Lucky and Superlucky were something else. Unlike the suits at the embassy who didn't know their ass from a hole in the ground, Lucky and Superlucky were the real McCoy. For one thing, they were kids, and they were true believers. For another thing, they looked like muhadjeen. You might think that Donnesbury's spy character the Red Ryder is some kind of fairy tale, but Lucky and Superlucky were actually living the Red Ryder life.
Actually their work was a little more prosaic than that because they were Afghani truck drivers, delivering gasoline. They were the final shipping point for the gasoline that was airlifted from England to Moscow, and then carted overland through Kazahkstan and god knows how many other Stans until it finally reached Kabul costing $500 a gallon from all of the bribes and baksheesh necessary to pay for its transport.
Lucky And Superlucky were the delivery boys, taking the gas out of the Army quartermaster's warehouse in jerry cans and tank trucks, and then they'd make the rounds. Their deliveries would fuel the next drone strike and the next night raid, and they did their job very well. But Afghanistan being Afghanistan -- with its centuries old blood feuds, its double dealing and triple dealing -- Lucky and Superlucky did much more than that. While they were making their deliveries, they were gathering intelligence -- figuring out who would be the next victim of that night raid or drone strike one month or two down the road.
In some respects you could even say that they were the heart and soul of the entire US operations in Afghanistan. Everyone else in the war effort had somehow been corrupted. Certainly the suits at the embassy were corrupt. They were living like little bureaucrats in little America. They sat behind their desks, drinkng their coffee and pushing their paperwork. Then they'd do their conference calls to Washington, DC -- talking to some supergrades in DOD or the NSC about procurement contracts. Were they in Kabul or Langley, Virginia? Hell, it didn't matter at all! They might as well have been on the moon, and it wouldn't have made any difference to the suits as long as they could sip their coffee inside their sterile government offices.
But what about the grunts, the Marines stationed in their forward fire bases, living in semi-primitive conditions while they alternated between haggling with the villagers and then blasting the shit out of them? They were corrupted, too. The Marines thought that what they were doing was insane. Why try to make nice and friendly with the locals? One day you'd be sitting in a circle, handing the tribal cheiftan a giant plastic Glad bag with tens of thousands of Afghani afghanis -- currency to bribe them so they wouldn't go over to the other side and start blasting away at you. And then the next week, you get in a firefight with them! Then the process starts all over again -- bribe, firefight, bribe, firefight.... All of that imaginary money for a few days of imaginary peace! The enlisted men in the Marines were corrupted because even though they were experiencing the life, they didn't appreciate or understand Afghani culture.
Lucky and Superlucky were the only two people in the entire war effort who were still pure. This was because they'd gone completely native. In moving in the circles that they did, they ascertained who the reliables were and who were the traitors. And in the process, they were not only setting up the targeted assassinations, but they were purifying Afghani society -- making it a better place so that eventually the country could achieve another lorga ghyra -- where the elders of the councils could once again meet together to develop a new Afghani society based on the knowledge of the tribes in a a newer, more stable, and harmonious regime.
So imagine the tragedy of it all when two of Lucky and Superlucky's most trusted native lieutenants snuck up behind both boys one night and fired their pistols simultaneously into the back of their brains, only inches away. Lucky and Superlucky never even saw it coming. Such a betrayal was not possible! But no matter. This did not stop them from their appointed rounds.
Lucky and Superlucky continued to do their deliveries and make their rounds -- only they did so as ghosts. Who knows how long these spirits continued in their true beliefs? Until one evening, they came upon the remains of their burned out gasoline tanker, and they saw the spots of dried blood where the ground had soaked in and retained their last life source. Then and only then did Lucky and Superlucky realize that they were dead. And then and only then did they realize that all of their efforts (and the efforts of all the defense contractors) were all for naught.
Lucky and Superlucky let out huge cries of grief and anguish that could be heard for miles in the trackless wilderness, and then they were gone. As to the war effort, who knows how it's progressing today?