Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  He had to detour, however, to stay away from the bright lights that turned night into day.

  It was seven pm before he came within eyesight of the hole in the side of the slope. He had to look up since it was at a height.

  The mine was the size of a basketball court, oval shaped with jagged edges. He dropped to his belly and crawled a further fifty feet until he could check out the scene with his binoculars.

  Despite the late hour, men swarmed around it. Bare-headed, with straps over their foreheads that held flashlights.

  There were guards, several of them, forming a wide perimeter.

  There was barbed wire as well. Zeb spotted it as he moved cautiously, the strands catching the lights.

  He turned his head and looked back.

  The rest of the hill was dark, as night blanketed the country. The mine wasn’t visible from the plains, nor was it from the roads to Sori or Raghi. The highway near Keshem was too far.

  How do the villagers get here?

  A truck rumbled up to the mine. That was his answer.

  He hunkered down, waiting for the activity to lessen. Mohammed wouldn’t be here, but he was hoping there would be something or someone who could lead him to the warlord’s plans.

  There was but not in the manner he was expecting.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  It was nine pm by the time the mine activity started winding down.

  Two trucks turned up.

  The villagers didn’t climb inside.

  A man came to the center of the clearing in front of the mine. Sharp-faced, white, he gave orders to guards, who relayed them to the villagers.

  They formed a line that stretched out to a shack next to the hole in the hillside.

  The nearest villager ducked inside and returned with a wooden crate. It got passed down the line and deposited into a truck that was in the shadow.

  Zeb counted thirty-five crates. Even from his distance, he could see the truck sink on its wheels.

  The white man gestured. A few villagers climbed into the rear of the truck and disappeared inside.

  They exited shortly and at another hand wave, all of the villagers climbed into the second truck that proceeded out of the mine.

  The guards stayed back; the white man as well. He circled the truck, inspected it to his satisfaction and spoke in a low voice to the guards.

  He disappeared into the shadows, and when he returned, he was driving a smaller vehicle. Just him inside it.

  Zeb lay against the hill as night tightened its grip. He counted fifteen guards strung out in an irregular semicircle. Pacing occasionally. Talking to one another.

  The truck was facing his left. Nearly five hundred yards away.

  He got to his feet stealthily and started to climb. He covered a hundred yards without any encounter. Thanked his luck that there were no patrol dogs. Neither did there seem to be any electronic surveillance.

  Why would they need it in the middle of Badakshan?

  The fence was three hundred yards away but now, he was at the edge of the cone of light.

  He dropped to his belly again and crawled as fast as he could. Froze when a pebble dislodged and a guard glanced back.

  He buried his head to cover the whites of his eyes.

  No shots came his way. When he looked up, the guard had turned away and was talking to another.

  He resumed his approach, his injured shoulder bleeding, when he encountered another problem.

  He could surmount the fence but the truck had two guards, one on each side, and another two some thirty feet away.

  He had to get past them.

  Shooting wasn’t an option. He didn’t want to kill them.

  His palms ground into gravel, and that gave him an idea.

  He removed his backpack and his rifle. Grabbed a few pieces of equipment and stuffed them in his pockets.

  He picked up a few stones, got to his feet and flung them as high and as far as he could in the direction of the mine.

  They fell noisily.

  The guards straightened. Called out to each other. Zeb threw more pebbles.

  They ran towards the sound.

  Zeb ran too, swiftly, towards the fence, placing his left foot high on it, springing off it and vaulting over.

  He landed heavily, but there wasn’t anyone to hear him.

  He crouched low and burst toward the truck. Crawled underneath it and peered out. The guards were still looking for the source of the noise.

  He got to the driver’s side and tested the door.

  It opened.

  He climbed in and searched the rear of the cab. Breathed out in relief when he came across the sliding panel that connected the cab to the main body.

  He slid it open, wriggled through, and was inside the storage area.

  He landed on crates. The rear gaped open, giving him a view of the guards and the mine. No one was heading back.

  He leaned over a crate closest to the cab and pried it open with his knife.

  It creaked. He stopped and looked up.

  No one raised a head in his direction.

  He bent to his task again and removed the cover. Cupped his palm around his flashlight.

  Gems. They shone in the light, filling the box.

  He sealed it again and checked a few more.

  More stones. No heroin.

  Mohammed’s taking away the last haul from the mine. Isn’t he going to share it with … Tucker’s dead. The white man could be the Russian Bidar mentioned. Just two of them to share the rewards.

  He fell on top of the crates when another sound came to him.

  A truck, the one that had ferried away the villagers.

  It trundled inside the mine and parked next to his.

  A door slammed, and its driver exchanged greetings with the guards.

  Zeb peered up cautiously. A bunch of men about eighty feet away from him. Slapping backs and laughing.

  He crept back into the cab and closed the panel.

  Cracked the door open, climbed out and got underneath the cab.

  Reached inside his pocket and brought out a GPS tracker. Attached it securely to the chassis. His hand dug inside his clothing and came out with a remote-controlled explosive device. He activated it using the dim light under the vehicle and fastened it to the bottom of the truck.

  He looked from beneath. No sign of the guards returning to their positions any time soon. They were having a good time.

  He rolled out swiftly and crawled beneath the next truck.

  Attached another tracker and explosive device to its bottom and started crawling out.

  He kept the vehicles between him and the guards and when he reached the barbed wire, he threw more pebbles into the sky.

  He ran as soon as they landed, vaulted over, and then he was out of the light.

  Sixteen men were searching the ground: fifteen guards and the truck driver. None of the Taliban men thought of looking beyond the fence.

  Zeb shook his head in disgust.

  Must be low-level foot soldiers. Mohammed’s got the best men with him.

  Less than two hours later, he was back in his stolen vehicle and heading back towards Raghi.

  It was time to rest.

  He didn’t know where Mohammed was.

  However, he now had eyes on his contraband.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The sky was orange when Zeb woke the next day. He stood for a few moments, savoring the stillness and the sun’s silent fireworks as the Earth revolved on its axis.

  It was the day Mohammed planned to escape.

  Not if I have anything to do with it , Zeb thought grimly.

  He freshened up. Bandaged his shoulder with another strip of cloth and checked his weapons.

  He powered up his laptop. One orange dot was the truck with the gems; a green one, the other truck. Both stationary. Both still at the mine.

  He wondered when Atash Mohammed would join the shipment. Whether he was already on the move from Sori to the
mine.

  For a brief moment he thought of calling the Afghan police.

  Nope. Mohammed will have his informers .

  He put on his armor and several layers of clothing and then donned the dull-brown perahaan.

  Those thirty-five crates … they will be unwieldy. Difficult to transport across the river.

  Zeb decided to go with his earlier hunch. That the terrorist would cross the bridge in daylight.

  He tested his shoulder, flexed it, as he drank a hastily made tea.

  It hurt but it would get him through the day.

  I may not be alive at the end of it.

  He threw the dregs away and stowed the cup in his gear.

  Death had never scared him. It was a characteristic that had distinguished him from other Delta operatives. He had no wife, no girlfriend. He had a sister who had a career in DC and the two seldom met.

  ‘Zen. You are the only one I have seen who is closest to that state,’ a psychologist had once told him, when he was in Delta, after running several tests. ‘Have you studied Buddhism?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Zeb had replied.

  Religion had no interest for him. He knew how he felt about living and dying. He didn’t see the need to analyze himself. He just was.

  Zeb straightened and stretched.

  If he died that day, so be it.

  He would do everything he could however, to make sure he wouldn’t die alone.

  He would take Atash Mohammed with him.

  Just before he set out, he considered his plan.

  The previous night, he had decided that he would cross the Panji Poyon bridge and watch from the other side.

  Was there any need to change the plan?

  He could follow the trucks, but the Taliban would be alert. They wouldn’t be looking out just for him, but for anyone who showed the slightest interest in them.

  He fingered the rubbery ears and nose. Decided not to wear them. He would spend the day as Akmal Rahman.

  Nope, crossing the bridge ahead of the trucks was still the best option.

  He headed out.

  He approached the bridge, which stood proudly over the river, two hours later. It had been constructed to grow the infrastructure in the two countries it connected.

  I bet none of the planners figured it would be used by drug traffickers and terrorists.

  He followed a truck that shook alarmingly from side to side. A pair of goats peered out at him from its rear.

  It slowed, giving him the opportunity to check out the guards.

  The next moment, he had wrapped his shemagh about his face, because they were the same men he had accosted, the ones who had told him about Kalan’s shipment.

  He let the truck pass and inched forward when the older guard, the clean-shaven one, waved him forward impatiently.

  Zeb drew out a hundred-dollar bill and thrust out his left hand.

  ‘Go, you fool. The bridge is empty,’ the guard said, as he approached his window.

  ‘What’s the news today?’ Zeb growled, twirling the note in his fingers.

  ‘News?’ the man drew back. ‘What—’

  His eyes narrowed when he spotted the bill. A flash of recognition in his eyes. He turned to the two other guards who were lazing against the concrete sides of the bridge and beckoned to them.

  ‘It’s you,’ he said. ‘We heard a lot—’

  ‘What’s the news?’

  The man moistened his lips. Looked scared. Looked at his fellow guards for support.

  Zeb brought out a thick wad. More money than he had given them that other night.

  The leader’s hands twitched. Three pairs of eyes were fluttering on the roll thrust out of the window.

  ‘Mohammed’s shipment. In the daytime. They’ll shoot us if we stop it. Rape our wives and daughters,’ the leader blurted.

  Zeb tossed him the bundle.

  The guard caught it deftly and pocketed it.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘We don’t know, agha. The messenger came in the morning. He warned us several times.’

  ‘You might tell them about me.’

  A bitter smile twisted his lips.

  ‘Tell them about Sher? Why would we? We haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Agha,’ another guard bent his head to the window. ‘You gave us more money than we asked that night. You didn’t send men to our homes to threaten our women. We don’t like the Taliban.’

  ‘Do you know how many vehicles?’ Zeb asked them.

  ‘No, agha. We know there will be a shipment. A big one, because it’s in daylight. We don’t know anything else.’

  A car approached from behind. The leader straightened. He made a show of shouting angrily at Zeb and inspecting his vehicle.

  He waved Zeb’s Toyota forward, cursing. ‘Be safe, agha.’

  Zeb crossed the bridge and, at the other end, handed out more dollar bills.

  Papers? Visa? Who needed them when the American dollar spoke more powerfully.

  There was a sign board that announced he was in Tajikistan. The guards wore different uniforms, but there was nothing else to distinguish the country from its neighbor.

  Past the bridge, the road curved and snaked away into the distance between mountains.

  Zeb drove on, searching for a hide. Nothing immediately near the bridge. A clump of trees a quarter of a mile away.

  Too far.

  He reconsidered.

  I don’t need to be in my vehicle.

  He accelerated away and went off-road. He arrived at a suitable thicket.

  No human presence. He drove deep inside, ensuring that his Toyota wasn’t visible from the road. Grabbed his backpack, his HK, binos and headed back to the bridge.

  He jogged at the side of the dirt track, in a narrow, rain-water gully, bending low so that no one could spot him from the bridge.

  He stopped when he was less than a hundred yards away. Peered out of the trench. Undulating ground. A few rocks.

  He checked out the bridge with his binoculars. No vehicles on it.

  No guards looking his way.

  He climbed out of the trench and darted to the rocks.

  They weren’t large, but just behind them was a shallow depression. Behind him, the mountains. Ahead of him, to his left, the bridge.

  He settled down to wait, binos to his eyes.

  He could have tracked the trucks on his laptop but eyes-on was vital.

  He had to know how many Taliban he had to deal with, before getting to Mohammed.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The trucks rumbled over the bridge at precisely four pm.

  The dots on his laptop confirmed that the two vehicles he was watching were the ones he was after.

  He trained the binos on the first one.

  Four men inside the cab, including the driver. Laughing. All bearded. All wearing shemaghs carelessly draped over their necks.

  None of them was Atash Mohammed.

  The first truck had the gems.

  It shook as it got off the bridge and onto uneven ground.

  It presented its rear to Zeb.

  Not covered.

  No men inside. None that was visible.

  He turned to the second truck.

  Four more men.

  Its rear was empty, too.

  Zeb scratched his cheek.

  Where’s Atash Mohammed? Or that white dude at the mine?

  Had he made a mistake?

  No, he decided, curbing the bitter feeling welling inside him.

  It made sense.

  Why would the terrorist travel with the gems? It would only increase his risk.

  He’ll cross the river somewhere else, and rendezvous with the trucks.

  I hope.

  There was no other option for him but to follow the two vehicles.

  He waited till they were out of sight and then sprinted back to his Toyota.

  Twenty minutes later, he was back on the road, the trucks visible in the far distance.

 
; Zeb followed them for several miles with the sun behind him. That helped. Less chance that a stray reflection would give him away.

  Mile after mile rolled beneath his wheels.

  Mostly flat land, an undulation here and there. Mountains in the distance against the blue sky.

  Zeb wiped his palms against his thighs. He had no time to appreciate the landscape, in which nothing moved but the three vehicles.

  He was conscious of the time.

  If Atash Mohammed doesn’t turn up before dark … I’ll keep following them , he told himself doggedly.

  The trucks were heading toward Dushanbe. They’ll join the Pamir Highway there and then head to Kyrgyzstan. The route most drug traffickers take .

  Russian gangs and local warlords ruled over that route.

  Mohammed and his Russian have probably struck alliances with them. For safe passage .

  Zeb knew his window of opportunity was small. He had to strike before nightfall. Before they reached Dushanbe, and for that to happen, Atash Mohammed had to turn up.

  Red lights flared ahead of him, interrupting his thoughts.

  He squinted.

  The trucks were slowing. Getting off the road. Turning to the left.

  What’s there? Nothing!

  He swiftly brought his binoculars up to watch.

  They slowed and came to a halt near the carcass of a broken-down truck. The remains of a tire on the ground. Men climbing out of the vehicles.

  A truck stop in the middle of nowhere in Tajikistan?

  His heart leapt into his mouth, because from behind the abandoned truck, he could make out a smaller vehicle. An SUV. Black.

  Bearded men in front of it. Weapons on their backs. He couldn’t make out details, but one figure registered on him.

  A white man.

  The man from the mine.

  Zeb tossed the binos onto the passenger seat. Pulled his shemagh over his face and continued driving.

  Pulse beating steadily. Thinking furiously about his course of action.

  He drew closer to the gathering of vehicles. Then passed them. Three hundred yards to his left.

  He looked across casually. Why wouldn’t he?

  Any driver would be curious.

  No one glanced at him.

  The men were bunched together, and then they fell behind.

  Zeb upped his speed incrementally.

  Waited till the road dipped and the vehicles disappeared from view.