Hide and Seek

by Jeff Struecker

  The president had a point but that didn’t mean Mac had to like it. The president had bigger issues, but Mac refused to look past the loss of six good men and the people they left behind. On the other side of the jet sat Kinkaid, his hands folded in his lap, his head forward, his eyes closed.

  “Sleeping, Sergeant?”

  Kinkaid’s eyes snapped open. “No, sir.”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Prayer sometimes looks that way.”

  Mac felt a moment of remorse for his comment. Kinkaid had been Mac’s aide for several years and he knew the man went to church on occasion but that was it. Just recently, he learned the man was more committed than Mac knew.

  “Maybe you should have prayed before the team was killed.” The comment was harsh, but Mac’s patience was gone. Maybe he had been “in this man’s Army” too long. Maybe he was getting too old. He progressed through the ranks and served in his share of special operations. Being on mission was, in some ways, easier than sending operators into danger. He would rather lead a team than conduct operations from a desk, but he was too long in the tooth to keep up with the young guys. He was the fittest and youngest fifty-something man he knew, but keeping up with guys in their mid-twenties was just this side of impossible. “Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, sir. For the record, I did pray for them before the mission. I pray for all the teams.”

  “Yet the team is dead. And J. J. was a dyed-in-the-wool Christian. Does God not know where Bishkek is?”

  “He knows, sir.”

  “Then why . . . never mind. I’m just looking to vent.”

  Kinkaid chuckled. “That’s what I was just doing, sir. Venting.”

  “You said you were praying.”

  “I did, and I meant it. I had a few things I wanted to say to God. Not that He didn’t already know how I feel about things.”

  “Does it do any good?”

  “I think so. A man can’t keep things from God, so I figure it’s best to be honest.”

  “You Christians amaze me. You see so much bad in the world yet you still think there’s a good God.”

  Kinkaid gave no sign of offense. “We also see a lot of good.”

  “Such as?”

  “Men willing to sacrifice themselves in an effort to help others. Sacrifice is the heart of Christianity. Jesus was the ultimate sacrifice, all the apostles sacrificed their lives—all but one was martyred. The early church was persecuted. The streets of Rome were lined with Christians on crosses. I have no expectation that my faith will keep me from trouble.”

  “Then why have it at all?”

  “To strengthen me in trouble. Faith helps me soldier on.”

  Mac looked away. “So you’re not bothered by the loss of the team.”

  “Bothered? Yes, sir. I’m heartbroken. I’m furious. I feel helpless. Faith changes none of that. It just changes me.”

  “If you say so.” A few moments passed in silence. “I don’t want to be misunderstood, Sergeant. I have great admiration for you. I could not do what I do without you.”

  “It’s my honor, sir.”

  “Ha! I doubt that. Some people think you should receive a Purple Heart just for working with me.”

  “For what?”

  “Psychological wounds, I suppose.”

  Kinkaid grinned. “I’m not that fragile, sir. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

  “And you’re stuck with me, for now.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind.” He decided to change the subject. “Asking the president for a favor after I ruffled his feathers took some nerve.”

  “That was the best time to ask, sir. I figured he needed something to give us, a sign of conciliation.”

  “Maybe.” Mac wasn’t feeling conciliatory yet. “What makes you think something is amiss with the video?”

  “I wish I knew, sir. I . . . When I left high school, I was drifting. Wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life. I took a few classes at the community college. I took architectural drafting in high school and liked it okay, so I took a college-level class. Landed a part-time job at a firm that specialized in residential subdivisions. It was a grunt job but I got to do a little drafting. The architect was old school, did all his drawing the old-fashioned way with pencils instead of computers. Good training for me really. Anyway, I was trying to figure out a roof—”

  “Figure out a roof? You mean where to put it?”

  “No, sir. I’m pretty sure the roof goes on top.” He smiled. “A lot of people don’t realize that drawing roof plans on a house that has odd angles and the like can be tough. When you draw a set of working drawings, you’re taking three-dimensional thoughts and putting them on a two dimensional surface—the paper. Not everyone can do it. I sure had a problem with it. Anyway, I thought I had it all figured out when one of the project managers walked by and looked over my shoulder. ‘Wrong,’ he said. I disagreed. I was sure I had it right. Again, he told me it was wrong, but when I asked him to show me my mistake, he just shrugged. ‘Beats me.’ He walked away.”

  “So the guy was just yankin’ your chain.”

  “No, sir. He was right. I messed up. It took me another hour, but I found my mistake. The roof could never have been built the way I drew it. When I asked him how he knew, he shrugged again. He was big on shrugging. He said, ‘You do this long enough and sometimes you just know.’ He said it was a subconscious thing. A man can recognize that something is wrong without knowing what it is.”

  “Instinct.”

  “I suppose. I feel the same way about the video. There’s something wrong but I can’t identify it. Maybe the FBI can coax out a clue, something to help us identify the killers.”

  Mac let that sink in for a moment. Such knowledge would be good, but it wouldn’t bring the team back. “How long until we land?”

  Kinkaid looked at his watch. “I figure fifteen minutes tops. Is there something you want me to do?”

  “Yes, I want you to make a couple of calls. Get Chaplain Bartley to the office. Give me enough time to change into my daily uniform. I’ll start with him.”

  “Perhaps we should have another chaplain there, sir.”

  “Good idea. See if his commander is available. Set it up for his office. Neither man is clear to enter the Concrete Palace.”

  “Yes, sir. May I attend?”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna need you.” What he didn’t say was, I don’t want to do this alone.

  CHAPTER 19

  RASUL DIDN'T HAVE MUCH use for other people. Most were annoyances at best, enemies at worse. A flame of admiration did flicker for one man: his boss Nasirdin Tanayev. He was vicious and smart, two qualities Rasul admired. That opinion dimmed when Nasirdin ordered him to stay behind and watch the pharmacy instead of helping him find the women. Sure, other men were called in, but he wanted to find the women. Killing men was fun, but killing women, well that was dessert.

  Directly across the street was a shoe store. He slipped to the back alley, found an access ladder, and worked his way up to the flat roof. He found a spot near the front parapet that concealed him but allowed him a view of the street below. Nasirdin’s logic was simple enough. “We know there’s a team of soldiers out there. They will be better armed than we are. Sooner or later they will find what we did. Stop them if you can.”

  He was right. A panel truck pulled down the street and stopped a short distance away, out of sight from the pharmacy front window. Three men exited and took positions. Men in black. Helmets, weapons. They moved like a trained squad.

  They didn’t enter the building. They just waited. Three targets waiting for a sniper, but Rasul didn’t have a rifle, just a handgun. He might be able to take them down, but one miss and those left standing would open with automatic weapons fire. That would be
bad. He needed to be patient and smart like Nasirdin.

  Something else bothered him. The three weren’t making entrance. That made him think other soldiers were coming in the back. That’s how he’d do it. The men, the ones he left burning in the street, said there were six men. That had to be it. Three in the front; three in the back. That also meant there might be another vehicle. Easier to search the streets.

  Rasul forced himself to be patient, a Herculean task but being outmanned and outgunned helped. Moments passed slowly, then the intruders walked in the front door. Body language said the others had checked and cleared the interior. Rasul had an idea. He scampered from the roof and to the alley. He then eased to the street and, keeping the truck between him and the pharmacy window, moved to the driver’s side of the vehicle. He stayed low. It wouldn’t do to be seen while he had no place to run. If that happened, he decided he would empty his weapon before they put him down.

  Rasul pulled a large, military-style folding knife from his belt, opened it, and studied the tire. His first plan had been to send the blade into the sidewall but he feared the sound might attract attention. He thought for another moment, then put the blade at the base of the fill stem. The knife cut through it easily. He cupped his hand over the air stream, muting what little noise it made. He repeated the process on the driver’s side rear tire, then scrambled back across the street and to the alley. He jogged south two blocks, crossed the street and moved north again. Just as he expected there was another vehicle in the alley behind the pharmacy.

  He approached slowly, keeping his eyes on the broken door. He kept his 9mm level at the door. If one of the men came out, he could down him and flee. He spent a moment wondering if he could surprise them and take down all six men without getting killed. He doubted it. He focused on the tires.

  AMELIA AND JILDIZ MADE it another half mile before Jildiz needed to rest again. They stayed in the alleys. The streets were too well lit and cars could move freely along their paths. While vehicles could navigate the alleys, they had less room to do so. Amelia used the time to study the radio she took off the body of one of the attackers. It was commercial grade and bore the mark of a Chinese maker: TYT.

  “Clever. It’s programmable.”

  “Can you program it to call for help?” Jildiz was wheezing again. Amelia waited for her to pull out the inhaler but she didn’t, no doubt conserving what she had.

  “It’s password protected.” She felt the glimmer of hope fade. She tried to put a positive spin on things. “At least we can listen to them.”

  “I haven’t heard anything.”

  She was afraid Jildiz noticed that. The radio had been silent except for the one transmission: Pereklyuchatel—“switch” in Russian. She assumed her pursuers had predetermined frequencies to use should a radio fall into the wrong hands.

  If they made a switch in frequency, then it meant they knew a radio was missing, and that means they found the pharmacy, and that meant they found the bodies, one of which she knew was dead. Maybe both. She hadn’t taken time to check pulses.

  “How are you doing?”

  Jildiz looked up. “Orangey.”

  “Orangey . . . peachy?”

  “I pride myself on American slang. I guess I’m not at my best.”

  “I think you’re remarkable, girl. You put me to shame.”

  Jildiz bent forward, resting her hands on her knees, drawing breath. Each inhalation came with pain. She winced. “I’m slowing you down. You should go on and leave me.”

  “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

  Jildiz straightened. “I am being serious. I’m growing weaker. Breathing is more difficult. It’s me they want. I don’t think they know who you are.”

  Jildiz’s spirit of self-sacrifice raised tears in Amelia’s eyes. Gently, she touched Jildiz’s chin and turned her face toward her. “I’m not leaving you. The only way they get to you is through me. Besides, I’m expecting a big payoff.”

  “Payoff. You want money?”

  “Nope, I was thinking of a great big bronze statue of me in Ala-Too Square. You know, my beauty captured in well-crafted bronze. A toga. That’s it. I’ll be wearing a flowing toga and pointing to the sky with one hand and holding a hair dryer in the other.”

  “Toga? Hair dryer? Amelia, you are a very strange woman.”

  “What? I think it would be an inspiration to your citizens.”

  Jildiz smiled. It was one of the best things Amelia ever saw. Humor kept courage up. She looked around. “I lost my marker. I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good thing.” She put marks on the back door of the pharmacy. Whoever found the bodies would have seen it. Leaving new signs might be a bigger detriment than help.

  She ran scenarios through her mind and none of them seemed good. She tried to isolate her biggest fear and realized there was more than one. Top of the list was being found by the attackers. They couldn’t be all that far behind and every time she stopped so Jildiz—crippled with asthma—could draw a few more breaths, she gave time for the black hats to close the distance. For all she knew, they were just a block away. Second, she was working under the assumption that rescue was on the way, something she didn’t know for certain. Third, she was now armed but one handgun against two or three automatic weapons wouldn’t be much good. That was another problem: three made the initial abduction attempt but she cut down two of them. Then two other men found them in the pharmacy. That meant reinforcements arrived. How many? How well armed? Trained? Did they have night vision goggles?

  The pursuers had the advantage. Hunters always did. A game hunter faced little danger unless they came too close to a wounded and cornered beast. She was feeling wounded and cornered.

  Her most recent plan was to join one of the mobs; hide in plain sight. If they were lucky, there would be police attempting crowd control. The idea was genius, but she found no crowds. If they followed a similar pattern to the riots of 2010, then they would be moving to the government building. That was still miles away: too many miles for the ever-weakening Jildiz. She had to get the woman out of the toxic air, give her time to rest. She needed a place where she could set up a small bunker. They might get them, even kill them, but not before someone took a round or two in the head.

  “We need to keep moving.”

  MAC HAD WORKED WITH Chaplain Paul Bartley on several occasions although he never stepped into the chapel for a typical service. He knew the man’s history. He knew he entered the Army intent on being a Ranger. Unlike his twin brother J. J., he washed out in the second week, but not for lack of trying. Bottom line, he washed out of the sixty-one-day training. There was no shame in it. He might not have been Ranger material but he was a persuasive man. He was able to extend his enlistment and take college courses. Seminary and officer training followed. He spent the last few years as one of the many chaplains serving at Fort Jackson.

  Missing the Ranger mark did not mean the man was a poor soldier. He did tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, ministering to troops in the field. He had a reputation for friendliness and straight talk. He also had a heart the size of a tank, something Mac witnessed firsthand when Eric Moyer’s daughter was kidnapped while he was on mission. Moyer was the previous team leader for the unit J. J. now led.

  Mac was thankful for one thing: Bartley and J. J. were fraternal twins. He didn’t look like J. J., something that would have made this all the more difficult.

  Chaplain Bartley entered the spare office in the admin building, followed by another chaplain. Both wore daily work uniforms, both had Army chaplain emblems over their right shirt pockets. Mac noticed a cross on Bartley’s uniform; a Star of David and a stylized Ten Commandments tablet on Colonel Joel Rubin’s. Rubin was the new Fort Jackson command chaplain.

  Both rose when Mac walked into the room. For a long moment no one spoke.

  Bartley looked white as concrete and
his face as hard. Rubin looked as if he had been awake for a week. Mac exchanged glances with Kinkaid, who didn’t look any better. Seconds passed as Mac tried to find the words to begin. Should he thank them for coming? Stupid idea. They were ordered here and if anyone on base could guess why they were summoned, it was these two. Mac thought of the advice he gave Colonel Weidman, “Just say it, Danny. It won’t taste any better but you’ll be done with it.” Advice was so much easier to give than follow. Mac opened his mouth to speak but Bartley beat him to it.

  “When?”

  Mac should have guessed, part of their job was delivering the very kind of news he was bringing. “We don’t have a specific time. Sometime this morning our time. Evening theirs.”

  “How?”

  “Unclear, Chaplain. We assume gunfire. It’s still being investigated.”

  Bartley’s face reddened and he shut his eyes for a moment. A tear trickled down his right cheek. “The team? All gone?”

  A beat. “Yes.”

  Another second passed. Mac didn’t rush things. He had delivered news like this before. He lost men before, but never a whole team.

  “May I ask where?” Bartley’s right hand trembled a moment then stopped. Mac didn’t have to strain to guess the kind of battle going on between the man’s ears.

  “You know I can’t reveal . . .” Then took a noisy breath. “This doesn’t leave the room, Captain. Clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Kyrgyzstan. Bishkek. The capital.”

  “Where the riots are going on.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Captain . . . Chaplain, you should know that I can’t give details but I can tell you they were on a rescue mission. He died trying to save lives.”

  Bartley nodded. “He once told me if he died in the field, he wanted to do it doing something noble. I guess he got his wish.” He opened his eyes. They were flooded. “Bodies?”