Metal sparked between Monica’s hands as the round struck the TAC-338’s stock, ricocheting into the forest, the vibrations forcing her to release it. The heavy rifle skittered down the icy hill, kicking a rock loose, which dislodged others, triggering a small avalanche.
The woman glanced over their heads and down the mountainside while frowning and saying into a hidden microphone, “Go in pursuit.”
She was slim, and quite agile to have been able to circle them and then crawl up that outcrop—and without either of them hearing her. The woman’s black, skintight battle dress, combined with her catlike hazel eyes and high cheekbones, made Monica think of Catwoman, the fictional DC Comics character.
“Now tell me,” the woman said, as the rolling debris reached the bottom and silence returned to the pass, “what are American Special Forces doing this high up the Sulaiman Mountains?”
105
Zombies
QAIS KOTAL. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Zahra heard the commotion behind her. Spinning around, she spotted the rocks and a rifle tumbling down the side of the hill a couple hundred feet behind her—also catching a glimpse of a figure trying to hide behind a tree.
She had simply reacted, following her instincts, breaking into a run and taking off in a flurry of kicked snow while glancing at her GPS. If the gadget could be trusted, she was less than two miles from her objective.
Ignoring anything behind her, she raced down the narrow pass. The cold wind brought tears to her eyes as she focused on the slim trail before her, winding its way north, her boots ripping through a fresh layer of snow. At times, the opposite wall flanking the deep gorge angled less than forty feet from her, its trees nearly touching the upper branches of the snow-layered pines above.
Taking in lungfuls of cold air, she pushed herself, covering a mile in five minutes, exhaling through her mouth, her throat burning, as well as her thighs. But it was her back that ached the most, in anticipation of a bullet.
A fallen log blocked the trail, and Zahra leaped over it, landing in a crouch on the opposite side while whirling around, hands on her UZI, the fire selector on single-shot mode as she aimed it at the trail.
The first figure came into view within seconds—tall, slim, and helmeted, holding a suppressed rifle. She fired twice into his center of mass, the bulky suppressor absorbing the reports.
The man fell back as another came into view, and she fired again, also dropping him. But to her surprise, the first man sat up, reminding Zahra of one of those zombies in American horror movies that could not be killed. Only this wasn’t Hollywood. This was body armor capable of withstanding her 9mm Parabellum rounds.
Dammit, she thought, as she fired at him for sport, dropping him again.
But not for long, she thought, scrambling away from the two operators recovering on the snowy trail, starting again north, up the winding path.
She forced her stride for another half mile, exhaling puffs of warm breath, the cold stinging her face, her eyeballs. But she persisted, the sides of the trail blurring into a wall of brown and white.
Hoping she was now close enough for the winding path to not block her radio communications, she spoke into the voice-activated lapel mike connected to her Wouxun KG-UV6D transceiver.
“Mani … please tell me … you’re there,” she hissed, right before a silenced round stabbed her left thigh.
106
Mexican Standoff
QAIS KOTAL. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“Last chance,” Kira said. “What are you doing up here?”
The pair of snipers remained impassive, staring back while keeping their hands over their heads, as instructed. But that marked the extent of their cooperation. It was clear she was not going to get anything else from them. They were pros, like her, probably going after the same threat.
But Kira had her orders, and she had also had enough of these two characters. She needed to get back on the—
A muzzle nudged the back of her neck, right between the top of the battle dress and the helmet. Her skin tingling at the feel of ice-cold steel, Kira tensed, gloved fingers instinctively tightening her grip on the AK-9. In addition to the gun behind her, she spotted three men emerging from the forest to her right. One was a massive soldier, armed with a Browning machine gun. He was flanked by a muscular man with features darkened by camouflage cream and a shorter man with blond hair and mustache, also heavily camouflaged. Both carried MP5A1s.
“How about putting that fancy rifle down nice and easy,” said a familiar gruff male voice behind her.
Kira blinked, but before she could reply, Sergei came out of his hideout behind a tree, AK-9 aimed at the incoming trio. “No one moves,” he said with a heavy Slavic accent.
The three warriors froze a dozen feet from her, eyes gravitating from Sergei to the man behind Kira while she kept her weapon trained on the snipers.
“What we have here,” the voice behind her said, “is a Mexican standoff.”
Images of that raid on the Dubrovka theater and that bottle of Stolichnaya filled her mind as she continued staring at the two snipers.
“What is that?” Sergei asked.
“Chief, why don’t you tell this Russian what is a Mexican standoff.”
The large man with the Browning slowly turned to Sergei, though he kept his machine gun pointed at the ground. “You have guns on us … and we have guns on you. No side wins without taking heavy losses.”
“Damn right,” said the voice behind her. “A Mexican standoff.”
Lowering the AK-9 while staring at the snipers, Kira said tentatively, “Janki mishka?”
* * *
Stark dropped his brows at the mention of his name.
That voice … That accent … Those Stolichnaya shots …
Slowly, he pulled the MP5A1 away as he mumbled, “Kira?”
The woman removed her tactical helmet, letting her auburn hair fall to just below her shoulder blades before she turned around, regarding him with those large hazel eyes over her pronounced Slavic cheekbones. A fine scar traversed her forehead and temple.
“What are you doing up here, Janki mishka?”
Quickly overcoming his surprise, he replied, “Same thing you’re doing.”
“Kira?” asked Sergei, who still had his rifle aimed at the trio to her right. “What is happening?”
“Lower that, Sergei,” she said. “This is Colonel Hunter Stark. He helped me with the raid at the Dubrovka theater some years back.”
“No wonder you look familiar,” said Larson. “That’s where Mickey got hooked on those damn Russian cigarettes.”
Hagen nodded ever so slightly.
“I remember that red hair,” said Danny, waving and winking at Kira, who just shook her head.
“I don’t remember that raid,” said Ryan.
“That’s because you were still sucking on your mama’s tit, Romeo,” said Larson with a grin.
“Or maybe sucking on…” Martin pointed at Monica.
“Hey!” she snapped.
“That is all good,” Sergei replied, tapping the side of his helmet. “But the courier is getting away.”
“The man’s got a point, Colonel,” said Larson.
“So, Janki mishka,” Kira said, strapping her helmet back on. “What do you say? Second run around?”
“What does ‘janky whatever’ mean?” asked Ryan.
Stark grinned, eyes on her. “It’s second time around, Kira,” he replied. “What are your orders?”
“Recover the weapon … or destroy it. But it cannot leave this—”
Gunfire reverberated across the pass.
“In that case, that’s our cue,” Stark said, pointing his MP5A1 at the path below them.
107
Speedy Delivery
QAIS KOTAL. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
Her pulse roaring in her head, Zahra fired at the two dark shapes closing in on her, ignoring her throbbing leg. The
UZI’s recoil chambered round after round, but it was no use. The 9mm Parabellum slugs lacked the punch to pierce their battle dress. The black figures fell back but then would charge up again moments later, steadily closing the gap.
She cringed in pain, taking a moment to look at the wound. The round had gone through cleanly, missing the femur. But she was bleeding, in need of medical attention.
Dropping an empty twenty-round magazine and inserting a fresh one while limping through the deepening powder, Zahra winced in pain, the wind raging at her cheeks, blood staining virgin snow. She veered right, then left, following this winding, capricious white path as the sound of a near miss swooped past her left ear.
Feeling dizzy, light-headed, she made the next turn as another silent round walloped into a trunk hugging the trail. Snowplowing behind it, she brought the UZI around, firing another volley into the incoming shapes now less than a hundred meters away. One jerked sideways on impact, the snow enshrouding him. The second dove behind a tree. But a moment later both figures were back up, charging after her.
Whirling back on the trail, the cold gnawing through her clothes, the wound sapping her strength, Zahra sprang away, making the next turn. She ignored the blood-soaked leg, the peppered trail of crimson left on fine powder amid her footsteps, finally reaching the black granite walls that formed the narrow corridor leading to the hideout’s entrance.
And that’s when she saw him, standing taller than life, holding an AK-47 under a massive arch formed by granite boulders overhead.
“Get down!” Mani screamed.
Zahra lunged out of the way, sliding in the snow as Mani blasted a thirty-round magazine of 7.63 × 39mm cartridges at the two figures running behind her, forcing them to hurtle out of sight.
“Now!” he shouted.
Stifling a groan, Zahra staggered from the side of the trail blanketed in snow, rushing toward him. Ignoring her burning lungs, her aching leg, the heartbeat pounding her temples, she dashed across fifty meters of trail separating her from him, trailing blood, as others joined the fight—jihadists armed to the teeth. They ran toward her, letting her through before closing into a defensive wall, a mix of AK-47s and RPK machine guns.
“You’ve made it!” he said, embracing her.
But she was too damn weak to speak, trembling, scrunching her eyes in pain, chest heaving, feeling dizzy.
“Take me,” she mumbled, falling in his arms. “Take me from this.”
108
Pissing Contest
KANDAHAR AIRFIELD. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“But … she’s an ISI spy, eh?” Major General Lévesque said, in the rear of the trailer that Wright and Harwich had converted into a war room. They flanked Colonel Duggan by the wall of LED screens, fed by a half dozen UAVs hovering over Qais Kotal, while NATO analysts combed through the captured imagery.
Gorman sat in a wheelchair next to Maryam. At his insistence, she had rolled him from his hospital bed shortly after he regained consciousness, when he’d gotten word that NATO was planning to remove her from the base and fly her back to Islamabad.
The general, backed by four Canadian Army MPs, had come to escort Maryam to a plane that would take her back to Islamabad.
“She is … the only reason … we know there is a Russian nuke on the loose in the first place,” Bill Gorman countered from his wheelchair, wincing in pain while placing a hand on his belly.
“Easy, love,” Maryam whispered in his ear, leaning down while standing behind him.
“KAF is my domain, Mr. Gorman, and you need to abide by my—”
“This is a joint CIA–ISI–USMC operation … sanctioned by Langley and the commandant of the United States Marines, the secretary of defense, and ultimately the president of the United States of America … and it has only worked because we are playing … on the strengths of … our respective teams,” Gorman said, suddenly feeling nauseated. “You want that bomb found and destroyed? Then I respectfully request that you … let us do our job.” He closed his eyes when a pain stabbed his gut, and for a moment he almost pissed his green hospital gown.
“You need to head back to bed, Mr. Gorman,” Lévesque said.
“Not until … we agree that … Dammit,” he cringed, looking at his gown and noticing a bloodstain on his bandage.
“Bollocks!” Maryam said. “This isn’t worth it, and we’re just wasting time arguing when we should be working the problem. I’m taking you back to ICU, Bill, and then I’m getting on that bloody plane. I’ve had enough of this pissing match!”
“Contest,” Gorman whispered. “Pissing … contest. And no … way you’re leaving,” he replied.
“General, the man’s got a valid point,” Harwich interjected. “She’s a valuable asset to our mission. If it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t have known where to look. Remember that the Taliban captured a Pakistani scientist, which is what tipped the ISI in the first place. And it was her contact with the opium cartel that yielded Compound Fifty-Seven.”
Lévesque exhaled heavily. “So the CIA is vouching for her?” Lévesque said, looking directly at Maryam, who held his gaze.
“And the United States Marine Corps,” added Duggan.
Lévesque looked away, arms crossed. “Fine. But I want her confined to this war room … or the ICU, eh?” he said, apparently realizing she wasn’t about to leave Gorman’s side. “And she must be escorted by…” Lévesque turned to look at his MPs, finally pointing two fingers at Corporal Darcy, “by him at all times. Clear?”
The tall, blond Canadian Army MP shifted uncomfortably.
Duggan nodded. “Crystal.”
“And if this backfires, it’s on you, Colonel.”
“Thank you for your understanding, General.”
“All right,” Lévesque said. “Back to work, eh? Find me that damn bomb. And get him back to the damn ICU before I’m blamed for the death of another damn CIA operations officer.”
With that, the NATO chief and his entourage stomped off to his headquarters—minus one Corporal Darcy, who stood to the side, eyes on Maryam.
And that’s when Gorman noticed that the man’s throat was bruised.
109
Deception
QAIS KOTAL. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
They treated her wound in one of the rear chambers, under the yellowish light cast by an oil lamp, while a short and skinny Pakistani named Dr. Ali Khan inspected each component carefully.
Zahra sat on a bench, regarding the little man, while someone else—a medic of sorts who kept staring at her uncovered head—applied an anticoagulant disinfectant to her thigh before stitching it. She ignored him, just as she had ignored the red-eyed glare from the opium-smoking Akhtar and the rest of his men, who were silently judging her for violating their stupid laws and for arriving here alone, without Pasha or his men.
Zahra had already explained how they had gone after the American female pilot because they suspected she might have knowledge of this place. And since the enemy was at their doorstep, the sentiment in the room was that Pasha had been captured and broken, forced to yield this secret hideout.
“The round went through cleanly,” the man said in Pashto, rather tersely. “It left the femur intact. I need to close the wound on both sides. But I lack anesthetic. Will that be a problem?” He waved a large curved needle in front of her for effect.
Zahra glanced at the small rucksack that Akhtar carried behind his back, from where he had produced the pipe and a bag of the dark green powder a minute ago. She considered opiating before this asshole stitched her up, but the last thing she needed was to get high.
“Stop talking about it and get it done,” she told him.
The medic grinned and went to work.
Zahra ignored the sting as he began to suture the exit wound, her eyes on Dr. Khan. Behind him, Mani and Akhtar conferred with Osama bin Laden, who was dressed all in black, a Dragunov rifle similar to Pasha’s slung behind his back. She was angry at all of them for making
her trek this damn mountain, hauling those components, when she could have just remained with Mani in the Cessna and waited for Akhtar to arrive with the bomb and the professor. Unfortunately, Akhtar’s message that the old Soviet compound had been compromised was not relayed before she jumped, which once more proved how the best plans could go to shit in a heartbeat.
Dr. Khan reviewed a bundle of colored wires and placed a tag on them before making an entry in a small notebook. Next he removed a small printed circuit board card and checked it by using probes connected to a laptop computer.
“Problem,” he said after a moment.
Zahra sat up, moving her leg, which caused the medic to jerk the needle, making her wince.
“What kind of problem?” she asked, as the medic resumed his work and Mani glanced in her direction.
“This PCB … it’s the primer circuitry that creates the voltage spike that sets off the conventional explosives.”
“It’s broken?” asked Zahra.
“No,” he said. “It’s been tampered with.”
“Tampered?” asked Mani, now flanked by bin Laden and Akhtar.
“See here,” Dr. Khan said, using a probe to point at one of the electronic components soldered to the PCB. “This capacitor has been added to dampen the voltage spike below the threshold required to detonate the explosive charge.”
“Can it be fixed?” asked bin Laden, kneeling down to take a look.
“This is why I’m here, yes?” Dr. Khan said, reaching for a small pair of wire cutters and working the tip to snip off the offending component.
He again applied the probes to the PCB and nodded before regarding his small audience through his round glasses. “We’re in business.”
“That’s it?” asked Mani.
“That’s it,” Dr. Khan replied.
“Who could have tampered with it?” bin Laden asked Mani.
“I don’t know, but I will find out. I paid a fortune for those—”
“Please,” Dr. Khan interrupted. “This is delicate work. Take the conversation outside.”
Akhtar rolled his eyes as both bin Laden and Mani grinned and slowly backed to the front of the room.
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