Deadly Purpose

By Robert Guillaume

When a US military blunder in Afghanistan leaves a young boy orphaned the US seeks to remedy its international tension by bringing the boy to live in the United States with an family from Afghanistan. Little did anyone realize that the boys life would be controlled and programed from factions back in Afghanistan. The boy, Abdur, would pass through every opportunity the US provided him. He would receive US citizenship, attend the US Coast Guard Academy, become an FBI agent, marry a classmate from the Academy, and become an international advisor to the Pentagon. He would also become close friends with a US Senator. This Senator would be elected as President of the United States. Their friendship would lead to Abdur being asked to head the President's personal security. No one could have imagined what had been planned years before in Afghanistan...it would shock the world!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098389703

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The piercing sound of sirens from medical and police vehicles cut through a damp and dreary summer afternoon in Washington, D.C., as thousands of people stood in shock and disbelief outside the US Capitol building. The nation had expected to hear the President of the United States present a declaration of war aimed at the Middle East. But a split second traumatized both the nation and the world, leaving a mark in history so devastating that for a moment, time stood still.

51 YEARS EARLIER

Fifteen-year-old Amid Zahir and three friends, quietly conceal themselves in the shadows of a mountain pass in the Hindu Kush mountain range of eastern Afghanistan as a small patrol of Russian soldiers passes two hundred yards in front of them. Amid and his friends raise their rifles; four shots echo through the mountain valley, and the three Russian soldiers fall dead. Feeling no remorse, Amid turns to his friends, We have done a good deed. These occupiers of our land must pay the ultimate price of death for their occupation. The four young Afghan men stand, peer one more time into the distance at the lifeless bodies, then calmly and confidently walk away without speaking another word.

Thirty years have passed, and the Russian troops have left. However, another military force, the United States of America, now occupies their land. Once more, disdain rises in the hearts of Afghan resistance. Amid is now forty-five years old. He is a strikingly handsome gentleman—tall, slender, well-muscled, and carries himself with confidence. His dark and weathered face is complemented by deeply sunken coal-black eyes. Amid is a proud man who loves his family and conducts his duties and responsibilities to his family and village without hesitation. He had seen firsthand the struggles of life and death while fighting for independence against Russian forces and years of conflict made have him confident in his actions as a father, husband, and village leader.

Amid’s home is a traditional rural Afghan dwelling, made of mud, brick and timber, built on a steep mountain slope and surrounded by a ten-foot wall with a courtyard area in the center. The home’s entryway leads directly into a great room, or mehmankhana, which is used for greeting friends and is the traditional place where Amid and his friends meet to talk. The spacious room has a large carpet on the floor and mattresses and pillows line each wall. The nearby kitchen has a tandoorkhana, or oven, for baking. Most of the cooking is done outside in a courtyard area, however, during winter months, cooking is done inside the home where the tandoorkhana provides warmth.

His small village is typical of others scattered throughout the Paktika Province. It has one hundred homes close to one another. Although isolated from much of the surrounding country, hydroelectric power provides basic energy and the utilization of some technology.

This remote region has witnessed US military action against terrorist forces that seek safety in the mountains. These groups are radical Islamic fundamentalists that arose out of mujahideen—Islamic fighters of the Afghanistan–Russian conflict. Other radical Islamic groups have also risen to protest the US military involvement that has been ongoing since 2001.

On this day, he sits with life-long friends on the floor of a large room in his home discussing political and social issues. The small group of men represent a jirga or village council. Each man sits on the carpet with Amid seated at the head of the group. They wear traditional, baggy slacks, shirts, and sandals. Amid wears a traditional turban while the other men wear karakul caps. Each man brought his pato, or personal blanket. Their faces are dark and leathered, reflecting the hardships of daily life and the past struggles they have faced. Their graying beards are long touching their chests as they sit. One of the men, Amanullah, the village mullah, or Islamic spiritual leader, sits quietly, listening to each man as he speaks and weighing each aspect of the conversation as it relates to the spiritual context of Islamic teaching.

Joining them in the discussion is a man named Alizar. He is not from the village but has a strong position of influence within the Paktika Province, southeast of Kabul, and stretching to the border with Pakistan. Alizar sits quietly, with dark eyes fixed upon each man as who speaks. His skin is leathered from years of living in the desert. His clothing and turban are soiled from dust and sweat. Sitting with his legs crossed, his long, dark beard touching his chest, he ponders on what is being said.

It has been nearly two decades since the Americans first occupied our land, said a man, seated on the right side of Amanullah. Holding a stick in his right hand and slowly moving it from side to side across the carpet near his feet, he continued, We sit by passively and watch time pass, unlike the time when we took back our country from invaders. Have we forgotten? There was a time in our youth when we saw purpose and were not afraid to act. Today, are we content to sit, do nothing, and rely on the revenues from poppies and ushr to sustain us?

No one has forgotten, said Alizar, seated across from Amanullah and speaking softly but confidently. There is a time for all things. The Americans are confused, they have difficulty in seeing their purpose here, and this works to our advantage. The United States is a nation that has been consumed by a war they cannot win. Yet, they persist in sacrificing the lives of young men and women in an attempt to do so. Their people are frustrated and disillusioned. Be patient, my friends.

A moment of silence was broken by Amanullah, Did we not slay the Russian Bear? Did we not break the shackles of foreign occupation? There are always opportunities to overcome our enemies. Allah will provide us the time and the means to do so again. Our faith will be rewarded. One day, this American intruder will make a mistake. From this weakness, we will bring him to his knees in front of the entire world.

How soon will this be? one of the men asked, leaning back on his pillow against the wall.

I cannot say, replied Amanullah, looking into the faces of each of the men in the room. Destiny is not in our hands but in the hands of Allah. We must continue to pray; Allah will open the door when the time is right. We must be prepared for any opportunity that presents itself. Our network throughout the United States is strong and can strike whenever, wherever, and by whatever means is needed to do so. Patience, my friends, have patience.

Amanullah is right, said Alizar. We are not as young as we once were. However, we are wiser and must use our wisdom and our patience to recognize and seize the opportunity Allah presents. We must strike this American beast according to Allah’s will.

The men nodded in complete agreement and the meeting concluded. Each man stood, bowed slightly to Amid for his hospitality, and exited. Alizar, before leaving, hugged Amid, and said, We will meet again soon. He turned and left. Amid had said nothing during the meeting. He had listened intently to the conversations that brought back memories of a similar time in his youth.

With the council meeting concluded and the house empty of guests, Amid was greeted by his wife and two children, who entered the room. Tamara, Amid’s wife, kissed him on the cheek as she patted his shoulder. She knew it was not a woman’s place to ask questions concerning the business that had been discussed. You must be tired, she said, looking into the dark eyes of her husband. I have made tea, she said, handing Amid a small cup.

Tamara was a kind-hearted woman raised in the traditional way of life. Her purpose was to care for her family, and although recent years of reform in Afghanistan had given rise to more rights and freedom for women, in her remote village, life had not changed for centuries. Its people remained bound to the conservative teachings of Islamic principles.

Tamara was a slender lady in her mid-forties. She was quiet, loving, and placed her duty to her family as life’s priority. Her long, black hair complimented her high cheek bones and deeply set, dark eyes. The difficulties of daily life were etched in her weathered skin and deep facial lines aged her beyond her natural years.

Amid and Tamara had two children—Abdur, their fifteen-year-old son, and Dayra, his eight-year-old sister. Abdur bored a strong likeness to his father. He was tall, slender and his dark complexion and deeply set eyes complemented his handsome appearance. He was quiet, fun-loving, and like other young people in the village, he held a deep respect for his family. He had the responsibility of helping his mother and sister with daily chores.

Abdur was educated in a one-room building with other boys of the village. Reading and memorization of the Koran were taught by the mullah. Another man of the village taught the boys other academic subjects. The village was fortunate to have basic electricity from hydroelectric power produced nearby, allowing the school and other areas utilization of technology. Every home had computer access. Due to socio-political business outside the village and the influence of the US military in the region, many people of the village spoke English.

Although girls were educated in much of Afghanistan, Abdur’s village directed advanced academics toward boys.

Dayra was a vibrant, young girl filled with fun-loving energy. She had an attractive appearance and resembled her mother. Her daily responsibilities included gathering water from the village spring for the family, and helping her mother with other household chores and preparing meals. When free from chores, she enjoyed afternoons playing games in the village with her brother and friends.

It was late in the day when Amid’s council meeting concluded. Tamara announced to her family, I have our meal prepared. The family gathered, sat, and ate their evening meal as the shadows of night covered the mountains and blanketed the village in darkness.

The morning summer sun of a new day arose above the distant Hindu Kush Mountains, rapidly heating the sands of the desert plain. As the purple shadows of early morning faded, and the mountains glimmered in full sunlight, Amid’s village awakened into a flurry of activity.

Daily life had changed little from that of prior generations. Families began the day by shopping at the marketplace for meat and vegetables. People gathered wood and water, tended to small patches of crops, and managed flocks of sheep and goats that grazed on sparse vegetation growing just outside the village. Women were dedicated to household chores, preparing meals, washing clothes, and caring for children, while the men tended to the sheep, goats, and horses, worked the grain fields, and handled the social affairs of the village, including religious training and observances.

On this morning, Amid and his family sat on goat hair carpets to share a morning meal of bread, goat’s milk, and tea. With his last sip of tea, Amid arose, and said, I am going to check on the sheep flock. Then, looking at Abdur, said, When you have gathered the wood, join me.

Each morning Abdur walked the dirt road in front of his house to the edge of the village where there was an abundance of dried wood. There he gathered sticks for the daily fire. After his chores, he loved spending time with his father. This day was no exception. He was excited to help his father. With enthusiasm, Abdur left his house, knowing the faster he completed his chore the sooner he could join his father.

Later that day, the men of the village would practice their horsemanship skills in a game of Buzkashi, a traditional Afghanistan game. Abdur and Dayra were filled with the anticipation of watching their father ride. The entire village would turn out to watch the event. For Abdur and Dayra, it would be a time to take pride in the skills of their father. However, before the festive event of the afternoon, there were morning chores to be done.

Small clouds of dust rose from beneath Abdur’s feet as he hurried along the dirt road toward the pile of dried wood. Pausing momentarily, he looked back, watching his father walk toward the flock of sheep. How proud he was of his father, a man who embodied everything he aspired to be. Reaching the edge of the village, he gathered enough wood to fill both arms and held it tightly against his chest. With all the wood he could carry, he began walking toward his home.

Suddenly, there was a deafening roar in the morning sky behind him. He turned. In the distance, at the edge of the mountains, he noticed the silhouettes of two military jet aircraft rapidly approaching his village. He watched in horror as four missiles were fired from the planes. There were flashes of bright light and long, thin trails of smoke from each missile as they passed directly above him. He stood motionless, unable to move, watching the missiles pierce the morning sky. With deafening explosions, they struck his village. The impact of the missiles was fierce, throwing him to the ground several feet from where he stood. The wood was ripped from his arms causing bleeding cuts on his arms and face. For a moment, he lay dazed, nearly unconscious. Seconds passed, but it seemed as if hours had gone by. Regaining his composure, Abdur slowly rose to his feet. A deep cut on his forehead sent blood running down the left side of his face dripping onto his shirt. His left shoulder became dark red with its stain. With his hands and arms bleeding, he looked at his village and was horrified by what he saw. His mind could not comprehend the rush of thoughts it was trying to process. What had happened? In the street, he saw a young mother kneeling on the ground sobbing and rocking back and forth holding the limp body of her baby. Young children wandered aimlessly calling for their parents. Abdur recognized one young girl as a close friend of Dayra’s. She was standing, crying, and screaming as she turned in circles looking for her family.

The solitude of this peaceful summer morning was now shattered by death and destruction. Homes had exploded into rubble and chunks of rock and debris had become missiles of death. His entire village was engulfed in flames. Men and women were in the streets running and screaming in agony and confusion. Abdur noticed a man walking aimlessly, calling for his wife; his right arm had been torn from his body at the shoulder, and blood poured down his entire right side. Abdur recognized a friend lying on the street, his leg missing below the knee. People were running in panic, screaming and calling names in search of lost loved ones. Others simply roamed the rubble in shock with blank stares on their faces. Near the rubble of one home, two children were trying to lift rocks from a pile of debris, calling out for their parents. Smoke, fire, and dust blanketed the streets in partnership with the dead, dying, and the injured, who lay scattered throughout the village.

Abdur’s heart pounded as if it would burst inside his chest. His mouth became dry, and his eyes began to tear. He felt a sense of personal horror as the scenes of distress unfolded before him. Everything in his life had suddenly gone terribly wrong. He looked toward his home but saw only heavy smoke and the faint outline of his house. He looked in the direction of the sheep flock, searching for his father. The sheep and goats had scattered; he saw no one. Perhaps father is helping in the village, he thought. In pain, bloodied, bruised, and confused, he walked in the direction of where the sheep had been. As he drew near, he saw a man lying face down among the remaining animals. This must be someone else, not my father, he thought to himself as his walk quickened. Approaching the man, he realized the body before him was his father’s.

All self-control was lost as Abdur crashed to the ground sobbing. Father, Father! he cried out with every breath. He wrapped his arms around his father and noticed a large gash on the side of his father’s head where flying debris had struck him. His father’s body no longer seemed strong as Abdur remembered. His father was weak and barely able to speak. Amid tried comforting his son saying, You must be strong, my son, and always know my heart will go with you. You must look after your mother and sister. You are the man of the household. Above all else, always follow Allah and His divine plan for you. I love you so much. Be strong. With those words, Abdur felt his father become still and motionless in his arms. He heard a small rush of air leave his father’s mouth. Then, there was only emptiness. He laid his head upon his father’s chest and sobbed. His grief was shortened by the urgent thought of his mother and sister. Kissing his father’s cheek, he slowly removed his arms from around him and rose to search for his mother and sister.

Quickly he stood and began running toward his home in the village. As he ran, he saw two men walking toward him. Their silhouettes exited from the thick smoke that surrounded the burning village. He recognized one figure as Amanullah, the village mullah. The other man from his village was a close friend of his father’s. Their path brought them directly in front of Abdur. Quickly they grabbed Abdur, preventing him from going any further. Abdur knew their presence and the fact they were preventing him from going further meant the very worst. Without any words spoken, he realized that he had also lost his mother and sister. The heaviness in his chest felt as though his heart would explode. He squirmed violently within their grasps, yelling, kicking, and twisting, trying to free himself from the hold the men had placed upon him. The men held him tightly, and explained, Abdur, you cannot go there. The missiles struck your home. There is nothing back there for you.

Immediately, Abdur realized the reality of his loss. Emptiness and loneliness filled his soul as he realized his family had been taken from him forever. In a split second, he had lost his father, his mother and sister. Struggling against the grasp of the men, he felt sadness, grief, and hatred, but most of all, denial of what had happened. He hoped this day was not real and that everything would soon be as it had always been. He yelled, No, No, No, as he attempted to free himself. The men held him even tighter. In his sorrow and anger, he asked himself, What could have brought such devastation to our village? Why did I have to lose everyone I loved? Where is meaning in such destruction and death? Unable to cope with what had happened, he dropped to the ground at the feet of the two men, crumpled into a ball, and sobbed uncontrollably. In seconds, a life once filled with love, affection, and security had become void of all that was good. A cold chill came across him as he realized the reality of being totally alone. Lying on the ground, he vowed never to forget this moment and never to forget who was responsible for killing his family.

The men slowly knelt beside him. Gently placing his hand upon Abdur’s shoulder, Amanullah spoke softly. There are no words we can say, there are no deeds we can do to comfort you. We assure you, Abdur, that as long as we walk this earth, we will never allow these murderers to be forgiven. There will be revenge!

With a gentle pat on Abdur’s shoulder, he placed his hand under Abdur’s arm and gently raised him from the ground. In silence, wiping his tears, Abdur slowly rose. Standing together, the men placed their arms around Abdur and led him in a direction away from where his home once stood.

You know what we must do, said Amanullah, glancing at the man who assisted him.

Yes, we must contact Alizar immediately. I will inform Alizar of the unforgivable attack on our humble, innocent people.

The village was in a state of shock and disorder as the scorching mid-day heat turned it into hell’s inferno. In the chaos and confusion, west of the village, unnoticed, a US military convoy, stretching like a long, dark snake against the distant mountains, was moving toward the village. Clouds of sand and dust outlined the convoy’s advance as it neared the outer edge of the village. Many residents were too distressed to notice the convoy’s presence. Others were afraid of further aggression. The convoy came to a slow stop not far from where Abdur and the two men stood. US soldiers slowly climbed from their vehicles and stared at the devastation in disbelief. Military doctors and medics ran quickly to treat the injured. Soldiers barked orders and began organizing search and rescue efforts. Chaplains attempted to console those in grief.

Abdur and the two men with him turned their focus on a US military officer walking toward them. His stature was tall and lean, his uniform covered in dust and wet from sweat. Amanullah stood in silent indignation and defiance while holding on tightly to Abdur. The officer stopped directly in front of them. Lowering his head, he removed his helmet and wiped his brow. Looking up, he noticed Abdur’s bleeding head. Immediately he turned and shouted, Medic, medic, I need a medic now! Several other men, their clothing dragging the ground and stained with blood, had walked from the village to join Abdur and the others. The small assembly, glaring with rage, stood in silence facing the officer. Their cold, black eyes cut through the heart of the military commander standing quietly before them.

Suddenly, their words erupted as quickly as the strike of a snake. Is it not enough that you take over our country and occupy it? Now, you destroy our homes and the lives of innocent men, women, and children? What gives you the right or the reason for such an act of murder and destruction? Is the United States such a great world power that killing innocent men, women, and children means nothing?

Amanullah raised his right arm and pointed to the destruction that lay about them. Remember what you see here. Allah will repay us a hundred-fold for what you have done. Remember this day and remember this boy, who has lost his entire family. We will repay the crime that has been committed here.

The officer stood in silence, disbelief, and personal embarrassment over what he saw. He was a tall man, over six feet. His face was weathered from months in the desert and reflected the stress of what he was witnessing. Slowly replacing his helmet, he tried to respond. There are no words to express my sorrow or the sorrow of my country for what has happened here. We received false information that this village was a terrorist training camp. I cannot undo this tragedy. I know my country will do everything it can to help rebuild your lives. My men and I will do everything we can to care for those in immediate need. As he spoke, an army medic arrived and began attending to the deep wound on Abdur’s forehead.

How do you rebuild the life of a boy who has lost his family? asked Amanullah placing his hand on Abdur’s shoulder. Perhaps, in America, the lives of those in other countries are not so important if, in taking those lives, you justify the means to an end. I ask you; can you bring back the dead? If you can, then we will welcome your help. If not, then leave us to grieve without your presence in this place. Amanullah held Abdur by the hand as his wound was treated.

What is the boy’s name? asked the army captain.

Abdur, replied Amanullah, with a glance of hatred and contempt toward the officer, And Allah will never let your country forget his name. Remember this boy, for he will avenge what has been done here. With those words and Abdur’s wound treated, the two men led him away from the officer. Walking slowly, Amanullah implored, Abdur, never forget that soldier standing before you. Never forget what that officer and the presence of the United States meant to your life. Never forget who is responsible for you losing your family. Never, ever forget.