Rocket Man!

Take the Hershey Highway.

Kelly’s telling me that Craig “Speedy” is also known as “Shrek.” Speedy, a big, burly operator and former bail bondsman from Baltimore, is Kelly’s assistant intel guy. Kelly especially appreciates Speedy’s common sense approach to things and the stone-sharpened perspective of one who’s worked the street.

As this story unfolds, Speedy and the guys are in a safe house outside Jalalabad, building a source network. It’s tedious, time-consuming work. “Speedy picked up on this work real fast,” said Kelly.

They’d set up a matrix to systematize the work, checking and cross-referencing known Afghani contacts, informants, people of interest and the complex, overlapping interrelationships that easily confounded all but the most diligent research effort.

The language barrier was a deterrent, for sure. Of course, their terps played a critical role, but nothing was simple. Everything required multiple explanations. Most of the locals looked alike and obstacles to progress popped up like marmots in mating season.

Their top three informants were known to the team as the “Sopranos.” These guys helped the team sniff out nefarious locals or information about IED hovels – anything that could lead to SF action.

“We’d get some piece of information from the Sopranos about a local who might be involved in some interesting shit,” said Kelly. “That would be a starting point. We’d always have to verify and cross-check every piece of information and validate the sources. Most of the leads we got were useless bullshit. The locals will talk all day for American dollars – accurate or not.”

The old adage, “Follow the money,” doesn’t necessarily apply here. They learned it was best to follow the weapons. It was a clearer, more distinct trail, one that led to bad guys faster and more reliably.

One of the team’s key interests were the weapons bazaars. “Imagine going to your local hometown’s square to buy pistols, machine guns or RPG 7s,” said Kelly. That’s what it was like: these roving arms markets were carried out by bands of gypsies, hell-bent on making money, selling every killing device imaginable, so that our boys’d go home in boxes.

The team wanted to know where the band of gypsies would show up before they got there. Knowing that the U.S. forces would do anything to mess with their plan, roving arms dealers rarely stick to a route or publicized a schedule.

“Un-fucking real: we’d learn that the traveling bazaar price for a Soviet mortar round was 50 cents. Or, an asshole could buy a 50 caliber machine gun for just $7.00. AK-47s went for a buck.”

So the team spread the word through the Sopranos. There was a need at their location for guns n’ ammo. They’d pay the going rate, or better, for all weapons. “It wasn’t long before people were beating on our door,” said Kelly. “We had some local front guys that would answer the door and be seen. So we began to buy boxes of ammo, a dozen AKs, a crate of mortar rounds and some old, rusted Russian 107 mm rockets.”

The old 107s were a weapon of choice for killing US troops. “They’d usually set ‘em up with a mosquito coil, timer and a car battery.

Sweet revenge

Everything’s got a nick-name, a term of endearment. Somehow, the road from J-bad to the safe house won the name “Hershey Highway.” After all, good information led to sweet revenge.

In short order, bitter shit was coming in along the Hershey Highway. At the safe house, munitions were accumulating. Most of the goods were destroyed or given to the ‘Murphs’– talented CIA-supported, Afghani militia reaction forces, the equivalent of the South Vietnamese Montagnards, indigenous experts at engagement, fighting for the right side.

“One day a guy showed up who wanted to talk,” said Kelly. The translation went something like this: “I think I can provide rockets: big, long.” The team assumed old 107s . . . maybe. A week later, he’s back at the gate, knocking, wanting in. “I have rockets with me.”

The dude is telling team members that he wants money for his loot. Meanwhile, Kelly and Speedy slip out to take a look in the back of his pickup truck.

Damn! There are eight brand new 107s in there, still in original plastic wrapping. This, explained Kelly, was an oddity of the highest order. Most 107s they encountered were beat and ragged, having been moved continuously since the Russians occupied the dust bowl. Some were in almost unrecognizably poor condition. These rockets were brand spanking new.

It wasn’t long before the guy was kicking up dust on his way back down Hershey Highway, with an empty rear end and $56 richer (the team threw in an extra buck or two for good measure).

“The next day, here he comes with another load the same size,” said Kelly. “But then we were just as baffled when he didn’t show for a couple weeks, thinking it was just a lucky flash in the pan.”

Maybe it was just a fluke, but they were glad nonetheless to put the weapons into the Murph’s hands: badass gear that would no doubt wreak havoc among the Talaban and Al-Quaida.

The team was perplexed. Through the Sopranos, they wondered if they should they push the guy – now known as the Rocket Man – or let things play out naturally.

A few weeks later, there was another knock at the gate, this time urgent, incessant. The dude’s there, smiling and with arms open wide, saying “See my truck! I have many rockets!” Sure enough: there were 25 pristine 107s wrapped in the manufacturer’s plastic. He left with bulging pockets of American cash.

Another week went by, another rushed transaction. Pounding at the gate led to a bigger, better discovery: 35 clean, untouched rockets and a greater reward for Rocket Man. By this time, the team and the Sopranos knew where he lived and who he was. They could tail him, hoping to learn more. But the collective decision was to give him more time; let it ride.

Two weeks later, Rocket Man reappeared. But something was different this time. The jovial mask had dissolved. Rocket Man was bewildered and fidgeting, avoiding eye contact. Quietly, Kelly invited him into his briefing room, a small space with candy, a sofa and chai tea.

Rocket Man gulped a tea and unwrapped several hard candies, savoring the sweetness. Gradually, his stress unwound. Red eyes and sweating, Rocket Man gathered his senses.

“I have no rockets!” he blurted. “And I need protection! My brother’s going to kill me! I stole rockets from him!”

The team’s terps awaited further explanation.

Rocket Man explained that, over the past couple of months, he’d stolen his brother’s weapons. His older sibling, apparently, had a large buried stash and was one of the key suppliers of weapons to Taliban and Al-Qaeda in the Nangar Province.

“That day, we learned his brother’s name and the names of two or three others who ran weapons with him,” said Kelly. “Damn, it was so nice to give that information to the Murph commander.

“That night, the older brother gun-runner and the others were taken into custody, said Kelly. “But we made it clear to the Murphs that, when they raided the compound, they weren’t to touch a hair on Rocket Man’s head.

“It’s a thinking man’s game,” concluded Kelly. “We could’ve trailed him and blown it. But the results were better than we could’ve expected – way better. You can’t make this stuff up.”