by Chase Austin
For a minute no one spoke. Wick and Eddie stared at the speaker with anticipation. Helms knew there was no getting out of this. He had to answer his men. He cleared his throat and then gave them the verbatim transcript of the response he had got from Hancock about his politics comment.
Listening to this Eddie was too stunned to respond. Their government didn’t give a rat’s ass about their existence. Dying for the nation was just a bloody farce. They were sent to the field to die. If they came back alive, it was their luck and if they failed, no one would bother.
Wick could understand why Josh’s life had more value than Eddie’s and his own. Josh’s cover was of a CNN reporter. During the last five years, they had plastered his name on multiple articles and news reports on the CNN website even though the stories were fabricated by some lonely ghostwriter sitting in Langley. He could not disappear without questions being raised. Eddie and Wick came with no such baggage. They were just names within the corridors of the TF-77, unknown to anyone outside its glass facade. Technically, there was no Wick or Eddie for the American people. There would be no outrage even if they both went missing in this barren land. He wasn’t sure even Helms would bother much. This was the harsh reality of their lives and Wick, despite being the utmost realist, at that moment felt a strong sense of betrayal by his own country.
Wick hated politicians. Men like him lived by a warrior’s code—honor and integrity above everything. Do what you say and mean what you do. Politicians just said whatever would keep them in power. They were cockroaches. Washington was run by cockroaches. They had had operations exposed because those cockroaches didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut. Wick had worked for months planning missions and then had the plug pulled on him at the last minute because some politician had contracted the foot-in-the-mouth disease and leaked everything to the media. They had given everything they had to their country, and in return they saw those whores in Washington selling America down the drain. Good, honest politicians were a rare, almost extinct, breed, most were lying egomaniacs who thought everything was a game.
Bloody cockroaches.
And these cockroaches had decided Wick and Eddie’s life had no value. They were expendables, so they could go and raid a Taliban stronghold even NATO wouldn’t dare approach. Wick seriously considered walking away from the whole mess and never looking back. Maybe it was time to use those passports.
“I know how this looks,” Helms’ voice came over the tiny speaker, cutting into his thoughts. “I won’t blame you for not trusting me., You have every right to feel betrayed and angry. Frankly, I have the same feelings right now.” This was the first time in his career that he knew he had been played and, because of his oversight, his men were being forced to undertake this suicidal mission. All because he had failed to perceive the rotten design of this deceit in time. The fact that he himself was also a part of this very system made him equally responsible. “Wick… Eddie… I know…”
“Helms,” Wick interrupted Helms for the first time in his life, “Just to make it clear where we stand on this, there are a lot of things that are not told to you. Stuff that you’re better off not knowing, but maybe now’s a good time to give you a glimpse of what it takes to get a job done." Wick was beyond caring that Helms was his boss. "During my last mission just eight days ago, the basement where our target was kept—a target TF-77 wanted dearly—that basement was underneath a house inhabited by a family. A family with a five-year-old boy and a pregnant woman. Obviously, McAvoy conveniently forgot to tell me that since he didn't want me to get distracted or lose sight of the mission. And when I dropped grenades inside that house, guess who died? I executed that family and even when I feel my heart rotting with guilt or my brain exploding with nightmares, I take it all without complaint. Why? Because that’s what it takes to work for your country. So, don’t lecture me about what or what not could have happened in that meeting, because I doubt anyone else in the government would have pulled that pin.” Without waiting for his response, Wick disconnected the line.
Both Eddie and Wick sat quietly in the Ford, observing the vast horizon through the windshield. No trees as far as the eye could see. A sandstorm was brewing at a distance. They had shut Helms off, but their minds were still running the course of the different directions this job could take. Almost all of them ended with them getting a bullet in the guts for their efforts.
“What do you think?” Wick said, finally.
“Truth?”
Wick nodded. He had already made up his mind, but he wanted to know Eddie’s point of view.
“We are fucked by our own government. Who would believe that? My mind tells me to back off. Fuck the orders. I don’t care about Helms or Raborn or that son of a bitch Hancock.”
“But?” Wick knew this was not it.
“But there is an agent who is going to die today if we don’t act.”
Wick nodded.
“I agree they have played us and Helms but still...” Eddie said.
“So, what now?” Sam said,
“Well...damned if we do, and damned if we don’t,” Eddie spoke without inhibition. “But, no one has ever done it and the fact that this is Taliban’s home base, we could probably find them napping. I think we can pull this off. What do you think?”
“It’s a big gamble.”
“We owe it to Josh,” Eddie said.
Wick nodded. He agreed with Eddie that if nothing else, they should do it to save an American life. To hell with the cockroaches.
“And if we pull this one off, we will be legends,” Eddie said with a grin, trying as usual to put a positive spin on their grim situation.
Wick smiled at the juvenile effort. He turned and pulled out a backpack from under the backseat. He unzipped it and took out a Panasonic Toughbook—a military-grade laptop built to withstand extreme weather conditions and terrain. The machine had always worked for him whenever he needed it. He flipped it open and it lit up like a white neon board. He then took out a USB flash drive from the bag and plugged it into the laptop. The drive had been developed by the US Department of Defense to provide internet access from the most remote locations. The only downside—the security of the drive was patchy depending on the location’s internet protocols.
Wick remembered reading about an agricultural fair being inaugurated recently by the Afghan cultural minister at Panjwai. It was a part of a government initiative to promote the best agricultural practices by setting up temporary marketplaces across the villages of a district. Wick checked the dates, and then as he scrolled down the list of the villages, his lips curled into a smile. Zangabad was on the list. He shifted his gaze to the GPS. The red dot was now to the other side of the village, close to the location where the temporary market was located.
After considering all the possibilities, Wick raised his eyes from the Toughbook’s screen. Eddie was watching him with a mixed expression. Wick had not spoken for the last ten minutes, and he wanted to know if there was a plan or if Wick needed more time.
“There is a way.”
Eddie grinned and banged his fist on the dashboard. “I knew it. I bloody knew it. Rise and shine, baby. Rise and shine.”
Wick grabbed his sat phone and dialed Helms’ number. He ignored the livid expression on Eddie’s face. “You’re not gonna tell him the plan, are you?” Eddie asked. Wick chose not to respond.
“Sam here.”
“Yes, Sam.”
“We are going ahead with the job,” Wick said.
Helms didn’t know what to say. He could only imagine what kind of fortitude it must have taken for these two men to agree to this botched assignment. He was both worried and grateful.
“We’ll talk soon.” Wick revealed no details about his plan. He respected Helms but the wall of trust had been breached. Eddie might have believed Helms’ innocence, but Wick needed some time, maybe forever, to rebuild that trust between him and Helms.
“All the best.” Helms knew he didn’t have any more than these
three inadequate words to offer the men.
Chapter 14
They got out of the vehicle. Eddie grabbed his .300-Win mag and begin to examine it. Wick went over to the back and opened the boot.
The floor mat was clean. He raised it, making sure not to disturb what was underneath. The space beneath the mat was crammed with gear. There was a big makeup box resting at the center. A sealed pack was on its left. A fiber bag was lying to its right with a new set of clothes. Wick opened the makeup box first and checked his face in the mirror. His lenses were in place, his skin was of the right texture and his beard was of the right shade. Satisfied, he retrieved the untouched sealed pack. It had two Berettas and seven rounds of ammo. He had already dismantled them once at the safe house to check for any jammed or malfunctioning parts, but he wanted to do another check before going further. One by one, he examined the magazine release-catch mechanism, the dual recoil spring and everything else. Satisfied, he picked the one that felt more at home in his hand. He pushed a magazine in it and put three extra rounds in the specially crafted inner pockets of his coat. He then lifted the makeup box. Beneath it, there was another packet with fifty grand in local currency and another of his preferred Ka-Bar military blades. He took out the second blade and added into his armory. He then added the money from his pocket to the fifty grand in the trunk. All the while, he kept an eye on the red dot, still stationed at the same site. He put the mat back in place, reopened his laptop and keyed in the coordinates of Wasim’s SUV.
“Eddie, here is the plan. This is a small rocky plateau.” Wick showed Eddie a zigzag line on the map. “Do you think you can shoot from the top of this hill to this location?” He clicked a button and a straight line became visible from the hill to the location of Wasim’s SUV.
Eddie saw the number next to the dotted line—more than a thousand yards. Somewhere between fourteen and fifteen hundred yards. Even with a Win Mag, this was tough. He had never taken a shot at this distance. He gazed at Wick’s expression of grim grit. He seemed to have already thought through it.
“This is the only hill with a clear view of this location and the only hill outside the purview of Taliban-ruled areas. This is our only shot, can you take it?” Wick used his index finger to point out the location. The distance was just about half a mile from the SUV. “I’ll find a way to be near this place in the next hour and collect more intel on the perimeter and the location.”
What Wick was proposing sounded like a viable plan, but Eddie’s own inadequacies made him stay silent. He was running several scenarios which invariably started with him not hitting the mark with his first shot and ending with leaving Wick on his own out in the open. The painful silence stretched for a few minutes before Eddie opened his closed arms and nodded his head. He was ready to take the plunge. Wick smiled looking at his posture. Eddie had bested his demons. The only thing left now was to take the shots when the time was right.
Wick closed his laptop after giving him the coordinates of the hill, which Eddie keyed into his GPS device. Wick then handed him the keys, and they both shook hands.
“See you soon, buddy,” Eddie said.
Wick gave him a smile and headed towards Zangabad on foot.
Eddie fired the Ford’s engine. The estimated time duration to his destination was forty minutes.
Chapter 15
A caravan was proceeding on a nonexistent road across the barren plains, carrying the tents, agricultural supplies and household items of thirty-eight traders, farmers, potters, shepherds, and their families. The majority in the group were farmers, heading towards the agricultural fair. Vast expanses of land that once were lush with crops of wheat, rice, and numerous vegetables, now lay sterile around the caravan.
The motive to undertake this long and arduous journey was a cash incentive announced by the Afghan government. They had heard good things about the fair and hoped to make some money selling their produce too, apart from the incentive. Their own village, Khewa, had just a small market on a single dirt road, lined with small wooden stalls. It had the most basic goods available at a fruit stand, a butcher shop with fly-covered meat hanging on hooks in the open, a shop selling everything from batteries to biscuits, and an abandoned music kiosk that had once stocked Persian, Pashto, and Hindi audio cassettes.
Zahoor, a young man in the group, was eager to reach Zangabad primarily to see friends he had met on his past trips through the area. This trip may not have a lot to offer, but for a twenty-year-old in Afghanistan, it was an oasis in the desert of his life.
The caravan had been on the road for the last two weeks, moving at a glacial speed of about ten miles a day. But finally, their destination was only a few minutes away.
Wick saw the hen first. Confused and scared from being away from its nest, it was cackling, occasionally pecking at the rough ground for anything worth eating. Wick drew the Ka-Bar from his inner pocket. His left eye closed with concentration. The bird glanced at him, paying him scant attention before going back to pecking the ground. Wick swung his hand, and the knife left his fingers with a whoosh. The air displacement forewarned the bird, and it darted away. Wick had anticipated its flight and accounted for it in his throw, but the bird took an unlikely direction. Still, the knife nicked its leg before burying itself in the dirt. Wick rushed forward. The fumbling, limping bird went a few steps, then collapsed. Wick picked up his knife to put it out of its misery. This time he didn’t miss.
He tore the stomach lining of the dead bird. Blood drenched his palms and spattered his clothes. His disguise was now complete. He looked around and saw the caravan of camels still ambling slowly in the direction of Zangabad, a mile away. He checked his gear one last time and started to run.
Chapter 16
Three pairs of eyes watched the prisoner through the two-way mirror in silence, evaluating his expressions, measuring his determination. They all had the same question in mind—how far would they have to go to break him?
Josh Fletcher was alone in the dank room. Sitting on an absurdly uncomfortable chair and handcuffed behind his back. Wearing only a pair of shoes, with even the laces taken away. No clothes on his body. There was no way he was going to live, he knew that. If not the Taliban, then his own men would kill him. He didn’t delude himself with any notion that he was a hero. No, he was just a survivor whose time had come. The mirror on the wall facing him was two-way. He’d been in enough interrogations to know that, but he’d always been on the other side of the mirror. Till now.
The room was soundproofed to the tee, denying him even the relatable sound of human whispers from the outside. His stomach was growling, but other than that he didn’t make any sound. It was futile, and he knew that. No use wasting his already depleted energy. A light bulb secured with two wires dangled a couple of feet above his head. The severe glare of the fluorescent light and his own weariness made his head sag forward, his chin resting on his chest. He was perilously close to losing his balance and tumbling over, which was precisely what his abductors craved.
WasimUllah arrived at the facility in his SUV. The other two SUVs were already gone. There was a consignment approaching the border and his orders were to secure it, but Wasim also had to check on the prisoner. He couldn’t be at two places at once, so the only option was to send his men. When he entered the room, the three men scattered to give him space. Standing close to the two-way mirror, he examined the American, abducted on the orders of his commander, Abdul Basit.
Basit said the man was a CIA spy and there was no reason for Wasim to distrust that information. His faith in Basit was absolute and unflinching.
Not long ago, Wasim used to earn his living driving a rickety truck, but then he had got fired from his company for abusing his supervisor. The next day he went to the supervisor’s cabin and exacted his revenge. The beating was severe, and Wasim was arrested. In prison, he met someone who knew Basit. At the time, Basit was a small-time arms supplier, actively looking for someone who wasn’t averse to the associated risk of
his business. Wasim took up on his offer as there wasn’t any job waiting for him outside and his need for cash was snowballing every day. Basit took him under his wing— paid for his bail, gave him work and money. Soon he was an important man. Basit bought Wasim’s loyalty, and now when he asked him to abduct a man he didn’t know, Wasim didn’t ask why.
The weather outside was bad enough, but here in the underground cemented facility, it was hell. There wasn’t any air-conditioning or even an air vent. The area was lit by kerosene lanterns laboring hard against the darkness and yet losing the battle. Wasim was perspiring profusely. Sweat had already left widening dark patches on his clothes at his underarms and the neckline. The American wasn’t going to last much longer in these trying conditions.
He knew Josh would talk. They all talked, eventually. No man, no matter how strong he was on the battlefield or in his training, could endure this kind of torture forever. Getting them to talk wasn’t the problem. True skill lay in getting them to tell the truth. Josh was no different. So far, he had stuck to his story of being a CNN reporter in Afghanistan, a story that Wasim knew was an out-and-out lie, but he had not been grilled enough yet. He would be soon.