Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3

by Brad Thor

  “Do you think he soiled himself on purpose?” asked Harvath.

  “You’re damn right he did.”

  “You should have left him like that.”

  “I didn’t have a choice. Flower was raising holy hell. He thought maybe the guy was sick or something. Since he’s our prisoner, it’s our duty to see to his comfort. You know, all that Pashtunwali crap. Blah, blah, blah.”

  Harvath knew what Pashtunwali was and he had a lot of respect for it. It was far from crap. The rest of “modern” civilization could benefit from adhering to such a code of honor. “So what happened?”

  “Midland and Flower went in to deal with the guy while I covered them. As Midland was removing Khan’s pants, the shitbag bent over and tore a chunk out of his ear with his teeth.”

  “Jesus. Is he going to be okay?”

  “Flower drove him over to the CARE hospital to get his ear sewn back on.”

  “CARE?” replied Harvath.

  “Relax,” said Hoyt. “He doesn’t know anything about where we got Khan from. Besides, CARE is the best place for plastics.”

  Plastic surgeons or no plastic surgeons, Harvath didn’t like it. “You should have gone with him. If he talks, this whole operation could be blown.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s not stupid. He won’t talk. And as far as me going to the hospital with him, I figured you’d rather I stay here and watch our guest. If I’m wrong, I can call a cab right now.”

  Harvath put his elbow on the desk and rested his forehead in the palm of his hand. “No, you did the right thing. I’m glad you stayed there. Tell Mark I’ll cover all his medical bills.”

  “I already told him that,” replied Hoyt. “By the way, did you know the biter speaks English?”

  “Yeah, he grew up in the U.K.”

  “Well he’s one creepy son of a bitch. He keeps threatening us every time we open the door to his cage and I’m not talking run-of-the-mill, macho, I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass kind of stuff. He’s one sick motherfucker.”

  “Don’t let him get to you,” said Harvath. “Do you guys need anything?”

  “I need a couple more boxes of those XREPs.”

  “Please don’t tell me you—”

  “Yeah,” said Hoyt. “We fired all of them. And you know what? They work even better when you put the motherfucker’s feet in a bucket of water.”

  “Damn it, Hoyt!” snapped Harvath. “That’s way out of line—”

  “Relax,” replied Hoyt. “We haven’t done anything to him.”

  “Not even when he tore into Midland?”

  “All right, we messed him up once.”

  “How bad?” asked Harvath.

  “Flower beat the crap out of him. Midland and I had to pull him off. So much for Pashtunwali, eh?” said Hoyt with a chuckle.

  “I told you the guy was dangerous. The only reason he got Mark’s ear was that he was probably aiming for his throat and missed. I don’t want you going into that room unless you absolutely have to. And if you do, and he moves, TASE him. That’s an order. Understand?”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Good,” replied Harvath. “Let me know if Mark has any problems at the hospital. By the way, what’s he going to say anyway when the doctor asks him how it happened?”

  “They’re picking up Mei along the way. They’re going to say it was rough sex.”

  Harvath couldn’t believe his ears. “Now you’ve got Mei involved in this?”

  “I’m just kidding,” said Hoyt. “Relax. Midland will say he tore his ear on a piece of sheet metal.”

  “You keep screwing with me,” cautioned Harvath, “and I’m going to tear you on a piece of sheet metal.”

  “I’m shaking in my saddle shoes here, Aquaman. Get back to work and find our doctor. We’ve got everything covered on this end.”

  “If anything else happens with Khan, I want to know about it. Okay?”

  “Roger that,” replied Hoyt.

  Harvath disconnected the call and stood up from the desk. Closing the windows, he stepped into the hall, locked the door behind him, and headed toward the dining room. Gallagher and Fontaine were already seated at the table when he got there.

  “What’s our status?” asked Gallagher as Harvath walked in.

  Harvath couldn’t talk about Khan in front of Fontaine, so he stuck strictly to Julia Gallo. “We’ve got positive proof of life.”

  Fontaine grabbed a large orange from the bowl in the center of the table and began peeling it. “So we’re a go for Khogyani?”

  “Yup.”

  “Let’s assume we get a meeting with the shura,” said Gallagher. “Then what?”

  “The first thing I want is a tour of the village. We take as many pictures as we can and map as many GPS points as possible. We’ll push to look at everything. If they hold anything back or say that something is off-limits, we mark it as a location of interest.

  “I want each of us planning as we walk through that village how we would come back in at night, hit our objective, and get out again. Are there any dogs? Any livestock we would want to avoid disturbing? If we got pinned down, where would we want to hole up and fight from? Where’s the nearest location we could use as an LZ if we had a helicopter brought in? If it has to be a hot extraction and we’re taking fire, how would that work? How thick are their doors? How many armed men could they field and how quickly? If we get the chance to do a walk-through, I want to make sure we’re making the most of it.”

  “What about this kid with the broken jaw?”

  “Asadoulah Badar,” said Harvath.

  Baba G nodded.

  “We obviously can’t come right out and ask the shura about him. There’s no reason a bunch of NGO workers would know his name. We’d be blown right from the get-go.”

  “So what do you suggest?” asked Fontaine.

  “We need to figure out a way to get them to offer him to us.”

  “What do you mean by offer?”

  Harvath pulled out another Motrin and reached for one of the bottles of water on the table.

  “The way you’re going through those things,” interrupted Gallagher, “you should have a PEZ dispenser.”

  “Do you think I can get a Jackie Collins one?” asked Harvath as he popped the painkiller and took a sip of water.

  “You’re going to fry your liver and your kidneys if you keep knocking those things back like that.”

  “Can we get back to Badar and the shura, please?”

  Gallagher put up his hands in surrender and Harvath continued. “If we tell them we want to involve the young men of the village in the project as well, we might be able to arrange a casting call.

  “After tea, we’ll do our tour, and while we’re touring, the shura can have the young men rounded up for us. We’ll then do a Q&A with the kids, ostensibly to select the best candidates. If one of them has a broken jaw, we’ll know.”

  “And if they don’t bring him to the casting call?” asked Gallagher.

  “Then we’ll ask the shura where the rest of the men in that age group are. We’ll tell them that we selected their village based in part on the number of young men in that age group who could help maintain the wells and irrigation systems and carry that knowledge to other villages within their tribe. We’ll call them water ambassadors or clean water warriors. I don’t really care. The point is that the shura should be concerned we’re going to pull the project because we’d expected more boys in that age group to be there. They’ll pony him up, even with the broken jaw. Trust me.”

  “And then?” said Fontaine.

  “And then,” replied Harvath, “we’ll divide them into teams and elect captains. Get the GPS devices out and act like they can actually seek out water. We’ll ask the kids on that team to show us where each of them live and we’ll tag Asadoulah’s house, assess the hell out of it in the short time we have, and come back for him later tonight.”

  Gallagher sat back in his chair and smiled. “That’s got NGO written
all over it. Not bad.”

  Harvath was about to respond when his Afghan cell phone vibrated. Pulling it from his pocket, he activated the call. “Yes?”

  A voice on the other end used the alias Harvath had given the CWI people. “Mr. Staley?” it asked.

  “This is he,” replied Harvath.

  “I am Ghazan Daoud. Your interpreter in Khogyani.”

  “Yes, Mr. Daoud. Have you spoken with the village shura?”

  “Mr. Staley, there is a big problem.”

  Harvath could tell by the man’s voice that he was very upset. “First of all, calm down, Mr. Daoud. Tell me what the problem is.”

  “There are soldiers everywhere.”

  “Where?”

  “Here in the village.”

  “What kind of soldiers?” asked Harvath. “Taliban?”

  “No, sir. NATO soldiers. They have the entire village surrounded.”

  “Why? Why are they there?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Daoud, “but there are three dead bodies outside right now.”

  “Bodies of NATO soldiers?” asked Harvath.

  “No. Afghans. Two of them were shot. I am afraid of what the NATO soldiers might do, Mr. Staley. I have tried to speak with them, but they will not listen to me. Are you near? Please say you are near.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Daoud. We are on our way and will be there as soon as we can. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Staley,” said the interpreter. “Please hurry.”

  Harvath disconnected the call and set the phone on the table.

  “What was that all about?” asked Gallagher.

  “A group of NATO troops just hit our village in Khogyani.”

  “Is it Julia Gallo?” asked Fontaine.

  “I’m not sure,” said Harvath, “but we’re not going to sit here and wait to find out. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 37

  The drive from Jalalabad to Khogyani normally took an hour. Gallagher made it in twenty minutes.

  They encountered their first roadblock a mile out along the single-lane road leading through the village. Two eight-wheeled LAV III armored personnel carriers were parked diagonally blocking all traffic in or out. Their 25mm Bushmaster chain guns, along with a complement of 7.62 and 5.56 machine guns, were ready for action.

  “Coming up on the roadblock,” said Gallagher.

  Two more LAVs were blocking the road on the other side of the village.

  “Anybody see any activity on the ground?” asked Harvath.

  Baba G shook his head. “Looks like all they’ve done so far is set up a cordon.”

  “Which means they’re either waiting for another element to show, or they’re gearing up to go in themselves. We run this exactly the way we planned on the way down,” stated Harvath.

  “Actually,” said Fontaine as they closed on the roadblock and he reached in his pocket for his military ID, “we might have just caught a break.”

  “What kind of break?” asked Harvath.

  “We’ll see in a moment,” he replied.

  Fontaine rolled his window down and told Gallagher to pull all the way up. They were waved to a stop by a Canadian soldier carrying a C-7 assault rifle.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said the soldier as he studied Fontaine’s Canadian military ID card.

  “Corporal,” said Fontaine as he retrieved his ID and slid it back into his pocket, “who are you and what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Mechanized Quick Reaction Force, B Company, First Battalion,” the man responded. “We were sent in to hold this village.”

  “Hold it for whom?”

  “The Americans. They’re sending a unit to go house-to-house.”

  “Do you know what they’re looking for?” asked Fontaine.

  “No, sir.”

  “What’s their ETA?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said the corporal.

  “Who’s in charge here?” demanded Fontaine.

  “Captain West, sir.”

  “Captain Chris West?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fontaine opened his door and stepped out. “Get him on the radio for me right now,” he said as he began walking toward one of the LAVs.

  “Get the captain on the line,” the corporal ordered one of the soldiers standing near the LAV.

  “Who’s raising Captain West for me?” asked Fontaine as the hatch was raised on the armored vehicle and he ducked inside.

  “Right here,” said a soldier, who offered up a handset.

  Fontaine took the handset and spoke into it. “Chris? This is Dan Fontaine. You and your men have just walked into the middle of our operation. We need to talk right now.”

  Fontaine listened for a moment and then gave the handset back to the soldier. He waited for the soldier to finish speaking with his superior and then he stepped out of the LAV. As he did, the soldier stuck his head out of the back and informed his sergeant that Fontaine and the men in the Land Cruiser had been granted permission to pass.

  “So far so good,” said Fontaine as he hopped back in the truck and the Canadian soldiers directed them around their roadblock.

  “Where to?” asked Gallagher as he steered around the LAVs and got back on the road.

  “We’re going to meet up with their captain at the roadblock on the other side of the village.”

  “What do you think the Americans want with this place?”

  “Drugs, weapons, Taliban or al-Qaeda fighters,” replied Fontaine. “You name it.”

  “Julia Gallo?” Harvath asked.

  “That’d be one hell of a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in them,” continued Harvath from the backseat, more convinced than ever that Fontaine was CSIS. “By the way, you still carry an active military ID?”

  “Expired,” replied Fontaine. “Nobody ever checks the date. How about you? I’ll bet you have some interesting items in your wallet.”

  Harvath doubted the Canadian’s ID was expired. He also knew that while he had never told Fontaine what exactly he did for a living, it was quietly understood that he worked for the U.S. government. Based on Harvath’s special operations experience, it wasn’t a huge leap to assume he did something other than pushing paper. The suggestion of what might be in his wallet was a way of intimating that Fontaine had a good idea who Harvath really was too.

  It was also probably a reminder that the pot shouldn’t call the kettle black.

  “You know this guy West well?” asked Harvath, changing the subject yet again.

  “He and I served in the Pats together,” replied Fontaine.

  Harvath was familiar with Canada’s highly decorated regiment, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. “Do you think he’ll help us out?”

  “We always say ‘Once a Patricia, always a Patricia.’”

  “Well, no matter what happens and no matter what reason the Americans have for wanting to get in there and do a house-to-house,” stated Harvath, “we are going into that village. If Julia Gallo is in there, the longer we wait, the greater the odds are that they’ll figure out a way to slip that cordon and smuggle her out. And for all we know, they might have fled with her the minute they spotted these soldiers coming. I don’t want to wait around to find out.”

  “Agreed,” said Gallagher.

  “You got us over one hurdle,” Harvath said to Fontaine. “Now how do we get over the second and into the village?”

  Staring at the armored vehicles up ahead, he replied, “By appealing to West’s innate sense of Canadian patriotism.”

  Harvath looked at him. “I think I like my plan better.”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Fontaine. “It’s still your plan.”

  “This is it,” said Gallagher as they slowed to a stop before the two LAVs that formed the roadblock on the other side of the village. “You want us to wait in here?”

  “You can come, but try to let me do the talking. Okay?”

  “We’ll try,” said Harvath, openi
ng his door.

  The three men exited the Land Cruiser and were greeted by Captain West, a career military man in his late forties with dark hair and pale eyes.

  “What’s this about us walking into the middle of your operation?” asked West as he shook hands with Fontaine.

  The former JTF2 man didn’t bother introducing Harvath or Gallagher. Even among their allies, spooks often preferred to keep their identities private. “We’ve had this village under surveillance for two days.”

  “Why?” asked West.

  Fontaine dropped his voice and moved the captain off to the side, out of earshot of his men. Harvath and Gallagher followed.

  “We believe that the village elders have been harboring an al-Qaeda asset. We’ve got one of our men inside who can ID him. We were about ready to pull the trigger when you guys showed up. Speaking of which, what are you and your men doing here?”

  “NATO command got some sort of tip from one of its Taliban informants. They passed it on to the Americans, who, knowing we were in the area, asked us to come in and establish this cordon.”

  “Did they get anything in the air for you?” asked Harvath. “A Predator? Anything?”

  West shook his head. “They’ve been tied up. They couldn’t get any assets on target before we arrived.”

  “So we don’t know if anyone slipped out as your cordon was being established.”

  “No, we don’t,” said West as he turned back to Fontaine and asked, “Is this al-Qaeda asset you’re looking for the same reason the Americans are on their way?”

  “No,” replied Fontaine. “It isn’t.”

  “You sound pretty sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Well,” replied West, “my gut says I should put the brakes on everything until the Americans get here.”

  “Chris, we’ve been chasing the al-Qaeda operative in that village for almost a year. And now that we have him cornered, he’s sitting in there wondering who gave him up. Pretty soon, if he hasn’t already, he’s going to zero in on my operative, a Canadian, I might add, who’ll be as good as dead when that happens. I need to shut this thing down now.”

  “Dan, you and I go way back, but orders are orders,” said West.

  “And what happens if this guy slips your cordon? I’m sure your men are good, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. If we let a Canadian operative get killed and an al-Qaeda bomb maker, who specializes in targeting Canadian troops, escape, it won’t exactly be a blue-ribbon day, will it?”