“So?” Stark asked. “What’s that got to do with you standing in the middle of my operation?”
Monica sighed and decided to try a different angle. “Figured you’d need an extra set of hands, since you just lost two.”
“Well, Cruz, you figured wrong. Those two were here because they were footing the bill, but in the end it was obviously a mistake to expose them to the unforgiving nature of what we do. What could you possibly have to offer … besides Agency attitude?”
“FBI, actually.”
“Same bullshit, different T-shirt.”
“Come on, Colonel, check with Ryan. I can actually shoot and take care of myself,” she said.
Stark briefly closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through barely closed lips as he replied, “Cruz, this isn’t fucking training day. I don’t have the time or the inclination to show you the ropes and—”
“I don’t need you to show me the—”
“Chief, call KAF for another exfil.” Stark started for the tree line.
“Wait,” Monica said as Larson reached for his radio. “I can’t go back.”
Stark stopped midstride and turned back to her before slowly raising his brows.
“I … well, have been declared persona non grata at KAF.”
“What’d you do, Cruz? Piss off your boss?”
“General Lévesque, actually. Pissed in the big Canuck’s Cheerios.”
“Oh,” Stark said, before looking over at Larson, who just shrugged and grinned ever so slightly. “How’d you manage to do that?”
As she gave him the one-minute version, Monica noticed something changing in the colonel, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. If she had to guess, she would have sworn that something resembling pride replaced some of the anger glinting in his azure stare.
“You actually told Lévesque he wasn’t fit to command KAF?”
She dropped her gaze. “Something like that.”
“In front of his entire staff?”
“Didn’t mean to.”
“Sure you did. What did he say?”
Monica pressed her fists against the side of her waist and, deepening her voice, replied, “‘I want you to get the fuck off my base, eh?’”
Stark stared at her, and for an instant she thought he smirked.
“‘And by nightfall,’” she added, before returning to her normal voice. “So I guess I exceeded the asshole’s expectations by—”
“I understand that you and Ryan were at the same sniper school?”
Monica blinked. “Ye—yes. Two years ago in Scottsda—”
“You any good with that?” He pointed at the TAC-338’s barrel, which was projecting behind her like an antenna.
“I can hold my own.”
“How well?”
“One inch group at twenty-five hundred yards.”
“You served in-country?”
“Four tours supporting the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment. Two in Iraq and two here.”
“Confirmed kills?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“And then the Bureau?”
“With five years in between, with the LA SWAT. Master sniper.”
“I see.”
“Look, Colonel, if you really want me out of your hair, I’ll go, but—”
Stark tapped his MBITR. “Delta One?”
“Sir?”
“Get your sorry ass down here. Now.”
“What’s up?”
“Your girlfriend,” he said, turning around and starting again toward the tree line. “She’s down here with the chief. Keep her on a leash.”
“Dammit,” Monica hissed at his departing figure. “I’m not his fucking girlfriend.”
But Stark had already vanished into the woods.
87
The Throne of Solomon
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Kneeling on a snowy ridge, Mullah Akhtar Baqer opiated while watching the rescue helicopter disappear around a bend in the mountain, some three thousand feet below them. A minute later, its rotor noise also disappeared.
The battle had lasted but a couple of minutes, during which he had hoped the team he left behind would put down anyone foolish enough to track him this high up the range. But as he had observed just one wounded being airlifted, followed by radio silence from his team, he had to assume the worst.
“What now?” demanded Dr. Khan, who was standing next to him, his dark woolen tunic being pelted with snowflakes. “They’re still coming, and we’re now leaving a perfect trail in the snow!”
Feeling the drug reenergizing him, Akhtar set down his pipe and picked up his binoculars, fingering the focusing wheel, estimating no more than a couple of miles of switchbacks between them and those men.
A couple of hours’ hike, he thought.
Pointing at the storm clouds sweeping in from the west, he said, “Allah will cover our tracks by morning.”
“Good of him,” Dr. Khan replied, his head now covered in a woolen keffiyeh. “But I thought you said that if the explosives and the soldiers you left at the compound didn’t stop them, those men down there would.”
“Professor,” said Akhtar, lowering the binoculars, “you worry about the well-being of the bomb. I’ll handle everything else.”
Dr. Khan pointed at the men transporting the weapon on the makeshift stretcher, their skin boots sinking in fresh snow to their ankles as they waited atop an icy ridge that would lead them to the north face of the range. “That’s precisely my point,” the scientist said, hugging himself while shivering. “I need a place to work and get the device ready to receive the new components. And this … this frozen hell isn’t it.”
“And you shall have it and the components,” Akhtar replied, remembering the emergency signal he had received from Pasha the night before. His younger brother had connected with the courier, but they were being pursued, just as he was being hunted.
“Meg ze jawaze safar na kawom.” We’re not traveling alone.
The simple phrase told him everything he needed to know—everything he needed to do to ensure safe passage of the components to their mountaintop hideout.
Akhtar shifted his attention to the north, to the high, jagged peaks of the southern extension of the Hindu Kush mountain system, where the Sulaimans continued for another hundred miles to form the eastern edge of the Iranian Plateau. He panned the binoculars to the highest peak in the vicinity, the Takht-i-Sulaiman.
The Throne of Solomon.
Just south of the summit named after the renowned king stood a secret and dangerous high pass—Qais Kotal—named after Qais Abdur Rashid, father of the Pashtun nation, who was buried on top of Takht-i-Sulaiman. Legend had it that Solomon himself had hiked the perilous footpath during his historic climb to look over the land of South Asia.
Akhtar had no idea if the king had actually crossed it, but the pass was very real, very difficult to negotiate—and very difficult for American UAVs or satellites to spot from above. Rising to over twelve thousand feet and very narrow and heavily wooded, it had been used by generations of jihadists to traverse the Sulaimans in their constant fight for independence from foreign invaders.
The mullah set down the binoculars, picked up the pipe, and took a final hit, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply, feeling his body absorb the pure drug, letting it do its magical work while a cold Sulaiman wind washed over him.
Dr. Khan continued his incessant whining about being hungry, cold, and tired, disturbing this moment of peace. Thoughts of reaching for his pesh-kabz and just putting an end to the annoying little man crossed his mind, but the ancient wisdom of King Solomon kept the curved knife sheathed.
Although Akhtar didn’t share the religious convictions of his younger brother and Akaa—or the thousands of jihadists who called him “mullah”—the title meant he was actually versed in Holy Scripture. Allah, for the guidance of mankind, had privileged four prophets by trusting each with a holy book. Moses receive
d the Torah. King David the Zabur, or Book of Psalms. Prophet Isa—who Muslims believe was Jesus—was bestowed the Injeel, or true Gospel, not to be confused with the Christian Gospel written by Matthew, Luke, John, and Mark. And finally, Allah bequeathed to Muhammad the Holy Koran.
But it was King David, Solomon’s father, who one day gathered his sons and put forward a number of profound questions, one of which had always resonated with Akhtar.
What is that action the result of which is good?
Solomon’s answer: patience and forbearance, not haste, in the face of anger or peril.
Patience and forbearance.
Akhtar put his pipe and binoculars away in his rucksack, which he shouldered while turning to Dr. Khan. The palm of his right hand resting on the pesh-kabz, he said, “This way, professor.”
As he followed the group across the southern face of the mountain, Akhtar could only hope that his younger brother, who was certainly facing his own share of peril, would choose patience and forbearance rather than haste.
88
The Color of Islam
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Pasha recalled Akaa’s tactics and chose to let the enemy get close.
Real close.
Zahra took a position just a couple of feet to his right, wedging her UZI’s silencer between two exposed roots while lying on a bed of pine needles, settling her shooting eye behind the Leupold scope.
If he were to be completely honest with himself, Pasha would admit that she was as capable as—if not more capable than—any warrior he’d ever met, friend or foe. But his own feelings couldn’t play a part in forming an opinion of a woman, even one as capable as Zahra. The law was the law, and it was not up for debate. Yet, his own Akaa, the man he respected more than any other, had sent her to him, and it was this conflict that continued to tax him as they had hiked through the night and into the morning.
A contingent of men from the Noorzai tribe, who had been engaging Canadian troops north of their hometown of Girishk for the past year, had met them here an hour ago, courtesy of his brother.
Pasha now had twenty-three rugged warriors under his command, all veterans and armed with a mix of AK-47s and RPK light machine guns, plus loads of 7.62 × 39mm ammunition common to both platforms. Their leader was Jamil, which meant “handsome,” though the man was anything but, missing most of his front teeth and part of his nose and right ear, lost to the shrapnel that had scarred his face and neck. Jamil’s hair and beard, long and unkempt, were dyed green, the color of Islam, in the tradition of Noorzai chiefs. His dark eyes had fallen on Zahra the instant he had crested the ridge where they hid, and the man’s reaction had been to pick up a rock to stone her—an action followed by his men. Only Pasha’s reminder that Osama bin Laden had sent her on this holiest of missions had prevented a bloodbath, as Zahra had her UZI already leveled at the Noorzais.
So an agreement was reached: Pasha would keep Zahra out of sight from Jamil’s men for the duration of their collaboration, and Jamil in turn would keep his men from tearing her apart for disrespecting Sharia law.
Two of Jamil’s men, deployed thirty minutes ago down the hill to wait for visual contact with the incoming posse, now ran back up the same incline, purposely breaking branches and breathing heavily, even groaning with feigned effort. The two made quite the racket, to draw the enemy, before joining their comrades on the left side of the predetermined kill zone. A second group of Noorzais focused on the center while Pasha and Jamil kept Zahra away from the locals by covering the right flank.
Ten minutes later their effort paid off as the first figure loomed in the woods, under the shadows cast by towering pines under a midday sun. Under orders from Jamil to wait for Pasha to make the first move, the disciplined team remained hidden.
While he let them get closer he lined up in the crosshairs of his Leupold scope a short, slender man dressed in dark khet partug under a wool tunic and a karakul hat, which indicated his status as leader. He held a heavy Russian PK machine gun and wore the ammo belt over his right shoulder.
89
Instincts
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Aaron put a hand on her shoulder and Vaccaro paused, taking a knee in some of the waist-high bushes that were scattered through the sparse forest.
“What is it?” she whispered, the Colt 1911 in her right hand, safety off.
“Not sure,” the Kidon replied, his knees sinking in the layer of pine needles as the Shinwari clan proceeded up the shallow knoll where a moment ago two figures had crested the plateau at the top of the grade. “Something isn’t right … Too damn quiet.”
Aaron had an UZI in his hands and one of Nasseer’s M32 grenade launchers strapped behind his back. Before she could reply, he said, “Hold this for a second,” and passed the UZI to her. Switching to the M32, he checked the 40mm shells loaded in the six-shooter gun barrel.
“Come,” he finally said, standing. “Let’s catch up with—”
The slow rattle of an AK-47 echoed down the hill, followed by other weapons, including machine guns.
90
Final Fight
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Nasseer rolled away from the gunfire, his right shoulder burning, and finally crawled behind a boulder as the—
Another shot, this one from the right flank, made his thigh go numb.
They have us surrounded, he thought, as the two men who were right behind him on the plateau fell victim to the cross fire, multiple rounds going right through them as they stood immobile for an instant before collapsing.
Dropping the Russian machine gun, he reached behind his back, ignoring the blood soaking his chest and leg, fingers gripping the M32 grenade launcher. He had to try to give the rest of his men on the hill a chance.
He pressed the stock against his left shoulder as rounds stabbed the ground around him. Pointing the muzzle at the closest set of muzzle flashes to his right, he fired three times, just as Aaron had shown him. The 40mm shells thumped out of the tube and arced across the clearing.
The grenades detonated in sequence, bursts of light and thunder tossing men in the air while Hassan and two others joined in the fight, emptying their AK-47s into the surviving machine gun emplacements. But their volleys were short-lived as their chests exploded from single shots fired by a sniper from a vantage point up on a stone pine.
Nasseer’s eyes narrowed in anger as Hassan dropped to his knees, still firing his Kalashnikov, before another round smacked him in the face.
Rolling away from his hideout, Nasseer aimed the launcher at the offending tree but was able to fire only one shell before a bullet found him, stabbing his chest.
Suddenly paralyzed, his vision tunneling, Nasseer stared at the cover of pine trees swirling in the breeze as the shell detonated in a bright explosion that rocked the ground.
And that was the last sound he heard before his world went dark.
91
Hasty Retreat
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“AKs, RPKs, and grenades!” Aaron shouted, as the top of the hill ignited with muzzle flashes and shell blasts. Shinwari warriors careered down the hill, shooting their assault rifles back over their shoulders. But their hasty and uncoordinated retreat and attempt to return fire failed to overpower the multiple volleys of tracers screeching down the hillside from vantage points across the summit, stabbing trees, bouncing off rocks, and punching men in the back, chests exploding with crimson exit wounds.
Many figures now emerged above the Shinwaris, hunting down the surviving members of Nasseer’s clan.
Vaccaro couldn’t return fire for fear of hitting the retreating men, but Aaron popped his shells over their heads—all six of them—in rapid succession while sweeping the M32 from left to right.
The grenades arced up the terrain, creating havoc as the wave of enemy rebels atop the mountainside vanished behind multiple detonations.
“Th
at’s our cue, Red!” he shouted, tossing the empty M32, grabbing the UZI from her with one hand and her wrist with the other, tugging her down the incline.
“I’m not a little girl!” she shouted, pulling her hand away while running side by side with him. A few rounds flew past them, splintering bark and sparking off boulders.
They didn’t look back, ignoring the buzzing of near misses, focusing on the rocky slope below them, using tree trunks, branches, boulders, and anything else they could grasp to manage their hasty descent.
* * *
Pasha fired his Dragunov at the departing figures, a man and a woman, his eyes blinking in sudden recognition of the figure seen through the powerful scope.
It’s the pilot!
He forced himself to relax, exhaling while aligning the crosshairs with her runaway figure. But as he pulled the trigger, the man shifted left, blocking the way, the round pushing him forward. Unfortunately, he was big and didn’t fall, though he pressed a hand to his side, obviously wounded.
By the time the Dragunov’s recoil chambered another round, the pair had vanished around a bend in the trail. Off to his right, Jamil and his surviving men went in pursuit.
“Come,” he told Zahra. “Let’s finish this.”
92
Sacrifice
SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
The terrain leveled off and curved onto the same goat trail they had used on the way up, and Aaron let Vaccaro lead. She ran as fast as she could, cruising through alternating patches of brightness and darkness as pine trees projected ragged shadows across her path. Her lungs burned from the effort as she inhaled the thin and cold air—as the firefight stopped as abruptly as it had started.
Her heartbeat throbbed in her temples, in her ears, blocking all other sounds as she flexed her legs as fast as she could, trying like crazy not to trip.
The trail continued curving, narrowing as the grade steepened. Flanked by a rocky wall and the gorge, it followed the contour of the mountain to another rocky outcrop nestled among more pines.
She reached it, panting, pausing for a moment to catch her breath—only to realize that Aaron wasn’t with her.
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