by Scott McEwen
He returned about twenty minutes later with a small, handmade wooden box that he brought into the room where Badira was cleaning Sandra’s wound.
“Fine,” she said. “Please set it on the table.”
The boy put the box on the table and stood looking down at Sandra with open disdain. “I thought they hated opium.”
Sandra averted her eyes.
“She’s in great pain,” Badira explained. “Now please go back outside.”
“Their pain is important enough for opium, but ours is not? She’s a hypocrite—just as Naeem has said.” He reached to pull the loose-fitting garment away from Sandra’s neck, wanting a look at her breasts. Sandra grabbed the gown and batted his hand away.
He socked her clumsily in the side of her face and shouted, “Don’t touch me, infidel whore!”
Badira jumped up from her chair, pushing him toward the door. “Get out! She is my responsibility when Naeem is not here. Now go!”
“Who does she think she is!” the boy demanded, throwing his hand in the air and shouting, “I am a soldier. She is our prisoner. She does as we say!”
“And you do as I say!” Badira hissed acidly, pulling the scarf from her face to expose her hideous disfigurement. “Now get out!”
The boy recoiled from her, frightened by the face that only moments before had appeared very pretty to him, two beautiful eyes peering over the top of a maroon hijab.
“I will tell Naeem!” he called over his shoulder as he fled the room.
“Sure you will!” she called after him. “You’ll tell him you ran from a woman. If that I could live to see such a day!”
She jerked the curtain across the doorway and went to open the box on the table.
“What was he saying?” Sandra asked, the confrontation having taken her mind very briefly from the pain.
“They are young and stupid,” Badira said, removing a pea-size pellet of dried opium latex, a small pipe, and a short candle stub from the box.
“I have to smoke it?” Sandra asked, painfully raising herself up onto one elbow.
“This is not a hospital,” Badira reminded her.
The tiny ceramic pipe was no bigger than Sandra’s thumb, made of fired white clay. Badira put the opium pellet into the bowl and gave it to her. Then she lit the candle and told Sandra to scoot closer to the table. “Get the pipe close to the flame,” she told her. “Breath the flame into the blow and inhale the vapor.”
Sandra did as she was told, sucking the vapor deep into her lungs, desperate to kill the pain in her leg. She inhaled twice and was rapidly transported to a separate reality. Every muscle in her body went limp, and her head suddenly seemed to weigh fifty pounds. Badira caught her and helped her to lie back on the bed, covering her with a blanket as she drifted off on the opium cloud.
Badira knew this was the beginning of Sandra’s opium addiction, but if Aasif Kohistani arrived before Naeem returned to take her back to the Americans, addiction would be the least of her worries. For now, it was better to keep her doped up and out of pain. This way she would hardly realize what was happening, should Naeem choose to violate her again.
9
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
Gil stood in the tail section of the Boeing 727 looking down the short staircase extending from the rear of the aircraft to the tarmac six feet below. Chief Steelyard stood at the base of the stairs looking up at him with his hands on his hips, chewing pensively at the unlit Cohiba caught in the corner of his mouth.
“Now I know how D. B. Cooper musta felt,” Gil remarked, recalling the story of the legendary D. B. Cooper who hijacked a 727 in November 1971, demanding a $200,000 ransom for the passengers. After the ransom money was delivered to the plane, along with four parachutes, Cooper ordered the jet back into the air, ostensibly en route to Mexico. But this was merely a ruse. Cooper bailed out the tail end of the 727—exactly as Gil was about to do—somewhere between Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, Washington, never to be seen again. The FBI had insisted ever since that Cooper could not have survived the jump. As far as Gil knew, no one had ever attempted such a jump before or since.
Steelyard snatched the cigar from his teeth, pointing at the fuselage over his head. “This shit right here comes real close to being beyond the call of duty. You’ve got three Pratt & Whitneys right over your goddamn head. If those pilots aren’t flying this crate straight and level when you jump, the jet blast will tear you apart.”
Gil trotted down the stairs. “They’ll bring the airspeed down as close to two hundred knots as they can get it without stalling.”
“I still don’t like it.”
“They never found Cooper’s body, Chief. I believe he made it. I’ll make it, too.”
The older SEAL shook his head, adjusting his cap. “SOG really cooked one up this time. What about the passengers? Seems to me they might notice a sudden loss of cabin pressure.”
“Lerher’s techs already killed the feed to the emergency oxygen masks in the passenger compartment,” Gil said. “The flight won’t be full, only nineteen passengers. Three minutes before I jump, the pilot’s gonna drop the cabin pressure to three psi and knock everybody out. My stewardess and I will already be on oxygen by then, hiding in the rear compartment. The passengers go unconscious within sixty seconds, and that gives us a minute to lower the stairs and for me to hit the silk. The cabin should be resealed and back under pressure inside of three minutes. A couple of minutes after that, everybody wakes up again—scared shitless but none the wiser.”
Two CIA technicians rolled up in a maintenance truck and parked directly beneath the tail of the 727. They climbed into the back where a TIG welder rested against the cab. One of them switched on the welder, and the other opened a stepladder. The welder then donned a pair of thick leather gloves and dark goggles, climbing the ladder to place a couple of spot welds on the first of two pivoting metal airfoils, not much smaller than a ping-pong paddle, located on the fuselage on either side of the stairwell.
“What the hell are those things?” Steelyard asked.
“They’re called Cooper vanes,” answered the technician holding the ladder. “They’re spring loaded. When the aircraft is in flight, the airflow rushes over the foils and turns them to lock the stairs in the up position. Once the plane slows down again, they automatically open back up. We’re welding them open so the stairs can be lowered during flight.”
Steelyard looked at Gil. “Learn something new every day.” He lifted his chin. “Who’s she?”
Gil turned to see a husky-looking woman stalking across the tarmac dressed in dark pants, a maroon turtleneck, and a purple headscarf. She had a rough complexion and a hard look in her obsidian eyes. She was intercepted briefly by an Army sentry who reviewed her credentials and allowed her to pass.
“She’s an operative with MIT,” Gil said. Turkish Intelligence. “The stewardess I just mentioned.”
“Jesus,” Steelyard muttered. “I’m sorry to hear that, little buddy.” Little buddy was a takeoff on Gil’s nickname—Gilligan.
THE WOMAN APPROACHED, staring at Gil without as much as a glance at Steelyard. “Does the aircraft meet with your approval, Master Chief Shannon?” Her voice was deep, and her accent was thick, but her English was easily understood. She was obviously very proud to be working with DEVGRU on such an intrepid mission.
“It does, Melisa, thank you.”
“We’ll be taking off for Kandahar the moment the aircraft is ready,” she said. “I understand you will be following a few hours behind.”
“That’s right,” he replied. “I have to prep my gear for the jump.”
“Very well,” she said, offering her hand. “Until we meet in Kandahar.”
Gil took her hand. “Until Kandahar,” he said with a curt nod, resisting the ironic temptation to click his heels together, a gesture that he was sure she would not have found humorous.
They watched her go.
Steelyard took the cigar from
his mouth and spit. “Too bad she’s not jumping with you. She could probably take ten of the bastards with her bare hands.”
Gil chuckled. “Let’s go have a look at the gear Lerher brought me.”
THE GEAR LERHER had supplied waited for him in the same hangar SOAR was using to keep their hi-tech helicopters out of sight. The kit itself was stowed in an aluminum case not much larger than one of Gil’s own cruise boxes now stacked against the wall. There was no one else around as Gil and Steelyard unlocked the double padlocks at either end.
The first item Gil removed from the crate was a hard plastic gun case containing the Dragunov sniper rifle (SVD) with a Russian PSO-1 optical sight. He set the case down on a workbench and opened it up. The rifle’s wooden stock was weathered, but it had recently been hand-rubbed with linseed oil and was in good condition. Gil disassembled the rifle at once without difficulty. The weapon was of high-quality Russian manufacture, not a Chinese or Iranian licensed production.
“At least it’s an Izhmash,” he said with a glance at Steelyard, naming the Russian manufacturer.
“I guess Lerher couldn’t afford a synthetic stock,” Steelyard muttered.
“Well,” Gil said, knowing that Steelyard couldn’t stand Agent Lerher, “if you think about it, how many hajis are running around inside of Iran with brand-new SVDs?” He stuck a curved plastic light into the breach of the weapon and looked down the muzzle to see the rifling was pristine. “The pipe is brand new. They put rounds through it to sight it in, but that’s it.”
“Goddamn better be.” Steelyard looked around to see if anyone was nearby, then struck a wooden match from his pocket to light the cigar. “If I blow us up, don’t worry. They’ll know who to blame.”
Gil smiled.
He found a pistol in the case and was pleased to see that it was an old government 1911 model .45 ACP, a weapon found all over the world. He was not pleased, however, to find that the recoil spring was weaker than it should have been. He tore the pistol completely down to its smallest parts and found that the firing pin was slightly worn as well. A quick check revealed that the barrel was brand new.
“Chief, my Kimber’s in the number-two case over there,” he said. “Would you mind getting it for me? I’m gonna switch out the spring and the firing pin. Might as well use my arched mainspring housing as well. I’m guessing Lerher’s supplier must’ve thrown this thing in for free with the SVD.”
Steelyard laughed, walking toward Gil’s stack of cruise boxes.
“Uh-ten-hut—officer on deck!” suddenly echoed across the hangar.
Gil and Steelyard turned slowly around, both of them annoyed until they saw who it was. They smiled and shook their heads.
“What the fuck?” said Captain Daniel Crosswhite, United States Army Special Forces, as he came strutting across the hangar. “I thought a squid was supposed to snap to whenever he heard that.”
Gil eyed him, an ironic grin coming to his face. “We’re frogs, ya stupid shit.”
“Well, fuckin’ whatever.” Crosswhite laughed, shaking their hands. He was an operator with Delta Force. “I understand you Navy pricks might need some help.”
“Feel like jumping into Iran for me?” Gil asked offhandedly, knowing that Crosswhite was as solid as they came.
Crosswhite gaped at him. “No shit.” He was a handsome fellow with dark hair and eyes, a light, muscular frame and an infectious devil-may-care smile.
“I’m jumping outta that fucker over there.” Gil jutted his chin toward the 727 that was just beginning to taxi toward the runway.
Crosswhite let out a low whistle. “Those Pratt & Whitneys are liable to barbecue your ass, bro.”
Gil looked at Steelyard. “See how fast these Green Beanies piss themselves over a little bit of prop blast?”
Crosswhite laughed. “You’ll think prop blast when your fucking arms and legs go flying off. I’ll bet you’re jumping in the fucking dark, too.”
“Is there any other time?”
Crosswhite became suddenly very serious. “Listen, you tuck and roll, Gilligan. I ain’t shittin’. I mean you pull yourself tight as fuck when you hit that slipstream.”
Gil nodded, equally serious. “I intend to. Believe me.”
“Scary as it is, I am jealous. What about you, Chief?”
“When I was your age, yeah,” Steelyard said. “Now? I’m a little too fucking old for that James Bond shit.”
Gil jerked his thumb at Steelyard. “He’s taking up finger painting next week.”
Steelyard drew deeply from the Cohiba before exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I think what you mean is that I’ll be finger fucking your sister next week.”
Everyone laughed, and they set about helping Gil to check the rest of his gear.
“Fuck Lerher,” Gil muttered a short time later. “I’m taking my oil-dampened compass. This Chinese piece of shit will freeze up there and break.”
“What about this hunk of shit?” Crosswhite asked, holding up a Chinese military hand radio. “Is SOG for real?”
“Unfortunately, that goes along,” Gil said with a frown.
“Well, this just won’t do,” Crosswhite said. “No frog friend of mine is jumping behind enemy lines with nothing but this Chinese piece of shit.”
He got on his cellular.
“Joe, it’s Crosswhite. Listen, I want you to do me a favor . . . Will you calm down! I haven’t asked you yet.” Crosswhite looked at the other two and rolled his eyes, whispering, “He’s G2. Army Intelligence.”
“I want you to loan one of the things to a frog friend of mine . . . You know what thing—the thing thing! He’s gonna be down there in a few hours, and I want you to meet him on the tarmac . . . Yeah? Well, you still owe me for that little fuck-up in Dallas, dude—or did you forget?” Crosswhite spoke with Joe for another couple of minutes, then got off the phone.
“Okay, it’s all set,” he said to Gil. “Now, if that shitty radio goes eighty-six on your ass, we’ll still be able to find you.”
“But what is it?” Gil wanted to know, exchanging puzzled looks with Steelyard.
“A PDA prototype we’ve been working on,” Crosswhite said. “Joe will explain it. Now, tell me what the hell’s going on with Sandra. I’ve heard stories about some fucked-up video.”
10
AFGHANISTAN,
Kabul, CID
Elicia Skelton was a US Army warrant officer attached to the Army Criminal Investigations Command. Twenty-seven years of age, she was half-Chinese and half-Caucasian with a youthful face and dark hair she wore in an army-style chignon. Wearing an army combat uniform with a CID patch on each arm, she marched up the hall and stopped in the doorway of her supervisor’s office, knocking crisply on the doorjamb.
Brent Silverwood looked up from his computer, his mind elsewhere. “Yes, Elicia?” He was a senior civilian investigator with CID, fifty years of age, slender and handsome with brown hair graying at the temples.
“Mr. Silverwood, we’ve got the DNA results on the Taliban bodies from the Sandra Brux abduction.”
Silverwood postured up in the chair, stretching his back and lending her his full attention. “Come in, Elicia. You don’t have to stand there in the door like that.”
She entered, offering him a thick manila file folder, noting the care lines in his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Most of the DNA samples are too common to trace,” she continued, “but we do have a probable match for one of the bodies, a Taliban teenager who was found a hundred yards from the ambush site where he bled out.”
He set the file aside and rocked back in the squeaky chair. “Bring me up to speed.”
She stood more or less at ease with her hands clasped behind her back as she spoke. “Well, it looks like we may have gotten lucky, sir.”
He lifted his eyebrows slightly. “How so?”
“The young man’s DNA is a definitive match with the Kalasha people living in the Hindu Kush. Certain markers in their DNA are unique to them because their
gene pool has remained relatively small. Now, it’s not a definite lead to Warrant Officer Brux’s location, but we’re certain this young man is at least related to the people living in the village of Waigal. There’s no way of knowing whether he was operating out of there, but if he was, Sandra Brux just might be somewhere in the Waigal Valley.”
Silverwood sat forward to reach for his phone. “Nice work, Elicia.”
“Thank you, sir.” She started to say something else but hesitated when he began to dial.
“Yes?” he said genially.
“Well, sir . . . may I . . . may I ask how your wife is doing, sir?”
He smiled lugubriously and set the phone back down. “She’s still managing, but the pain is increasing almost daily now. I’m afraid I’ll be going home soon to take care of her. She’s decided to stop the chemotherapy.”
Elicia lowered her gaze. “I’m very sorry for you both, sir.”
“So am I. But thank you for asking, Elicia. Most everyone else around here prefers to pretend like I’m my usual self—not that I blame them. It’s never easy to know what to say to someone in my situation.”
“Yes, sir. You’re welcome, sir.” She gave him a tentative smile and left the room.
Silverwood lifted the phone and called Raymond Chou with NCIS. He sat flipping through the file as he waited for him to answer.
“Agent Chou.”
“Ray, it’s Brent. Hey, I think I may finally have something actionable for you on Sandra Brux.”
“Excellent. What is it?”
“Before we get into that . . . did you make a copy of that video when I was out of the room?”
Chou was silent for a moment, then he said, “I sort of thought that was why you stepped out. I’m sorry if I misinterpreted, Brent.”
“You didn’t misinterpret. I just wanted to make sure you’d done it. Okay, so let’s meet. I’m pretty sure I know where Sandra’s being held and by whom, but it’s complicated. I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. How soon can you be in Kabul?”
“Couple hours.”
