Disavowed
and wait until my email dings and I get the video with Andy’s head dangling from some terrorist’s hand?”
    “That’s not what I’m saying, Cal. Unofficially, of course, the president agrees with you. But we need to be careful. Have you heard from Isnard?”
    “No. He’s gone deep somewhere. Every line we’ve put out there has yet to get a bite.”
    “I’m sure he’ll call as soon as he has something,” said Travis.
    “Yeah. I sure hope so.”
     
    +++
     
    Helmand Province, Afghanistan
    8:37am AFT, August 24 th
     
    The white delivery truck pulled up the long drive, escorted by two pickup trucks and the usual complement of gunmen. You didn’t go anywhere in Helmand without security, least of all if you had something of value in your possession. Food was on the top of that list.
    Quraish gazed down from his perch atop one of the squat buildings of the village. He sat in the best place to view the steep approach of the road below. It was early for a delivery, but at least they might have something better than the stale bread and moldy cheese they’d been given at sunup. One of the others had told him that supplies were running low. Quraish’s belly rumbled at the thought.
    Someone in the larger village below had undoubtedly checked the convoy and passed it through. This was the innermost of three security rings. Besides, this side of the river was protected by a local warlord who ensured its safety. No one set foot inside the warlord’s lands without permission.
    Quraish clicked his radio twice then spoke into it. “Food delivery coming up from the village.”
    Whoever was on the other end mumbled something Quraish couldn’t understand. He replaced the radio on the short wall and continued to watch the small caravan as it moved closer. Still bored, Quraish’s only hope was that there would be some food left by the time his shift was over.
     
    +++
     
    The three vehicles pulled to a stop in front of the main building. Although larger than the others, the home was missing a quarter of its roof courtesy of an American mortar.
    A five man contingent from the group assigned to defend the small outpost walked out to meet the delivery. Like their friend on the roof, their stomachs growled at the thought of food.
    The men in the beds of the pickups stayed where they were as three men piled out of the delivery truck. One approached the defenders and the other two moved to the rear of the vehicle.
    “Good morning, brothers,” said the lone man who approached, arms spread wide in greeting. His face was covered with a dust crusted black scarf. He wore a rust colored pakol on his head, the traditional Afghan round-topped cap worn by many in the rural region. Even the man’s eyes were shielded with dark sunglasses rimmed with brown dirt. “Where should I have my men put your shipment?” 
    “Have them take it over there,” one of the five said, pointing to the building they’d come out of. “What did you bring today?”
    The delivery man pulled down his scarf revealing a yellow smile. He rubbed his hands together.
    “Many fine surprises, my friend. Many fine. Tell me, how many men do you have so that I might leave enough extras? Nothing you need to tell your commander about. I know how it is on duty.”
    The five men looked at each other, one finally answering. “There are ten, but one is an old man with no teeth.”
    The delivery man smiled wide and clapped his hands once. “Good! Then I have brought enough. No treat is too good for our fine warriors.” He put up a finger as if to say, “Wait here.”
    The man disappeared behind the truck and came out a moment later cradling something wrapped in a white linen veil. The smile hadn’t left his face.
    “What is it?” asked one of the men, who now numbered seven. The rest nodded in anticipation.
    With a flourish, the delivery man whipped the linen away revealing a Russian-made PKM medium machine gun. On instinct, the seven men went for their weapons, but
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