Hash-bowls on the frontier?

Looking for a fictitious, blow-by-blow account of what happened at Salala? Look no further

Disclaimer: The purpose of this fictitious reconstruction is to call attention to the cowboyish and brazen attitude of US forces operating in the highly volatile and sensitive area that is the Pak-Afghan border. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, although not necessarily accidental. To those who laid down their lives to protect our state’s frontiers from foreign invaders, we salute your heroism.

A group of trigger-happy gunslingers (‘Taliban insurgents’) have smoked a couple of hash bowls too many. They become rowdy and end up shooting up the local tea stall where they have been drinking qahwa and getting high. Meanwhile, US Marines, on a routine patrol nearby, hear the sounds of gunfire emanating from the tea stall. Hoping and praying that it’s another wedding ceremony and the sounds of gunfire are Pashtuns celebrating after a round of h’attan dancing, the patrolling troops radio HQ and head towards the source of the noise. “Dibs on the bridesmaids,” jokes one private. Giggles all around, until a stray round from an AK-47 pointed heavenward zings through the roof of their armoured Hummer. “Oh, it’s ON now!” exclaims the Staff Sergeant as he brandishes his night-vision goggles and focuses on the source of the commotion, a couple of clicks down the road.

By now, the heightened hearing of the fully-baked gunslingers has picked up on the Outkast song blaring from the Marines’ Hummer and they make ready for a good old fashioned Mexican standoff, Kunar-style. Tables are overturned, sharpshooters take positions on windowsills and the group’s commander takes up position on the rooftop, barking orders to his men below. As the Marines pull up outside the tea stall, Outkast still going strong, the gunfight begins.

In a span of nearly two minutes, approximately 17 clips of 7.62mm bullets are buried in the armour of the modified Hummer. Even Outkast have shut up now. Seizing the opportunity, the ‘insurgents’ high tail it out the back door and make a bee-line for the border, where they know they will be safe. They are certain of this because their dope dealer hangs out near a Pakistani FC checkpost, not too far from their current position. “Besides, these tizaanan (farts) will never follow us into the most dangerous country in the world,” the ringleader shouts over his shoulder. His brethren chuckle, and it’s whoops-a-daisy over the imaginary line into Pakistan.

Cut to the sounds of firewood crackling at a nearby FC checkpost. Outside, huddled around a small fire, sit a couple of soldiers, clutching their blankets and cursing the harsh winter. The third round of scalding-hot midnight tea, the only luxury available for miles around, is about to be served when gunshots ring out. The ever-alert guardians of the world’s most troubled (and porous) frontier are jolted out of their reverie and, grabbing their weapons, come running out of their sleeping quarters in nothing more than thermal underwear, their eyes struggling to acclimatise to the darkness beyond the dim campfire. “We’ve been flanked,” the soldier on night duty thinks to himself as his eyes frantically search the horizon for any signs of a threat. Images of his friends, family and comrades-in-arms flash before his eyes.

Quickly, he shakes off the vision and his body stiffens, alert to the sound of rustling bushes and hushed, urgent whispers. He recognises the sounds immediately and with a loud yell, opens fire into the direction of the intruders. He is immediately joined by other personnel, rubbing their eyes, locking in their magazines and trying to pinpoint their targets. The night is now alive with the sound of gunfire and bullets fly like fireflies through the night. When, after a few minutes, the volley dies down, the border guards pause to listen for the telltale signs of enemy casualties. They hear nothing. They wait another couple of minutes and pick up a mechanical humming noise, growing louder by the second. “Quick, before their reinforcements arrive!” is the cry as a series of magazines lock and load and are then fired on full auto almost simultaneously.

“Oh s***!” is the reaction from the Marines in the Hummer, who have just realised that they are now in Pakistani territory. The telecommunications officer riding shotgun yanks out his handset and starts yelling incoherently, “Delta Company in pursuit of insurgents. Taking heavy fire from hostiles four clicks inside Pak territory. Need reinforcements. Send in the goddamn cavalry!” And before you can say ‘antiaircraftgunners’, a squadron of fighter-bombers and Apache gunships is hovering overhead. One of the Marines pinned down in the Hummer takes an infrared scope and ‘paints’ the target in front of him. “Target is painted. Take ‘em out!” is the order. Seconds later, a large chunk of the mountain goes up in a huge balloon of hellfire and brimstone.

Back in HQ, radar operators celebrate the successful firebombing of another bunch of towelheads. One man though, looks very worried. In fact, he’s turning white as a sheet. With the slow gait of the bearer of bad news, he picks up a printout from the office LaserJet and slowly makes his way into the office of the base commander, who has already popped open the bubbly. The GPS technician enters the commander’s office, and as the door closes behind him, we hear a muted squeak, “Sir, we may have an international incident on our hands.”