Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

He’d already decided to say nothing about the close call.

  What was it the German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche said?

  ‘That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.’

  Well, okay, it didn’t kill us. I’m not sure about the other bit, making us stronger. But we’re alive. Why frighten them with details about the near miss? But I’d like to know how it happened. Maybe I never will.

  * * *

  A few minutes before, Lieutenant Ghulam Noon had been staring into the sky with the powerful binoculars. The unidentified aircraft was visible, but through the haze, he found it impossible to identify the markings on the fuselage and tailfin. It wasn’t difficult to see the vapor trail of the missile, arcing toward the target.

  It must be an intruder, another Afghan Air Force plane. Or maybe even an American.

  That would be a coup, to shoot down an American military plane.

  For a second, his mind dwelled on the medals, the praise, and the promotion. But the picture lasted no more than a second. The intruder was nearer, flying a flat, unwavering course, and he squinted through the lenses to make out the markings. At first, he didn’t believe it. A square, green symbol on the tailplane, and inset, the crescent and star of Pakistan, the green square bordered in gold.

  He felt sick. Their own aircraft, and he was about to shoot it down. He wanted the ground to swallow him up. His dreams were shattering into tiny fragments, like fragile glass caught in an explosion. For a half second, he froze. Then he swung around to his Sergeant.

  “Abort. Hit the self-destruct button. Now! It’s one of ours. Hurry! By the Prophet, I pray you’re not too late.”

  The NCO was already leaping into the command trailer, and Noon heard a decisive ‘whack’ as his hand slapped down on the large, red abort button. Instantly, the missile exploded and became so much scrap, falling from the sky to earth. No longer a threat to anything, save a wandering goat if it was unfortunate enough to be below the detonation site. The aircraft flew on, and he clutched his chest, struggling to breathe after the crisis almost caused him to suffer a heart attack. He’d already decided to apply for a safer posting, like a front-line regiment in the disputed territory of Kashmir. The enemy was ferocious, but they had nothing on his vengeful superiors when things went wrong.

  * * *

  He was still wary of anti-aircraft missiles, but the terrain left him with no choice other than to gain height. Another missile may or may not hit them, but if they stayed at low altitude, crashing into the side of a mountain would do the job. Slowly, gradually, he gained height. After that first missile he stayed low, following the winding contours that threaded through the hills. Somewhere he could dive into if they launched a further missile.

  Twenty-five minutes later, they crossed the border, the end of the long range of mountains that to the east formed the Hindu Kush. He was halfway to Jalalabad International airport when he switched on the radio to guard frequency.

  "This is Harbin, Y-12 heading into Jalalabad from the south, declaring in-flight emergency."

  "Did you say Harbin Y-12? Where did you come from?"

  He ignored the air traffic controller’s question. "Listen, pal. I have several injured people on board, and one very sick man about to die. I need immediate clearance to land at Jbad, and I want an ambulance standing by to take this casualty to the Emergency Room. Please confirm."

  A pause. "Wait one moment."

  He lost it then. “Listen, don't fuck me around. I have a dying man on board, and I need immediate clearance to land."

  After several seconds, the reply came. The voice was cold, the voice of a bureaucrat, unbending. Sure in the knowledge of the rules laid down by the government and which governed every step of his professional career.

  "Pilot of the incoming aircraft, hear this. We can't accept your emergency without further confirmation. Flight number, origin of the flight, and I need your name. Without those details, you will have to divert to another airfield."

  But Stoner had him then. He'd recognized the voice. The guy's name was Hafiz Assem, and he was a middle ranking air-traffic controller at Jalalabad International. He was also a married man with five children, at the last reckoning. All fine and dandy, and on the face of it, he had a good life. But he also had a darker side, like so many men in Jalalabad.

  Why do I know so many dishonest, thieving bastards?

  Assem had a problem. A big problem, gambling. To fund his habit, he took bribes in return for turning a blind eye when certain flights took off from and landed at Jalalabad. He was always looking over a shoulder, and he pictured him now, a slightly overweight man with a thin, neatly trimmed moustache. Somehow, the stress got to him, and his face was always damp with perspiration, no matter the temperature or the time of day. He dealt with the stress in the way many men in a way not unusual for the town.

  Hafiz Assem was a regular at Ma Kelly's. He'd bid his family farewell to drive to work the night shift. During certain shifts, he'd allow a smuggler transport plane to use the airfield. His boots filled with money, he’d drive to an illegal casino not far from Ma Kelly's. Within hours, he'd have lost most of his illegitimate earnings. Next stop Ma Kelly's. Dripping with perspiration, fear, and guilt, he'd use the last of his cash to buy a girl for an hour. Afterward, he'd go home to his wife and kids, an endless cycle of greed, addiction, and misery, almost a mirror of life in Afghanistan.

  "That’s no sweat, Hafiz. My name is Stoner. You know me?"

  The pause lasted for a half minute. He could almost feel the shock of recognition. "I… I think so."

  "You'd better. The thing is, Hafiz, I need some help here, and so do you."

  "What help do I need?" The voice was peremptory, with a tinge of hostility underlying the unease he’d tried and failed to disguise.

  "It's like this, pal. I like to keep things confidential, if you know what I mean, the kind of things that if they came out could ruin a man. Ruin his career, his marriage, and his finances. I recall a guy it happened to once. He just didn't know when he was beat, and he wound up putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Couldn't stand the pressure. I guess you've been there once or twice. I’d hate to think it could happen to you.”

  There was no further delay. “It is the policy of Jalalabad International Airport to extend every facility to aircraft in trouble. Whether it’s due to an aircraft malfunction or the sickness of passengers or crew, we’re here to help. Call the tower when you’re ten minutes out, and I’ll give you immediate clearance. I will also have the ambulance you requested on standby, with a qualified doctor on board, and I'll notify the ER room at the hospital. Is there anything else I can do to help?"

  He smiled to himself. "There is one thing. You heard about the kidnap of American Congresswoman Barbara Adams?”

  "Is this true, Mr. Stoner? You really have rescued her?"

  "And the rest of the women. They’re all on board, most of them, anyway. Some of them didn't make it. But you can call the Embassy in Kabul. Let the Ambassador know he’s about to be reunited with his beloved wife."

  "I will make the call immediately. As for the rest of it, everything will be ready, exactly as promised."

  "That's mighty helpful of you, Hafiz. Believe me. I never forget a favor."

  "Please call when you’re ten minutes out. Have a nice day, Sir.”

  He grinned. Calling them on the guard frequency had been deliberate. The public channel would be overheard by scores of people in the Jbad area. A refusal would put the man in charge in a heap of trouble. An aircraft calling an in-flight emergency should be universally acknowledged and offered every assistance. Yet as was often the case, the refusal came first. What usually came second was the bribe.

  Not this time, Hafiz, old buddy. Afghan style corruption nearly got us all killed. I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.

  He called the tower, and they gave him immediate clearance. He sent Javed into the cabin to warn them to prepare for landing. When he came back, he made
Javed strap in and fastened his own harness ready for a hard landing. If anything went wrong, it wouldn't be a good idea to have the pilot thrown all over the cockpit at a crucial time.

  In the event, the undercarriage dropped down out of its housings as smoothly as the day the plane had come out of the factory, and with it locked in place, he throttled back and lined up with the center of the runway. He touched down heavily, and the aircraft bounced a couple of times before he finally had the wheels on the ground. He throttled all the way back and applied the brakes.

  The ambulance was waiting exactly as he'd requested, and he headed for the vehicle with the blue and red flashing lights on the roof. It wasn't alone. In the space of a few minutes the word had got out, and vehicles of all types were racing to the stand to witness their arrival. Amongst them were cops, military, and news crews from the local TV and radio stations. He pulled up close to the ambulance and switched off.

  Ivan already had the cabin door open, and the medics rushed forward with a gurney to help Greg. They carried him away, and already men were shouting questions. Cops demanding to know where they come from, and how come they were flying a Pakistani military aircraft, news crews wanting to know everything about the rescue of the hostages, and ground crews from the airport, wanting to see the documentation. Amid the hubbub, the Congresswoman stepped out of the cabin door. She stood at the stop of the boarding stairs.

  "Shut up! All of you shut up and listen."

  They went silent.

  "My name is Congresswoman Barbara Adams, and we've just been rescued from Pakistani bandits by the men inside this aircraft. I'm going with the casualty to the hospital. He is one of the men who got us out, and I want to make sure he has every possible care. If you have any questions, I'll answer them later. So I suggest you come to the hospital and wait. That's all for now."

  She climbed down the stairs, and Sara was with her. When they reached the ambulance, Barbara spoke to the paramedics. She told them there were other women inside the aircraft who needed treatment, although their lives weren't in danger. The two women climbed into the ambulance, the door slammed shut, and it drove away. Stoner felt indescribably weary, as he unstrapped and climbed out of the pilot seat when asked. Ivan was waiting for him in the cabin. He grinned. "Time to face the music, I guess."

  "Can you handle it? I'm not up to this."

  "Sure, I'll handle it. We need a story, something that will convince them."

  "Tell them the Pakistani Air Force conspired with the Haqqanis to kidnap those women. We had no choice but to fight them."

  He nodded. "That'll do, for now, anyway. Where are you going?"

  "I'll get a cab to the hospital. Until I know what happens with Greg, my life on hold."

  They shook hands, and he gave the address of Ma Kelly’s to Noyan and Nadiri, with an invitation to stay in his apartment while they were in Jalalabad. When they learned of the nature of the establishment, they declined. Both men said they'd find alternative accommodation, and he gave them the name of a nearby hotel.

  Noyan’s eyebrows knitted in suspicion. “You’re certain it’s not a brothel?”

  “Definitely not.”

  Not twenty-four seven, no. Do they rent rooms by the hour? Absolutely.

  They nodded in satisfaction and walked away, and he said he’d meet them there the following day. Stoner waved farewell to the women, and then his gaze fixed on the prisoner Jalal, who was crouched in the corner, still covered by the rifles of two grim-faced women. As if waiting for an excuse to pull the triggers.

  "Let him go."

  They looked surprised. "Let him go? This man helped kidnap us.”

  “He also helped us get you back. Let him go." Then he turned to leave and had a handshake with Javed. “I’ll see you tomorrow along with the others. I have to go."

  On the way to the hospital, all he could think about was Greg. And Faria.

  If Greg dies, she'll be distraught. So will the kids. They’ll probably blame me, and I deserve it. I should never have allowed him fall victim to the trick that almost killed him.

  The cab pulled up at the door to the emergency room, and he rushed inside. Barbara and Sara were pacing up and down. He rushed over to them, hoping for the best, and fearing the worst.

  “How is he?”

  Sara replied, "Not too good. They have him in the operating room at the moment, and they’re working hard on the injury. It’s a lot worse than we thought. The bullet went deep and pushed a shard of bone toward his brain. That's bad enough, but what made it even worse was the infection. It appears it came from the bullet, and the doctors say they've seen it before. Some of the real extremists dip their bullets in something toxic, so when a bullet hits, if it doesn’t kill them outright, it causes an infection that finishes them slowly."

  Bastards!

  He felt his rage boiling, deep inside. "Do they think they can handle it?"

  "They don't know."

  Barbara came next to him. "Listen, Stoner. I've offered them everything. I said I'd pay to build them new houses for their families if he lives. I'll support an application for U.S. citizenship, if that's what they want. The Good Lord knows why anyone would want to stay in this place, but they weren't having any of it. These guys are a rare commodity in Afghanistan, the real deal. Honest and dedicated to saving life. I'd say your friend is in the best possible hands, and they are doing everything they can. If Greg stands a chance, it's because of them."

  He nodded his thanks. "Is there anything I can do?"

  She shook her head. "Nothing, except pray for a miracle. We'll still stay here until he is out of surgery."

  She didn't add,' just in case.' But she meant it.

  "I live here. I'm driving out to Mehtar Lam to see Faria. She needs to know what's happening, and she should be here."

  "Tell her we're rooting for him," Sara said.

  "She'll be glad to know he’s with friends. I'll bring her back as soon as I can."

  He left the hospital building and climbed into the Jeep Wrangler. He drove it hard out of Jalalabad and along the highway that led out to the small town of Mehtar Lam; a shabby, dusty decaying collection of buildings, with a few new apartment blocks and local government buildings in the process of construction. American money, which had poured into the country after they'd come in after bin Laden, and as far as he knew, still pouring in. He drove outside the town and reached the farm.

  It didn't seem the same, not with Greg’s GAZ 69 not parked outside. Only Faria came onto the stoop, and her face wore a sad expression. She knew. Knew when she saw him drive up to the house, with just one man in the vehicle. It wasn't her husband.

  “Tell me. How’s Greg?"

  It was a moment he'd been dreading, yet he had to face up to it. "He's not dead, Faria. I promise you he’s not dead. He’s in the hospital, and I came to take you to him."

  "How serious?"

  He gave her a one-word reply, "Very."

  She pulled on a coat and climbed into the passenger seat. He started the engine, turned the jeep around, and headed back into the city. Halfway, he turned to her. "Faria, do you want to know what happened?"

  Her voice was low, and he had to strain to catch the words, "No, only the future. Can you tell me that?"

  "I'm sorry."

  She gave a slight shake of the head. "Then there's nothing to be said."

  He drove on, and there were so many things he wanted to tell her. A long time ago she'd been the love of his life. Since she'd married Greg, she’d become a good friend. She and her husband were his best friends, and he’d give his life to protect them, which is why he couldn't stop blaming himself for allowing Greg to fall into that trap. It was a struggle to keep silent, but he respected her wishes. The time for explanations would come later, if she wanted them.

  He pulled up outside the hospital, and Faria was out of the door before he'd even stopped. She raced towards the entrance, and he followed. The doors opened automatically, and she went inside, straight int
o the arms of Sara, who'd seen her coming.

  "Faria, I wish I wasn't seeing you under these circumstances."

  "Tell me."

  "He’s still in surgery. Listen, Faria, that's a good thing. If there were bad news, if he was going to die, they'd have given up. The fact they’re still working means he has a good chance. You know, Greg, he's a fighter. If anyone can pull through, it's him."

  "Can I see him?"

  "Not until he is out of surgery."

  She sat down on the bench. The two women tried to talk to her, but her face was numb, frozen, as if for all time. There was no past, just the future with Greg. Desperately wanting him to come back to her, alive, or not. She swayed backward and forward, her eyes screwed up, trying to hold back the tears, and failing. They streamed down her face, and the two women tried to comfort her while Stoner stood to one side, embarrassed, not knowing what to do. He was a man who tended to solve problems with physical strength, with guns. When it came to a situation like this, he was out of his depth.

  He walked around the hospital and found a coffee machine. He went back to the women. "Do you want coffee?"

  Before they answered the door to the OR opened, and a man in surgeon’s scrubs stepped out, pulling off his mask.

  "Are you waiting for news of Mr. Blum? Grigory Blum?"

  "Greg, yes. Tell me!" Faria tugged at his sleeve as if he might try to get away without giving her the news.

  He sucked in air through his teeth, making a peculiar hissing noise. Stoner knew it was a device to gain time while he thought of a way to deliver bad news.

  "You want the good news or the bad news?"

  Faria made a slight whimper, and the two women held her to stop her falling. "Tell me the worst.”

  "The worst is we won't know if there's been brain damage until he recovers. When he wakes up, which could be days, weeks, we have no way of knowing, we can run the tests. He may be fine, but on the other hand…"

  "You’re telling me my husband may be brain-dead, a vegetable?"

  "I'm sorry, but it's something we have to face. Then again, there’s a good chance he’ll make a full recovery, and he'll be fine. He just needs time."