Joshuas Hammer km-8

by David Hagberg

Mohammed got the pistol out of his pocket, fumbled for the hammer and raised it. McGarvey shot him once, the bullet plowing into his forehead.

  Not necessary, McGarvey thought with disgust. Yet this was one killing he knew that he would never regret.

  Hash and Farid started firing wildly up the hill, the bullets whining off the rocks all over the place. McGarvey dropped down into the protection of the depression and waited until they stopped shooting.

  “Mohammed is dead,” he called down to them. He got his pistol and stuffed it in his belt. “I didn’t order the missile strike, and I mean you no harm now.” He ejected the Kalashnikov’s magazine and checked the rounds. There was one in the chamber and seven in the clip. “Go back and tell bin Laden that we can still work a deal. The missiles were a mistake. My government thought I was dead.”

  McGarvey checked over the rim of the depression. One of the mujahedeen was directly below him, the other had moved back about fifteen or twenty yards to the east. They were trying to box him in, get him in a crossfire. Whatever their previous orders had been they meant to kill him now.

  He popped up and fired three shots at the man crouched behind the rocks below him. The other one jumped out of hiding and started up the hill. McGarvey calmly switched aim and squeezed off two shots, the second catching the man in the side, knocking him down. “Goddamnit,” he muttered, pulling back. It was senseless.

  A silence fell over the defile again, and except for the burbling stream there were no sounds.

  “It’s only you now,” McGarvey called out. He crawled over to Mohammed’s body, took the PSM pistol, then crawled back to the rim. “We can stay here and fight it out, or you can go back to the camp.”

  “I can’t do that, mista It was Farid. McGarvey recognized the voice, and he sounded frightened.

  “Yes, you can,” McGarvey said. He checked the load in Mohammed’s pistol. There was one in the chamber, and eight in the magazine. “I didn’t want to shoot Hash, but I had no other choice.”

  “You brought the missiles.”

  “No, I didn’t. My government made a mistake. I was sent here to stop the killing, and we can still do that if you tell bin Laden that I’ll make it right when I get back to Washington. Something like this won’t happen again. You can give him my word.”

  “Liar,” Farid shouted, and he fired several rounds up the hill.

  “Shit,” McGarvey said. He rose up and emptied the Kalashnikov on the rocks where the mujahed was hiding then ducked back. “Sooner or later one of us is going to get lucky,” McGarvey said. He laid the rifle aside and picked up the Russian pistol. “Since I have the high ground it’ll probably be me.”

  The defile was silent again.

  A minute later McGarvey cautiously rose up so that he could see where Farid was hiding. Nothing moved. He rose a little higher, but he still couldn’t see any sign of the mujahed down there.

  “Farid,” he called.

  There was no answer.

  He swept his eyes across the rocks and path. Hash was still lying where he’d gone down, but to the west McGarvey was just in time to see Farid keeping low and moving fast then disappear over the crest of a hill.

  McGarvey lowered the pistol and allowed himself to come down. Now it begins, he told himself morosely as he stared at the empty path back to bin Laden’s camp and listened to the pleasant sounds of the stream.

  Bin Laden’s Camp Bin Laden, with his daughter’s bloody body in his arms, her long dark hair hanging loose, made his way slowly through the camp. His two dozen remaining mujahedeen parted respectfully for him as he passed, then gathered behind him in a funeral march.

  As the procession started up the hill Ali Bahmad, dressed for travel in khakis, came back to the cave entrance, a two way radio held loosely in his left hand. He glanced into the sky to the east. An unmanned reconnaissance drone had passed over the camp fifteen minutes ago to assess the damage the missile strike had caused, and at this moment the CIA’s spy satellites were looking down on them, passing their high-resolution real-time images back to Washington. Bahmad had once even stood in the National Reconnaissance Office’s operations center, and had been shown a tiny part of what the machines were capable of. It was nothing short of miraculous.

  At the bottom of the hill bin Laden stopped to gather his strength for the climb. Although he clearly needed help no one came forward out of respect for him. This was a task meant only for a grieving father, and his followers had more love for him at this moment then they’d ever had before. The experience was almost religious, Bahmad could see it in the way they stood, heads up but in silence.

  A pall of smoke hung over the valley, and flames still rose from a dozen fires, including the one at the fuel dump, which would probably burn all day and into the night. The drone had come in low enough to get clear pictures of everything not under cover, and the satellites were capable of very sharp infrared imaging. The Americans knew what damage their strike had caused, and more importantly who had survived.

  Bahmad had warned Osama that this might happen. He had advised either using the bomb as it was intended to be used, or get rid of it. “But don’t try to bargain with him,” he’d cautioned. “Once they know that you have it they won’t stop until you’re dead and the bomb is either destroyed or in their possession.”

  Time to leave now, he told himself. Not only from this camp, but perhaps from these mountains and even from the jihad. Bahmad had toyed with the notion of slipping away ever since bin Laden’s agents had gotten their hands on the bomb. But something inside of him had made him stay. Like a moth drawn to a flame he had been seduced by the power of the device. In one act of terrorism they could finally strike fear into the hearts of every Westerner who’d dared to come to the Middle East with their insatiable appetite for oil; with their infectious culture and ideas that were far more dangerous than any deadly virus. He could finally strike a decisive blow for the deaths of his parents that had scarred his soul more deeply than even he could admit to himself. They had been his entire world. He’d been a shy, delicate boy whom his parents had protected. When they were killed by the Jews he’d almost drawn inside of himself, into a nothingness, into a deep depression from which he knew he would never have survived. Instead, his heart had turned to stone, and he had begun the long fight against Israel and every nation that supported it that would, he understood on a pragmatic level, not end until he was dead. But the fight had been glorious at times. And there was still one more blow to be delivered, if bin Laden could be kept from going completely insane and ordering the impossible.

  The procession started up the hill at the same moment the radio squawked softly.

  Bahmad stepped closer to the cave entrance for better radio reception. “Yes,” he answered.

  “There is trouble,” Hamed came back.

  “Is McGarvey dead?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At the cataracts.”

  That was a spot on the path about a kilometer above the first rest area before the valley. Bahmad worked to keep his anger in check. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. But there was a fight and he killed Mohammed and Hash. Farid just showed up, he’s with me now.”

  “Was McGarvey wounded?”

  “Apparently not,” Hamed replied.

  Bahmed who had picked his inner circle very well, had complete faith in Hamed. “He’s probably on his way to the Rover. Stop him before he reaches it. Whatever you must do, kill him, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hamed said. “Is everything all right up there?”

  “No,” Bahmad said softly. He pocketed the radio, and took out his phone as bin Laden reached the cave opening. Their eyes met, but he could read nothing in bin Laden’s other than a father’s despair. Bin Laden turned to his followers who were gathered a few meters below.

  “Final justice will be ours,” bin Laden shouted, his voice surprisingly strong.

  Bahmad stepped back out of sig
ht and pushed the speed dial button for a number in Kabul.

  “No American will be safe from our wrath. When we strike it will be in the infidels’ homeland.”

  It was what Bahmad had expected and feared most. Bin Laden was crazy and he meant to take them all down with him. But there were plans. Possibilities. Even targets, because he had been working on the problem for several months now.

  “No one will ever forget,” bin Laden shouted.

  The call was answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

  “Do you know who this is, Colonel?”

  “Yes, I do,” the man said in a guarded voice. In the background Bahmad could hear a great deal of commotion. “We’re still trying to find out where the missiles hit. Was it you?”

  “Yes, it was. We’re leaving here in a few hours, but there’s something you must do for me.”

  “Listen, the Shura is finally going to demand that he leave Afghanistan. All foreigners are going to be expelled within the next forty-eight hours for their own protection. The rioting has already started down here. We can’t have this any longer. You must make him understand!” The Shura was the ruling council.

  “We do understand, and we are leaving,” Bahmad said, keeping his voice reasonable. “But there is one last thing that you must do for me.”

  The phone was dead for a moment. Bin Laden was quoting the Qoran, his voice like Bahmad’s, clear, calm, unhurried. He was a teacher instructing his eager pupils, a shepherd showing his flock the way.

  “What do you want?”

  “The American Kirk McGarvey may be on his way back to Kabul in the Rover.”

  “You should have killed him,” the army colonel said bitterly. “We tried but failed,” Bahmad admitted. “He is a very resourceful man. If he reaches Kabul I want him killed. At all costs. Do you understand me?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Just a CIA field agent. But he came here for one purpose only, to kill Osama. For that he has to die.”

  “Was his mission a success?”

  Bahmad was looking at bin Laden. “No, it was not,” he said. “Will you do this one last thing for us?”

  “Yes,” the colonel said without hesitation. “If he gets this far he will die. I guarantee it.”

  “Thank you,” Bahmad said and he broke the connection.

  “The walls of Jericho will come tumbling down,” bin Laden told his people. “But this time there will be a hammer-Joshua’s hammer — swung by an Islamic fist for all the world to see and respect. Insha “Allah.”

  Yes, Bahmad thought. Insha’Allah. God willing.

  ELIZABETH MCGARVEY

  Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

  ROMANS 12:19

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the Afghan Mountains

  McGarvey searched Mohammed’s body, finding three full magazines for the Kalashnikov. He had to decide if he should take them and the rifle or continue without the extra weight.

  It would take the rest of the day for Farid to make it back to the camp, and depending on what he found there, possibly another half-day to bring reinforcements back with him. It wasn’t likely that everyone had been killed in the missile raid, and if bin Laden had survived he would go all out to stop McGarvey from leaving Afghanistan alive.

  If there were other more direct routes to the Rover they would take those in an effort to intercept him. If that failed they might alert the military in Kabul to be on the lookout for him. It meant in reality that he only had a few hours’ head start, time enough for Farid to reach the camp, so he had to travel light.

  He set the magazines aside and found his satellite phone in another pocket. The low-battery indicator light was on. Mohammed had evidently been playing with it. But it didn’t matter as much now, because the damage had already been done.

  He entered the security code and then hit the speed dial button. After a minute the phone acquired a satellite and the call went through. He looked at his watch. It was after midnight in Washington, but if Otto wasn’t in his office the call would automatically be rolled over to his cell phone or his apartment. It was answered before the first ring was completed.

  “Oh, wow, Mac,” Rencke shouted excitedly. “I knew you were alive! I just knew it!”

  “Okay, settle down, Otto. I’m in one piece, but I’m going to need some help getting out of the country, and I want to know what the hell is going on there.”

  “Are you someplace we can come get you?” Rencke asked, all business.

  “I’m still in the mountains, maybe ten or twelve miles from bin Laden’s camp. If everything goes okay I should be in Kabul sometime tonight, my time.”

  “That might not be the best place right now. They’re already rioting down there. The Taliban is behind it, of course, it wouldn’t have started so fast otherwise. You’ll never make it back to the hotel.”

  McGarvey glanced up the path, and stopped to listen for a moment. Had he heard something? “I don’t have any other option,” he said, deciding he hadn’t heard anything after all. It was just his nerves. “How about our old embassy? If I can get to it is there a place I can hide out?”

  “That’s where the rioting is starting to concentrate. But the ambassador’s old residence is a possibility. It’s in your laptop.”

  “I don’t have that anymore,” McGarvey said. “But I think I can find the place, and if there’s only the two caretakers I should be able to get in easily enough.”

  “The Taliban have given all foreigners forty-eight hours to get out of Afghanistan. I’ll try to arrange something with one of the embassies. You might be able to get out with one of their staffs.”

  “How about our own people? There has to be some Americans here.”

  “A few UN observers, a handful of Red Crescent people and maybe a couple dozen businessmen. But they’re leaving on commercial airlines to Dubai, the same way you came in.”

  “With the rioting that’s going to be dangerous for them,” McGarvey suggested. “The Taliban would have to provide an escort, something I don’t think they’ll do.” Rencke picked up on it immediately. “We can send a C-130 with a few marines to provide security. The President said he would do whatever it takes to protect our people. But the Taliban know your face, so unless you can come up with a disguise and new papers they’ll never allow you to get on that plane, marines or no marines.”

  “I’ll work something out at this end,” McGarvey said. “Just get the transport aircraft here and I’ll get aboard somehow. Try Riyadh, it’ll be quicker.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I’m not even going to ask why the attack was launched so fast. But what about damage assessments? How badly did we hurt them?”

  “We flattened the camp, Mac. But there’re survivors, and nobody thinks any differently. When your chip went off the air they wouldn’t listen to me. Even Murphy tried to delay the attack.”

  “It was Berndt.”

  “Bingo,” Rencke said. “I did some checking. He worked for the Sec Def a few years ago, and guess what one of his primary responsibilities was? Final target approval for our raids into Kosovo and Serbia. He took the heat for a lot of the mistakes we made over there, and he blamed it on the Agency for giving him bad intelligence. Especially in the Chinese embassy thing.”

  McGarvey knew there had been something like that in the national security adviser’s past, but he’d never had the time to look into it. In all other respects Dennis Berndt was doing a good job for a President whom the country loved and respected. It was the one issue that blinded him from doing an otherwise almost perfect job. “You’d better have Murphy get over there and brief them on what’s coming our way. Unless we killed bin Laden he’ll come after us.”

  “We’re still working on that part. But we might not be able to come up with anything conclusive. If he’s alive he’ll have to show himself before we can know for sure. Either that or use his cell phone. If we get lucky and pick up one of his calls we’ll have him.”

>   “He has the bomb, Otto, and unless we can give him another way out he’s going to use it against us.”

  “The big questions are where and when.”

  “In the States and damned soon.”

  “Oh, boy,” Rencke said after a moment. “Was he willing to go along with the deal?”

  “I think so,” McGarvey said tiredly. “But now he’ll blame his actions on us. He’s going to claim that he tried to work with us in good faith, but that we tried to assassinate him.”

  “We did,” Rencke said softly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think that he’ll go after the President?”

  “I think that’s too specific a target even for bin Laden. But he’s going to bring the bomb to the States.”

  “Maybe it’s already here.”

  McGarvey had given that possibility some thought. “I don’t think so. It’s just a gut feeling, but if the bomb was already there he would have been more aggressive because his position would have been stronger. Do what I want right now, or suffer the consequences right now. He never acted that way.”

  “If that’s true then it gives us a little time,” Rencke said. “That’s something. What about his staff? Did you see the guy Alien told us about?”

  “Yeah, his name is Ali, but I never got a look at his face, only his eyes. He knew about the chip and about our satellite schedules, so he’s well connected.”

  “I’ll have something for you to look at and listen to when you get back. Maybe he’s a key.”

  “Let’s hope so,” McGarvey said. “Because we need one.” The phone cut out momentarily, but then reacquired the satellite.

  “Mac …?”

  “I’m back. My batteries are almost flat. I want you to talk to Dick Yemm and have him keep an eye on Katy and Liz until I get back.”

  “Do you think they’ll be a target?”

  “I can almost guarantee it,” McGarvey replied bitterly. “Call Fred Rudolph and have the Bureau’s antiterrorism people keep their heads up. Adkins can work with him. I want all of our assets worldwide on this right now. Nothing else takes priority. And I mean nothing.”