Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  “Two up.”

  “Three up.”

  “Roger, one up. No contact.”

  Rampert and Eversoll were rear security, positioned immediately to the front of the door, kneeling and covering against any intrusion from that direction.

  Into the next room they went, first Matt, followed by Van Dreeves and Hobart. Popping up from a floor mat were two individuals. Matt shone the flashlight on them moving it quickly between their frightened faces. Both were Afghans and neither were armed. Van Dreeves moved left, and Hobart moved to the right. There was an adjoining room, and Hobart, on the right, called out, “Room!”

  Matt and Van Dreeves cleared to the left to ensure there were no openings or doors while Hobart kept his flashlight on the dark opening in front of him. As Matt turned, he heard Hobart say loudly, not really a scream, just an authoritative “Halt!” While it was doubtful that the elderly man in a white bed dress understood the command, he no doubt comprehended the muzzle of the weapon staring him in the face.

  Confused, Matt moved quickly to Hobart’s side and said in Pashto, the man’s native tongue, “Do you have a captive here? An American?” The man had a long, graying beard and thin strands of hair on his head. Matt could visualize him in his traditional headdress looking much more authoritative.

  Quickly the man nodded, as if to say yes. He then began waving his arms for them to follow. Cautiously the three men trailed behind the man in the white robe and began to gather hope, the worst of all emotions.

  Instantly, as they entered the room, Matt knew that something was wrong. He could see the spot where his brother should have been. A mat and blanket were lying on the floor as if they’d been recently used. Two water bottles were tipped over, empty, against the mud wall.

  The man was screaming now, “Taliban! Taliban!”

  Matt placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, calming him. Again, in his native language, Matt said, “Time?”

  The elder muttered something he did not understand, but the body language indicated that he had just seen him only minutes ago. He was pointing at himself and then back at the mat. He walked over and picked up a water bottle and then pointed at himself again, followed by emphatically demonstrating how he had just provided a bottle of water to his guest.

  Matt quickly walked through the other rooms until he found himself back with the others. Van Dreeves was standing next to a window about seven feet above the dirt floor.

  “Look at this shit,” Van Dreeves said, running his hand along the wall. “He went out here. Climbed out, or someone dragged him out.”

  “Damnit!” Matt and the others raced through the front door and around the back toward the fig orchard.

  “Footprints, sort of,” Hobart barked, shining his flashlight on the ground. “You can see one leg is dragging a little bit.”

  Matt knelt onto the moon dust to examine the tracks identified by Hobart. He ran a gloved hand across the imprint, as if to touch his brother’s soul. He looked over his shoulder at the nervous old man whose home they had just raided in search of Zach.

  “Where was he hurt?” Matt asked in Pashto. The man immediately began touching his left leg.

  By now Sergeant Eversoll was kneeling next to Matt.

  “He can’t be far, sir.”

  “Far enough.”

  “What don’t you see?” the sergeant asked.

  “Other footprints.”

  “That’s right. He thought he was escaping. That’s our Code of Conduct. Always try to escape.”

  Matt hung his head for just a moment. So close, yet Zach was nowhere to be found. He was like a zephyr.

  “The river. He probably moved toward the river knowing it would flow south. Hell, he probably thinks he’s in Pakistan.” Sergeant Eversoll was visualizing what he would have done.

  The team covered the ground to the river in short order, each searching in an opposite direction. Matt looked to the south, his eyes searching desperately for his brother.

  His gaze was met only by the discomfiting beauty of the mountain range angling sharply into the narrow valley through which the river and its rapids ran. He was reminded for a brief moment of his time with Zach in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Often, they would raft or canoe along the rocky banks of the South River.

  “Call the pilots and have them fly the river from south to north as they come in to get us. He’ll be on the river.”

  Matt felt a trickle of confidence fight his despair. They were close and would soon locate Zach.

  The first shot struck Sergeant Eversoll in the chest, knocking him backward into the rock jetties that bordered the rushing water.

  Suddenly a fusillade of rocket-propelled grenades and Russian-made PKM machine-gun fire enveloped them from the far bank.

  Matt dove for cover near Eversoll and returned fire. Van Dreeves opened his first-aid kit and ripped away Eversoll’s body armor and outer tactical gear.

  “Hang on, buddy, we’re right on top of you.”

  As Matt was returning fire, the thought occurred to him that the closer you approached your goal, the tougher your path generally became. The end of a race, preparation for a final exam, or closing in on the enemy leader all shared the same ingredient. The challenge increased as one neared the objective. He could not remember how many Stratego games, the object of which was to capture your opponent’s flag, he and Zach had played as kids. But he had learned an axiom in life after being defeated by Zach’s bombs and swift game-board tactics: the enemy always gets a vote and usually has a different idea than you.

  Eversoll’s breathing labored as Van Dreeves worked feverishly to find the wound. Rampert called on the radio to the helicopters. Matt and Hobart returned fire with well-aimed precision.

  ***

  Colonel Zach Garrett crawled to the shore, pulling the boat with one hand behind him. He settled onto a sandy outcropping as he noticed a few dim city lights in the distance. Having operated in Afghanistan for several months, he thought he recognized the terrain and was visualizing where he might be located on a map. Generally an optimist, Zach resisted believing what his instincts, even memory, were telling him.

  The river broadened and slowed considerably. Bernouli’s equation was at work again, where the same volume of water through a less constrained space had reduced velocity.

  As he struggled to secure the craft between two rocks, he noticed the pain in his leg had gone mostly numb. About two miles downstream from where he had put in, machine-gun fire had echoed along the valley floor, tracers poking through his craft, leaving small smoking holes. Only now did he realize that he had been struck at least once. He limped weakly as he attempted to move to cover.

  Grabbing some washed-up poplar tree limbs and straw, he shrouded the boat as best he could. He needed time to think before venturing into the city, where assuredly he would be detected. For the most part, if it was Jalalabad, he should be safe, but there was no guarantee. More often than not, it was Al Qaeda and the Taliban who were prowling the streets late at night, intimidating citizens and flaunting the chronic lack of government authority.

  Shivering on the bank of the river, he watched an MH-47 cargo helicopter and AH-64 Apache gunship suddenly appear in the mouth of the valley to his south. He tried to stand, leaning against two rocks in the sandy bank. He stared into the black night at the familiar sounds of the welcome aircraft as they raced overhead at what he believed were speeds in excess of one hundred and fifty miles an hour. The helicopters were visible only briefly as they flew low and fast along the river, weaving with each curve of the valley.

  Always amazed at the skill with which these pilots flew, he was suddenly mad at himself for pausing in his solitary journey. While the aircraft were most likely responding to a fight somewhere, he believed that if he had been in the middle of the water, they would have at least reported that fact to the headquarters as a matter of routine.

  More importantly, the presence of U.S. aircraft flying freely in the area indicated to hi
m that he was in Afghanistan, not Pakistan, and that his instincts were proving correct. He was essentially paralleling the Pakistan border about a mile or two to his east. Zach looked at the snowcapped mountain ridge etching its way along the black night as if to illuminate with a highlighter the Pakistan border.

  The two helicopters were only visible to him for a couple of seconds and then had vanished. Where they were headed he could not determine; however, he believed that they would have to follow the same route on their egress. This would afford him the opportunity to signal, somehow, the crews in the aircraft. He had no lighter or matches to ignite a fire, nor did he have any means of signaling. The enemy, over the last week of his capture and subsequent escape, had stripped him of every usable means of signal, including the infrared patches that were attached to his uniform.

  Faint with cold and fatigue, he slid down against the rocks, watching the Kunar wander past him toward Jalalabad. His sense of Amanda’s need was the most palpable he had ever felt. How, from a world away, he wondered, could he see the image of his daughter so clearly and feel her calling, feel her need for protection. Something horribly wrong was occurring not only to her, but within her.

  “Come on, Amanda, talk to me,” he whispered to the flowing current, which soaked in his words and carried them downstream.

  He closed his eyes, feeling light-headed, the pain returning to his leg, but not to the exclusion of the rest of his body. He was reeling now, swooning as if to sleep. He consciously knew that he was suffering from the pain, which was causing his body to shut down.

  He dreamt, or was offered a vision, he wasn’t sure which. Perhaps it was their two parallel universes colliding. Amanda was sitting at her home, crying into her hands, silken strands of light-brown hair cascading over her slender fingers, which were perched against her forehead as if in an awkward salute. A bluish light bathed her face. Through her eyes, he could see the documents scrolling along the computer monitor. Each was so intently focused on the area it was possible for both to believe that they were in a sense channeling with their target.

  Zach saw her. First she was flipping through official-looking documents. Next she was reading letters he had written to Melanie asking if Amanda could stay with him long enough to reestablish their relationship. She would read, weep, and scroll. He saw her as clearly as if he were in her room. Then, again through her eyes, he saw his house in North Carolina, in a heap of black ashes looking like ruins amongst the tall, charred pines, and Riley’s battered image floated into his mind as if she were lying in a hospital bed. He was twinning now with Amanda, in synch, siphoning her thoughts, or more appropriately, splicing into them, as if reading over her shoulder. He visualized placing an arm around her, telling her it was going to be okay, that she just needed to be strong.

  Emotions raged inside her like small vessels in a violent storm off the coast of Cape Hatteras, tides clashing, winds whipping, and ships sinking. Springing from the well of her energy, he saw something emerge for which he was unprepared, but which he should have expected. He saw Amanda’s countenance shift from peaceful and loving to calculating and . . . vengeful? She was, after all, her mother’s daughter. What would she do with the newfound potency, he wondered? Like a sorcerer’s apprentice, the powers could be wildly devastating.

  Suddenly, he felt hands upon him, lifting him. He heard voices, familiar ones. “Yes, that’s him. Be careful. Okay, easy now, he’s bleeding.”

  He was surprised that he hadn’t heard the helicopters, but was glad to be in the arms of a friend.

  He felt a blanket pass over his face as he was loaded onto the aircraft. He tried to remove the cloth they had pulled over his head, but his arms wouldn’t move. He spoke, but there was no sound.

  And suddenly it was clear to Zach why he had pulled over the boat, and why he had been able to so easily enter Amanda’s universe, watching her. It would be okay, he thought to himself, if it stays this way. Just give me unfettered access to Amanda, Lord, to guide her, be her angel. That’s my only request.

  Zach figured it might be an acceptable one, for he wasn’t asking for a last cigarette or a steak and shrimp dinner. He just wanted to take up spiritual residence closest to Amanda.

  He could think of no greater glory for a dead father to do for his abused daughter. With that, he thought of a saying: Perfect speed is being there.

  So get me there, perfectly.

  CHAPTER 61

  Spartanburg, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Wednesday Evening

  Amanda closed the video file and did the only thing she knew to do, which was send it as an attachment to her e-mail address. Of course, the file being so big, the hourglass continued to pour out sand as if she were playing Scrabble and had two minutes to come up with a word.

  Finally, the Sending Message prompt disappeared and she quickly repeated the signature deleting process. Confident the computer was relatively in the same configuration as she’d found it, she bolted out the door. Instead of going down the steps, she hooked a left into the guest bedroom, dodged the bed and bureau and found the window, which was sealed shut.

  She flipped the brass latch at the top, lifted the inside frame, and popped the screen off the bottom hinge. She looked below and saw that she could make the screened porch roof if she was good.

  She slithered through the bottom of the screen and turned to pull the window down. She would not be able to lock the brass latch, but figured that was a chance she would have to take.

  Standing on Dagus’s sloped roof, she eyed the more gently sloping surface of the screened porch ten feet away. In her hand she held the pages that she had printed from his computer and the notes she’d scribbled as she undid his anagram. She looked over her shoulder and noticed a dim light flick on through the window.

  Without hesitation she jumped, landed with a thud, and rolled to the edge of the screened-porch roof. She was staring down directly onto the rock where she had retrieved his key. Knowing that he would have heard the noise, she scrambled to her feet and leapt the remaining ten feet into the grass, rolling into the side of the fence. She stood and ran to the gate. She unlatched it, bolted through, and darted across the parking lot to her car.

  She pulled her keys from her pants pocket, fumbled with the fob, and then opened the driver’s door. She didn’t notice the commotion behind her as she backed out and sped away until, in her rearview mirror, she saw someone moving in the backyard.

  When she got what she thought was a safe distance away, she checked her messages, only to have it vibrate immediately with a number she didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Amanda, this is your Uncle Matt. I need you to come to Arlington National Cemetery Friday.”

  The rest of her trip home was simply a blur.

  ***

  Dagus had come into the house through the garage door. “Amanda,” he’d called out in a pleasant voice, nerves and anticipation building inside. How much easier could it get? He’d wondered. She was feeling alone and afraid, and she’d come to him looking for comfort.

  “Amanda? Where are you?” He made a motion to look in the kitchen when he heard a sound on the roof. Initially confused, he jogged upstairs to find the unsecured window latch. He slammed the window shut and ran downstairs and out into the backyard in time to see Amanda’s Mercedes speed out of the parking lot. He immediately went back inside and made a phone call.

  “I need you.”

  “I—I can’t. I have to—”

  “Now! I need you here, now!”

  An hour later, he looked at Brianna Simpson standing in his foyer. Her thin blonde hair was falling softly on her shoulders. Her wide blue eyes showed confusion, perhaps fear.

  “This is the last time?” she asked.

  “I promise,” he replied, as he had so many times before. Dagus rubbed his chin, thinking.

  “I don’t know, Len. . . .”

  He frowned at Brianna and said, “I really do care about you. I can’t help myself.” />
  Brianna made as if to continue resisting.

  Then she relented, giving in to his physical presence and the deal she had struck.

  CHAPTER 62

  C-17 Transport from Bagram, Afghanistan

  Thursday

  Matt Garrett, his mission completed, sat in the back of the C-17 Globe-master aircraft. He was tired, having been without sleep for what seemed like weeks. He drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to believe what had transpired and what had to come next.

  So close, yet so far. The thoughts shot across his mind’s eye like burning arrows slung from an archer’s bow, the words leaving a smoking trail. The attack across the Afghanistan border. Watching Zach on the Predator feed run from the enemy. The attack into Kunar Province. And then the linkup with the guide where they had come so close.

  He stared at the flag-draped coffin shackled to the center of the large cargo bay. No one should die alone, he thought to himself. Yet, the coffin was a solitaire, and perhaps rightfully so. Singularity sometimes accords the appropriate attention.

  As the C-17 glided through the night sky over some part of the world in between Afghanistan and the United States, Matt couldn’t help but wonder about the price of it all. The cost, in human terms, of this war. These wars. Could you separate them, Iraq and Afghanistan, he wondered?

  His singular actions two years before had helped save the nation and his brother, and now he felt powerless and impotent. He disagreed with so much, so many, yet continued to soldier on in an effort to make a difference from within, as so many heroes do. He had tried talking to the director about his concerns, but his insights had fallen on deaf ears. Presently, his just rage was muted against the Globemaster’s droning engines.