by Scott McEwen
Forogh shrugged. “Many uncles, cousins. They fought with Massoud against the Russians.”
“Do you think you can get in there with the place being under HIK control?”
Forogh nodded. “My uncles will vouch for me. No one in my family knows that I work for American Special Forces.”
In his mind, Gil was suddenly halfway to Bazarak. “Do you think you could get in there and find out where Sandra’s being held? Would you be willing to try?”
“Yes,” Forogh said. “I’m worried, though. I don’t trust the CIA.”
“Don’t worry,” Gil said. “We’re not telling SOG. We’re keeping this a nice tight little unit. But first I gotta get permission.”
This confused Forogh. “Permission? But you just said to forget about SOG.”
“SOG’s not in authority now.” Gil bumped him on the shoulder. “I’m talking about getting permission from a higher source. Give me two hours, then meet me back in the hangar.”
Gil went to his quarters and dug out the iPhone he’d gotten from Joe the night of Operation Tiger Claw. He’d spoken with Joe since and talked him into letting him borrow the hi-tech PDA indefinitely.
He typed out a detailed message and sent it off to Langley, Virginia. Then he lay on his bunk to take a nap. An hour later, he received a lengthy answer to his message and jumped up to go find Major John Brux.
40
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
Major John Brux was sitting in the mess hall by himself, picking at a compressed beef patty, when a man he didn’t remember ever seeing before sat down across the table from him.
“John Brux, right?” the man said.
Brux looked at him, not really appreciating the intrusion. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Gil Shannon. I’m a good friend of Dan Crosswhite. I also know your wife.”
Brux was a big man with dark eyes and broad shoulders, but his shoulders were uncharacteristically drooped beneath the weight of the burden he was carrying these days. He noticed the trident on Gil’s uniform. “Were you on the Bank Heist mission with Crosswhite?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Gil said, sitting back with a sigh. “I was stuck back here nursing a bullet wound to my ass. I’d like to talk to you about something off the record.”
Brux took a look around. The closest people were a pair of civilian intelligence analysts sitting five tables away. “I’m listening.”
Gil lowered his voice and sat forward, keeping his face casual. “If I can get an indigenous operative into Bazarak to mark the exact building where Sandra is being held, do I have your permission to go in there and try to bring her out?”
Brux stole another startled look at the analysts who stared back at him for a curious moment before continuing with their meal. “What are you talking about?”
“Yes or no?”
“No,” Brux said. “Ten men nearly died already. Two of them are facing court-martial. She wouldn’t want anyone else taking that kind of a risk. Besides, what could one man do?”
Gil shrugged. “That depends on the man and how big his balls are. More important, it depends on whether or not there’s a Spectre gunship watching over him.”
Brux shook his head, thinking Gil must be some kind of a hero type. “No. I appreciate your willingness to try, but no. Sandra’s best chance now is for the State Department to negotiate her release.”
“John, no offense, but that’s dog shit, and you know it. The HIK has her, and those people are fixing to take over this country after we leave. Weakness and mercy are not the paths to power.”
Brux stared at him, his face clouding over with a mixture of fear and anger. “You think I need to hear shit like that right now?”
Gil went on, keeping is voice low. “I’ve got a plan to bring your wife out. You in or not?”
Brux watched the analysts getting up to leave, and then lowered his voice. “What the fuck’s so special about you, huh? Why should I trust Sandra’s life to some renegade adrenaline junkie with a death wish?”
Gil’s eyes twinkled. “Because to me . . . this mission will be just another one . . . way . . . trip.”
Brux sat back in the chair. Very few people on earth knew about Operation One Way Trip, the mission during which he had been the pilot of the MC-130H Combat Talon II aircraft that had extracted Master Chief Gil Shannon from the Chinese coast via the Skyhook Surface-To-Air Recovery (STAR) system first employed by the CIA during the Vietnam War. Brux had never been told Gil’s name nor been allowed to see his face for security reasons.
“So that was you,” he said quietly.
“If half a billion screamin’ Chinese couldn’t kill me, how the fuck are a hundred hajis gonna manage it?”
“The HIK has close to a thousand fighting men in the mountains around the Panjshir Valley.”
Gil shrugged. “That’s in the mountains around the village. There won’t be more than a few hundred in Bazarak.”
“How did you know it was me in the cockpit?” Brux wanted to know. “We were never supposed to know each other’s identities.”
“Sandra and I had a talk one night,” Gil said. “We all landed back here after a snatch-and-grab just across the border into Pakistan. She and I had a few laughs . . . she mentioned her husband flew rubber dog shit of out Manila once in a while . . . one question led to another . . . you know how it goes.”
Brux failed to stop the grin that spread across his face. “Damn girl never could keep her mouth shut. Did you know about her and Captain What’s His Name?”
“Sean Bordeaux?”
Brux lowered his eyes and nodded.
“Not until just now.”
Brux looked up. “What’s that mean?”
“Well, they were tight,” Gil said. “I could see that, but I never thought anything was going on between them. You’re telling me you don’t have a special friend back in Manila? Nobody to take the edge off?”
Brux shrugged his shoulders. “Do you really think you can get her out of there?”
“I think we can get her out of there.”
“Suppose I agree. What do you need me to do?”
“You got any friends in the 24th STS? I mean, friends with balls?” This was the 24th Special Tactics Squadron, the SMU under the auspices of the United States Air Force.
Brux grinned. “Is a frog’s asshole watertight?”
Gil reached back to grab his ass. “It was the last time I checked.”
“How many men do we need?”
“Enough to help you fly the Spectre . . . run the guns . . . and operate the STAR system.”
“STAR system?” Brux said in surprise. “On a Spectre? There aren’t any C-130s matching that configuration. Never have been, as far as I know. Hell, the Skyhook I flew to pull you out was special-rigged for that mission and disassembled that same night.”
“What if I told you there’s a CIA Spectre down in Diego Garcia with a custom STAR rig?”
Brux felt chills. “I’d ask how the hell you could know something like that.”
“I didn’t know until about ten minutes ago,” Gil said. “I sent a message to a friend of mine asking for ideas, and he came up with the Spectre. I’m going to trust you with something that only two people know about, John, and only because Sandra’s life is riding on it. I’m connected back in Langley, very deep, to a guy I’ve never actually met. If we go through with this, it might well end up costing him everything, but he’s willing to roll the dice . . . if you’re willing to put it on the line for your wife and fly the fucking plane.”
“From Diego Garcia?”
Gil shook his head. “If you tell me you can find us a crew within twenty-four hours, that fucking plane is going to magically appear out there on the tarmac at zero dark thirty tonight.”
A smile broke out across Brux’s his face. “Now I know why you’re the one they sent into China. So you’re actually a spook.”
“No,” Gil said. “But my old man saved a
spook’s life once in Vietnam.”
“Okay,” Brux said, pushing all his chips forward. “I’ll have a crew here in twelve hours, but listen, tough guy . . . every one of them’s going to be AWOL, so we’ll need a good place to hide them.”
“Shit, John, this is the Sandbox. There’s holes to hide in all over this motherfucker.”
AN HOUR LATER Gil sat down on his bunk and called his wife using a borrowed satellite phone. “Hey, beautiful. It’s me. Sorry to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleepin’,” Marie said. “I was layin’ here waitin’ for you to call.”
“What are you talkin’ about? I didn’t decide to call you till half an hour ago.”
“Well,” she said, letting out a girlish yawn, “I woke up half an hour ago feelin’ like you were gonna call me. So I’ve been waitin’.”
Gil wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. He didn’t believe in premonitions, good or bad, but it was an odd coincidence. “Everybody okay—mom, Oso, the horses?”
“Yep. Everybody’s good. What’s happening?”
“I’m going off the reservation, baby. I may end up getting in some real trouble for it, too.”
She said, “Which means you’re goin’ after Sandra. What’s ‘off the reservation’ mean—that you don’t have nobody’s permission?”
He felt a sudden lump in his throat, unable to help putting himself in John Brux’s boots. “I have her husband’s permission.”
“Then that’s plenty. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t need nobody else’s.”
“But I do,” he croaked. “I need yours.”
“You have it,” she said softly. “Of course you have it. You’re going in against the odds this time, aren’t you?”
“Very much.”
“Then the real reason you’re callin’ me is to give me the chance to say good-bye. Is that right?”
He lowered his head. “Maybe,” he whispered, his voice suddenly raw.
“I’m grateful to you for that. I know how difficult it is . . . and it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever done.”
His guilt was too great. He couldn’t speak.
“Gil, listen to me,” she said. “I ain’t never loved nobody on this earth the way I love you . . . but I’ve always known this day was comin’. I’ve known it because I know you. I’ve been preparin’ for it. And the idea of not gettin’ to say good-bye was always what scared me most. You need to know you’re the finest man there is,” she said to him. “The best this country’s got to offer that woman . . . and I’ll tell you somethin’ else, my husband. It makes me proud knowin’ you’re goin’ in to get her back without the damn Navy’s say-so . . .”
41
AFGHANISTAN,
Jalalabad Air Base
Late that night Gil opened the door to his quarters and snapped on the light to find Master Chief Steelyard sitting there waiting for him. “What the fuck are you doin’ in here?”
Steelyard struck a match to light a cigar. “Looking to find out what the fuck you’re up to.”
“That’s none of your business. Get outta my quarters. I’m tired.”
There was a quick knock at the door, and Crosswhite slipped inside. “Whatever the fuck you’re up to, Gilligan, I want in on it.”
“Jesus Christ!” Gil said. “Has Forogh been running his mouth?”
“I wish. I did everything but threaten to waterboard his ass. He’s not talking.”
“Good. Because there’s nothing to talk about.”
“We’re not blind,” Steelyard said. “You two have been creeping around the base all day like a couple of cockroaches. Now, are you cutting us in, or am I ratting you off to the Head Shed?”
Gil smirked. “What do you want in this for, Chief? Ain’t you two pricks in enough trouble already?”
Crosswhite tapped Steelyard on the shoulder. “Hey, Chief, how about giving me one of those cigars, buddy?”
Steelyard turned his head to look up at him, arching his eyebrow. “How about washing my balls . . . buddy?” He got up from the chair and stepped toward Gil. “You owe me for Indonesia, Gilligan. Now what the fuck is going on?”
“Oh? You sure you want to call that one in, Chief? That’s a pretty big chip to risk at the roulette wheel.”
“I’m a risky motherfucker!”
Gil sat down on the edge of his bed. “Forogh has family in Bazarak. I didn’t know it before, but his family’s a warrior clan—or they used to be. Anyhow, I’m gonna hide up in the mountains outside the village while he goes in and fingers the building where they’re holding Sandra. Then I’m going in to bring her out.”
“You and the haji,” Crosswhite said, slightly incredulous. “Alone.”
“Well, not exactly,” Gil said. “Anyhow, I need to get in there by tomorrow night . . . ahead of Operation Fell Swoop . . . so we’re leaving in the morning. I know an SAS helo pilot who’s gonna drop us off south of the valley.”
Steelyard exchanged harsh glances with Crosswhite. “What the fuck is Fell Swoop, and how the hell is Forogh gonna finger fuck the building?”
Gil put a hand into the cargo pocket of his ACUs, bringing out an MS-2000 Firefly, an infrared strobe light that would be visible for miles, though only through the lens of an infrared night-vision device. “He’ll toss this onto the roof, and the enemy will never even know it’s there. Simple as it gets.”
Steelyard stepped over, lifting his boot to rest it on the footboard of the bed. He braced his elbow against his knee and pointed at Gil with the wet end of the cigar. “It’s not that simple, and you know it. The HIK’s been occupying that valley for months. You’re gonna need tac-air to get out of there alive, amigo.”
“I’ve already taken care of that.”
“You’re telling me you found somebody else stupid enough to put their ass on the line with you?”
“Look outside.”
Steelyard went to the window with Crosswhite. On the far side of the tarmac sat what appeared to be an AC-130J Spectre gunship, bristling with a 25 mm Equalizer rotary cannon, a 40 mm Bofors auto-cannon, and a 105 mm howitzer . . . though something wasn’t quite right about the plane’s configuration.
Steelyard turned around. “You’re telling me that’s here for you?”
“Officially?” Gil shook his head. “Officially, it landed an hour ago with avionics trouble. From what I understand, it could take a few days to get the right parts in to make the necessary repairs.”
“Bullshit,” Steelyard said. “How’d you manage that?”
Gil got to his feet. “Wanna see it up close?”
“I want to know how you managed to pull it out of your ass.”
Gil put out his chest and got in Steelyard’s face. “I’ve got friends at the Vatican. You wanna see the fuckin’ thing or not?”
FIVE MINUTES LATER, they stood on the tarmac beside the Spectre. The three guns protruding from the left side of the fuselage were covered with canvas covers to protect them from the elements. Attached to the nose of the aircraft were two incongruous steel booms, both approximately twenty feet long and folded back from the nose, locked into place along either side of the fuselage.
“I’ve never seen a Spectre like this,” Crosswhite said. “What are those arms for?”
Steelyard took the cigar from his teeth and spit. “It’s some kind of a modified Skyhook.” He looked at Gil. “This is a CIA bird. Probably isn’t even on the goddamn books.”
Gil pointed at the “USAF” emblem on the fuselage. “No, it’s an Air Force bird, Chief. Says so right there on the—”
“You can stencil a swastika on the fucking thing,” Steelyard grumbled. “That don’t make it no Nazi plane. The Air Force discontinued the STAR system clear back in ’98, so this plane’s not even supposed to exist. Now, I’ll ask you again—who did you get in the CIA to loan it to you?”
“Sorry, Chief. I gave you all the clues I’m givin’ ya.”
Steelyard stood staring at him for a long moment, the gears slow
to mesh. Then he recalled Gil’s crack about the Vatican. “Pope!”
Gil’s face split into a grin.
“Christ Almighty. How long have you been in bed with that crazy bastard?”
“I got a handwritten note from him about five years ago—right after the last president appointed him to run SAD. He said he’d been following my career, said he owed my father his life, and if there was ever anything he could do for me, to let him know. So earlier today I sent him an email telling him what I had in mind. I asked him if he had any suggestions.” Gil pointed at the plane. “This is what he suggested.”
Crosswhite whistled tonelessly. “They say he’s protected by the devil himself.”
“He is the devil himself,” Steelyard said bitterly. “So where’s the crew?”
“They caught the next thing smoking back to Diego Garcia.”
“Then who’s going to fly the fucking—Brux! You got Brux mixed up in this?”
“See there?” Gil said. “I knew you Gulf War One frogs were sharp.”
“Brux is a wreck,” Crosswhite said in disbelief.
Gil stood pulling on his chin. “To be honest, Dan, I didn’t think a rescue was possible until you told me he was on the base. It wasn’t easy getting his permission to make the attempt, but once I got it, I had everything I needed. He’s the only pilot I know who’s ever flown Skyhook.”
Steelyard jerked his head toward Gil, pointing at him with a stubby finger. “You lying son of a bitch. That’s how you got out of China. I knew that submarine story was bullshit.”
“Like you said, Chief . . . Skyhook was officially discontinued clear back in ’98.” He shook his jaw as he spoke, imitating Steelyard’s jowly way of talking, but it came out more like a bad Nixon impression, and Crosswhite laughed out loud.
“Fuck you!” Steelyard said to Crosswhite, turning to Gil. “You could’ve told me the truth, you prick. I share everything with you.”
“Everything, Chief?” Gil stepped up, reaching into Steelyard’s jacket to take a pair of cigars from the inside pocket, passing one off to Crosswhite. “So who was the girl in Manila, Halligan—the doxy you keep in your wallet?”
