Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

  “A possibility.”

  “Right. And there’s something else. They want to meet."

  "Where, in Chitral?"

  "Nope, they've chosen a place just outside Torkham on the Pakistani side of the border. They want to negotiate for the release of the women, discuss the ransom."

  "Which the U.S. government won’t pay. You know that, and I know that."

  "You’re probably right. The thing is, Stoner, I want you to go to that meeting and talk to them. Find out what's on offer, and see if you can get any clues as to where they're holding the women. By the way, the Agency has given me the all-clear to offer you help if you run into trouble.”

  “That’s good of them. Why don’t they take on the entire operation and save me the trouble?”

  “Uh, there’s a snag.”

  “I thought there might be.”

  “They’re only prepared to use Agency resources on this side of the border. CIA doesn’t want our people operating inside Pakistan. If you run into anything you can't handle inside Afghanistan, give me a call. I can get men to you fast. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

  “Great. You’re offering us help inside Afghanistan, when the operation is inside Pakistan.”

  He gave him a thin smile. “Right.”

  “Tell your people that’s mighty generous of them.”

  “I will. They’re just a tad cautious, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure. Cautious.”

  Ivan nodded at the door, and they walked outside. He spoke in a soft murmur. Just like a spook. "There’s something else. It’s about Seth Adams. I don't trust him."

  "I thought he’d do anything to get his wife back?”

  “He’s desperate to put up the appearance of wanting to get his wife back, but when he goes home to Kabul, he’s screwing his secretary inside the Embassy. In my opinion, he wouldn't be unhappy if his wife never came back. If she died, he'd get the sympathy ticket, which would help his political ambitions. He’d also get the secretary, who I promise you is young and real hot."

  "How do you know all this, Ivan? You have the Embassy bugged?"

  He winced. "I’d never do a thing like that. I get it from the secretary.”

  “The secretary?”

  “Sure. I've been screwing her as well."

  They’d scheduled the meeting in Torkham for the following morning. Stoner and Bloom spent the rest of the day going over preparations to handle whatever they come up against. In the afternoon, they took Faria back to the farm, where she said she'd be safe. A number of local farmers had banded together to form an armed militia, in case the area came under threat from militants. Although it had been quiet for some time, and Greg said he felt comfortable about leaving his wife on the farm.

  "Like I said, we’ll take Archer along. The farmers around here are terrified of him. They won't be quick to come running if there’s trouble."

  In the early evening, they drove back to Jalalabad in Greg's jalopy, the dark green GAZ 69 that Stoner hated. But Greg insisted on taking it for the journey into Pakistan. He reminded him how the battered old vehicle would be anonymous. Stoner's gleaming black and chrome Jeep Wrangler would stand out like it had a target painted on the side.

  Greg also brought along his rifle, and it was no ordinary rifle. He'd honed his shooting skills until he came within a hair's breadth of the accuracy of a military sniper. In his hands, the Russian Dragunov sniper rifle he owned had proved to be an accurate and deadly weapon. Firing a 7.62mm military grade round from a detachable ten-round box magazine, the rifle mounted a precision optical PSO-1 telescopic sight. Stoner had been forced to admit, as good a shot as he was after his military training; Greg was better. And unlike the piece of shit SUV he drove, the Dragunov was a fine piece of hardware.

  He also brought boxes of ammunition for the Stechkin and spare magazines for the Dragunov. Stoner watched as he reloaded the bullets he'd expended when he'd opened fire in the restaurant.

  When they reach the city, they fueled up the GAZ, and Stoner led the way into his armory, a basement below Ma Kelly’s. The door would have done credit to a bank vault, and he’d fitted both combination and electronic coded locks. If someone wanted to break in, they’d need sticks of dynamite to get inside. Stoner took a box of spare magazines for the Desert Eagles, and a carbine length M4A1. They packed dried food for them and the dog, and two crates of bottled water.

  “Just like old times,” Greg grinned, “Before…”

  “Yeah, before you took Faria off me.” He held up his hand, “Whoa, I’m pleased for you, Greg. She got the best deal.”

  “I know.”

  Stoner envied his friend, at least a bit. But the better man won her heart.

  “She’s pretty enough to break any man's heart,” he chuckled, “But I’m glad things worked out for her. Better than if she’d stayed with me. It’s not a problem."

  Besides, she’s alive. She has a good life with Greg and their adopted kids. With me, her future would consist of a six-foot plot in the local cemetery.

  Just after dawn the next morning they took an early breakfast in his apartment to prepare for the long, tiring drive to Torkham. Riding in the GAZ, every kilometer would feel like an epic voyage across storm tossed seas. They were still eating when Ivan burst in without knocking.

  "Seth Adams asked me to let you know the Afghan Special Forces will meet up with you on the other side of the border. They'll travel in civilian clothes. They're trying not to make too much of a spectacle, in case they alert the Pakistanis. They also don't want the Haqqanis to know they’ve crossed the border."

  "How will I know when they've arrived?"

  “Colonel Rahman knows what you look like. Think about it, two Westerners traveling with a German Shepherd, in a relic of the Soviet occupation. They know the rendezvous, and they’ll come and find you in that coffeehouse. Any problems, anything you can't handle, you call me. This side of the border.”

  “You’re a real pal, Ivan.”

  They said their goodbyes and went outside for the start of the long, uncomfortable ride in the GAZ. Archer barked several times, happy to be going back into action. They smiled, thinking of the effect the big, black and brown German Shepherd would have on the Muslims. According to their Mullahs, dogs were the servants of Satan, sent to this world to create mischief and turn the faithful away from the true path, as laid down by the Prophet. In Stoner’s opinion the Islamists were more than capable of creating plenty of murder and mayhem on their own. They didn’t need help from any dog to turn away from the path of the supposed righteous.

  * * *

  Ivan watched the loaded jeep drive away, kicking up dust from the poorly maintained road, and smoke from the poorly maintained engine. Despite appearances, he wasn’t happy about the Agency leaving the men without backup.

  We’ve been through a few scrapes together, me and Stoner. Blum, too. I wouldn’t like to see them left to die in a foreign land. Neither to think I haven’t done everything possible to get those women out from the clutches of a bunch of unwashed Islamic militants.

  He climbed into his armored Land Cruiser and nodded to the two men waiting for him, Gorgy Bukharin, a Russian, and behind the wheel, Akram Latif, an Afghan. A pair of tough fighters, both men lean and hard as nails. Akram with the scars he’d earned during a lifetime spent fighting, and Gorgy, smooth faced, pale skin, and eyes the color of Arctic ice. He wouldn’t trust anyone else to watch his back.

  Truth be told, I wouldn’t trust anyone, period. Except for these two. I’ve known Gorgy and Akram a long time. So far, they haven’t stabbed me in the back. Okay, not that often. Something to do with the generous salary I pay them to keep them loyal.

  “We’re going to Kabul, to the Embassy. I need to talk to the CIA Head of Station.”

  Akram started the engine without a word, engaged drive, and drove away. Gorgy looked at Ivan. “Boss, I thought you avoided the Embassy. It’s not good for a man whose cover is a Russian drug and arms traffick
er to be seen in that place. Besides, that secretary you meet from time to time.”

  “Forget about her. But you’re right, it’s the last place I want people to see me enter, but this time, there’s a good reason. I’ve just sent two good men to their deaths.”

  “Stoner and Blum?”

  “Right. They’re going into Pakistan. And all they have to back them up is a bunch of untrustworthy Afghans and that fucking dog.”

  The Russian grinned. “I’d trust him before most men.”

  He grimaced. “If they had a platoon of dogs I might agree, but they don’t. I’m putting a drone over Northeast Pakistan to keep an eye on things.”

  “The Paks won’t like it if they find out.”

  “Too bad. There’s something else, a single drone won’t cut it. I’m sending a gunship over there.”

  Gorgy whistled. “Now that will drive them crazy. Besides, no American pilot is going to risk everything by overflying Pakistan. Even if he didn’t get shot down by a Pak interceptor, they’d toss in him the stockade and throw away the key when he got back.”

  “It won’t be one of ours.”

  “Then whose?” The penny dropped a moment later, “An Afghan. You think you can persuade an Afghan pilot to take it on. Steal a gunship and overfly a potentially hostile nation?”

  “For enough cash, I could persuade them to fly to the moon.”

  “Even so, it’ll take one hell of a lot of money.”

  “The Agency has one hell of a lot of money. Besides, all the Afghan crew need do is pretend they lost their way. Instrument malfunction. That’ll do it. I want to know what’s going on over there.”

  Three hours later, he was inside the Embassy, talking to the controller at the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Battlelab in Creech Air Force Base, Nevada, U.S.A.

  “This is CIA, Head of Station Kabul. I want a UAV on permanent station over Northeast Pakistan until further notice. I’ll give you the exact coordinates later. Just get the thing in the air.”

  The controller sounded bored. “Yessir. Head of Station, Kabul, I need the clearance codes, Sir.”

  “Give me a moment.”

  Ivan gave him the numbers. It wasn’t difficult. Henry Bishop, the Head of Station, and an old pal, had gone to speak with the Ambassador, after Ivan advised him to get up to speed with progress on the kidnapped women. While he was away, he picked the lock on his office drawer and as expected, found what he needed. When he’d finished speaking, the controller in Nevada sounded satisfied.

  “That’s the correct codes. I’ll make out the order and get it sent out. I assume you’re looking for a surveillance UAV, Sir, a Predator.”

  “Make it a Reaper.”

  He sounded surprised. “Over Pakistan? You know they carry a Hellfire missile.”

  “I’m counting on it. And keep a UAV in the air twenty-four-seven, is that clear?”

  “Yessir. Uh, I assume this comes out of the CIA Kabul budget.”

  Ivan thought about his friend, a man who daily wrestled with the ever-tightening CIA budget to balance the books.

  Too bad.

  “That’s correct. It comes out of the CIA budget.”

  “Yessir.”

  Ivan’s next call was to an Afghan Air Force pilot he knew, a man who lived in Kabul and flew out of Bagram. Kabir Stori wouldn’t have been on base. He spent every waking moment in the bars and fleshpots of Kabul. He was a louche, but he was also, in his soberer moments, a highly skilled helicopter pilot. He was also massively in debt. Ivan found him in the fifth bar he came to, a combined drinking hole, brothel, and gambling den, all the vices under one roof.

  He should have had many questions about diverting an Air Force helicopter over Pakistan, but it came down to one.

  “How much? Don’t forget there’re two of us in an Mi-24, pilot and gunner.”

  “I didn’t forget.” Ivan named a figure that caused him to raise his eyebrows.

  “When do we start?”

  They shook hands, and Ivan drove away.

  I’ve done as much as I can. Now it all depends on the men I’ve just sent into hell.

  * * *

  Halfway to the border, Greg had to stop the GAZ. The bouncing, lurching, uncomfortable journey exacerbated the effects of the alcohol that remained in his system, and Stoner was violently sick at the side of the road. Afterward, he felt better, and he rinsed his mouth with bottled water before Greg drove on. It was late morning when they crossed the border and reached the outskirts of Torkham. They drove through the town, out the other side, and found the coffeehouse alongside the road that led deeper into Pakistan.

  Stoner climbed out and grabbed for his satphone as it buzzed.

  “Stoner.”

  “Er, yeah, it’s Seth Adams.”

  “Ambassador, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve had a call from the State Department. I notified them of my wife’s kidnap, which was standard procedure, and they were already aware of it.”

  “I understand.”

  “The thing is, they said for us to allow them to handle it.”

  “Handle it how?”

  “They’re looking into it. The Head of ISI, Pakistani intelligence, has called a meeting to discuss their options. They’ll let us know when they decide.”

  “When is this meeting, Sir?”

  “He said in ten days.”

  Stoner felt like he’d punched him in the stomach. “Ten days. Sir, that’s too long. They could be dead by then.”

  A sigh. “It’s best the local people handle this thing. I want you to…”

  “Ambassador, a good friend of mine is a prisoner of the Haqqanis. I’m not giving up, not now. Do the Paks know we’re in country?”

  “I don’t believe so, no.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “I am. We’re going on.”

  A pause. “Your actions could cause major political problems.”

  “The Pakistanis doing nothing could cause the death of those women. Ambassador, we still don’t know where they’re holding them. Try to find out from your end. You must have intelligence connections with ISI. Use them. We have to find them before we can free them.”

  “I, uh, I’ll do my best. So you’re definitely carrying on?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you need any further support, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  “I hear you, Ambassador.”

  If you need any further support? What support has the bastard given me so far? Damn all.

  They left the GAZ, and there was no need to worry about theft of supplies and equipment. Archer wasn’t welcome inside the coffeehouse; indeed, he'd have created panic and terror had they taken him inside. They left him in the vehicle with a bowl of water and some food. He was no fool, and they knew he had more intelligence than the average human. When they went inside, Stoner looked back. Archer was lying sprawled on top of the boxes in the back, waiting for someone to try to remove the property he was guarding.

  Inside, the room was almost deserted, two decrepit old men sipping coffee just inside the door, and at the back, two tough-looking men with a young boy. They were eating bowls of what looked like sheep stew, the staple diet of the region. There was no sign of Colonel Rahman or his men, and no sign of the men they were here to meet. They ordered coffee, and by the second cup, there was still no sign of the kidnappers. Greg glanced at the two men and the boy at the back.

  "It could be them back there. Maybe they’re waiting for us to make the approach."

  Stoner peered through the gloom into the dim interior.

  "It’s a possibility. Cover me, Greg. You have the Stechkin?"

  "It's my best buddy," he nodded.

  "Okay, let's see what they have to say."

  He walked toward them, and as he drew near, he was aware of their hard, hostile gazes. If they weren't the kidnappers, they weren't up to anything good. Like most men in the region, they were heavily armed, at least the adul
ts were. One man was better dressed, in an embroidered tribal waistcoat. He had the unmistakable signs of a shoulder rig underneath his robe, and the pistol bulged out from under his left side. His eyes narrowed at Stoner, and his hand moved a fraction toward the gun. And stopped, waiting for a sign of any hostile intentions.

  The other man was bigger, more muscular, and his bearded face was scarred and twisted, as if he’d had a lifetime of hard fighting. He was watching Stoner, and when three paces away, he made his move. His hand came out from under the table, and he held a compact, carbine-length assault rifle pointed at Stoner's belly. He’d seen the move coming, and he drew the two Desert Eagles. They stared at each other, daring the other to squeeze the trigger first. Each knowing when the shooting started, they'd join each other in death.

  The boy offered no obvious threat. He was a good-looking kid, who looked to be about twelve or thirteen-years-old. He reminded Stoner of Ahmed, Greg Blum’s adopted son, who’d helped him out on numerous occasions. He was returning the favor by preparing to study medicine, with the intention of helping out local people with the doctoring most of them so urgently needed.

  He doubted this kid had any such ambitions. Unlike Ahmed, his eyes were narrow and calculating, feral, the eyes of a thief, or perhaps of a young killer. He’d seen plenty of kids that age pick up a gun or knife and kill without a second thought. No one moved for long seconds, staring at each other. By now they’d have noticed Blum sitting further back with the Stechkin ready to spray the room with bullets, should it become necessary. Two minutes went past, still no one started shooting, and he decided to take the initiative.

  "Are you the men we came here to meet?"

  The older man looked puzzled. "Why would you think that?"

  "Because we're here to meet someone, and no one else here fits the bill.”

  He frowned. "You’re looking for the Haqqanis.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re here to discuss a ransom, is that correct? Who did they kidnap?"

  “So it’s not you.”

  Again, the look of puzzlement. “I doubt I’m the man you came here to meet. I assume your family has also been kidnapped, and you’re trying to get them released."