And I’m alone on a mountain.
“Where are the others?”
They went off to play soldier.
“I’ve seen the Sheikh.”
Jesus . . . did you kill him?
“Not yet. There are armed men protecting him.”
Where are you?
“In a cave at the base of the large rock I told you about.”
The sun will be up soon.
“Are you sure?”
Sorry.
“I need you to help with something, will you do that?”
What do you need?
“This thing you made . . . inside my head, how do I stop it?”
If it’s what I think any attempt to remove it can set it off.
“It’s cruel.”
I didn’t design it, exactly . . . I made the capsule that keeps your body from expelling it.
“What can we do?”
Has it gone off, the sonic alarm?
“That diseased little man has left me alone since we left America.”
But for how much longer?
“Can you do anything?”
There’s a back door in the programming that I didn’t tell the agency techs about . . . I might be able to send a signal to place it in standby so—
“Can you stop it, or turn it off? I don’t need the explanation.”
Only if I can figure out the frequency and I’ll need a signal from it to do that.
“You don’t know how to talk with it?”
I know how . . . I just need to find what band it’s been receiving. The tracker only displays the results of one sensor at a time . . . it wasn’t made to track multiple frequencies at the same time.
“But you can’t do anything right now?”
Not while you’re in that cave.
Calida paused her thoughts for a long moment. “I would like to see you again.”
Then let’s not get ourselves killed.
“You shouldn’t have been afraid of me last night . . . I wouldn’t have hurt you.”
Calida broke away before Ryan’s next thought.
It was time to go.
Calida glanced up at the ledge that overlooked the pit. It was perhaps twelve feet above her. She kicked off her sandals, stepped backward, and sprang into the air. She landed on her feet with her heels hanging over the edge. She straightened her burqa and looked down the passage.
There was light coming from the far end and silhouetted in the light was a man.
A Taliban guard walked toward her.
The Rangers had been gone thirty minutes. Ryan hadn’t moved from his spot although he did catch himself pacing during his most recent mind-lock with Calida. All he could do now was agree with her last thought. His heart raced. Nearly a mile above sea level in freezing temperatures he was sweating beneath his clothes. Ryan couldn’t decide if it was out of fear or love. Deciding it wasn’t the time or place for self analysis, he split the difference.
He held the tracker up and scrolled through the screen options. He selected the signal log and brought up the frequencies that had been picked up by the tracker during the last twenty-four hours. The frequency for the newly implanted tracking sensor in Calida’s shoulder was listed as the default signal along with the VLF that piggy-backed the main signal. There weren’t any other frequencies logged as being received.
Ryan let out a low, frustrated moan. Something wasn’t right. Unless the device in Calida’s head had been tampered with, or reprogrammed, it should show up in the signal log.
Ryan placed the tracker’s strap around his neck and started after the two rangers. Every step was becoming more painful as his muscles began to cramp. He awkwardly crested the large stone pile and was on the way down the other side when a soft metallic click from somewhere close made him freeze.
Something hard pressed into his side.
“You make too much noise,” Sergeant Bob said in a low voice.
Ryan looked down at his side and composed himself. “You can remove your gun.”
“Okay, I didn’t want to come straight for you and find out you’re a good shot.”
“I’m not.”
Sergeant Bob stepped in front of Ryan and gestured toward where they were going. “We got all of them but one managed to get a shot off as he hit the ground.”
“I heard it.”
“You and everyone else in the valley.”
“So now what?”
“We get our asses moving. I want us out of this valley in the next thirty minutes.”
Ryan winced as another cramp threatened. He took a deep breath and looked at the tracker’s screen. “She talked to me again.”
“You’re sure?”
“What does that mean?”
Sergeant Bob pointed his rifle toward the ground and shrugged. “Look, if you’re attached to her your decision making might be compromised.”
“How about you take me at my word until proven otherwise?”
“All right, go ahead.”
“She’s seen the Sheikh, but hasn’t gotten any further than that.”
“What’s she waiting for?”
“There are armed guards everywhere.”
“Everyone’s armed . . . all right, move out. The longer we’re away the itchier Squall’s trigger finger will get.”
Ryan slowly followed Sergeant Bob for a few minutes and after navigating through a maze of rocky folds, they came to Squalls who pointed his rifle directly at Ryan’s chest, then quickly lowered it.
“I’d say they’re all men from the compound,” Squalls said. “They’re not Taliban.”
Ryan looked at the five bodies lined up next to each other along the base of a low granite hump. Three of them had a single gunshot wound to the head while the other two had been shot in the chest, one of them twice.
Sergeant Bob nodded. “Yeah, not their night . . . probably just a loose patrol.”
“They had these . . . .” Squalls picked up two small military radios. “Both are PRC-148s, regular US Army issue, Sergeant.”
“Not surprised.” Sergeant Bob took one of the small black radios and looked at its display. “Half of the equipment these guys use is American.”
“These aren’t encrypted—they’re transmitting in the clear.”
“We’ll take them with us,” Sergeant Bob said and looked toward the end of the valley. “All right, the terrain gets easier from here so you better keep up.” He pointed at Ryan. “Keep that tracker screen in your sight at all times from now on. I want to know the second she’s out in the open.”
“We’ve been here too long, Sergeant.”
“Okay Squalls, let’s get moving. We’re about two klicks from the end of the valley and sunrise is in thirty minutes.”
Ryan again checked the tracker’s screen.
Still nothing.
Calida pressed herself up against the smooth, hard wall of the passage. The guard was twenty feet away and paused. He reached up toward something on the wall and the lights came on.
Calida jumped forward and covered the distance between them just as the guard turned towards her. In one motion, she grabbed the back of his neck with her left hand and with her right shoved his head backward.
A sharp crack echoed down the passageway as the guard’s neck vertebrae splintered under the terrific pressure.
The guard’s legs went limp and she let him drop. She had severed his head from the spinal column, but the skin of his neck remained intact. Calida listened close. His heart was still beating and she uncovered his left arm, extended her fangs, and sliced deeply into his wrist. She quickly fed, careful not to stain her burqa with his blood. After swallowing several mouthfuls, she finished, picked up the body, and after carrying it back to the pit, she tossed it over the ledge.
Calida felt for the sun. Twenty minutes. Even if she stayed inside the cave within thirty minutes, her strength would be nearly gone.
She breathed in deeply and picked up Nafisa’s scent. The girl’s sweat, laden
with the markers of fear, provided a clear trail to follow. Calida again projected her awareness. The girl’s mind was a frantic jumble of broken thoughts.
Calida fully extended her fangs and grew her fingernails into inch long pink daggers with razor edges.
She moved down the passageway following the scent trail and came to a roughly chiseled tunnel that led southward from the main east-west passageway.
Calida entered the poorly lit tunnel and after forty feet, she stopped and listened. She could hear music along with faint, erratic squeals from somewhere up ahead. She could also sense the presence of several men just beyond where the tunnel made a bend to the right.
Calida placed the veil of her burqa over her face and continued up the tunnel. She followed the bend and immediately came into view of three men.
They saw her and raised their AK-47s.
“Do not come closer,” one of them shouted; his agitated voice struggled to be heard above the loud music coming from behind him.
Calida bowed deeply and placed both hands over her veil. “I ask forgiveness, I have become lost in the dark ways of this place.”
“Becoming lost here is asking for death,” the same man said as he stepped closer to her. “Why are you not in your hole?”
“The Talibi had me come up and find him water.”
“This is the place of our Sheikh. The water here is only for him and his men.” The man came even closer to Calida, his movements were those of someone trained in the highest arts of suspicion and distrust. “Raise your burqa. I must see if anything is hidden.” He aimed his rifle directly at her chest.
Calida with deliberate care did as ordered and revealed her legs and torso to the man. “I have nothing for any of you to fear,” she said. “I am only a Pashtana brought here to serve.”
The man studied her for a long moment and then lowered his rifle. He grimly laughed. “Then you may serve us.” He stepped up to Calida and grabbed her by the arm. “Let me see how pretty you are. Are you pretty enough for us?”
The other two men relaxed, lowered their rifles, and joined their comrade.
Calida allowed the man to pull her veil off her head revealing her face.
She looked at him and the smile on his face vanished.
Calida shot out her right hand, buried her extended fingers into the front of the man’s neck, and just as quickly withdrew her hand. Before the dead man hit the hard floor of the tunnel, she crushed the throat of another with an unseen kick and as the third man raised his gun, she deflected the weapon away from her and slapped him across his face with her open left hand. He crumbled to the floor. His lower jaw had nearly been sheared away from his head and now hung by a flap of skin and tissue still attached to the left side of his face.
Calida looked over at the man she had kicked in the throat. His larynx was crushed. He now silently writhed about the floor, unable to make any sounds. There wasn’t an open pathway to bring air into his lungs.
She picked up her burqa, placed it back over her head, and took a moment to straighten her veil. A dozen feet in front of her several large panels of red satin material hung down from the ceiling forming a curtain that blocked her view of what was on the other side.
She recognized the music coming from behind the curtain. It was American. A song by a famous female singer who had an occasional cocaine habit and had also married poorly. Calida tightly focused her hearing and through the music heard words being spoken. She recognized a high-pitched voice. The Sheikh and Nafisa were on the other side of the satin curtain. She stepped over the suffocating man whose body had gone into a series of terminal convulsions.
Calida reached forward, pushed one of the satin panels aside, and passed through the curtain.
Chapter Twenty-two
“I have sworn to only live free. Even if I find bitter the taste of death, I don’t want to die humiliated or deceived.”
—Osama bin Laden, Terrorist
“Her time to be retired will come,” the Director said. “But if she is successful and survives this operation, she would remain a useful asset.”
Senator Pachy shifted his weight and looked at his colleague sitting to his left. “We all know that Vice President Dwicke is calling the shots here. This young fellow for the Dems is too popular for my side of the aisle right now and if your party takes Pennsylvania Avenue and both Houses, Homeland Security will go under a magnifying glass.”
“What do you propose?”
“Well now, Milsten, we all want this country to come out with a win here, don’t we?”
“Of course.”
“According to this latest update from our Director here we’re still in the game.” Senator Pachy cleared his throat and coughed. “All the administration wants out of this matter is a successful end to the mission’s target—with proof, of course.”
“And what is to become of the agency?”
“Now don’t get yourself going four different ways about this. We’ve made our fiduciary responsibilities to this here agency and funded its operations for the next four years. We just need to make sure that the 2012 elections prove to be, eh, sympathetic with our committee’s efforts.”
“How can we be sure of that?” Senator Asinas asked.
“The Vice President has given a lot of thought to this peculiar stone situation,” Senator Pachy replied. “And it’s his opinion—which I share—that this stone, when found, would allow us to protect this great country from its enemies and enable us to shape future elections.”
“Shape future elections?”
“Oh damn, Milsten, only those candidates that meet our standards would be allowed to run for office.”
“Whose standards?” Senator Asinas asked and took a sip from his drink.
“You do see that your party is going to be in control for the next four years, don’t you?”
“And my party thanks the . . . administration . . . .” Senator Asinas paused and blinked. “. . . What do you mean by ‘shaping of future elections.’?”
“It has been decided that anyone running for high government office needs to be sympathetic to a certain set of values.”
“—Those of the far right?”
Senator Pachy frowned. “Well now, to be honest, yes.”
Senator Asinas put his drink down and momentarily looked confused. “I . . . I have no intentions of agreeing to this. Power must be shared . . . by both parties.”
“Ooh no, Senator, I believe you have missed Senator Pachy’s point.”
“Seems clear . . . enough.” Senator Asinas began to slowly sway back and forth in his chair. “The point . . . the Senator’s point is . . . is clear.”
Senator Pachy gave the Director an inquisitive look.
“No more than another minute I should think.”
Senator Asinas began to blink and shake his head. “What is wrong . . . have you . . . you’ve done something . . . .” He looked at the bottle of Scotch that their drinks had been poured from. He tried to focus on the bottle, but his eyes wondered around. “But you were drinking . . . from the same bottle.” And a desperate fear cut through the confusion on the senator's face.
“I would never waste such a glorious bottle of scotch by poisoning it,” The Director said and picked up the bottle on the tray, refilling both his and Senator Pachy’s glasses. “It is your glass that has been treated. Well, it really isn’t glass at all, Senator Asinas. It’s actually a hard cellulose based material doped with one of our newest formulas.” The Director took a quick draw from his smoldering pipe and blew out the smoke. “The alcohol from the scotch has been slowly leaching the poison out.”
The democratic senator reached for his glass and missed. He tried to stand, but only managed to slump halfway out of his chair.
“Now I am sorry about this Milsten,” Senator Pachy said. “But you don’t have to worry about things. You’ve provided for your family and have been an excellent servant to this country.”
The Director raised his glass. “T
o a great Senator.” He and Senator Pachy tilted their glasses toward each other in a symbolic toast.
With an unsteady effort, Senator Asinas pushed himself up to his feet, but he wobbled for a second and collapsed forward like a puppet having its strings suddenly cut. His chin came down hard on the edge of the Director’s desk flinging his head backward. He came to rest on the floor with his head against the front of his chair.
Senator Pachy looked over and down at his former colleague, took his glasses out of his suit pocket, and put them on. “Looks like he spit something out.”
“Oh my,” the Director said as he stood up from his chair and leaned forward. “Most unfortunate. I just had these carpets cleaned last week and now all of this blood.”
“What is that? Looks like a piece of raw Texas steak.”
“Ooh, it’s not steak. The senator appears to have bitten off the end of his tongue when he struck the desk.”
Senator Pachy removed his glasses and placed them back in his pocket. “Poor Milsten, if he’d learned the right way to bite his tongue Vice President Dwicke might have spared him.”
The Director sat back down in his chair. “He spoke with the reflex of a long time politician. We gave him the opportunity but he didn’t see it. The fault lies with him.”
“Harrumph, now in case this Kah-lee-duh affair leaks out all trails will point to him going rogue?”
“Of course, Senator.”
Senator Pachy took a final sip of his scotch and stood up. “Take care of Milsten here. And you do understand that neither Miss Villena nor our scientist friend are to be heard from again?”
“An accident site has already been prepared for the Senator,” the Director replied. “Once I have confirmation either way regarding her mission I shall send out a termination signal for agent Villena.” The Director reached into his suit pocket and took out the transmitter linked to the implant.
“And this Doctor Ryan?”
“One of the rangers on the insertion team has been individually briefed . . . a recent graduate of the Agency.”
“Very good, now you take care of Milsten and do be sure to pay your respects at the service.”
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