by Eric Meyer
The tubby Afghan glanced at his watch. "How long do you think this will take?"
“Who knows? If they’re not too far away, it could take a few hours. If they’re a long way away, it could be two or three days."
He sighed, and his jowls wobbled. "I hoped to have this affair resolved quickly. I have business back in Jalalabad."
"Too bad, Colonel, but you don’t have any alternative except to wait. I imagine the President ordered you to see this through.”
A pause. “The President, yes.”
“Okay, then, you have to wait. I have to get going before I lose them."
Before he left, Greg took him to one side. "About that business the Colonel said he had in Jalalabad."
"Yeah, what is it?"
“Did you notice anything when you were close to him?"
"Not really, no.”
"Cheap perfume. He's been with a whore, and he wants to get back to her. That’s his important business back in Jbad.”
"One of the whores from Ma Kelly’s?"
"I doubt it, or you'd have seen him in your place."
He grinned. "That makes it worse, taking his business to another brothel. There’s something strange about that guy, something that doesn’t sit right. Our friendly Colonel may not be quite as friendly as we’d like to believe.”
“I’ll watch him.”
“Right. I have to go, but like I said, I’ll call."
"I'm not going anywhere."
“And look after our supplies.”
“Archer is on the job. I doubt anyone would stupid enough to try stealing anything with him on guard.”
Stoner nodded. “I’d like to see them try.”
* * *
They were suffering from shock, dehydration, and exhaustion when they reached their destination, a cave entrance cut into the hillside at the edge of a small town. Their captors lined them up in front of the cave, and the American, who they knew to be Colonel Griggs, addressed them while his boss looked on. Another insurgent had a video camcorder in his hands, and the rest of the Haqqanis looked as if they were waiting for something. They were waiting for entertainment.
Two men came toward them and grabbed a young woman who’d been waiting at the end of the line. Her name was Sally Jefferson, and she was an up and coming newsy. She’d told them all she planned to join a major network if this current assignment panned out for her. They dragged her into the center of the open space that separated the women from the insurgents and kicked her to the ground. It was then they saw it, a shallow pit previously dug, with a pile of earth at the side. They pushed her into it, and only her body and head were visible above the surface. More men ran forward with spades, and they shoveled the earth around her, to hold her fast in the ground, half buried.
Griggs watched their expressions, a sneer on his face. “You’re about to see a demonstration of the power of General Ishaq Khan. It is possible the authorities may be stupid enough to try to stage a rescue. This will show them what will happen should they try anything stupid. If we see soldiers approaching this place, we will execute one woman every hour. Watch and learn.”
He turned and nodded to his men. One by one, they came forward to the trapped woman, and they could see each man carried a heavy stone in his hand. The first one threw, and it grazed the side of Sally’s head. The next one hit her in the center and flung her forward, so she was whimpering with agony and fear. Blood trickled down her head, and it became a torrent as more men aimed their stones with deadly accuracy.
They couldn’t tell when the life left her. Her head and upper body were a blood-caked mess, and she’d mercifully lost conscious early on. The stones kept coming, until the last man had thrown his projectile. Khan came forward and inspected his victim. When he spoke he was addressing the camera.
If you think to send in a rescue party, be warned. This is what will happen to the rest of the women. One will die every hour should your forces approach. I will contact you soon to advise you of the cost of releasing these women. Should you refuse to pay, the result will be the same, and believe me, a stoning is a painful way to die, as you will have noted. I suggest you follow my instructions and spare these women more pain.” He glanced at his men. “Take them away and lock them up.”
Sara Carver, journalist and late Second Lieutenant serving in the U.S. Infantry, had explored every inch of their prison. It wasn't the same place they'd taken them when they first captured them. They’d brought them here shackled together like slaves, walking in a long straggling line across the mountains. She’d no idea where they were. What she did know was the fate that awaited them. Khan’s demonstration was suitably graphic.
After the stoning, they’d pushed them into the mouth of a cave into a short passage, maybe fifty meters in length. They had to squeeze through an even narrower tunnel before they reached a wide cave, protected by a stout wooden door heavily bolted from the outside.
They were under no illusions. They were entombed. A few women started sobbing, but she wasn’t one of them. Neither, she noted, was Barbara Adams. The Congresswoman managed to locate her by calling her name, and seconds later she appeared out of the gloom.
"You're Sara Carver. Didn't you used to be a soldier?"
"Second Infantry, Ma’am."
The Congresswoman eyed her up and down, seeing a young woman in her late twenties who she was sure had broken more than a few hearts in her time. Attractive, with a petite figure, but with sufficient muscle definition to prove she was no bimbo. The dark eyes were the giveaway, bright, sharp as agate, and filled with intelligence. This was a high-flyer, a girl who missed nothing, and Adams knew if they were going to get out of there, she’d need the help of this extraordinary-looking girl.
"You know who I am?"
"I recognized your voice. Congresswoman Adams."
“Sara, do you know why they took us hostage? Do you think it's some political thing, to do with my work in Congress?”
She chuckled. "Political, my ass. They’re bandits, pure and simple, and they're after loot. The question is how much our government is prepared to pay to free us. To free you, that’s the big question. You’re the VIP.”
"You know they always refuse to negotiate with kidnappers."
"I know. And I also know they do it all the time. Don't worry. They’ll pay whatever they’re asking, no matter how big. We’ll be out of here in no time."
Barbara sighed. "I hope sure you’re right, but it won’t be a quick process. It’ll be long and drawn out.”
Something in the woman's tone piqued her interest. "Why do you think so?"
Adams gave a sigh of despair. "Because any negotiations will be handled by my husband, the U.S. Ambassador in Kabul. I'm fairly certain he won't be in too much of a hurry to get me out of here."
“Why on earth not?”
“Because he’s a two-timing bastard, that’s why not.” She explained about the pretty secretary who shared his bed, and how Adams thought he'd tried to keep his cozy little affair secret, “He’s a fool. Everyone knows what’s going on. It may even be in his interest if I never got out. For him it would be a win-win, everyone offering sympathy to the poor man who just lost his wife. You know he’s planning a shot at the Presidency sometime in the future? It would win him the sympathy vote for sure if he lost his wife, murdered by terrorists.”
Sara felt a deep sense of shock. The machinations of the rich and powerful were way beyond her understanding. "Ma’am, even if he is having an affair, he still has to try to get you out. Anything else would be unthinkable."
"Call me Barbara. Oh, I’ve no doubt he’ll make an effort, but I can guarantee it’ll be half-hearted. No, if we're getting out of here, we have to find a way out ourselves. Forget Seth Adams.”
She sounded tired and miserable, and Sara realized the long trek had been much harder on the older woman. "Getting out will be difficult, Barbara, and you know how they’ll punish anyone they catch trying to escape.”
“They may kill us a
nyway.”
She nodded. “That’s true. Barbara, there’s only one way in, and one way out, and that's through that narrow tunnel. I checked around the cave, looking for other openings, but there’s nothing. Then there’re the guards, getting past them will be impossible. We don’t have a single weapon between us.”
“Difficult, but not impossible. We’re women, Sara, and we do have weapons."
"What weapons?"
"In my case, my weapons are long past their sell-by-date, but you’re young and pretty. As are some of the other journalists."
Sara grinned. “I think what you're suggesting is something like a honey trap. Use one of us as bait, and while one of them is trying to get his vile hands on the girl, we jump him.”
"Exactly. I was thinking about using you as the first piece of bait. I’ll be ready when one of them gets near enough. I can wield a heavy chunk of stone as well as the next person. "
I admire the older woman’s guts. I also pity the Ambassador when we get out, and she goes home. She’ll make his life hell.
“I’ll do it. I like the idea of beating these bastards. Although there is something you may not have considered."
"What's that?"
“Their numbers. When we arrived, I saw several groups of men standing around with guns, and my guess is there are upward of fifty men here."
"We'll have to deal with that when the time comes,” the Congresswoman murmured, “Hopefully, we’ll be able to steal some guns to fight them. In the meantime, we need to start planning."
Chapter Three
It was bitterly cold, but visibility was good, and he could see the tracks where the Haqqanis had passed. They’d arrived on foot, like many insurgents, wary of using vehicles when there was a chance of encountering an enemy equipped with armed drones, gunships, and fighter aircraft. The light began to fade, and he struggled to follow. He checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon, yet dark storm clouds were rolling across the sky, like lines of gray battleships. The light faded faster, like someone up there had turned a dimmer switch, and the tracks all but disappeared.
He wasn't too worried, at least not yet. He was following a well-used track that led due east from Torkham and disappeared into the boonies. If they stayed on the trail, he couldn’t lose them. The problem would come if the insurgents disappeared into rough ground. He’d have to rely on his skills, and he’d learned the craft of tracking during his service with the Navy SEALs. Since then, he'd sharpened his technique during long years spent inside Afghanistan. Years spent pursuing bad men, men who needed to be killed. Losing sight of that kind of target could mean the difference between life and death. If you couldn't see where they went, you couldn't see them waiting in ambush.
The track crossed the peak of a low hill, disappeared down the other side, and reappeared on the slope of the next hill. There weren't many alternative routes if they didn't want to break their necks hiking cross-country in poor light. Soon, he estimated they were heading toward the town of Chitral, which was strange. The place they'd attacked when they ambushed and kidnapped the women. He wondered if they were that stupid they hadn't moved them away to a remote hiding place.
If they’re still here, the job will be straightforward. Follow them to the town, and call Colonel Rahman to bring in his men. They can stage a diversionary attack while me and Greg creep in to free the women. Simple. That’s the plan, anyway. What was it they said? The plan is the first casualty in war.
The place was deserted, and there was no sign of them. The sky was also empty, so at least there was no immediate threat from wandering Pakistani patrols. Then he saw he was wrong. A helicopter was buzzing in from the north, from the border area with Afghanistan. Out of habit, he ducked out of sight and watched it fly past. A Russian-built Mi-24, a gunship. Armed with a powerful Yak-B Gatling gun in the nose, operated by a gunner who sat forward and below the pilot. Additional armament consisted of multiple rocket launchers and 9K114 Shturm missiles in pairs on the outer and wingtip pylons. To his astonishment, he noticed the insignia of the Afghan Air Force. He frowned. If the Paks spotted the helo on radar, they’d be sufficiently pissed to send up a couple of interceptors. The aircraft flew past and disappeared over the peak of a low mountain.
He continued plodding along as the light faded, and several times he fell. Each time he got back to his feet with his clothes smeared in the clinging mud that coated the surface of the track. Churned by donkeys, horses, and thousands of bare peasant feet. By the crude wooden wheels of carts carrying unimaginable quantities of contraband away from prying government eyes. He thanked the Gods it wasn't raining yet. In this region, when the rain started it went on for what seemed like forever, and the track would become a quagmire.
At least the visibility was still tolerable, and he continued to follow until the sky grew darker. He was starting to wonder how long he had before the rain arrived when it started. Several huge drops splattered on his head, and without warning the deluge began, a blinding torrent, a torment of water, like God had turned on a tap. What a few minutes before seemed easy was fast becoming a nightmare. His progress slowed, and he’d lost them. The route had forked, and in the darkness he'd missed their trail. He was on what was little more than a goat track, and he considered turning back to pick up the trail, except there wasn't time. Besides, he could gamble. It was always possible the Haqqanis had gone this way.
The faint light he'd been using to negotiate the route had disappeared completely. He staggered along in the inky black conditions. At times he even lost the track he was on, and he had to go down on hands and knees to feel around for the rutted path to make sure he was still on course. The inevitable happened, and he had no choice but to take shelter. The rain was still coming down like a waterfall, and he found a shallow cave. Little more than a niche carved into the rock, probably thousands of years before. But he was sheltered from the rainstorm. He kept watch for the first hour, and his sixth sense made him uneasy. He felt like he was being followed, although how that was possible he couldn’t work out. How could anyone follow him across this terrain in this appalling weather? Eventually he dismissed the idea and put it down to nerves.
He must have slept, for when he opened his eyes the rain had stopped. Although thick clouds were hovering in the sky, threatening to restart the deluge. Feeling numb with damp cold, he started walking along the track. In the cold, hard light of early dawn it was once again visible. He crested another rise, and to his astonishment, a small town lay in front of him.
He’d reached what could only be Chitral. Somehow, stumbling through the dark and torrential rain, he'd made it. Although he’d no idea if the Haqqanis were there, or if they’d bypassed the town and gone on elsewhere. He’d have to go down and take a look. As he watched, a truck drove into the town from the west, just another anonymous vehicle carrying a merchant’s goods to market. There was no other traffic, civilian or military, and he started walking down the hill. The town lay three kilometers in front of him.
He still felt the effects of his recent drinking binge, and he could almost have sold his soul for a drink, but all he had was water. Zero percent proof.
Maybe I’ll find something in the town.
Then he remembered how he’d been two days before, drunk and almost incapable. He put the idea of looking for a drink on hold. As he walked, he took out his guns, checking the actions, making sure the torrential rain hadn't interfered with their mechanisms, but everything worked as it should. He tucked the Desert Eagles back into the holsters and held his M4A1 rifle under his arm. After a short distance, he rounded a bend and stepped out onto a proper road. Not exactly a road, but it was more than a goat track, less than a highway.
The surface was hard-packed mud, repaired in places with small stones. He looked back along the road and worked out he’d come on the road that ran from Torkham through to Chitral, and it made sense. The Haqqanis would have avoided the main highway and cut across the hills on the old smuggler trails. By chance, he'd managed
to follow the same route to their destination. Which meant they ought to be somewhere ahead of him, and his spirits rose.
He was considering finding somewhere to hole up for the rest of the daylight hours and enter the town after dark. Abruptly, the truck appeared in the distance, heading toward him, out of town. The same truck he'd seen driving into Chitral. He assumed they'd made a delivery and were going home. Although something about that truck made him feel uneasy. He stepped off the track, but there was nowhere to hide, and he sprinted up the slope and lay flat on a small plateau. He waited for the truck to go past, but it stopped nearby, and he assumed the driver was getting out to take a leak. He heard voices, and then the ominous snick of men cocking rifles.
A voice shouted, "Mr. Stoner, we know you’re there. Come out, or we open fire.”
He slowly put his head up, and in a blinding flash of revelation, he knew what had happened. They’d double-crossed him. The voice belonged to Colonel Rahman, and the truck was the same vehicle he’d arrived in at Torkham. Three men ran toward him, the muzzles of their guns pointed his way. Slowly, he held up his hands. Rahman was breathing heavily with the effort of climbing the slope. He stood over him, his face set in a smile.
Stoner gave him a flat stare. “Colonel, one day I'll take that gun off you, stuff it down your throat, and pull the trigger."
The smile faded. "I think not. You've lost, my friend. You just didn't realize what you were up against."
Something hit him hard from behind, and through the dim waves of semi-consciousness, he saw another man step from the truck. He recognized Bruce Griggs, or as he called himself now, Colonel Bruce Griggs. The man he'd sworn to kill, and he stared at him grim-faced, like a wolf sizing up a lamb for dinner. A moment later, he passed out.
He came to lying on a cold stone floor. Men were bending over him, and one was kicking him to rouse him. His vision was still blurred, and he couldn't make them out. His eyes cleared, and he saw the man kicking him was Griggs. The other man in front of him was Khan, and he gestured for Griggs to stop. He’d had a chance to look around and examine his surroundings, but as his vision cleared, he saw he was inside a peculiar building. At first he thought it was a prison, and then he understood. It was no prison, or at least, it hadn’t been designed to house prisoners. The barred windows, the tough locks on the door, they were using a bank as a headquarters, and the vault was serving as a cell.
