by Leigh Barker
“Congressman,” Ethan said, without lowering his gun, “are you okay?”
Bernstein nodded and glanced at Christian. “Mister Carter was just explaining to me why I should reconsider my objection to his proposal.” He fixed Ethan with an odd look. “A perfectly amicable discussion, so I don’t think we’ll be needing those.” He waved a hand towards the raised guns.
Ethan looked around the room, then lowered his Sig and pushed it into its belt holster. “I’m going to have a discussion with Mr. Carter,” he said, “maybe not… amicable.”
“Certainly, agent…?” Christian said, and started to rise, moving the briefcase off his lap.
“Stay,” Ethan said, stepped up behind Christian and pressed his shoulders down to reseat him.
“You seem a little upset,” Christian said, settling back into the chair and hugging his briefcase a little closer.
“Ya think?” Ethan said.
“He gets tetchy when people try to kill him,” Kelsey said, and holstered her gun. “I think it’s a guy thing.”
“Someone tried to kill you?” Christian said, twisting around in the chair to look up at Ethan. “That’s just terrible. Do you know who might do such a thing?”
“I have a pretty good idea.” Ethan pressed a little harder on Christian’s shoulders.
“You look hot, Congressman. Would you like to go outside and get some cool air?” Kelsey said.
Bernstein glanced at Christian and licked his lips. His skin was as pale as cheap porcelain. “Thank you, Agent Jones, I’m fine.”
Two things struck Ethan at the same time; the congressman would not have mixed up Kelsey’s name, it was his nature to remember such things, and—
He stepped back from the chair and reached for his Sig, but Christian’s Berretta was already pointing straight at Bernstein’s head. “You had to be clever, didn’t you? These two morons would’ve just walked away. Gone to find some doughnuts or arrest some hooker, but you had to screw it up.”
The other thing Ethan thought was Carter had access to their files. He’d know Kelsey’s name. Smart after the event. He must be getting old.
“Now it’s all bollixed up,” Christian said, and stood up, letting his briefcase fall to the floor now it was no longer needed to hide the gun. He tried to smile at Melissa, who was frozen in shock, but the smile was just a pale imitation of the real thing. “It was all so elegant,” he said, and breathed a resigned sigh, then waved the Berretta at Ethan.
“Oh, Master Sergeant Gill.” He raised his eyebrows and waited for applause. “You won’t be needing your gun. Put it on the desk, there’s a good fellow.” He waved his gun towards Kelsey. “Oh, and Agent Lyle…” He gave Bernstein a long look of disapproval. “Please put your weapon on the desk too. Kelsey, isn’t it? You don’t mind if I call you Kelsey, do you? No, of course you don’t.”
“I don’t give up my weapon,” Ethan said. “It’s a guy thing.”
“Yes, I understand perfectly,” Christian said. “A marine without his weapon is like…” He frowned. “Like a politician without an audience. Not really whole.” He liked that, and it showed. “Let me help you with your decision.” He pointed his gun at Kelsey. “In three seconds I will shoot your partner in the stomach. She won’t die well.”
Ethan put his gun on the desk, and Kelsey’s followed after a moment’s delay while she thought about just going for it and shooting him.
“See, we can play nice,” Christian said.
“What are you doing?” Melissa said, her voice high and shaking. “This makes no sense.”
“Oh, it makes perfect sense, my dear.” He stepped up beside her so he could see the room without having to turn.
“Kid,” Ethan said, “this is why you’re here.”
Melissa looked from him to Christian, confused.
“This nut-job was going to shoot Congressman Bernstein and let you take the fall. But hey, you wouldn’t care.” He caught Christian’s sharp look. Eight ball in the corner pocket. “He was going to kill you too and… and what? Plant the murder weapon in her hand?” Yeah, of course. “Looks like we’ve derailed that plan.”
Christian tutted. “Oh no, no. It just requires a little tuning that’s all.”
“Right,” Ethan said. “Add two federal agents to your scorecard.”
“Now, my dear,” Christian said, and put his hand on Melissa’s arm, then looked surprised when she snatched it away. “The agent is quite correct.” He gave Ethan a smile. “Now do you see why American law enforcement is the envy of the world? Well done, Master Sergeant.” He applauded, his left hand slapping the Beretta’s barrel.
And that was stupid.
Ethan punted the briefcase up under Christian’s gun arm and swept his Sig up off the desk. Two seconds later Christian recovered, but Ethan’s gun was pointing right at his head.
“Bravo,” Christian said. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Put the gun down,” Ethan said quietly.
Christian looked down at the automatic. “Oh, this?” He lifted it slightly, as if surprised he still had it. Then stepped behind Melissa and put it to her temple. He leaned down and put his head close to her ear. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”
He glared at Bernstein. “It’s your fault. If you hadn’t vetoed my bid, this would not have been necessary. I wouldn’t have to kill you and these fine agents. And I wouldn’t have had to listen to this old woman’s constant bleating. On my yacht, sweet Jesus, I thought I was going to die. God, I was in the shower for a whole fuckin’ week!”
Melissa fainted.
And Ethan put two nine mils into Christian’s brain.
“I thought he was going to talk us to death,” Kelsey said, retrieving her gun from the desk.
Ethan pushed the Beretta away from Christian’s body with his foot and looked down at Melissa, crumpled and unconscious, then holstered his Sig. “Why didn’t you leave when Kelsey gave you an out, Congressman?”
He nodded as if he’d answered the question, but it was just shock. He tore his eyes off what was left of Christian’s head and stared at Ethan for several seconds before he focused. “He said he has two men at my house, with my wife and daughter, and if I did anything to raise the alarm, they would…” He fought to control himself and leaned his head on his hands. “Then they would kill them. They are the most precious things in the world to me. I’d die before I’d let anything happen to them.”
“No dying required today,” Ethan said, displaying his mastery of tact and empathy.
“Ain’t never flown in no private jet before,” Loco said, and pushed his legs straight out in front of him. “How we afford this, Gunny?”
Gunny opened one eye and looked at him from across the wide aisle. “It’s SecNav’s.”
“What’s he want with this boy-toy?” Jerry said, then went to sleep without any visible transition from one state to the other.
“Got a horse ranch down south someplace,” Gunny said. “Needs transportation, I guess.”
Loco leaned over the arm of his seat and waved to the pretty flight attendant and grinned when she raised the bottle of bourbon by way of a question. “That’ll do.”
Gunny opened his eye again. “You get bombed and not be able to function when we get where we’re going, I’ll put you on point in Mr. Tali-fuckin’-ban’s backyard.”
Loco took the tumbler of bourbon from the flight attendant and drained half of it. “Never going to happen, Gunny. Little drink like this? No effect. And anyway wherever we’re going is hours away.”
“Fifteen hours, with a stopover in Cyprus to refuel,” the flight attendant said, and smiled, but it was a stick-on professional smile, not to be taken seriously.
“Where are we going, then?” Loco asked her.
She looked surprised, but covered it well. “Surely you know?”
“No, I don’t,” Loco said, with a hard look across at Gunny.
“And you don’t need to know,” Gunny said. “It’ll just depress you.”<
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“Then I’ll have another of these.” He downed the bourbon and handed her the empty glass.
“Your choice, numb-nuts,” Gunny said, without opening his eyes. “You on point. Taliban backyard. You decide.” He went to sleep.
Loco looked at the second glass of bourbon and made the decision to give it back, drained the glass and handed it to the attendant, then settled back to sleep the flight away.
Wherever they were going, it was going to be shit. He’d need his wits about him. He opened his eyes, focused on the bourbon the attendant was putting back on its shelf, had a rare moment of good sense and went to sleep.
They were asleep again when the interior lights came on and the voice over the speaker told them they were landing at Bagram Air Base.
Loco turned to Smokey sitting in the seat next to his, and punched his shoulder. “You hear that, Smokey? We’re back in fuckin’ Afghanistan. Jesus, I must have shat on an angel in a previous life.”
“I like Afghanistan,” Smokey said, without opening his eyes. “Nice people, healthy climate, good food.”
“You been smokin’ something again?” Loco said.
The C-37A touched down with barely a bump and taxied off the runway as quickly as possible to avoid the Galaxy transport landing right on its tail.
“Welcome to Bagram Airfield,” a calm, relaxed voice said over the speaker. “It’s 03:30 local time and a balmy minus two degrees. That’s twenty-eight for those of you not in tune with the rest of the world.”
“Is he having a dig?” Smokey said as he climbed out of his seat and tried to work out the knots in his spine.
“Dunno,” Loco said, yawning, “but twenty-eight is cold. And I didn’t bring any long johns.”
“You won’t need them,” Jerry said, lifting his bag from behind the huge white leather seat that had been his home for the past fifteen hours or so.
“How come?” Loco said.
“Dufus, the Taliban’ll kill you way before the cold has time to freeze your nuts.”
“Oh, right. That’s okay, then.” Loco pulled his bag from behind the seat, unzipped it and checked his socks and shirt hadn’t been stolen during the flight. He unzipped the rifle bag and took out a Barrett M107 sniper rifle and stroked it as if it were a stripper’s leg.
“Where the hell did you get that?” Smokey said, awe in his voice.
“Top got it for me, said I might find a use for it,” Loco said, and grinned at his friend. “Said he found it in Rock Creek Park.” He patted the long barrel. “Amazing what people leave lying around.”
“You got ammo for it?”
“Nah, I’m going to grab the barrel and beat them to death with it.”
“Better if you had bullets,” Smokey said, and walked past him to deplane.
Gunny was watching Loco without expression, then shook his head in pity. “Don’t ever have any kids, Loco. Promise me that?”
“I love kids, Gunny.”
“I wasn’t enquiring about your diet,” Gunny said, and followed Smokey off the plane, leaving Loco to pack the Barrett back into its bag, muttering to himself about not having a girlfriend so no way to make kids, and getting shot to death complicating things.
By the time he stepped down onto the apron, the rest of the squad were sitting in a MATV, freezing their asses off. Loco put his go-bag in the all-terrain vehicle and sat next to Smokey. He leaned the long rifle bag up against his shoulder.
“Who’s the driver and the civilian?” he asked Smokey.
“First Recon. Sergeant Abram. He’s taking us where we need to go. The other guy don’t speak. He’s the translator.” And that seemed to make sense to everybody, even Loco.
Winter picked up the three radios off the seat next to him. “What the fuck is this heap of junk?”
“Major Larkin said you was to have radios,” Abram said, getting the MATV moving. “They’re radios.”
Winter turned them over in his hands. “They might have been, but when was that, World War Two?”
Gunny leaned over and took a look. “First Desert Storm more likely.” He put his hand on the driver’s seat. “What the fuck’s this about, Sergeant?”
Abram spoke without looking back. “Major Larkin said, and I quote his very words, I was ordered to equip this geriatric spec ops. And that I’ve done. They want radios? They ain’t gonna need radios, ’cus if they call, no fucker’s coming to their rescue. I’m not putting my men in harm’s way for these fuckin tourists. Unquote.”
“Nice guy, this Major Larkin,” Gunny said. “You can introduce us when we get back.”
“Be my pleasure, Gunny.”
Loco leaned forward. “Sarge, this tin box got a heater?”
“You wanna fire? Rub a couple of Boy Scouts together,” Abram said over his shoulder.
“He’s funny,” Loco said. “I like him.”
The others stared at him in the hope he’d shut up.
No chance.
Gunny had been to Bagram many times back in the day. Now as they drove out of the base, it was clear it was a shadow of its former self, when it used to be home to over forty thousand military and support personnel, but only around ten thousand remained. They were supposed to be providing support and guidance to the Afghan forces. Right, support and guidance.
He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. The smell and feel of the all-terrain vehicle took him back to the nightmare that had been Bush’s stab at securing his place in the history books. Well, he achieved that.
Gunny opened his eyes when he felt the MATV leave the Sriracha Road and bounce onto rough terrain. “Heads up,” he said, and the rest of the squad came to full alert.
They were heading northeast away from the Panjshir River, through a village with mud houses scattered like broken bricks across the plain and up into the mountains. Where they were heading.
He looked around the dimly lit interior to make sure the men were ready. It was unnecessary, these were the best, but being careful was second nature to him, and changing that in the middle of Taliban country would be stupid, and that was something nobody could accuse him of.
Loco had his .50 cal in its bag leaning up beside him, but also had an M16 on loan from 1st Recon, while Smokey had an MP5 submachine gun, a present from Sergeant Major Brad Whitmire. Jerry and Gunny both had an M16, and Sergeant Abram had an M4a1 carbine. Five men, ignoring the civilian, six weapons, against a country full of Taliban and al-Qaeda. Gunny hoped to God they didn’t meet any of them.
“Five klicks,” Abram said, and jabbed his finger towards the mountains silhouetted against the moonlit sky. “Be there about two hours before dawn.” He slowed the MTAV as the road started to climb and get crappier. “Unless we run into a mess of bandits.”
“Don’t talk that down on us, Sarge,” Smokey said.
“Yeah, forgot, you spec ops boys are a superstitious bunch.”
“Maybe there’s something in it, maybe not,” Jerry said. “Don’t cost anything to cover that base, though, does it?”
“I hear that,” Abram said, and shut up.
“We go any faster?” Loco said. “I want to be back at Bagram in time for lunch.” He winked at Smokey in the near dark.
“And be away from all the bad men hiding out in the mountains, just waiting for some Mexican boy to come bouncing along?” Jerry said.
“How’d they know I’m Mexican? I look like the rest of you rednecks,” Loco said.
“They won’t see you,” Gunny said. “They’ll fuckin’ hear you.”
“Shutting up, Gunny,” Loco said.
Gunny pressed the light on his G-shock and watched the second hand go round.
“What’s he doing?” Loco whispered.
“Timing how long before you kick off again,” Jerry said. “What was that, Gunny? Ten seconds?”
“Five,” Gunny said.
“Gunny,” Abram said, “village ahead. He pulled the MTAV off the road and stopped. “This is your exfil, my locale in sixty mikes.”
“Copy that,” Gunny said, then reached for the door handle. “Show time, boys.”
“Gunny?” Loco said, and waited for him to look back from the open door. “Can I shout go, go, go! this time?”
Gunny stepped out of the MTAV and said something muffled by the vehicle’s Plasan composite hull. They could guess what he said.
He waited for the others to get out, and the translator to join them, still not speaking. “We go in, the translator—”
“Mahdi,” the translator said, in perfect American.
“Hey, he speaks,” Loco said, grinning.
“Right, Mahdi will ask the village elder the questions we have; then we get the fuck out without being seen or making a noise.”
“So we’re leaving Loco behind?” Winter said.
Gunny led the way along the rough road towards the village. “Loco, you ’n Smokey take overwatch,” he said, without turning.
“Copy that, boss,” Loco said, and he and Smokey switched to a narrow goat trail leading up the mountainside.
“You think Top expects us to find Faraj here drinking tea?” Winter said.
“I don’t know what he expects,” Gunny said. “He says go, we go.” He glanced at Winter, his white hair almost luminous in the predawn light. “Maybe this village elder dude will know where Faraj is.”
“What makes you think he’ll tell us even if he does?”
“Doin’ the right thing, maybe.”
“He will tell you if he knows,” Mahdi said quietly. “The people here are not terrorists, they bleed at the hands of the Taliban. They will not shelter them willingly.”
“Good to hear,” Gunny said. And brought his M16 up to the ready position to show how much he trusted that.
“How we even gonna find the guy, this elder?” Winter said, checking his M16 was locked and loaded.
“I will take you to him,” Mahdi said. “I know this village.”
“Cool,” Winter said, then glanced at him. “How come?” He saw the look even in the dim light. “How come you know this village? There’s hundreds of them.”
“It is… it used to be my village.”
“Then we need to be out of here before light,” Gunny said.
