He took a moment to assess his mark. The man seemed a bit on the older side and was dressed in the clean and darker clothes typical of al Qaeda commanders. And if that was indeed the case, and if he could capture him alive, perhaps Aaron could get the opportunity to—
A stray 9mm Parabellum round from Zameer’s UZI punched the mud wall behind the Goat, near the corner, inches from Aaron’s vantage point.
Aaron reacted fast, jerking his face out of the way as bursts of debris shot by like a shotgun blast.
For the love of …
His back against the wall, eyes settling on the wide mud tracks cut across the soccer field by the Goats that got away—and while Zameer’s near misses continued buzzing by wildly—the Kidon considered his options. Approaching his mark during one of his reloading pauses would certainly minimize the chances of the bastard welcoming him with a loaded weapon. But doing so would expose Aaron to Zameer’s imprecise fire, which nearly tore off his head a moment ago. On the other hand, approaching during the middle of an al Qaeda counterstrike meant all gunfire would be directed away from him—plus the noise would minimize the chance of the rebel hearing him.
Making his decision, he waited for the latter, stepping off the corner the instant Zameer paused to reload and the al Qaeda soldier surged from behind the Goat to return fire.
Peretz sprinted with tenacity, covering two hundred feet in fifteen seconds while assessing the enemy, knowing he would only get one chance at this.
Bringing the UZI up, he aligned the front and rear sights on the back of the man’s left knee, putting a single round through it at a distance of a dozen feet.
The firing stopped abruptly, replaced by the screams of the very surprised survivor, who dropped his weapon and collapsed, hands on his wounded limb.
The Kidon was on top of him before the al Qaeda soldier could react, kicking away the assault rifle while shouting at Zameer to get the hell over there.
Aaron worked quickly, turning the man over and flex-cuffing his wrists behind his back. Unsheathing his old and trusty Israeli combat knife, a seven-inch ferro-blackened D2 stainless steel blade, he sliced into his captive’s partug trousers near the left knee, exposing the wound, which did not appear as severe as he had feared.
The round had only nicked the right side of the joint, causing minimal bleeding. But just to be sure, he used the blade to slice material off the bottom of the partug to make a field tourniquet, which he applied tightly right above the injury.
“Kill me … infidel!” the man hissed in Urdu while Aaron stanched the blood flow. “I’m not afraid to die!”
“And you’ll do that soon enough,” the Kidon replied fluently, as he heard the Land Cruiser coming around and he stared in the direction that the other Goats had gone. “But not yet. Definitely not yet.”
20
The Ba’i
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN.
A jolt of pain shot down his jaw, but Nasseer ignored it. His steady gaze was on the new Ba’i sitting across from him, inside the dark tent pitched just past the entrance to the NATO base.
Outside the sun had yet to rise over the eastern rim rock, leaving the base in the yellowish haze of floodlights. But the Ba’i’s tent was off to the side, in the shadows of a towering perimeter wall, and he limited light inside to a single candle burning between them, its flickering flame unable to pierce the darkness of the surrounding canvas walls.
He is older than the last one, the Shinwari warrior thought, staring at the man’s bald head, salt-and-pepper beard, which he kept short, and a pair of dark eyes under thick brows. He used a small flashlight to inspect the seized laptops and cell phones.
The American’s rugged and heavily lined face—like his own—suggested a lifetime of fieldwork. Nasseer liked that.
“Exactly where did you find this?” the Ba’i asked in fluent Pashto. Nasseer also liked that; the last Ba’i had required a translator.
Still wearing the linked ammo belt slung sash-style over his shoulders, the standing end feeding the large PK resting against the table, the Shinwari chief leaned forward. Inspecting the map for a moment, he extended an index finger with a missing fingernail and pointed at a spot halfway up the Sulaimans. The place was a two-day ride from the base. “There is a cave … here. We killed eight of theirs, but yours were already dead.” Nasseer didn’t see the point of explaining that the woman had been alive when they found her.
The Ba’i shifted his gaze to the soldiers in desert fatigues who were carrying the remains off one of Nasseer’s trucks and depositing them in black body bags.
Returning his attention to the Shinwari warrior, he said, “My predecessor spoke highly of you.”
Nasseer considered the compliment. But in his world, compliments usually tagged along with requests.
The American added, “He said that your information was always reliable.”
Nasseer shrugged while looking about the tent, his eyes drifting to what looked like three six-shot, revolver-style Milkor M32 grenade launchers next to four boxes of assorted 40mm shells, behind the folding table, though it was hard to see clearly behind the Ba’i. Finally he said, “We fight a common enemy.”
The American, dressed in light clothes and army boots, grinned at Nasseer when he caught him staring at the promised goods.
Revealing two rows of glistening white teeth, the Ba’i asked, “Do you like what you see?”
Nasseer stared in silence at the man’s healthy mouth while the tip of his own tongue grazed the rotten molar stabbing his nervous system again. He wondered if the Ba’i would be willing to throw a few hours of work from the base’s dentist into the bargain.
But he could never ask for such personal favor, nor could he admit publicly to the pain. Instead he just replied, “As long as the weapons and shells are good.”
“Factory-new gear and ammo, Nasseer. It’s a fair deal.”
Nasseer didn’t reply. He just stared at the American. The thing about fairness was that it typically meant “fairness” to the party claiming it was fair. Still, he had to admit that three M32s plus lots of shells—irrespective of the information stored in those computers and phones—did look quite fair to him.
“I like to trade.”
“So do I,” the Ba’i said, taking the laptops and cell phones and depositing them inside a large rucksack by his feet, acknowledging acceptance. Then he reached behind him to place the launchers and the shells on the table to complete the trade.
And that’s when Nasseer noticed the figure standing just beyond the hardware, dark clothes blending in with the shadows hiding the canvas walls.
Nasseer didn’t like that. His prior trades had been private. His men had to wait outside, as did anyone the Ba’i brought along. But perhaps the new American wasn’t accustomed to the one-on-one trading rules of his country.
Deciding to let it go this time, Nasser opened a box of nine 40mm shells arranged in a three-by-three pattern, a combination of M381 high explosive, XM1060 thermobaric, and M576 buckshot variants. The latter housed twenty-four-grain metal pellets that burst outward during detonation, shredding anything in a twenty-foot radius. The high explosive round represented the more traditional fragmentation grenade, wrecking vehicles, buildings, or humans in a fifteen-foot radius. But it was the XM1060 that impressed him. Its kill mechanism combined a pressure wave, the subsequent vacuum that ruptured lungs and eardrums, the high-temperature fuel deflagration that burned to the bone, and the lethal propylene oxide gas.
“That’s one mean shell,” the American observed, while Nasseer inspected it.
Nasseer nodded, having seen all three types in action over the years. The XM1060 was certainly the deadliest—and the cruelest—of them all.
“Now,” the American added, “while we appreciate the computers and cell phones, and also the chance to bury our own, I hope my predecessor explained to you the value of delivering live soldiers. It translates into even better weapons than these … perhaps Javelins
.”
Nasseer blinked at the mention of the advanced rocket system. He had seen it in action, used by the U.S. Marines against Taliban positions, and was impressed by its range, accuracy, and deadly punch—hundreds of times more powerful than any 40mm shell.
He tightened his jaw at the thought of getting his hands on those missiles, but in doing so he inadvertently ground his upper teeth against his rotten molar and the stinging pain nearly made him lose control of his bladder muscles.
The American’s expression changed a bit in response to his inability to control his own facial muscles, if only for an instant. But before the Ba’i could say something, Nasseer replied, “I know. But Allah did not will it this time.”
Locking down the pain while swallowing a gulp of bitterness, he replaced the shells in the carrying box, closed it, and picked up one of the launchers. He had never handled an M32 before, and it must have been obvious, because the American said, “I will be happy to provide training.”
Nasseer considered the offer but said, “Thank you, Ba’i. But training will come.”
“As you wish,” the Ba’i replied, before producing a phone and tilting the screen toward him. “I do have one small question.”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen anyone wearing this ring?”
Nasseer leaned forward to get a better view, inspecting the image of what looked like an old Soviet ring. Slowly, he shook his head.
“If you do,” the American said, “any information would be worth a lot.” Putting the phone away, the Ba’i lowered his voice and added, “Even more than live soldiers. Understand?”
“I understand,” replied Nasseer. He then spent a minute inspecting the shoulder-fired weapon with its six-round revolver-style magazine. He extended the stock and wedged it against his right shoulder, right hand on the pistol grip and left on the handle beneath the muzzle forward of the magazine, feeling the launcher’s balance.
Setting it back on the table, Nasseer decided that, all things considered, the raid two nights ago had yielded plenty, including newer AK-47s and ammunition for his team and, now, reliable grenade launchers, which provided him with a tactical advantage. The M32s would enable him to take on a larger force with confidence, and that alone was plenty fair to him.
Standing, Nasseer bowed respectfully and said, “As-salamu alaykum.” May peace be with you.
The American also stood, returned the bow, and said, “Walaykum as-salamm.” And peace be upon you.
Nasseer called Hassan and two other men inside to carry the weapons and shells. Per their unwritten protocol, no one spoke while they took possession of the gear and headed back out to their weathered pickup trucks.
As Nasseer turned to leave, he caught another glimpse of the figure standing in the background. He shifted his gaze between it and the American while also slightly shaking his head, hoping the Ba’i was smart enough to understand the subtle message.
And then he walked away, got in one of the 4 × 4 vehicles, and drove off the airfield.
21
Piss and Vinegar
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN.
“Well, boss, hopefully Pancho Villa there and his banditos won’t blow themselves up to kingdom-fucking-come. There’s more to those M32s than just loading, aiming, and shooting.”
Harwich turned around, suppressing a heavy sigh as a tall, young Hispanic woman materialized from the shadows in the rear of the tent. He took a moment to contemplate Langley’s answer to the current shortage of CIA field officers at the base: interagency cooperation in the form of breaking in FBI Special Agent Monica Cruz.
He settled for a shrug while wondering if “babysitting” was the more appropriate descriptor. “Well, Cruz, in case you haven’t noticed, this is a simple tit-for-tat gig. They brought back our guys so their families can bury them, and I give them something in return that they didn’t already have.”
Monica was thin but muscular, wearing a pair of standard-issue army camouflage pants, boots, and a black FBI T-shirt. A holstered Glock hung from her army belt, within easy reach of her right hand, opposite an SOG knife. She wore her hair longer than regulation but kept it in a ponytail that reached between her shoulder blades and whipped behind her as she walked briskly around the table and sat in the empty chair left by Nasseer.
Leaning back and resting the soles of her boots against the side of the table, she resembled more a rebellious teenager than the professional described in the CIA brief. United States Marine Corps scout sniper with four tours, two in Iraq and two right here, where she earned a Purple Heart and a Silver Star, followed by three years with the LA SWAT team and now the Bureau.
Harwich kept his poker face on while trying to match the brief he had read on the way here to this woman unsheathing an SOG knife and using it to trim and clean her short fingernails. She was supposed to be thirty-one but didn’t look a day older than his daughter, Samantha, currently a senior at NYU. As opposed to him, who was supposed to be forty-five but looked deep in his fifties, especially with his bald head and salt-and-pepper beard that lately had more salt than pepper.
“All the same, boss,” she said, eyes on the field manicure as he heard Nasseer and his men driving off. “It takes the average marine a couple of weeks of training to become proficient—and safe—with that launcher. You ask me, I sure hope our guys are nowhere in the vicinity when the bandolier mullah decides to light one up.”
“He’s not a mullah.”
“Whatever.”
Harwich silently thanked Langley for the wonderful surprise that had been waiting for him when he had deplaned that C-17 two nights ago.
“So, indulge me,” she said at his silence, using the shiny knife as a pointing device. “How do you know that skinny little bastard didn’t just kill our guys and then brought them here to trade?”
“Unlikely.” He looked at the iPad in front of him, which contained the classified brief on Nasseer, who had provided solid intelligence to his predecessor for the past two years. “They’re the good guys.”
“Sure,” Monica said, twisting her lips into a frown. “This time around.”
“Not sure what you mean,” Harwich said. “Nasseer has—”
“Gotta admit, boss,” she interrupted, “we have this nasty little habit of arming tomorrow’s enemies. And in my book, I call that a tit-for-fuck-you-tat gig.”
Harwich couldn’t suppress a sigh this time, letting it out while frowning and also nodding. Feisty or not, the young agent certainly had a point—one he unfortunately happened to have firsthand knowledge of. America did have such history, dating back as far as he could remember.
It had armed and trained Vietnam’s Ho Chi Minh during World War II to fight the Japanese, just to turn back and engage him in that bitter war during the 1960s and 1970s.
It heavily armed Joseph Stalin during World War II to fight the Germans, just to turn around and have to deal with a formidable Soviet Union in the decades-long Cold War.
It armed Saddam Hussein in the early eighties to fight the Iranians, just to turn back around and overthrow him years later.
It armed Panama’s General Manuel Noriega, just to turn back around and depose him years later.
It even armed, trained, and defended Saudi Arabia from a Saddam Hussein it too had armed and trained to fight the Iranians, just to have the Saudis fund, arm, and train ISIS in its fight against the United States and its allies.
Hell, Harwich even had the unenviable honor of having armed and trained Osama bin Laden back in the day, as part of America’s fight against the very Soviet monster it had helped create during World War II.
And look where that got us, he thought, pained by the irony of having played a part in the creation of al Qaeda in a world that was truly upside down.
Harwich regarded this unexpectedly insightful woman, who had gone back to filing and shaping, working the serrated blade glistening in the candlelight. Her decadelong experience had not left even a single wrinkle on tha
t smooth honey-colored face, while he was starting to resemble the Shar-Pei his ex-wife grabbed during their divorce five years ago.
“Good try on the ring, though.”
“Yeah,” Harwich replied. “Worth a shot.”
“Any word yet from this mysterious CIA contractor team of yours that’s supposed to be at KAF?”
Harwich dropped his gaze at his phone. Since his arrival here he had been unable to connect with this Colonel Hunter Stark that his predecessor had on a retainer. The man had ignored his multiple text messages and phone calls. But then again, he wasn’t sure what he could have the man and his team do, as Harwich had been unable to unearth one ounce of intelligence on the damn image of the old Soviet ring.
And he was beginning to wonder if he ever would. Which made him question his decision to leave his plush post at the Paris station to come to this shithole of a—
An explosion rocked the base, followed immediately by the rattle of automatic weapons.
“What the—” Harwich began to say, in the time it took Monica to leap from her chair and dash out of the tent with her Glock already drawn.
22
Operators
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHWESTERN AFGHANISTAN.
Monica moved quickly, racing down the side of the towering concrete wall toward the smoke spiraling skyward beyond the main gate, less than five hundred feet away.
Behind her, Harwich screamed for her to wait for him.
Without Fear Page 15