The heat in Kandahar was the kind that made men reconsider their choices in life. Jack Calloway sat in the humvee, watching Senator Richard Halford wipe sweat from his forehead with the kind of silk handkerchief only a politician would carry.
“This better be worth it, Calloway,” Halford muttered, adjusting his aviators. “I didn’t fly halfway around the world just to confirm what I already know.”
Jack didn’t respond. He was just the assistant. His job was to observe, take notes, and—when needed—keep the senator alive.
The convoy rolled to a stop near a vast valley. Miles of opium poppy stretched in every direction, the delicate flowers almost beautiful in the warm glow of the sun. A billion-dollar industry, all under U.S. occupation.
Their guide, a young State Department official, squirmed in his seat. “Listen, , I know you want to see the fields, but there are protocols—”
Halford cut him off. “I don’t give a damn about protocols. I’m here to find out why American taxpayers are funding a heroin empire.”
The convoy reached a barren stretch of land where, as far as the eye could see, green stalks of opium poppy swayed in the breeze. Farmers toiled under the sun, irrigation channels carrying stolen river water to nourish the cash crop. J
Halford took a slow breath. “Jesus Christ.”
A local farmer, old and hunched with a lifetime of labor, approached cautiously. The translator stepped forward, and Halford adopted his concerned statesman look.
“Ask him why he grows poppy instead of food, he could grow food twice a year,” Halford said.
The old man hesitated, his eyes darting to the military escort nearby. “Men in uniform. They said if we helped them find the Arabs, we could grow all the poppy we wanted.”
Jack barely had time to process the implications before a firm hand gripped his shoulder. A soldier from his security detail. “Sir, we need to go. Now.”
“Not yet.”
“Now,” the soldier growled, his voice edged with something Jack didn’t like—fear.
The farmer answered again in a whisper. When the translation came, Jack saw Halford’s jaw tighten.
“The Americans told us we could, they gave us money to grow it”
Halford glanced at Jack, then at the military escort. “Which Americans?”
The farmer hesitated, his eyes darting nervously. “The ones who came in 2001,” he finally said. “They told us—help them find the Arabs, and we got trucks and generators.”
Silence.
Jack didn’t have to look at Halford to know what was going through his head. The senator had expected corruption. Maybe even black-market dealings.
But this?
This was policy.
“Let’s go,” Halford said abruptly.
The military escort didn’t argue. Within minutes, they were back in the Vees, speeding toward the airbase.
The Trap
They were supposed to be on a plane back to Washington. That was the plan.
Except plans change.
Halfway through the flight, the aircraft made an unscheduled descent, touching down at a remote airstrip that Jack knew wasn’t on any official map.
The engines hummed as the plane taxied to a stop. Halford leaned toward Jack. “What the hell is going on?”
Jack didn’t answer.
A man in civilian clothes, tall and built like a soldier, stepped onto the plane. He carried himself with the calm authority of someone who never had to explain himself.
“Senator Halford,” the man greeted, his voice smooth as silk. “We need to have a chat.”
Halford didn’t move. “And if I say no?”
The man smiled. “Then we talk here. But I doubt you want that.”
Jack exhaled. He could already tell this wasn’t a request. He glanced at Halford, who gave a reluctant nod.
“Let’s get this over with,” the senator muttered.
They stepped onto the tarmac, the desert wind kicking up dust. The man led them to a makeshift office inside a small, windowless building. A single table, three chairs, and a file already waiting.
Halford sat down. Jack remained standing.
The man flipped open the file. “You’ve seen things, Senator. Heard things. I imagine you have questions.”
“You could say that,” Halford said. “Like why the U.S. military is allowing Afghanistan to produce enough heroin to drown the world.”
The man tapped the file with two fingers. “Because we control where it goes.”
Halford’s hands clenched into fists. “Let me guess. Russia and Iran?”
The man nodded. “It weakens them. Keeps their populations docile. Their economies strained. You understand geopolitics, Senator. This isn’t just tolerated—it’s strategic.”
Halford let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You people are insane.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. “We’re realists. The world isn’t about good and bad. Just bad and worse.”
Halford shook his head. “So what now? You make me disappear?”
The man smiled again. “Not yet. We’re offering you a choice. You can return to Washington, resume your work, and forget this ever happened. Or…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
Halford met Jack’s gaze. Jack didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to.
Finally, the senator stood. “This conversation never happened.”
The man nodded. “A wise decision.”
They walked back toward the plane in silence.
As they reached the steps, Halford muttered under his breath, “I should’ve never come here.”
Jack followed, pausing only for a moment before replying:
“Some wars just aren’t worth getting involved in.”
The engines roared to life.
Jack had the sinking feeling this war was already lost.
There’s more truth in this story than in the JFK files. It’s a true story—research it. But the names? Well, no one will admit to anything. We did our best to avoid torturing any kittens, but we can’t take responsibility for anything else. Your mileage may vary, so surf responsibly.
MORE JACK CALLOWAY
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The Shadow Economy
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