by Anthony Tata
“We’ve got to get up there. We’re ducks in a barrel here,” Eversoll said.
“Roger. How’s Van Dreeves?”
“Alive, but not ambulatory. We have to carry him.”
“Okay, Eversoll and I will secure the ridge, and then one of us will come down to help you.”
With that, Eversoll quickly climbed the steep slope, his weapon slung on his back. Garrett covered him. At the top, he slid on his belly and then pulled his weapon to the ready. He could see clearly through his goggles. Two men were about fifty meters to his front climbing a steep slope. He shot them both. Another group of about ten men was at the top of the next ridge, maybe two hundred meters away. Inaccurate fire from that location swung wildly overhead. He didn’t return fire.
“Secure,” he called down to Matt. In an instant, Garrett was next to him on the ledge.
“Go help Hobart. I’m calling the helicopter.”
“See there,” Eversoll pointed. “About ten of them.”
“Got it.”
Eversoll slid back down the ridge and knelt next to Hobart. “How bad?”
“He’ll make it. Let’s go.”
His knee pad had slid down around his ankle, and as he knelt, something crunched into his knee.
He looked down as he was reaching for Van Dreeves. A piece of paper or something plastic was under his knee. He grabbed at it, pawing at it with his gloved hand, unable to pick it up.
“Come on, let’s go, Eversoll.” Hobart was impatient. Eversoll heard the whirring blades of the helicopter as it approached.
“Hang on.” He slipped his glove off, reached down, and picked up the piece of plastic, slipping it into his pocket.
“Let’s go, damn it!”
“Come on.” Eversoll helped Hobart, pulling Van Dreeves up the ledge as Hobart pushed.
The helicopter hovered. Matt fired randomly at the retreating enemy to keep them at bay. A rope dropped from the middle of the helicopter’s underbelly. Each man hooked into a metal loop affixed to the rope. Hobart was first, then Van Dreeves, then Eversoll, and finally Garrett. The three capable men fired their weapons at the Al Qaeda as the helicopter lifted off and slung them away from the cave complex.
Bullets whipped past Sergeant Eversoll as he tried to return effective, aimed fire, but it was nearly impossible as he circled from the rope. As they swung below the helicopter tethered by the hoist cable, the winch slowly pulled them upward into the three-foot by three-foot square in the bottom of the helicopter known as the “hell hole.”
They were flying so fast that water seeped from Eversoll’s eyes. He looked up. Hobart was in the helicopter helping pull Van Dreeves in also. A moment later, it was his turn. He was in and helping Garrett before he knew it.
The crew chief gave them all a thumbs-up and walked around hugging them. They had made it.
The helicopter wove through the steep valleys of the Hindu Kush at one hundred fifty miles per hour. They had killed a bunch of Al Qaeda, and, if nothing else, that felt pretty good.
After about thirty minutes, once the adrenaline had slowed, Eversoll removed his glove and reached into his pocket. He had nearly forgotten about the piece of plastic he had retrieved. Any intelligence was useful, he figured. Expecting to see Arabic writing, he held up a plastic sleeve with a photo on one side and a small medallion on the other.
Speechless, he stood and walked over to where Matt Garrett was sitting, his head in his hands.
“Sir?”
“Not now, Eversoll. Now’s not the time.”
He imagined what Matt Garrett was going through. He had just exacted the very revenge he had come to Afghanistan to seek. Now there was nothing left, or so he thought.
“Sir, I don’t know how to say this, other than I think your brother’s still alive.”
CHAPTER 17
Charlotte, NORTH CAROLINA
Tuesday Evening (Eastern Time)
The man waiting for Melanie Garrett, whom he knew well, called himself Del Dangurs. Of course, it wasn’t his real name, but a worthy nom de plume, perhaps even nom de guerre. He had arrived at the restaurant early, picking the perfect table sequestered away from the flowing throng at Ripster’s high-end steak house. He had his back to the wall, like always, and watched as Melanie entered, checked with the maitre d’, who nodded in his direction. Their eyes met, and he gave her a slight nod. They knew each other well and he was going to enjoy this new phase of their relationship.
He stood as she approached and he gave her an air kiss as he pulled her chair away from the table. She sat and smoothed the white linen napkin in her lap as he sat across from her. He had her favorite cabernet already poured and so he lifted his glass and she reciprocated. He watched as she held the rim just below her eye level and stared back at him.
“Melanie,” he said.
“So, Del Dangurs, very nice to meet you here.”
“And you as well,” Del said. “Like my nom de plume?”
“Kinda sexy, in a bad boy sort of way.” He watched as she swirled the maroon wine in her glass. Staring at the whirlpool he guessed she was trying to determine if it really was a good wine. She tilted the glass. The legs looked okay. He could smell the heavy bouquet of the cabernet.
“Gives me more freedom of license, if you know what I mean,” Dangurs said, as he looked around the crowded restaurant.
“Who else knows who you are?”
“Just you, my attorney, and two people at the paper. There’s a non-disclosure clause in my contract.”
“Okay, so why does it matter to me? Why the secret rendezvous?”
Del put his glass on the table and scratched his chin pensively. “Well, aside from the fact that I thought I’d enjoy an evening with you, I wanted to make a proposal.”
Melanie’s loud cackle caused the couple at the next table to look curiously in their direction. “But I hardly knew ya,” she joked.
Del smiled at her jab. He placed his hand on the base of his wine glass, two fingers on either side of the stem. Making small circles, he patiently waited for her to be done with herself. It was a small price to pay for getting his story.
Tiring of her routine, he decided then that he would take her home and enjoy her tonight if she was willing. Then, a dark cloud passed across the imagery in his thoughts. Maybe, he thought, he would take her even if she wasn’t willing. He had created an entirely different persona that did allow him more room to maneuver, especially given his tiresome day job. Besides, he considered, he had so much talent and so much desire that he believed he required two identities.
“I’m thinking that I can help you, and you, in turn, can help me.”
“So this isn’t about marriage?”
“I thought you were through. Do you need a minute?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
“So, as I was saying, you’ve seen my byline before in the papers. I do human interest articles, some reviews of the arts, and so forth.”
Even he didn’t consider his journalistic dalliances so far anything noteworthy, which brought him to this point. He saw the possibility to combine his drive for fame with her need to completely and utterly destroy her dead ex-husband. He understood her myopic desire to cruelly and utterly defame Colonel Garrett and would play into her need.
“Okay, go on,” she said.
“I think there’s a good story with Amanda, and her father being killed. This could be huge, and it could be mutually beneficial.”
He was barely able to finish his sentence. He held up his hands as she put down her wine glass and got into her mental three-point stance for counter-attack.
“Just hear me out, okay?”
“This better be good.”
“It is, trust me.”
Del Dangurs told her his plan. She listened intently . . . and he could tell she liked it. Something was missing, though. Always quick on her feet, he watched her mind shift gears and she saw the unspoken angle.
He smiled as she said, “Okay, but now you have
to listen to my plan.”
And he did.
Later that evening, as they were lying in his bed, she leaned over to him and whispered in his ear. “If you do this, I will really make it worth your while.”
Del Dangurs gave her a wicked grin.
“I’ll make it so he wouldn’t even want to be alive.”
CHAPTER 18
Northwest Frontier Province
Wednesday
Mullah Rahman considered his good fortune. They had survived not one, but two, significant fights with a heavily armed American special operations team while inflicting the heaviest casualties on the first group since Ahmad Shah had downed the American MH-47 in Kunar several years ago killing a total of 19 Americans. In the initial fight, the Balkan fighters had died, but that was their misfortune. This time, they had merely escaped with their prisoner and the mysterious flash drive. It bothered him that the Americans had known to attack the specific cave complex he was using at the time. His instinct, though, told him that the Americans had simply gotten lucky. Maybe the campfire in the cave opening had been too bold, but he wanted that for the money shot on the video.
Killing Americans was the sweet spot when it came to funding. Having video of that killing, as Shah had taken, was the bull’s-eye of the sweet spot. And now having video of his prisoner was even better. He had spliced together his own shoot down of the MH-47 and Colonel Garrett’s “confession.” Getting that video to the Al Qaeda diasporas would bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not millions.
The truth was that Rahman was tired of fighting. Just as the Americans were growing weary of the war, so were the Arabs. The initial blows from the 9-11 attacks had led to euphoria in the Muslim world. David had struck Goliath solidly. After 10 years of combat, though, the sensation had numbed. The fact was that combat was simply hard work. Fighting the Americans was even harder.
Sure, Rahman could continue to train a bunch of wayward, homeless Pakistanis plucked from refugee camps and processed through the Madrassas to attack the Americans, but he often thought about life beyond the Northwest Frontier Province.
He held in his hand the video that would provide him that passage. Perhaps he would find a plush pad in Dubai or Oman or Bahrain. He could blend into the ebb and flow of life there, changing his identity, get some plastic surgery, and rest, perhaps even return to the battlefield when he felt the time was right. But, really, who was he kidding?
He did the calculations. Say they gave him a million for this video. He would take a third of that and fund the next series of operations while setting in place the logistics for his escape. He had to stay off the American intelligence radar while navigating who he could still trust in the Pakistani Intelligence Service (ISI). Maybe he would just jump in a truck headed to Karachi.
But that was a long way both geographically and figuratively from Chitral, Pakistan, one of the most protected zones in the country. The Pakistan Army knew better than to venture into the tight valleys there; the security rings were too formidable, thanks to Rahman.
As the operations officer of Al Qaeda in Pakistan and Afghanistan he was the equivalent of an American three or four star general. But here he was living hand to mouth, in squalor mostly, on the fringes of humanity, fighting the good, righteous fight, but when, he wondered, did Allah provide that reprieve? He knew it was blasphemous to question Allah, but they all did, even Zawahiri, who was a two-faced prick in Rahman’s mind. The Egyptian hid behind the smoked glass of SUVs and put others in danger by using doubles. No man was indispensable.
He held the DVD in his hand, trying to understand how such a weightless item could carry so much import. But he knew it was all about information. And the information contained on this piece of plastic would be shocking. The words spoken would be devastating to the Americans and their cause.
And it would be wildly enriching to Mullah Rahman, one of the new breed of opportunistic Al Qaeda/Taliban leaders. Fight some, live some.
Just don’t get soft.
And watch your back, Rahman thought.
He stuffed the disk in the padded envelope and called the two couriers into the adobe hut. One was tall and dark, Mansur, a Pakistani from Karachi who knew the routes the best. The other was smaller and wore thin spectacles, Kamil. Rahman thought of him as a bookworm, but both men had proven reliable couriers.
“To Dubai. Base headquarters. The message is that we need two million to keep the momentum.”
The tall one nodded and grasped the envelope.
“We will report back in a few days.”
Rahman continued to hold onto the envelope and said, “They die if you don’t, you know. But I’m giving you a week because of the amount of money we are asking for.”
Both men nodded.
Their families lived a good life in the town of Chitral, realizing they were part prisoner and part teammate. If the men failed, their wives and children would be slaughtered. Rahman had already been through three couriers who had botched runs. All had been found and killed after, of course, they had been brought back to “identify” the remains of their families.
“Understood. We have not failed you.”
And they had not, yet. Two million was the highest amount Rahman had asked for to date and he was curious what would come back.
The Diaspora would want to show the video on world wide television and they would generate revenue from selling it to major cable networks. So he thought two million might be feasible.
He watched the couriers leave and his mind drifted to the activity in the room next to him in the small adobe hut.
Before going to take care of that business, planning what to do with the spoils of the last attack, Rahman’s mind drifted and he thought, Maybe Morocco. Good beaches. Lots of Muslims.
He ran his hand through his beard and moved to the next room.
Rahman sat at his computer and saw that Asad Mohammed, his information technology specialist, had left him a note, indicating that he had cracked a small portion of the thumb drive, but was still frustrated that the encryption was so complex.
Nonetheless he had downloaded one Microsoft PowerPoint presentation to Rahman’s laptop. Rahman smiled. He had heard that the U.S. Army used the PowerPoint program to run its command and decision briefings as well as for simple information updates. Rahman refused to put anything sensitive on any kind of digital media for exactly this reason; someone who shouldn’t be looking at it ultimately would.
But he was glad the Americans were careless in this regard.
He opened the briefing and saw the title: Thorium Locations in Afghanistan.
Rahman’s interest immediately piqued for two reasons. First, Thorium was an alternative to Uranium in the nuclear world, though considered much safer. Second, as one of the master bomb makers throughout all of Pakistan, Rahman had been discreetly searching for Thorium fields where he could get enough to create a nuclear bomb with sufficient yield.
He had been reading with interest the widely publicized reports that over one trillion dollars worth of minerals lay beneath Afghanistan’s soil. Surely, he figured, there was Thorium in there somewhere.
He flipped to the next slide and was not surprised to see a map of Kunar and Nuristan Provinces with small dots of possible Thorium fields.
Then he saw one dark red dot just across the border near the town of Naray where the mountains were steep and the river charged through tight valleys.
Above the red dot someone had typed: Known Thorium Location.
Rahman summoned his aide, Habib, and said, “I want to conduct a raid on the forward operating base near Naray. But it will be a diversionary tactic.”
Habib, wearing his white man-dress and worn tan sandals, nodded obediently awaiting the ensuing wisdom.
“I want you to find the villagers nearest this point,” he said pointing at the map, “and pay them whatever it takes to reopen the mine indicated here on the map. Tell them we are looking for Lapis.”
“What do we wa
nt with a bunch of Lapis?”
“They can find the Lapis, but you will lead the team that will find the Thorium,” Rahman said.
“Thorium? There’s a Thorium mine in Afghanistan just across the border? Is it the right kind? We’ve gone after this before.”
“I’ve got a document that says the Americans believe it is Thorium two thirty-two. If they’re right, we could quickly get enough to make high-yield explosive bombs for Bagram, Kabul, and Kandahar.”
“You know this is radioactive material, Mullah Rahman?”
Rahman laughed. “Of course I know. That’s the entire point.”
Habib nodded.
“I will take thirty fighters with me. We will need ample funds. The Americans are heavily involved in that area. So it will take some money to pay off the Nuristani Tribe.”
“That will leave me with only a small force, but we will manage. Leave Aktar in charge and come back once they are in place. Have him use the locals to dig and use the fighters to secure the location and probe at Firebase Naray to keep the Americans off balance. Take a half million dollars.”
Habib nodded again.
“I want this done quickly. I know what I’m doing.”
“No one has ever doubted that, Mullah Rahman, not even the great one.”
“We shall make him happy,” Rahman said, wistfully. “Now go and hurry back.”
CHAPTER 19
Spartanburg, SOUTH CAROLINA
Thursday, Eastern Time
An uneventful Wednesday had passed for Amanda. Her mother had banned her from seeing Dwyer, not that she wanted to after Nina’s disclosure about Dwyer’s relationship with her father.
Pleasant spring weather held a tenuous grasp on the foothills in which Spartanburg lay. It was only a matter of time before the humidity and searing summer heat arrived.
