Running the Maze

by Jack Coughlin

  One group would be on patrol, and the second in reserve, while the third rested. They would rotate every six hours. Sleep pulled at his eyes, and Hafiz went to the basin and washed his face, forearms, and hands clean of the fine grit that caked into every crease and wrinkle. A final radio check with the new squad leaders told him that all was quiet outside, so he headed for his bunk and a few hours of rest. He had learned long ago that sleep deprivation dulled a leader’s abilities. The inspectors from the New Muslim Order were due to arrive tomorrow, and he had to be alert.

  Just as Hafiz was drifting off, Mohammad al-Attas snapped awake. He was in his own bed, wearing only boxer shorts and bandages, and the lights were off. He smiled broadly into the darkness and got up, as if pulled by a friendly hand. Fools! Did they really think the Djinn would be an easy prey? He clicked a switch on the wall, and the room filled with such brilliance that he bent double to cover his eyes, moaning with the pain until he could reach out and turn it off again, plunging the room back into restful, familiar darkness.

  Why was he so sore? Oh, yes. Ghostly images slashing at him emerged as a real memory; evil creatures with sharp claws and teeth had tried to devour him until he fought them off. Then he remembered the hospital and the drugs, and coming back to life behind the masquerade of being a mere human again, the weak little engineer who was liked and respected by everyone, feared by none. The Djinn could withstand pain; it had a delicious taste that proved he was real, that he was alive. The thick dreams induced by the morphine had been a tumble of terrifying characters that loyally followed him as they scourged the earth with fire and blade. Once he had rested enough to move beyond the grasp of the heavy narcotics, the Djinn pretended to take the pills offered to him in his weak body, then threw them away.

  His own laugh comforted him, and he felt for the edges of the cloth and adhesive bandages and tore them away, baring the stitches and the wounds. Where were his clothes? The knives and his scimitar? No matter. Naked and pure, he left the room, sauntered down the empty hallway, and scaled a short ladder that led into a gun pit. The push of a button opened the wide firing slot, and he wiggled through, leaving a trail of blood.

  Once outside in the night, he could hear the songs from the stars as he breathed deeply in the rain-cleansed air. Voices called for him to hunt, and to answer them, he squatted on a rock beside the river, cupped his hands around his mouth, and loosed a single, screeching howl.

  The sound ricocheted down the still valley to where the Taliban patrol was slowly working along a muddy path. The ISI soldier who had been manning Post Three prior to becoming the shepherd for this herd of stumbling goats had just told them for the fiftieth time to shut up and keep moving when he heard the familiar cry, and he stopped everyone in their tracks. He grabbed the radio on his belt and raised the command post in the tunnel. “Get Sergeant Hafiz for me right away. Tell him the Djinn is loose outside; position unknown.”

  * * *

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL SYBELLE SUMMERS and Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins of Task Force Trident caught a ride from a special operations base in North Carolina all the way to Afghanistan aboard a Lockheed Martin C-5M cargo hauler. The Galaxy, affectionately called a FRED by its crew—the acronym for Fantastically Ridiculous Economic Disaster—was the most expensive flying machine to operate in the U.S. Air Force.

  Thousands of pounds of equipment, from cargo pallets of food and ammunition to helicopters and howitzers, were buckled down in the cavernous lower-deck cargo bay. Five dozen troops rode in the rear upper-deck troop compartment, with seats to spare. Sybelle and Double-Oh occupied positions on the forward flight deck that was reserved for dignitaries.

  The flight had been a long, droning, boring crossing of the Atlantic that required alternating flight crews, and twice they made the slow rendezvous with refueling tankers and then roared on. The dull whine of the four new General Electric engines was quieter on this updated model of the Galaxy, but it was always there, burrowing into the eardrums.

  Sybelle played her tunes, tried to nap beneath a light blanket, or immersed herself in an almost indecipherable textbook on international economic theory that was part of her program with the Lejeune Leadership Institute. As she studied some arcane charts, she wished she were down in the dirt, chasing bad guys, but to punch another notch on the career belt, the warrior had to rest while the student finished her master’s degree. The constant droning in her ears was maddening. How could people really sleep on any airplane?

  Across the aisle, Double-Oh snored. He was a Marine, by God, and slept when he was told to, anywhere, anytime. In his pocket was a little black notebook in which he had been jotting reminders about the best way to throw Kyle and the little Coastie out of an airplane over Pakistan in about twenty-four hours. Getting them to the target area would be the jobs of the pilot and copilot of the small jet, but as jumpmaster, it would be his plane, and he would personally handle everything else. Swanson and Ledford would face enough risks on the ground without having to worry about just getting out of the damned plane OK. Nothing would be left to chance.

  Upon entering Afghan airspace, the Galaxy crew activated the Pacer Snow onboard defense system of flare dispensers and the antimissile warning system. Everyone straightened up, scratching and yawning, as the giant aircraft began its descent, then settled easily onto the runway at Kandahar and was guided to its parking ramp. Unloading began immediately after the clamshell doors spread open in the back, and the nose of the plane swung up and out of the way. The two Trident Marines walked down the rear ramp into the night chill and found a Humvee waiting to take them into the heavily guarded special operations section of the base.

  Once in the building, Summers dialed a secure private number on her sat phone to give a coded confirmation of their arrival to the Lizard in Washington. Only code names were used. “Queen and Knight are in place.”

  “Roger that, Queen,” replied Commander Freedman. “Shaky and Coastie arrive your location approximate twelve hundred.”

  “Queen, out.”

  She terminated the call. No names had been used, even on one of the most secure frequencies available. “Shaky” was an old nickname of Swanson’s that referred to his unusual habit of physically quaking after a particularly hard and heated battle, his way of releasing the self-imposed total lack of emotion during the fight. “Coastie” now applied to Beth Ledford.

  “They are on their way and will be here by midday tomorrow,” Sybelle told Dawkins.

  Double-Oh grunted approval. That gave them the rest of the night and all of the next day to prepare for the drop. “Let’s get some chow, then catch a few hours of sleep. I’m bushed.”

  “How? Why? You didn’t do anything for the last twelve hours but sleep. You’re getting old, Master Gunny,” Summers said. “I was thinking more about going for a run. Stretch out the kinks.”

  “You do what you gotta do, Ms. Lieutenant Colonel, ma’am. Act like some fool hoo-ah butter-bar second lieutenant if you want to. I, however, am wise beyond your tender years and am no longer tempted by such foolish things. I’ll meet you at our little plane at oh six hundred, well fed and fresh as a daisy.” He walked away.

  * * *

  THE DJINN GROWLED CONTENTEDLY, feeling strong and happy out in the air. He heard distant shouts and saw pinpoints of light flashing in the valley coming his way. Kneeling, he slathered mud over his naked body, from the top of his head to his toes, and the camouflage allowed him to slowly disappear into the blackness. Then he ran away, into the trees.

  The valley seemed to be coming to life, with yells and brilliant cones of flashlight beams slashing the darkness, and he giggled as he circled onto the higher, rocky ground. The patrol went by below him. They were shouting and disorganized, strung out along the path and losing sight of each other, panting with effort. He descended behind them and followed unseen, picking up a short, thick tree branch for a weapon.

  The last man in the Taliban column was fatter than the others and labored on the slippery slop
e, panting and falling farther behind until at last he gave up and slowed to a walk. As the patrol moved on, he called out that he had hurt his ankle and would catch up to them later. He sat on a smooth boulder to catch his breath, laid the AK-47 to the side, and lit a cigarette, drawing the harsh smoke into his lungs and exhaling with pleasure.

  The Djinn was a few feet behind him, hidden in some brush and studying his target. The creature he was stalking was totally relaxed, immobile, and unaware. Rising in the shadows, the Djinn took two steps forward and swung the club as hard as he could. It slammed against the fighter’s ear so hard that it carried him off the big rock, and the Djinn leaped onto the dazed man and beat him to death. This is good. He stripped the victim. Warm clothing and a good weapon, and even some food in a pocket, with water in a metal container. Best of all, a dagger with a broad, curved blade in an elaborately decorated scabbard that hung from the ammunition belt around the blubbery waist alongside two hand grenades. He dressed, slipped on the sandals, and wiggled his toes. Much better. The rifle was undamaged, the knife sharp. Now I can really hunt. Where? More lights were pockmarking the valley, coming down from the crest and spreading out. He cut the throat of the corpse for good measure, then headed up toward the lights.

  The patrol leader had finally stopped and counted his men, finding only five instead of the six. “Who is missing?” he asked.

  The Taliban looked at each other, and one finally spoke. “It is Akhtar again. He can never keep up on a climb. Too old and fat.”

  “Then you go back and get him. We will wait for two minutes. When you come back, you had better have the fat fool with you.”

  While the other four Taliban fighters plopped down by the side of the path to rest, the one picked to fetch Akhtar stared hard back at the patrol leader, his insides burning with hatred at being told what to do by a worthless Pakistani. He finally obeyed, cursing beneath his breath.

  He walked back down the trail for thirty seconds before he saw the shadowy shape coming toward him, the eyes cast down to watch his footing. “By your mother, Akhtar, you are a useless dog! Come on. The rest of the patrol is waiting for us.” He turned on his heel and started back.

  The Djinn slammed the stock of the AK-47 into the man’s head and heard a satisfying crunch. He fell on top of the stunned man, with the dagger already out and plunging into the neck, and he was rewarded with a shower of thick arterial blood as he sawed off the head. He picked it up by the ears and smiled at the dead face, then tossed it away, watching it bounce down toward the river. He wiped the knife clean on his own tunic, slid it back in the scabbard, and snapped off the rifle’s safety.

  He came upon the others gathered beside the dirt pathway, and he ran at them, screaming and pulling the trigger, spraying out bursts of automatic gunfire. The surprised fighters attempted to roll away as the maniacal figure went charging through their midst without breaking stride, and they did not notice the bouncing grenade he left behind until it exploded.

  The patrol leader got off some rounds that hit nothing, then grabbed his radio, just as Sergeant Hafiz came on to demand a status report. “He just came out of nowhere and went straight through us, Sergeant. We have unknown casualties. I’m leaving these people and going after him myself. It makes no sense, but he was headed your way, right into our strength.”

  “Very well,” Hafiz responded. “We will clean up the guard detail after we catch him. Fire your weapon into the air, and drive him toward us.”

  The Djinn heard the gunshots and saw the lights and stopped to drink some water from his canteen. Then he emptied the remaining liquid over his head to clear his eyes. A sudden weariness struck him like a wave, along with dizziness and nausea, and he leaned over to vomit. He brushed his hand across his sour mouth, his thoughts tumbling about, his muscles aching from so much unaccustomed exercise and running. He needed to rest for a time. Not long. Then he would resume. There was excellent hunting tonight. He put down the rifle, the ammunition packets, and the remaining grenade and staggered away, singing a little song from childhood.

  The faint voice of his mother spoke in his head, telling him that safety was not far away: a door into the ground, his entrance to the underworld. It took five struggling minutes for him to reach it, and fatigue had an iron grasp on his legs as he dragged along. He pulled the hidden door open, then closed it carefully behind him.

  A cavern gaped before him, and a map appeared in his mind in flashes of memory. Safety lay down one corridor, up one level, and around two corners. The passages were empty as he plodded through, leaving a track of muddy footsteps and, where he brushed against the walls, dark bloodstains. A doorway that he recognized appeared, and he pushed it open, almost ready to fall. The bed was so far away, across miles of floor, but was so welcoming that he managed to stagger to it; then he lay down and closed his eyes, exhaled twice, and was asleep.

  15

  KYLE AND SIR JEFF stayed up most of the night as the Vagabond worked its way through the sea. Neither was happy, because the target in Pakistan presented more questions than answers. The bridge stood there like a monolith, silent and brooding, and the mission to check it out was unlikely to resolve all of the riddles.

  “There has to be something else in play, Kyle,” Jeff said. “There obviously is some connection between the structure and the multiple attempts on the lives of you and Beth. I like her, by the way. Do you?”

  “I’m not taking her out on a date, Jeff. In answer to your point—the damned bridge—from what I can tell, it is just another pile of rocks and steel. We suspect there is a network of tunnels under it, but so what? Could be just for supplies and stuff.” Kyle had his shoes off, and his feet were propped on a low table.

  Jeff shook his head. “That cannot possibly be the reason. If so, the medical team would just have been detained, maybe roughed up a bit, and turned over to the authorities. Instead, they were butchered. There remains some unknown linkage between all of that unpleasantness and a dangerous leak somewhere in Washington, someone who can summon professional killers.”

  Kyle puffed out his cheeks, thinking. “Still have to go look at the place, so Beth can see whatever it was her brother saw.”

  “So why don’t you ask her for a date? The recon mission will be over in two days. You can celebrate with a nice private dinner somewhere.”

  “Like the Kandahar mess hall?” Swanson laughed. “No, Jeff. I tell you, though, that I have been impressed with her ability. She’s got a future in this game. Just needs some more training. Any relationship between us is going to stay professional.”

  “Quite right. Your track record with women is abysmal. They fall into your hands, and you let them slip through your fingers like gold dust.”

  “Bad things seem to happen to women I like,” he said. “Better to keep them at arm’s length.”

  Jeff flipped the cover of his laptop computer and logged in to check his private mail. Pat and Jeff had known all of the serious women in Kyle’s life, and some sad times had indeed shadowed them, including some who had been killed or maimed by terrorists. What woman in her right mind would want to enter such a zone of danger? This little one, though, Beth, might prove to be the exception: She seemed to thrive on danger. “Confirmation here on the plane that will fly you from the Azores straight to Kandahar. All squared away.”

  “Amazing what money and contacts can do, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.” Jeff gave a low laugh. “That combination pretty much works every time.”

  “Have you come across anything really unusual about the bridge, Jeff? Your people find anything?”

  Jeff opened a file. “Not really. The engineering is quite sophisticated, and it is a sturdy bloody thing. That was shown when the floods hit. Although the power of that much water was an immense force, the bridge was still standing after the waters went down. Needed a bit of repair on the exterior, but the anchoring held, and the span itself survived untouched. Some fine work, that.”

  Kyle drank some juic
e while he thought about it. Dams burst, thousands of people were dislocated, entire villages were swallowed, and this structure had held its own. Maybe they were using it to try out better building techniques so that thousands of Pakistanis would not die every time there was some natural disaster. “Who built it?”

  “There we have a bit of a problem. This has been a hugely expensive and technical operation, millions of dollars, with an international consortium involved. With front companies and subcontractors and the foreign banks, it has created a financial thicket that is hard to penetrate. Haven’t figured out yet where it started, or where it leads.”

  “Well, it must go somewhere. Have them stay on the money. I have a feeling that it may be important.” Kyle looked at the clock on the bulkhead of polished wood. Time to leave. The helicopter on the fantail was warming up, and Coastie was out there with the deck crew, talking about helicopter things. “We’ll take the first step and see what happens.”

  As Sir Jeff started to get up, a leg muscle tightened in spasm and a flash of pain was painted on his face. He sat back down. “Go on, Kyle. I’ll see you when you get back. Take care of that girl.”

  * * *

  WHERE ARE THEY? UNDERSECRETARY Curtis rolled the thick glass in his hand, and good Scotch whisky swirled with the ice cubes. Beth Ledford and her Marine sidekick had disappeared so thoroughly that nothing was showing up in the databases. The need to find and dispose of both of them had increased, because they were not giving up. Maybe they were just hunkered down in some safe house on the outskirts of Billings or Tampa, waiting for the storm to clear. Curtis could not afford such a wait. He drank deeply, walked to the standing bar, refilled his glass, and resumed pacing the living room, half-watching a television documentary about the space vessel America, the first ship of a series that would eventually land astronauts on Mars. He paid little attention, for he already knew the rocket would never reach orbit; it would travel more than a hundred thousand feet straight up, then boom, and another space catastrophe would invade the placid worlds of television watchers.