(Zaire and the Major at Willow. Photo Socotra.)

I was playing the great game last night at Willow. Well, not the Great Game- that is the one of men and women and eternity. This was the sub-set of it, the one right out of Stalky and Company and Rudyard Kipling.

I was in the process of getting stood up for a business liaison meeting that I had scheduled to clear up some side issues on a big contract offering to support the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) formations in Afghanistan.

The guy from Kinshasa, Zaire, had called me, wanting to introduce a friend of his who longed to get back to the war in a paying job. The Zairian is as likely to start a conversation in French or Russian, and got his nickname from his boyhood home, where his father conducted business in strategic minerals. He had a current TS, though I demurred and said the customer was looking for more.

The Zairian laughed, and said his friend already knew everyone in country and was on his personal Second Afghan War.

I asked him what he meant, and Zaire said his pal had once been a member of the Red Army’s elite Special Operations Forces. The requirement for hard-eyed quiet warriors has been recognized everywhere, and most major military powers have units with unique unconventional capabilities. The Russian have the Spetzialnaya Naznachenya, or SPETZNAZ, for short, a force that emerged in the Russian war in Afghanistan as the elite deep reconnaissance capability of the Red Army.

My interest was piqued, and I said that I could meet for a few minutes, after I was done with other business.

That other business never materialized, and once I realized I was wasting my time, I turned my attention to seriously wasting it without the distraction of business. Tex and Brett were behind the bar, and I decided to nurse my glass of wine and see what would turn up with Zaire.

“I will be the idiot in the bow tie,” I had written, and I was not surprised when a burly man in cap and outer garment tapped me on the shoulder.

“I am fool in green sweater,” he said with a strong Russian accent.

“Delighted to meet you, Major.” I said, shaking his hand.

“Was long time ago,” he said, removing his hat to reveal a shock of sandy light brown hair. His eyes were the color of seawater.

“Could I buy you a vodka?” I asked. “Zaire told me you were in the Russian War in Afghanistan. I was there too, or at least close by in 1979.”

The Major smiled. “I am not a good Russian,” he said. “I do not drink alcohol. I even prefer coffee to tea.” Tex looked at him impassively as he asked for a Club Soda with lime.

“Not drinking can help keep you alive,” I said. “But of course no one is shooting at us at the Willow.”

“Is true,” he said a bit wistfully. “A clear head is a useful thing.”

“No shit,” said Zaire, appearing silently from the garage side entrance to the bar.

“What do you think, Vic? Was I right? Is the Major not an extraordinary guy?”

“We really haven’t established much except he was in the Red Army in a war far away. One that they lost and one that we might very well be losing right now.”

The Major smiled thinly. Zaire ordered an iced tea, which Brett produced effortlessly. Then they started out in Russian. “привет товарищу Вы думаете, этот парень может получить вам работу?”

“Я не знаю. Он кажется безобидным,” responded the Major. “всякое бывает.”

That started out a very confused conversation that veered wildly from English to French and into the depths of Russian.

The Major had escaped the fall of Communism and immigrated to the US. He pursued citizenship and a variety of administrative jobs, admissions officer at a local college, and stumbled into a job that harnessed his experience in Afghanistan to support the CIA invasion after 9/11. The Army- the US Army- gave him a Top Secret clearance and put him on the Human Terrain System project.

“I liked that one,” I said. “I think it is enormously useful to kill people who should die, rather than just killing everyone.”

“Or not kill at all,” said the Major gravely. “I am American now, but sometimes is useful to be Russian.”

“How so?” I asked, taking a sip of wine.

“Well, for example, I am in American uniform and am with Special Forces in Khost Province near the border with Pakistan. We are dealing with the District Elders and the local chief of police is there. He sits with arms crossed, stony faced. He is clearly hostile to us and not going to help. I made some comment and his eyes flashed when he heard my accent.”

“What happened,” I asked. “Green on Blue incident?”

“No,” laughed the Major. “He said: Добро пожаловать товарища” in perfect Russian. It turned out he had been a Pachimist e-Kalk party member, the ones who invited the Red Army in. He was educated in Moscow. He even attended infantry school in the USSR. So there were are, twenty clicks from the Tribal Region of Pakistan, chattering in Russian. Sometimes useful.”

Zaire laughed and shared some stories about Africa, which the Major seemed to know pretty well, and the former South African special forces who had transitioned to the personal security business. “They were bad asses, like those Rhodesian Special Air Services guys. They had polo shirts with the words “Heart of Darkness” embroidered on the breast. Crazy men.”

“As are we all,” I said. “Major, I will get your resume in the hopper, but you know that the war is winding down and there is a concurrent lowering of salary levels going on these days.”

The Major shrugged. “I need to get back,” he said. “Money is really no object.”

“I will do what I can,” I said. “You seem to be the archtypical player in the Great Game.

The Major nodded stoically. “Spasiba,” he said.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com