The sound of the motor diverted shifted Jim’s attention from his phone. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“Leaving,” said Storey, backing up very fast.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Jim shouted.
Storey twirled the van around before the ISI men who were running over could block his way. They were brandishing their rifles. He stepped on the gas and gave them a friendly wave, all the while continuing his lecture to Troy. “They’d be expecting this move once negotiations stalled. They’re not expecting it now.”
Troy kept his rifle at the ready, though out of view of the windows. “People usually start shooting when something unexpected happens.”
“Not without orders,” said Storey. “Not these guys. And we didn’t give Colonel Khan a chance to make up his mind.”
“Got right inside the motherfucker’s decision cycle,” said Troy.
“Couldn’t have put it any better myself,” said Storey.
Gate guards never stopped vehicles leaving a military installation.
Jim kept losing his connection and redialing the Karachi consulate. “Thanks a lot,” he told Storey. “You’ll be back in the States and I’ll be standing in shit so deep I’ll need a snorkel to breathe.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” Storey said pleasantly. “As a matter of fact, I think both sides are going to want to forget about this as soon as possible. Is the plane ready at the airport?”
Jim sat up sharply. “We are not going to the airport. We’re going to the consulate until I can get this straightened out.”
“That’s a mistake,” Storey told him. “While we were driving off I had a fine view of Colonel Khan in my rearview mirror. And he was on his cell phone.”
“Makes no difference,” said Jim. “The shit’s already up to my waist, and the tide’s coming in.”
“You know, I feel bad,” said Storey.
“Really?” Jim said sarcastically.
“Yeah, I wanted to lay some baksheesh on those commandoes.” Storey patted the envelopes in his jumpsuit pocket. “Boys did a real fine job.”
“Take the next turn,” said Jim. “That’s back into town.”
“You’re still making a mistake,” said Storey. “But the consulate it is.”
The U.S. Consulate in Karachi was as well guarded as you’d expect such a building to be. A short time before, the Pakistani police had defused a van full of explosives that had been parked outside. Pakistani bomb squads got a lot of practice.
As soon as the deputy chief of mission, a career Foreign Service officer, heard that Kasim al-Hariq was on his premises, he began bouncing off the walls. “I want him out of here!” he shouted. “The plane’s waiting to fly him out? Fine. Get him on the plane. I want him out of the country before I start getting calls from either the host government or Washington.”
Al, the CIA chief of station, was also upset—but better at concealing it. “We have some things to discuss,” he pointedly told the deputy chief of mission.
The DCM headed for the door. Not that he was averse to listening to some spook talk, but if he was there when any decisions were reached, he’d be a party to them. “Fine,” he said. “But I want to be informed the second he’s gone.”
“You will be,” Al said reassuringly. As soon as the door shut, his first statement was directed right at Jim. “This is a real goat-rope.”
“I could have settled everything on-site,” Jim said defensively, glaring at Storey.
“And lost your man?” said Al. “At least that didn’t happen.” He turned to Storey. “You think ISI wants this guy free?”
“No,” said Storey. “I think they want him dead. I reckon they’d rather have him dead than talking to us.”
“You think they’ll try again?” Al asked.
“Who knows?” said Storey. “If they do they won’t do it themselves. So the quicker we move, the shakier their arrangements are going to be. And the more advantage to us.”
“Okay, okay,” said Al. “Let’s get him to the airport.”
“Look,” said Storey, “let’s at least complicate their planning. Send us out first in an empty vehicle—we’ll head straight for the airport. They’ll figure we’ll be driving him. Twenty minutes later send out one man in a car, a fresh face, with al-Hariq stuffed in the trunk. Head in the opposite direction, make a roundabout trip to the airport.”
“Al,” Jim said, “we’re getting all worked up about nothing here.”
“You think so?” said Storey. “Fools die, my friend.”
“You calling me a fool?” Jim demanded.
Storey’s silence rested his case.
“We’ll go with two vehicles,” said Al, before Jim could add anything else. Then to Storey, “You want the van?”
Storey shook his head. “Too hard to handle at speed. Flip over when you breathe on them. Besides, they’d be expecting us to use something else. The van would be an obvious decoy.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Al. “Do you want a convoy?”
“How quick can you put one together?” Storey asked.
“Not before early afternoon.”
“We’ll go solo then,” said Storey.
Troy thought that was a mistake, but held his tongue.
“I’ll take care of it,” said Al.
“And we don’t need Jim,” said Storey.
“Fuck you, too,” Jim replied.
“You sure?” said Al.
“Tits on a bull,” said Storey. “Nothing personal.” Meaning, of course, nothing personal to Al.
“When will you be ready to leave?” said Al.
“Half an hour,” said Storey.
While they were changing out of their jumpsuits, Troy said, “Did I miss something, or did you just volunteer us to be the bait?”
“I don’t know what came over me,” Storey said mournfully. “I’m not usually the volunteering type.” He busied himself putting on his running shoes. When he finally looked over at an outraged Troy, he broke out laughing.
“I’m glad somebody thinks this is fucking funny,” said Troy.
“Ah, a little laughter is always good medicine,” said Storey. Another look at Troy and he was back to chuckling. “Look, I don’t know whether you realized it or not, but we’re burned in Pakistan. Colonel Khan’ll see to that. We won’t be back here. So we’ve got to get out of this well-watched consulate sometime. Would you rather do it now, or would you rather put if off until the other side is ready?”
“I’d rather do neither,” said Troy. “I’d rather slip out of here one night and sneak out of the country without anyone being the wiser.”
It was something they’d both been very well trained to do.
“Well, I suppose that’s an option,” said Storey. “But we’ve still got a mission to accomplish. And I’ve got a pretty good record of doing that, you might say perfect, and I’d like to keep my streak intact.”
“Whatever,” Troy replied. “I was just saying that since we’re not going to be the ones taking the dickhead to the airport, we might as well also not be the ones to be the bait. Let’s go do it.”
Al provided an armored Jeep Cherokee, with untinted windows.
“Do they roll down?” Storey asked. Sometimes they did on armored vehicles, and sometimes the bulletproof glass was so thick it had to be fixed in place.
“Windows roll down,” said Al. He’d also provided an incredibly lifelike human dummy to put in the backseat. One from the CIA bag of tricks for countersurveillance work. Turn a corner, drop off an agent, then put up the dummy to make it look like the same number of people in the car.
The dummy was blindfolded, gagged, and seat-belted in.
Storey and Troy were in civilian clothes, but wearing their body armor/assault vests and pistol belts.
A last-minute weapons and communications check, and they were ready to go. A marine guard opened the gate, and they zigzagged through the vehicle barrier.
They
headed west. The international airport was just outside the city to the east, but today their destination was Pakistani Air Force Base Masroor, which was less than twenty miles to the west.
Storey was driving. He followed the railway line out of the city, crossing over the Lyari River.
“We’re made,” Troy announced. “Pair on a motorcycle. The one in back’s trying to hide the walkie-talkie he’s yapping into.”
Storey checked his mirrors. “Any other bikes?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Then that’s the scout. They’re calling it in, and it’ll come from somewhere else.”
The terrain varied from wooded groves of very small trees to what resembled high desert scrubland. There was plenty of traffic on the two-lane road, and this held everyone’s speed down.
“Check out the crossroads coming up on the right,” said Storey.
“Yeah, two cars. One silver, one black. Both look like Mercedeses,” said Troy. “They couldn’t be any more fucking obvious about being parked and waiting, could they?”
“That’s why you want to rush them,” said Storey. “Hop into the backseat, you’ll probably be shooting out the left side.”
Troy scrambled over the front seat. “You know, in situations like this, I always like to ask myself: what would Jerry do?”
“Jerry?”
“Jerry Garcia.”
“Shit his pants, I’d expect,” said Storey.
“Man, don’t put that on Jerry. Motorcycle’s coming up.”
“They’ll probably sit right behind to point us out for everyone,” said Storey.
“That’s right where they are,” Troy replied.
“By the way,” said Storey, “you look great.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, I always heard that SEALs can’t go to war unless they’ve got their shades on and their hair’s perfect.”
Troy was wearing his high-speed Bollé sunglasses. “You got that right,” he said, ostentatiously patting his hair.
As they passed the crossroads, both cars, filled with passengers, pulled onto the road behind them.
“Motorcycle’s falling back,” Troy reported.
“We’ll probably be getting a broadside from the first car as soon as it pulls level,” said Storey.
“Here they come,” said Troy.
“Buckle up,” said Storey. “As soon as they try to pass, I’m making my move.” He radioed a contact report to Al at the consulate.
Troy snapped on his seat belt and braced his feet on the front seat.
The black Mercedes didn’t have any trouble catching them. It sat behind for a moment, Storey watching to see if anyone with a weapon popped up from the sunroof. Then the Mercedes blinked its lights to pass.
“Windows are all rolled down,” said Troy. “Everyone’s hands in their lap.”
Storey waited until the Mercedes was in the opposite lane. Then he put one foot hard on the brake, cutting the steering wheel to the left. The Cherokee’s front bumper hit the Mercedes just behind the right rear wheel. The Mercedes spun completely around, changing lanes.
An AK-47 that was being aimed from a window flew right out of its owner’s hands and hit the Cherokee’s windshield.
Storey was back on the gas, flooring it. The Mercedes swapped ends right across the front of the Cherokee—Storey passed it in the left lane of oncoming traffic. In the rearview mirror: the Mercedes hitting the sandy shoulder and rolling over at least three times before disappearing in a cloud of dust. Then Storey’s eyes back on the road, and a truck coming right at them, leaning on its horn.
Storey couldn’t get back into the right lane. He tapped the brake again to lose some speed, then took the Cherokee onto the left shoulder. The SUV almost fishtailed in the sand, but he held it steady. The truck roared by on the right, all horn and onrushing air, seemingly inches away.
A stand of trees was running up alongside the shoulder, leaving them no room and no choice. Storey cut back onto the road, the Cherokee briefly going airborne when the tires slammed into that several-inches-of-elevation difference between the sand and the hard-surface road.
They were still in the wrong lane, and Storey had no choice but to peel all the metal off the side of a little Fiat trying to get out of their way. And now there was also a sound of grinding metal coming from something hanging off the body of the Cherokee.
Cars were flying all over the highway, trying desperately to get out of the way of that big American wrecking ball.
Driving was taking up Storey’s full attention, but he knew the silver Mercedes was still with them. He knew this because Troy was firing his weapon out the rear window.
Storey still had the gas pedal on the floor, but top speed was one of the tradeoffs to carrying several hundred pounds of vehicle armor. He wasn’t going to be outrunning a Mercedes sedan.
The firing wasn’t all one-way. Storey could see both green and white tracer bullets floating over the top and past the sides of the Cherokee.
The windshield was slightly starred from the impact with the AK-47, but the visibility was still good. Good enough for Storey to notice that both lines of traffic were completely stopped less than a mile up ahead, for whatever reason.
“We’re running out of road!” he bellowed, trying to get it over the sound of Troy’s carbine.
Troy heard it during the brief lull of a magazine change and looked over his shoulder. “Motherfucker!”
Storey didn’t have long to make a decision on which shoulder to take. The right seemed to have fewer obstacles. He hit the sand, swerving right around the stopped traffic. There wasn’t much room. Someone had left their passenger door open, maybe to step out and take a look, and Storey took it right off the hinges. People who had stepped out to get a better view of the cause of the tie-up were diving out of the way, spurred on both by the Cherokee and the continuing gunfire.
The countryside was opening up. Very soon Storey could shift into four-wheel drive and go off-road over terrain that no Mercedes could negotiate.
A slight rise, but not so slight that a driver could see over it, and all four wheels left the ground. Over the rise, and in front of them a drainage channel that passed under the road. Touching ground again, and Storey standing on the brake as the front end of the Cherokee dropped and hit the side of the channel straight on.
White airbags exploded. Total darkness, then light as they deflated. Storey still gripping the steering wheel. Total silence, whether because he was deaf or there really was total silence he had no idea.
In truth only seconds had passed since the crash, but time seemed to stretch out. The seat belt button was jammed. The knife in his vest seemed to fall into Storey’s hand, and he slashed the nylon webbing. His rifle was under the dash, the Aimpoint red-dot sight snapped off and gone. Now he could hear the sound of gunfire again, but it was the light chatter of American 5.56mm, not the heavier Russian 7.62mm.
Holy shit—Troy was out in the ditch and already putting down fire. How had the kid managed that? The passenger door was slightly ajar. Storey kicked it open and threw himself out. It only rained during the monsoon, so the ditch was bone dry.
Troy was prone over the lip of the ditch. Blood was running down his face, but Storey knew they didn’t have time for first aid. Troy was firing single-shot, very deliberately, enough to keep the opposition from maneuvering toward them, but still conserving ammunition.
Storey knew the sounds of the Russian armory by heart. They were taking fire from three AKs and a heavier PKM machine gun. A lot of spraying, but fire was only effective if it was close enough to make you keep your head down and not shoot back. This wasn’t effective. The PKM was probably firing armor-piercing bullets at the Cherokee. The Cherokee!
Storey slid down to the bottom of the ditch and looked under the vehicle. A concrete tunnel ran right under the road. He scrambled back up to the top and slapped Troy on the leg. Troy looked down, and Storey indicated by hand signa
ls what he wanted to do. Troy nodded.
Storey signaled him to go. Troy jumped to the bottom of the ditch and sprinted toward the Cherokee. Having lost the red-dot sight off his rifle in the crash, Storey popped up the backup iron sights and started shooting. The silver Mercedes had stopped broadside at the top of the rise, about forty yards away.
Judging that Troy had had enough time, Storey dug in one of his vest pouches and came up with one of the Austrian Arges mini hand grenades, just a little bigger than a golf ball. Small meant they could be thrown a lot farther. He thumbed the pin off the retaining clip in the plastic body, yanked it out, and heaved the grenade toward the far side of the Mercedes.
As soon as it left his hand he was back down in the ditch. The Cherokee was impaled directly across its width, so there was about a three-foot open space between the bottom of the vehicle and the bottom of the ditch. Storey crawled through that space, becoming aware that most of the incoming fire was being directed at the Cherokee. The grenade exploded when he was underneath—at first making him think that the gas tank had ignited.
Once he was through he could see why everyone was firing at the vehicle. The dummy was still sitting up straight in the backseat.
All the more reason to move faster. Troy was already through the tunnel on the other side of the road. Storey ran hunched over. While he was halfway through, the Cherokee exploded, the blast knocking him onto his stomach. That was what he’d been expecting. The AKs and the PKM were to take out the Cherokee’s tires and run it off the road. Then an antitank rocket from an RPG -7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher to open it up like a tin can.
Troy was already back up on the road as Storey emerged from the tunnel. Storey joined him, pouring sweat from the exertion. They didn’t shoot, but covered each other while they alternated moving. Quite a few Pakistanis had gotten out of their cars to watch the action. They bolted when they saw Troy and Storey. The rest, more prudent, were huddled down on their floorboards.
Threat Level Page 9
