Dead East

by Steve Winshel

  The men in the taxi did not exchange words; there was no confusion about next steps. Saleem jammed his foot on the gas and both Brin and Jarvis pulled out their guns. Jarvis had one in each hand. They turned, knees on the back seat, and fired out the space where the window had been. Jarvis got off half a dozen shots from both guns, taking out a headlight and cracking the truck’s windshield but mainly trying to keep the pursuers from being able to take close aim. Brin, even in the heat of a deadly chase, remained the marksman. He lined up his shot, accounting for the swaying of both vehicles and jarring up and down from the poorly paved road. He pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. The man with the automatic rifle in the bed of the pick-up didn’t feel the second shot shatter his jaw because the first had entered his skull just about in the middle of his forehead and destroyed enough brain tissue that pain had no time to register. He did a cartoonish back flip off the truck and the shooting stopped instantly.

  “Shit. Remind me never to piss you off.”

  Brin smiled at the compliment but did not take his eyes off the truck. The primary threat neutralized, he took a deep breath and exhaled. He pulled the trigger three times in succession. The first finished the job on the truck’s windshield Jarvis had started. The second hit the driver in the shoulder. Before he could react to the pain and swerve, the third bullet crashed through his chest breaking two ribs and tearing a lung, lodging next to his spinal cord. He did not die instantly. The truck cut right as his arm jerked back from the pain. The driver fell forward and to his left, turning the wheel that direction and sending the truck to the other side of the street. The wheels caught a crack in the road and the truck, now sideways, went airborne and began to flip. At sixty miles an hour there was enough force to complete two and a half turns. It hit the ground upside down and slid another twenty feet. Fuel being the only thing in abundance in Afghanistan other than Taliban, the tank was full and ready to create an impressive explosion. It did. Brin and Jarvis ducked instinctively in anticipation of shrapnel outracing the taxi despite the increasing distance they were putting between themselves and the mess. A few shards of glass and bits of unidentifiable metal, perhaps mixed with some remains of either the driver or his not yet dead passenger embedded themselves into the cab’s trunk and a few rained down on the roof.

  Saleem took a quick glance in the mirror and saw the destruction but did not slow down. He was at fifty miles per hour and heading toward seventy. Brin and Jarvis turned back around and sat facing forward. Both started to reload their weapons.

  “Nice clustering.”

  “I was off with the second shot on the driver. I’m still a little woozy from the coma.” Brin did not speak with irony, just explaining his subpar performance.

  Jarvis leaned forward and put a hand on Saleem’s shoulder. “Very good timing. There’s a race in the States called the Daytona 500. I’m going to enter you in it. But slow down now. We don’t want any more attention then we’ve already earned.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Jarvis caught Saleem’s eye in the mirror. “We need to find a place for you, at least until they sort out whether the town decides Mudar’s a martyr or a nut.” It seemed pretty obvious to Jarvis but he wasn’t an expert on geopolitical clanship and Narcissism.

  Saleem managed a weak grin. “I’m not the one shooting the town up and killing the spiritual leader of the local Taliban.” His irony slightly lessened the heaviness associated with racing away from the scene of multiple killings, hundreds of rounds fired, and at least one RPG. “I’ve got a cousin north of the city. We’ll be okay for a month or two.” His expression, which Jarvis could hear more than see, went grim. “How are you two going to get out of Afghanistan? Or is there more to do here?” This time when he looked in the mirror he was checking out the still burning truck even as it receded into the distance.

  “I could stick around and do some more stuff.” Brin’s idea of ‘stuff’ differed from how Jarvis wanted to spend his time. Brin was good at killing and mildly indifferent to the circumstances. Jarvis was good and less indifferent.

  “You could always re-up for a tour.”

  That drew a rare laugh from Brin. He could get work as a contractor but the military wasn’t allowed to touch him. As much as they valued his talent, there had been too many off-the-record civilian missions in the past decade where he’d pissed off people, some with pull in offices at the Defense Department.

  “The Colonel arranged extraction in case things heated up. And if I managed to leave not in a body bag.” He looked over at Brin. “I’m sure there’ll be a second seat, but I don’t suppose he was expecting you’d be here.”

  They drove in relative silence a few miles, the wind whistling through a couple dozen bullet holes and the glassless back window. A few cars passed going in the other direction. A horn unexpectedly blared behind them. Fifty feet back and coming up fast was a large, ancient Mercedes sedan. Saleem pressed the gas pedal. Jarvis and Brin turned and readied their guns. The car must have been going more than 100 mph, closing the distance in seconds.

  “Take it easy!” Jarvis ordered, “don’t speed up.”

  Saleem looked wildly in the mirror at his friend but obeyed. The Mercedes was on them and Saleem braced for ramming or gunfire. Instead the driver of the car flashed its lights and moved into the lane for oncoming traffic. It passed by without any of the four occupants looking over. They were engaged in animated conversation and swerved back in front of the taxi three or four seconds before instigating a head-on collision with a large, open truck carrying fruit coming from the other direction.

  “Women drivers.” Brin’s deadpan cracked up Jarvis and broke through Saleem’s tension. No woman had driven in Afghanistan since the first Model T rolled off the production line, except for US military personnel. A beating or worse would be the penalty.

  They moved along at an unremarkable speed for another two miles, the men in the back seat keeping an eye out for anyone looking like they were pursuing and not just driving like crazy people. Both also looked out to the desert. The Taliban had almost as much equipment as the Afghan army and a Humvee coming from the desert could be a patrol summoned by Mudar’s men. Saleem saw trouble first.

  “Up ahead, about a mile.” On clear days, with no dust storms or smoke from explosions, visibility was almost endless.

  Brin and Jarvis peered through the cracked windshield. They could make out three military vehicles, but not their markings. Two blocked the road, one idled on the side facing them. Cars coming in their direction did not stop, only slowing down to go around the vehicles. But cars going out of the town were being stopped and men with rifles were peering into windows. Saleem slowed down.

  “Keep moving, don’t slow!” Jarvis checked his ammunition.

  Brin looked to either side but already knew the answer. There were no side roads, and the taxi wouldn’t make it more than a half mile on the sand. He didn’t need to count how many bullets he had left.

  “We run it.” Jarvis knew the likely outcome, but it was the lowest risk option. Behind them they were guaranteed to be wildly outnumbered. “Get ready.”

  Brin interrupted the preparation. “Seven o’clock.”

  Jarvis looked to his left and back a little. A cloud of dust fifty yards away in the desert was getting closer. “We’re fucked. Speed up.”

  Saleem hit the gas. There were two civilian cars wating to get through the checkpoint and the guards were waving them along laconically after a quick glance. Brin and Jarvis put bullets in the chambers of their handguns and the rifle.

  “Head to the right, then veer left when we’re twenty feet away – play chicken with the oncoming cars when you go around the Humvee. Don’t give ground…” Jarvis’ expectations of surviving dropped.

  The lead guard at the roadblock looked up as he heard the taxi’s engine rev. Jarvis could see they were Afghan regulars. That was little comfort. Some were allies, trained by the US and committed to freeing their country. Others secret
ly harbored hatred for the invaders and stayed in the military instead of becoming Taliban marauders because it gave them free reign to commit mayhem. Like now.

  “I’ll take out three – front guy, driver on the far left, and the one taking a piss on the side of the road.” Brin would have said five if they weren’t only twenty seconds from contact. Even he had limits.

  The vehicle coming in from the desert was on a collision course with the taxi and its speed was impressive. Fifteen seconds to contact and Brin put his rifle out the passenger side window. The guards at the roadblock were signaling one another wildly, reaching for their guns and trying to decide whether to stand firm or run from the crazy driver who looked like he was going to ram them. Two elected to head to their vehicles for cover. The Humvee coming from the desert was close now but the dust kept Jarvis from being able to make out the driver or other occupants. Under other circumstances he’d have Saleem hit the brakes hard and let the Humvee pass, but that would make them sitting ducks for the other mercenaries.

  “Back off the speed for a couple seconds, then gun it!” He hoped this would be enough to throw off the other driver’s timing.

  Saleem did the maneuver and Brin lined up his first shot. The taxi’s acceleration wasn’t enough, the engine straining and unable to get up the verve to jump forward. The Humvee from their left was just about on them. It hit the semi-paved road and impact was less than a second away. Jarvis turned his gun toward the oncoming car and aimed around Brin to try to take a shot and throw off the driver. His finger began to tighten on the trigger and the Humvee neatly swerved to its left, the back wheels sliding a few feet but righting immediately and suddenly it was driving alongside the taxi at the same speed, in the other lane. It left the dust behind and Jarvis could see a driver and one passenger. He instinctively aimed at the driver while his mind registered the sight.

  “Could you pull over, Captain Jarvis!” the corporal in the passenger seat shouted over the two roaring engines.

  Jarvis eased his finger off the trigger. If it was a Taliban trick then they’d gotten very good at impersonating a Nebraska accent.

  Brin had already assessed the situation but Saleem needed some direction. “Ease up, Saleem. It’s my escort.” He had to lean forward and shout in his ear, not just because of the noise but because the driver’s attention was riveted. He had emotionally braced for what was probably impending death. It wasn’t as common an experience for him as for Jarvis and Brin. Jarvis’ voice broke through and Saleem hit the brakes. A little too hard and the taxi swerved precariously almost sideswiping the Humvee but the Army driver was good and avoided a collision. The taxi burned some rubber but righted and came to a halt before smashing into the second car in line at the blockade. The Army vehicle pulled alongside. The two vehicles blocking the road were regular Afghan military. Not a huge vote of confidence, but in this case they appeared to be protecting against violence, not instigating it.

  “Chopper waiting for you, sir. I was only expecting one passenger.” The corporal stood outside the taxi, weapon at rest but vigilant to anyone approaching. “We can take all three, sir.”

  Jarvis looked at Brin. “The Colonel’s got eyes everywhere.”

  “Sir, there’s a report of two armored vehicles and a pickup truck with hostiles heading this way.”

  Jarvis and Brin got out on either side of the taxi. No time for long goodbyes. “Stay away at least a month. They don’t know who you are, but they’ll be looking for the car.” Jarvis looked over the vehicle. “Hope you’ve got a good body man.”

  Saleem was still shaken but sufficiently calm to smile. “It will be good as new next time you visit.” Visit.

  Jarvis reached through the window and shook his hand a long moment. “Thank you.” He let go and trotted to the Humvee. Brin was already in the back, scanning the horizon in all directions. He looked hungry for something else to shoot. The corporal gave a wave to the Afghan guards who had emerged cautiously from their vehicles, glad the crazy Americans weren’t going to run them over. Jarvis joined Brin in the back and they split the perimeter, each taking 180 degrees. The driver pulled away quickly, heading out to the desert and toward a spot just over the horizon where a transport helo awaited them. No one followed, no bullets plinked the armor. Five minutes and they were in the 12-man helicopter and kicking up an even bigger dust cloud. The airport was a fifteen minute flight. Jarvis hadn’t checked the outbound schedule for commercial flights. There’d be a charter heading out at some point in the next twelve hours and the international airport would be safe for that long – the Taliban wouldn’t launch an assault just for him and break the day-to-day low level insurgency with an open attack. But the helicopter veered north instead of vectoring to the Kandahar airport. Brin gave him a thumbs-up and a smile. Over the noise he shouted:

  “VIPs, huh?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The US military base for the southern region came into view a couple minutes later. The Colonel had gone above and beyond. Jarvis figured he must know more about what was going on than Jarvis realized. They landed near three other helicopters, but much larger and meaner – bristling with weapons. The corporal who’d escorted them to the transport earlier had put them in the company of a sergeant who looked at them quizzically but respectfully when he’d led them into the helicopter. Now he jumped out and signaled toward a permanent looking tent.

  “Sirs, you can clean up in there. Transport plane heads to Frankfurt at 1600 hours. Commercial flight to Los Angeles after a couple hour layover.”

  Jarvis nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll mention your hospitality.” Nothing rewarded a career military man like recognition with a higher up who could support early promotion.

  They headed to the tent and the noise from the enormous rotor lessened. Brin looked like he’d just arrived home after a long stay away. Jarvis glanced over and could only think, “pig in shit.”

  They opened the metal door to the tent, which was more portable barracks than camping accoutrement. A couple thousand square feet, separated into rooms by wood paneling, and a shower and full bathroom at the far end. It was empty and the rations on the table up against the wall were a couple notches better than MREs. Brin looked slightly disappointed – probably had in mind a good tube of steak mush and freeze-dried mac and cheese. The fresh sandwiches were too civilized.

  He rested the rifle that was still in his left hand on the ground and cocked his head at Jarvis. “What next, Kimosabe?”

  Jarvis laughed abruptly. “Kimosabe? You watching TVLand in your hut in the woods?” He went over to grab a sandwich; he hadn’t eaten in sixteen hours, a rookie mistake. No way to know when the next meal was coming or when he’d need a burst of energy. “Next we’ve got some hunting to do.” He took a bottle of water and sat in a folding chair at a small table in the center of the room.

  Brin took water but eschewed the sandwiches and sat down across from Jarvis. “Keep going.”

  Jarvis thoughtfully chewed a reasonably good egg salad on rye. He pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it in front of Brin. It had names, addresses, and some numbers on it.

  “Mudar was running an operation to poison people in the States. Sick fucker blew up the school and blamed it on us so he could foment fury and vengeance in the kids who lived and the parents of the ones killed.”

  Brin didn’t look at the paper. “Foment?”

  Jarvis choked on a bite of sandwich and held back another laugh. “I found a couple of ‘em, and most of the rest probably went underground. FBI has the list – well, they have part of the list.” Now Brin looked down at the sheet.

  “Why’d you hold back on these?”

  Jarvis fingered the corner of the paper. “The sleepers out in the boonies were probably their second-raters. They’ll stay hidden and the Feds will track them down. Timmons has them. But the A-list crazies are going to be in the big city where they can do more damage. They won’t stay quiet for long. We’re gonna find th
em. You in?”

  “Try and stop me. Kimosabe.”

  “Careful or I’ll start calling you Tonto. Or worse – Robin.”

  That got a solid laugh out of Brin. They looked at the list and began to map out a strategy: Chicago, New York, San Francisco. Jarvis had already terminated the threats in LA. New York was down one after his visit to Mohan. That left one more in NY and one each in Boston and San Francisco. The Terrorist A-Team. He and Brin were now a kill squad of two. Word would get out about Mudar being dead and the cells would either disappear forever or accelerate their pace. If they were still awaiting instructions, they’d be confused and the FBI would have time to track them down. But if timetables had already been established, they’d eventually bull forward. They were kids, turned by hatred and set on a path in a country they were told had ruined their lives. But as kids they were still impressionable – and unpredictable. He and Brin would need to focus on the major cities.

  Jarvis pulled out his satellite mobile. Among the various emails was one from Lufthansa. It was an electronic boarding pass for FRA to JFK. “Looks like we really are VIPs. Business class across the Atlantic. I’ve got yours here – guess the Colonel didn’t have your email address.” Brin probably had a few dozen addresses, none traceable to him.