by Eric Meyer
Manuel still didn't move. We were all ready, with our hands inches away from the handguns we carried under our coats. Not that there was a problem with carrying weapons over there, not in Afghanistan. It was just that when the other side didn't know you were armed, it gave you an edge.
The seconds went by, and the two men stared at Manuel, waiting for him to grovel. They may as well have waited for him to discover the secret of the universe. A minute went by, and they lost patience. Both men began to swing up the barrels of their AKs. Manuel reacted fast and didn't bother with the Glock under his coat. Instead, he catapulted out of the chair and hurtled toward the two Afghans. I didn't bother pulling a gun. I'd seen this before. We all had. There was danger in this bar, but not to Manuel Salazar. Generations of Hispanic ancestry were in his blood, and now he gave them a demonstration of how quick a Latino could take offence.
He hit the first man with a vicious hand strike to his throat, and even as the blow landed had swiveled and kicked the second man with his boot, a blow that seemed to shake the bar like a small earthquake. I winced. The precise aim had hit the man's groin, so hard I doubted he'd be much use to his wife for a few months at least. They were both shocked, both badly hurt, but they were Afghans. Through their pain, they tried again to aim their weapons and fill Manuel full of holes. They may as well have tried to stop a meteorite from hitting the Earth. He was mad, real mad, and furious at the insult to his Catholic heritage. He slammed another hand strike at the first man, but this time it was calculated to numb and disable his right hand, the one that pulls the trigger.
Afghans are supposed to be impervious to pain and suffering, but these two hadn't read the script. The man screamed in pain and frustration. Manuel took hold of his robe, held him closer, and hit him with a headbutt that was hard enough to send him crashing to the floor. The other man was moving forward, his AK in the firing position. As his finger pulled the trigger, Manuel physically clubbed the weapon aside, and it drilled several holes in the ceiling as the clip emptied. He tore the weapon out of the man's hand and glancing at his other opponent to make sure he was down, started to take the man apart. His fighting technique was learned in the barrios of Spanish Harlem and honed to deadly perfection by his Delta Force instructors.
For several minutes, he pummeled the man, venting his explosive anger. Finally, when he considered the guy had had enough, he left him alone and sat down. Calmly, he picked up his glass and slipped his drink, all vestiges of his fury gone. We'd remained in our seats, watching the show. We all knew what he was capable of, and it never crossed our minds that he might need any help. He put his glass down and looked at us.
"The fuckers are big on insults to their religion, but they don't give a shit about anyone else's," he observed.
"I reckon they got that," Niall commented, "You taught them a hard lesson."
"Do they know any other kind?"
There was no need to reply. Not in Afghanistan.
* * *
We pulled up outside a rundown church in Brooklyn. There was a derelict building each side, leaning against it for support. Manuel had called ahead, and Niall was waiting for us outside the door. He gave us a wave and stepped forward to exchange handshakes. He hadn't changed. Still the big, tough Army Ranger who'd fought his way through a score of hard fights; the same rugged, cheerful face, sporting a broken nose and topped by a mop of ginger hair. Apart from the clothes, he now wore the long black cassock of a priest, with the white dog collar prominent.
"It's great to see you guys. Things have been too quiet since we came back." He glanced around at his church, "Not that I'm complaining."
He embraced us both with a bear hug and led us through the church to the sacristy at the rear. On the way through, he genuflected to the altar, and after a slight hesitation, Manuel crossed himself.
"I thought this would be best for a quiet chat. I assume your visit isn't social?”
I explained how persons unknown had murdered Brad Olsen. About my being framed, and the only way out was to take on another operation. He glanced at Manuel.
"I'm really sorry. I know you two were close. I will pray for his immortal soul."
"We were good amigos, and I'm going to miss him. If these people keep their promises, they'll hunt down his murderer and make him pay."
"That's good to know. How can I help you?"
"I need a team, and I'm one man short. I thought you might know of someone. I wouldn't ask you. It hardly fits with your new career."
He chuckled. "I guess not, but it wouldn't be the first time a warrior priest has gone into battle. What kind of person are you looking for? What kind of specialist skills?"
I stared at him. "I need someone with your kind of skills."
His eyes glazed over, and it was almost certain he was thinking back to those days. Good times and bad times, mostly bad. He had specific skills. Niall was one of the best in his line of work. Killing. He shook his head.
"I can't think of anyone who would be crazy enough to take this on board. You said you needed a fourth member. Who's the other person?"
"Winter Moss."
He shuddered. "You'd work with her, after everything?"
"I don't have a choice. And there's more. I only have twenty-four hours to put the team together. In fact, it's less than twenty now. Then we fly out."
Niall didn't ask me to explain further. He was no stranger to the devious ways of SpecOps. He looked thoughtful.
"Would you like to see my church? It's a beautiful building, although sadly it is in need a great deal of maintenance. They say if essential building work isn't completed in the next couple of years, they'll condemn the place, and it'll be pulled down."
I was baffled by the change of subject, and I swallowed my impatience to walk around the aisles to inspect the stained-glass windows and ornate stonework. I had to agree, it was a beautiful building. Past tense. The effects of too many harsh winters had wreaked havoc with the structure, and in places there were buckets on the floor, ready to catch the drips when the roof leaked during a rainstorm. Parts of the woodwork were riddled with holes, victim to woodworm and dry rot, and there were huge cracks in much of the ornamental stonework. He pulled a wry face.
"I believe the term is, ‘faded grandeur'. A tragedy it has been left to decay so much."
"Yeah, it's a real shame." It was a dumb thing to say, but all I could think of. Religion was something I associated with wasted Sunday mornings attending service, and a world torn apart by fanatics, usually bearded Arabs with guns.
He smiled. "I remember you weren't a believer. But even as a piece of architectural history, this building should be repaired and preserved. How much does it pay, this Egypt gig?"
I didn't understand at first, assuming he meant repairing old churches. What does a roofer earn? More than a soldier, probably.
"I haven't a clue," I replied, and then the penny dropped. I'd never been astonished in my life, "You’re serious?"
“I've never been more serious. How much are we talking?"
I hadn't agreed exact figures with Mr. Smith, but based on the way our discussion went, I had a pretty good idea. "I estimate the contract will last about a month. About fifty thousand dollars apiece, I guess. Niall, forget it!" I gestured around the beautiful but dilapidated architecture, "You'd be crazy to give all this up, and go back to something you vowed you'd never return to. I'll have to find someone else."
He smiled. "Give what up, a church that's crumbling to the ground? In a couple of years, it'll cease to exist if there's no money to repair it. How does that serve my parishioners? If I can raise enough money to put the repairs in motion, they'd have a church to rely on for many years to come. You can count me in."
I thought about it long and hard, but in the end it came down to the tight conditions the CIA had imposed. I was boxed in, and the only way out was to fly to Egypt inside the twenty-four hour deadline, hunt down a psychopathic Mullah, and kill him. It sounded simple when you said it fast. Th
e problems started when you arrived in country, and men with AK-47s started shooting at you. That made it real complicated.
If I was honest, deep down I was thankful Niall had agreed to join us. It would be like old times, except Brad Olsen lay dead. And Winter Moss, the Queen of Mean, would take his place. Niall spent a few minutes talking to his boss, the priest-in-charge, and he arranged emergency unpaid leave. The senior priest had come to the sacristy, and while they talked, I could hear every word.
"Father Quinn, this is very sudden. Why do you want to take leave so urgently?"
Niall answered with a voice that was devoid of any meaning, but Manuel and I had to work hard to prevent us laughing out loud.
"I have to attend a death, Father. An unexpected death."
"In that case, you may go with my blessing."
* * *
We were used to traveling light, and inside of two hours were hitting the outskirts of New York City, looking for the on-ramp for the I-95. We fought through the traffic, and eventually it thinned out, and we made good time. Five hours later, we were looking for somewhere to spend the night before our entrance at Andrews AFB.
That evening we went out for what we jokingly called our ‘Last Supper’. It had become something of a tradition. Neither of them was surprised when they discovered I'd sworn off the booze. A clear head wasn't an option when you were going into a fight with gun-toting Islamic crazies. In fact, any gun-toting hostile was a good enough reason for a clear head, but in reality, they were usually Islamic.
At one point in the meal, Niall put down his knife and fork and stared at me as if something was wrong. I was concerned. He was always a deep thinker, always gnawing at problems, and his conclusions were usually on the mark.
“What?”
“This operation, you know it doesn’t make any sense. They wanted Brad to go in, was it just him, or a small team?"
"No idea, they didn't tell me."
"Whatever, but there must be scores of outfits in the Mideast, ready and able to hit this gomer, plenty of people in Afghanistan, too. That's a whole heap nearer to Egypt than the US of A. We were good, sure, so it's no surprise they wanted Brad, but we weren’t the only ones.”
I’d though it a little funny, but I’d shoved it to the back of my mind. “What’s your take on it?”
Manuel had stopped eating and was watching closely. Niall placed the salt pot in one place, the ketchup in another, and added a couple of bread rolls, to make a kind of edible war game scenario. I didn't feel like eating right then.
“This is Mullah Mukhtar, right?" He pointed to the salt pot, "He’s holed up somewhere in Egypt, doing what he does best, stirring up people to go on a killing spree. The bread rolls, they represent forces unknown. We've no idea who we'd be going up against. And this is the bait," he adjusted the ketchup, "This is us."
I picked up the ketchup. Blood red. I stared at it to gain time while I tried to think, and then replaced it on the table. Niall continued.
“They use us to bait a juicy trap to draw him out, and then a killteam moves in to bushwhack the target when he sticks his scrawny neck up.”
“Sounds familiar,” I agreed, “The question is what are we, the killteam or the bait? Why use us as bait?"
"Mukhtar. When we first went to Afghanistan, we took out that complex close to Tora Bora. I heard his family got killed in the attack, so I figure he's looking for revenge. All they need do is mention us, and he'd be after us like a fox after the hens. Makes for pretty good bait."
"But they got to Brad first," I objected.
"True. All it means is they moved too fast for our CIA friends. So when they took down Brad, the Agency had to go for the next man in line. You."
I shook my head. “Even for an organization with a reputation like CIA, it's hard to believe. If it is true, who is the third party, the killteam? The bread rolls?"
He grinned, that wide Irish smile that lit up his rugged face. "That, my friend, is the sixty-four dollar question." He picked up the ketchup bottle, "But we sure are odds-on for the tomato ketchup."
I glanced at Manuel, who looked uneasy. He looked back at me.
"What do we do about it?"
There was only one answer I could give him. "You want revenge for Brad, Niall needs money to his church, and I need to clear this faked-up murder rap. There's only one thing to do, same as always. We go in, hunt this bastard down, and kill him."
He grinned. "Fucking A. The Hunter Killers are back in business."
"Just this once."
Niall was staring at me again. "Schaeffer, what's your long-term goal?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. You've been drinking yourself into the next life ever since we got back from Afghanistan. If this Egypt operation pans out, what will you do when you get back?"
I could only think of going home to my shack. To the lonely beach, the familiar bottle, and the waves rolling in to remind me of my past sins. I gestured with my hand and accidentally knocked over the ketchup bottle. They both stared at it, frozen. Soldiers are more superstitious than most people believe. I shrugged an apology.
"I never think beyond the current mission."
It was a lie, and they both knew it was a lie.
In the early morning, we arrived at the gate to Andrews AFB. Winter Moss was waiting for us. She'd changed into clothing more suitable for a hostile environment. Her expression made us feel as welcome as a gas-guzzling Hummer at a 'Save the Planet' rally.
"You're late. You were told twenty-four hours."
"Problem with my watch. When the Agency pays up, I'll buy a new one."
"Who said this was an Agency run operation?"
I gave her a stare. Words weren’t needed. The message was, ‘cut the bullshit. We've all been around the block, more than a few times.’
She nodded.
* * *
Cairo, Egypt
We landed at Cairo International Airport, weary, stiff, and wishing we were anywhere on Earth other than this place. Well almost. It had been one helluva journey, flying thousands of miles in a C-130, a four-engine turboprop cargo plane that after the first hour became little more than an instrument of torture. The mind numbing, soul-destroying thunder of the engines rattled every nut and bolt in the fuselage, and soon made you feel life wasn’t worth living. But there was worse to come. The Air Force decided to pile on new misery and take the opportunity for mid-air refueling exercises.
One of the joys of traveling on commercial jetliners is you don't have the knowledge that a flying petrol tank is hovering fifty feet above your head, pumping thousands of gallons of gas into the tanks on your aircraft. There is the constant, pungent stink of gas as the fuel is pumped, and the noise gets even worse, or it just seems like it does.
They refueled several times, and each time the cargo space rattled and vibrated, like the howling of lost souls in purgatory. Our only concern was 'survival', as we waited for the flash and explosion when the refueling operation screwed up. So it was a relief when we landed, even if it was Cairo in the midst of the riots. There was one compensation though, an air-conditioned limousine waiting to collect us. Winter Moss had called ahead. It was clear the Agency wasn't about to stint on the arrangements for the transportation of their blue-eyed girl.
The city was a war zone. Barricades and burned out vehicles on many of the streets, and angry Muslim Brotherhood mobs wandering the sidewalks, many with placards carrying the picture of deposed President Morsi. Funny looking guy, he looked more like a store clerk than the President of one of the most populated countries on the African continent. There were plenty of other demonstrators too, happy to see the demise of the Islamic would-be Pharaoh.
We skirted Tahrir Square and could see it was packed with protestors. It seemed impossible that so many people could fit into the space, along with hundreds of soldiers and their support vehicles; armored personnel carriers, two tanks, and a number of jeeps and communication vehicles. Interspersed with
the angry crowds and the watchful soldiers were groups of cops, men in riot gear, and all heavily armed. I reckoned if there were full-scale riot, Egypt would soon become much less populated. Everyone was spoiling for a fight, and it wouldn't take much for the place to become a battleground. No one shed a tear as we left the square.
Winter's cellphone rang and she answered it. She spent a lot of time listening to whoever it was the other end, her part of the conversation monosyllabic. After she hung up, she was silent for the rest of the journey. I didn't ask her what it was about, and she didn't offer to tell me, but I had a feeling that already something had gone wrong. I resolved to talk to her about it later. She'd lie, of course, but maybe I could get some clues. It's not so much about telling the truth. It's more about how they lie. And she was good at it, damn good.
I kept a look out for pyramids. I'd heard it was possible to see them on a good day. Unfortunately, it wasn't a good day. The teargas mixed with the regular atmospheric pollution created thick smog in the direction of Giza. There wasn't a single pyramid to be seen. Either that, or it was some kind of David Blaine trick. A pity he couldn't make some of the nastier Mullahs disappear. I had a few names to suggest in the event he came up with something.
The limo stopped outside the Grand Nile Tower. They checked us in, and as we waited in the lobby for our keys, she called us to a quiet corner.
"Normally, we'd want time to freshen up and catch up on some sleep, but that was my boss on the phone earlier…"
"The CIA Head of Station?"
She looked irritable. "As a matter of fact, no. He wants us to meet the person who'll transport us to our forward base of operations."
This was news to all of us. We'd assumed we'd be operating out of Cairo where there were good communications and links with the Embassy, which meant CIA. Not some mud hut out in the boonies with a five-mile trek to fill your canteen with water. And for transport in country, we always made our own arrangements. This was a bad start.
