Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent Read Free

or weapons. We don’t care which direction the convoy is heading, we want the cargo destroyed.”
    Bishop again nodded his understanding and then muttered a “No problem.”
    Mr. Smith handed Bishop the key to a nearby airport hotel room. “You’ll find all of your travel arrangements, necessary documents and instructions there. The first leg of your trip leaves here at 6 a.m. tomorrow. Good luck.”
     
    Two days later, an exhausted Bishop landed at Bagram Airfield, just outside of Kabul, Afghanistan. As he ambled through the main terminal, Bishop was surprised to see American fast food restaurants.  Lines of US military personnel were waiting in queue for tacos, pizza, and soft drinks. Bishop’s plane had actually landed early, so he asked a passing airman where the PX, or Post Exchange, was located. The aviator corrected him and pointed toward the BX, or Base Exchange. Bishop was surprised to find displays of rifle accessories rivaling any sporting goods store in the States. The size of the facility was evidence of the extensive engagement of Western armies here. Aisle after aisle of shelves was stocked with practically everything one would find in an American grocery store. Another section contained household goods and hardware.
    Bishop hadn’t been on the ground for more than 30 minutes when he started sneezing. After an hour, his throat hurt, and he was coughing. He was waiting alongside the curb for his ride to show up when he noticed that everyone outside was hacking or sneezing. He overheard one man telling another that Bagram had the worst air pollution problem in the world. Bishop believed it, wondering if his lungs would actually feel better if he smoked a cigar. A healthy dose of nicotine might just dilute the toxic particles in this atmosphere , Bishop mused.
    About then, a white SUV pulled up with lettering on the door indicating it belonged to the United Nations Reconstruction Council. The blue and white colors of the international organization rounded out its branding. After an exchange verifying who was who, Bishop hopped in the front seat and shook hands with his driver.
    Mike Wagner was a Canadian from the Toronto area, and immediately came across as a hard ass. After one of the shortest handshakes Bishop had ever experienced, the man immediately announced he was in charge of the operation and made it absolutely clear that Bishop reported to him. He smugly informed Bishop of his credentials, having been a member of the Régiment d'Opérations Spéciales du Canada, which was French for the Canadian Special Forces. Bishop had worked with his share of Canadians and respected them. Almost every one of them would use the English name for this, that, or the other, but every now and then, Bishop would come across a guy who wanted to speak French just to be elitist. Bishop started to ask the man if Wagner was a French name, but decided against it.
    As they made their way out into the Afghan countryside, Bishop was absorbed in the sights, sounds, and smells of a new place. His fascination with foreign lands had always been a weakness while working at HBR . A good security man observes and analyzes his surroundings, which is different than gawking around like a tourist , he reminded himself.
    Five mostly silent and extremely bumpy hours later, the SUV stopped at a remote Afghan farmhouse, complete with crude fences fashioned out of local stones and two animals that somewhat resembled cows. Bishop was shown to an outbuilding, which served the dual purpose of being a barn and barrack s. Inside he met the rest of the team.
    All seven of the gentlemen looked to be hard cases. Most were in their late 30s or early 40s, and all gave the impression of being in excellent physical condition. As Bishop ran the reception line, his handshake was met with single names and single syllable greetings. “Hey. Todd,” or “Hi. Jim,” filled the air for the next few minutes. Not a talkative bunch for sure , thought Bishop,