by Eric Meyer
His best estimate was he had around fifty kilometers to travel, about thirty miles. If he ran, he could make it in around twelve hours. Less, if he didn’t stop to rest. He wouldn’t stop to rest, and with luck he’d get there before daybreak the next day. Shouldering his rifle, he settled into a steady run, heading toward Jalalabad, and the friend of Mr. Stoner.
Surely he will help? He has to.
Chapter Seven
The Deputy Director for Operations hung up on Ivan and called the switchboard back.
“Get me the Pentagon, Air Force liaison, General Isaac Danvers.”
He waited for the call to connect, and the gruff voice of Danvers came on the line.
“What is it?”
“General, I’m calling from Langley. My name is Larry McCord, Deputy Director for Operations. I believe we’ve met once or twice.”
He sounded suspicious. Langley wasn’t generally the bearer of good news. “Go ahead, Larry, what is it you want?”
“General, you said a while back about an operation to get your big bombers into action. Justify all the taxpayer dollars you’ve spent on the upgrades.”
His tone brightened. “The B-52Hs? Yeah, we’ve just completed another major refit. It would be nice for the crews to see some action. What did you have in mind?”
“Afghanistan. The target will sound familiar. It’s Tora Bora.”
Danvers whistled. “Osama’s old hidey-hole, what’s there that’s worth unloading a few hundred tons of bombs on?”
“Another Islamic fruitcake, he’s setting up to start a whole new insurgency. This guy is a major threat, another bin Laden. He could undo all the good we’ve done over the past few years.”
“Sounds interesting. What kind of strength were you thinking of deploying?”
“A dozen bombers, General. Iron bombs, no fancy missiles. I want to dump enough ordnance on their heads to blow those caves sky high, and everyone inside ‘em.”
“A dozen aircraft, iron bombs, that’s a lot of explosive, Larry. What about friendlies? You sure the target area is clear? None of our people in that area?”
“My local intel says it one hundred percent clear. You’re good to go.”
“In that case, I reckon we’ve got ourselves a deal, Larry. Send over the paperwork, and I’ll clear it through the Joint Chiefs, but I don’t envisage a problem. Our crews need some live action training.”
“I’ll do that, General. Nice talking to you.”
The Deputy Director for Operations thought again about the question of friendlies. After all, the daughter of the White House Chief of Staff had been in the area. He called Ivan again in Afghanistan, and when he answered, he sounded different, like he’d been engaged in some heavy physical activity. Ivan reassured him the area was clear, and he relaxed. Now it was in the hands of the professionals, the crews of the much-vaunted B-52Hs. Twelve aircraft, enough to flatten a mountain.
About fucking time!
The Afghans wouldn’t like it, but that was too bad. They’d tried the easy way, and now time had run out. No more Mr. Nice Guy, they’d go in and bomb the bastards. Each aircraft carried around thirty tons of bombs, meaning a total of three hundred and sixty tons of high-explosive dropping on the caves, sending Mohammed Tarzi and his pals to hell. Despite their objections, the Afghans would thank them when they knew what they’d achieved. The White House may even give him a medal out of gratitude for his service.
* * *
Ivan finished the call and turned his attention back to the girl. She was hot, red hot, and he was rock hard. Ready to get a good return on every cent he’d forked out to have her for the night, and his mind drifted into oblivion as he entered her. Returned to the present, and he was just getting down to business when someone banged on the door.
“Ivan, we need you, down in the bar.” Akram’s voice, and he’d told him to not disturb him, on pain of death.
“Fuck off.”
“Ivan, we need you now! This is an emergency.”
He groaned with frustration. It was going to be one of those nights. Pulled on his pants and shirt, told her to hang fire, he wouldn’t be long, and went outside. He followed Akram down the staircase and into the bar. Gorgy was talking to an Afghan boy, and Ma was holding a glass of water for him to sip at. The kid looked all in, like he’d just run a marathon in record time. One of the whores rushed into the bar with a plate of food, and Ma fed him a spoonful at a time. He could see the kid couldn’t handle it himself; he was shaking with what looked like exhaustion. Another girl came down the staircase with a blanket and wrapped it around the kid, and Ma hugged him to give him some warmth, but he didn’t stop shaking.
Ivan glared at Gorgy. “What is this, orphans and refugees night? You got me down for this? Give him a bowl of rice and send him on his way. I have things to attend to upstairs.”
“The boy’s name is Ghulam Samar. He was with Stoner and his group on the Tora Bora operation.”
“Is that right? So what is this? Did he come to tell me something I already know, that they failed? Send him on his way.”
“They’re in trouble.”
“Who, Stoner and the girl? I know about Blum taking a bullet.” He started in dismay, “She’s not wounded, is she?”
Gorgy nodded to the boy. “Go ahead, tell him what you know.”
The boy spoke in halting tones, describing the attempted kill at Tora Bora. How Greg failed to hit the target when a man stepped in the way and stopped the bullet. How they’d pursued them, and struck Greg with a heavy caliber bullet, which he removed. Ivan stopped him there.
“You’re telling me you operated to removed a bullet from his stomach.”
“Yes, Sir, I did.”
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“In a book, Sir.”
“In a book, right. And you’re saying he survived?”
“He did, yes. But they caught them.”
“Who caught them?”
He told him how Tarzi’s men had ambushed them by setting a trap. Ivan groaned inside, knowing what was coming, and praying he was wrong.
“So where did they take them?”
“Tora Bora, Sir.”
“Oh, fuck no. Not Tora Bora.”
“Yes, Sir. Tora Bora.”
“They can’t be in Tora Bora. The U.S. Air Force is scheduling a bombing raid to flatten that place.”
Gorgy winced. “They’ll have to unschedule it. You’ll have to call them, and tell them why they can’t go ahead.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t? What do you mean, you can’t? You have to.”
He shrugged. “If I call them back to call off an entire bomber squadron, my career is down the toilet, finished. I’d have to tell them that Miss Carver is there, contrary to what I already told them, that I put her life in danger. They’ll hang, draw, and quarter me after I gave them my assurance the area was clear of friendlies.” He stared at both his men, and at Ma Kelly, whose expression was beyond ordinary hostility. He addressed his next comment to her. “You have to understand. Once these things are in motion, they can’t be stopped.”
“You can’t leave them there to die,” Ma said, and her voice left nothing to the imagination, as close to a threat possible without saying the words, “If you can’t stop it, you have to get them out.”
He held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “That’s just not possible. Do I look like I’m suicidal? They’ll just have to take their chances. Besides,” he attempted to laugh, and failed, “They’ll be dead anyway before the bombers arrive. That guy doesn’t hold prisoners. He’ll slaughter them out of hand.”
“This is Stoner you’re talking about,” Gorgy murmured.
“And Sara Carver,” Akram added, “If Washington finds out, there’ll be nowhere for you to hide on this Earth. You may as well shoot yourself.”
Ivan looked sour. The Deputy Director had said something similar. People were starting to get unanimous about his early demise.
&
nbsp; Ma piled on the pressure. “Greg is badly wounded, and he has a wife and three children in Mehtar Lam.”
“I know where they live. Jesus Christ, she’ll find another husband and marry again.”
“You leave them there, and I’ll kill you,” Ma snapped, “Go to Tora Bora and get them out, or I’ll come after you. That’s no idle threat, Ivan. I have a lot of friends in this town, and plenty would be more than happy to take the job.”
“You cannot be serious! Look what happened when they went in there. Greg got himself shot, and they were caught and taken prisoner. I can’t do it. Best to leave things alone. That’s the only way to handle it.”
“Not for Rafe Stoner,” she retorted, “Nor for you. You have a choice. Do the right thing, or you’ll never stop running.”
It was his turn to become belligerent. “You don’t realize who you’re talking to, Ma. Unless I’m going blind, I have two bodyguards in here, and I can call in another fifty mercenaries at a moment’s notice. What’re you gonna do, get your whores to start a catfight?”
“I resign. I don’t work for you.”
He stared at Gorgy, who’d moved to stand next to Ma. “Don’t be a fool. You’re throwing it all away. Akram, tell him.”
“I resign, too. We’re not going along with you deserting them, Ivan. We’re going to try to get them out.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Perhaps. We’ll also need those fifty mercs you mentioned. They’re still at Bande, right?”
“No way. I have other plans for them. Big plans.”
“Cancel them.”
“I can’t. If I…”
“Washington will find out what you’ve done, and you’ll spend most of your miserable life in prison,” Ma snarled, “I’ll make sure they know.”
He sneered. “They won’t believe you. A brothel madam, against the word of a senior Agency employee.”
“They will when they see the recording. Or didn’t you know this place was monitored 24/7 by security cameras. They record sound and video.”
She pointed to a tiny camera above the bar, and the lens pointing right at them, like the barrel of a sniper rifle, and just as deadly. He shook his head in disbelief.
“You wouldn’t use that. It’s…”
“Try me.”
He stood frozen for long minutes, lost in thought. “Give me the recording, and I’ll do it.”
“Do it first, and you’ll have the recording when you bring them back. Alive.”
“And if I can’t get them back?”
“Then you’re screwed.”
He sighed, and he knew he was beaten. He looked at Gorgy. “Call Bande. Get those men loaded onto the trucks, and I want them here by dawn. Tell them to bring every weapon they can carry, and plenty of ammo. We’re gonna need it. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Where’re you going?”
He turned, as he was about to climb the staircase. “I have unfinished business. The condemned man is entitled to something before he sticks his fool neck out.”
He didn’t reach the top. Ghulam called up to him, “Sir, Sir what do I do?”
Ivan sighed. “I couldn’t give a shit what you do. Gorgy, give him a few dollars, and send him on his way.”
“You bastard!” Ma had put her arm back around the boy.
“What’s that you called me?”
“You heard. This boy risked everything to get here and tell what had happened, and you toss him away like yesterday’s newspaper.”
She smiled down at the boy. “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. You can stay here until Mr. Stoner gets back.”
“Thank you, Ma’am. What kind of a place is this?”
“It’s er…a kind of rooming house. We’ll give you a nice comfortable bed to sleep in, and we have everything you need.”
Ivan murmured, “I bet you do.”
She gave him another scathing look. “Just make sure you bring him back, and his friend Greg, and that girl. You hear me?”
“Anything else before I finish my business upstairs.”
“Yes. Screw this one up, and you’re banned.”
* * *
Major Paul Gibbons was flying at ten thousand meters over the endless Pacific Ocean. The news of a real live bombing mission had come as a shock, and also more than welcome. They’d been on yet another practice mission, flying to Farallon de Medinilla Island. The place was an Air Force bombing range, and they’d turned around after the call came in on the radio. The instructions didn’t allow for any doubt. ‘Return to base, and stand by for refitting for iron bombs.’ It meant the mission was back on the board, and inside he gave a silent cheer.
Thirty tons of ordnance dropped from each aircraft, twelve B-52s, and he could scarcely imagine the effects when the bombs exploded. Whoever was down there better say their prayers. He followed orders, and after he landed, taxied to the blast proof revetment to load up the first of the bombs. The following day take off again for Farallon de Medinilla, and this time it was for real, a practice drop with real bombs. Return to Andersen, analyze the results, and discuss any changes in target strategy. The mission would be soon. Target still to be identified, although they now knew it was inside Afghanistan. They’d give them the rest of the information just before they took off.
He glanced aside at his co-pilot, Captain Myron Reid. “I guess there’s not a man in this squadron who isn’t bored out of his brains doing the same old thing. Nothing fixes that kind of problem like a genuine operation.”
“Provided they don’t cancel it again, Major.”
He nodded. “Yeah, there is always that.”
“What about opposition, Major? We don’t know what kind of surface-to-air capability they have over the target area.”
Reid was thinking back to Vietnam, when the North Vietnamese brought down B-52s in droves. This was different. It wasn’t Vietnam.
“Afghanistan is an ally, Myron, so you can forget about anti-aircraft missile batteries. We’ll be hitting al Qaeda, ISIS, Taliban, or some other bunch of crazies.”
“Fuckin’ A, we should have done it a long time ago.”
The Major didn’t reply. They’d done just that over Vietnam, and the bastards still hadn’t given up. Maybe this time, with enough weight of bombs, it would be different. Pinpoint accuracy, drop their bombs smack on the target, and obliterate it.
He looked at his co-pilot. “Have someone bring up coffee, Myron. This calls for a celebration. Tonight we’ll have something stronger.”
* * *
The beating was worse. They came in strength, talking to each other outside the cell door, and he counted six men. Too many to take on with a plastic water bottle filled with gasoline, and he made Sara hurriedly refasten his wrists with the baling wire. She finished the job just as the door swung open, and they stared inside the gloom, expressions creased with suspicion. They knew something was different. They just couldn’t work out what it was. They didn’t notice the missing glass on the gasoline lantern, so perhaps it was just the brighter light. Or it may have been their body language that wasn’t right, but a second later a man entered the cell and dragged him out.
The six Islamists kicked and punched him all the way back. Tarzi, the man who had the ear of God, licked his lips when he saw him arrive, and gestured for them to again fasten him to the iron ring. The beating started, and it felt like bolts of high voltage electricity were running through his entire body. A single thought kept him going throughout the agonizing pain. Revenge.
When they’d finished, Tarzi screamed at him, “Two hours, Stoner, and it’ll be time for the next session. You’re lucky it’s time for our prayers. Otherwise, we would have given you more lashes. Two more hours, and they’ll come back to finish the job. This time they’ll flay what’s left of your skin off your back. There’ll be nothing but blood and gristle when they’ve finished. Any second thoughts about begging for mercy?”
“Fuck you, Tarzi.”
The red eyes blazed. �
��As you wish. Take him away.”
These bastards are going to suffer big time. When I get through with them, they’ll think tickling a man’s back with a whip is nothing compared to what I’m going to dish out. I’ll roast the bastards in, and when they’re screaming for their mothers, I’ll roast them some more.
Still, it hurt. He lapsed into a semi-coma, and they kicked and booted him back to the cell. Opened the door and tossed him inside, and he started to regain consciousness. When the door was locked, and they’d gone, Sara rushed over to him and dabbed at his wounds, trying to ease the bleeding with what little of her clothing she could use.
“Stoner, if this goes on any longer, you’ll be in as bad a state as Greg. There’s no way you’ll get out of here.”
“We’re getting out, and soon. How is he?”
He heard the tone in her voice, and it wasn’t good. She sounded even more worried. “He’s getting worse. I can feel his temperature rising, and I suspect blood poisoning is setting in, sepsis. He must have picked up an infection from the primitive surgery. Add that to the shock of the initial wound, and it’s a miracle he’s still hanging in there.”
“We’d better hurry. Unfasten my wrists.”
“But I haven’t finished your back.”
“The wrists first, we don’t have long.”
She spent some time removing the baling wire. He flexed his arms, trying to restore circulation after the tightness of the wire had cut off the blood supply. His back was on fire, and he forced himself to ignore it. It took a moment to drain most of the remaining fuel into the plastic bottle, and he prepared for when they opened the door. First, he assigned Sara a position where they could see her, with Greg lying next to her. Then they took off his blood-soaked coat and attempted to arrange it to look like Stoner was wearing it.