The surge in Iraq – ”

“Mr. President. It had more to do with throwing bodies under cars until the axel broke. After that, it was about forcing the enemy to expend all it’s explosives and arms fire on our men, then carting our bodies home. Plus, we almost choked the warlords with our payoffs. Strangely enough, after some of them had received a hundred million bucks, they themselves suddenly became targets of other competing factions. Their run-and-hide lifestyles, ducking assassination bullets from friends and foes alike, was the right diversion. That helped us regain some control, some stability. But it was only temporary. We didn’t exactly get the best deal over there, but, believe me, throwing troops at Afghanistan will ultimately ruin the Democratic party. It will make Bush look like a prophet in hindsight. After all, he got the job done. You’re nowhere near close.

“Just like in a tennis match where the champion raises his game to win against a fresh, new contender, so will the Afghans dig deeper, become more steadfast, more deadly. Any thought of additional troops gives a freeze to my soul. I’m deeply against it.”

Jackson Little grabbed his water glass; felt the coldness from the ice cubes. He needed a moment to cool down. What was he supposed to do when all his “honored advisors” thought the exact opposite thing. That old American “can-do.” The “show-me” of Missouri. The bucking up under the guns of Fort Sumter in the 1860s. Carrying the flag to glory. Hadn’t anyone learned anything?

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