by Eric Meyer
* * *
The Embassy answered and kept the Pakistani intelligence officer waiting while they contacted the Ambassador. Eventually, they put the call through to his office.
“Ambassador Adams’ office, how may I help you?”
Mirza explained about the intelligence reports. “The thing is, we need to verify who is down there, if anyone, before we mount any kind of an attack. Are you aware of the capture of Congresswoman Adams by Islamic militants?”
June Reeder smoothed her bottle blonde hair while she gave it some thought. Of course she knew about the kidnap of the Congresswoman and her party, but the situation was complicated. She loved Seth with a powerful intensity, though she knew he’d never leave his wife. Even though he didn’t love her, he had political ambitions, and he had to tread carefully. She understood his dilemma. He didn’t want her back, but he had to go through the motions.
In her dreams, she fantasized about Mrs. Adams dying suddenly of a heart attack or something similar.
This Pakistani officer is offering me a gift-wrapped solution on a plate. Should I take it? Would anyone ever find out? Would Seth find out? No, the call isn’t recorded, so no one need ever know.
“We have no record of any Americans kidnapped inside Pakistan.”
“You’re certain?”
“Of course I’m certain.”
“Because it would allow our military to take action against any suspect groups.”
She chuckled. Seth was almost hers. “Knock yourself out, Lieutenant. If you see a fat, juicy Islamist target, take it out. God knows they give us all enough trouble.”
“Very well, we will act accordingly. Thank you for your time.”
Chapter Four
They piled into the GAZ, and it was almost comical. The three Afghans, two men, and the boy perched on top of cartons and boxes piled in the back. In the gap between the two front seats, Archer stretched himself out. He rested his head on the gearstick, so every time Greg needed to use the shift, he had to move him gently, and Stoner held him while he changed gear. They drove away, and almost immediately Noyan pointed to a narrow track that led up into the hills.
"That is the only route for us to take. It’ll double the distance, but it’ll give us the best chance of avoiding discovery. There is one thing. Like I said, most men we encounter along the way will regard us as hostile. If you’re in any doubt when you see a man with a gun, shoot first. That's the way it works around here."
"Like it is in Afghanistan.”
The grizzled Taliban commander shook his head. “In Afghanistan, we’re civilized.”
“Sure you are.”
Greg drove, and Stoner settled down for what he knew would be a nightmare ride. They followed a series of rough tracks that threaded across the badlands of Northeast Pakistan, and they were riding in the worst possible vehicle for the job. Stalin’s Revenge, Stoner nicknamed it. The venerable GAZ may have been a tough little SUV, but when the Soviets built it fifty years before, the last thing on their minds had been any consideration of comfort. Before they'd covered the first ten klicks, the bruises and wounds he'd suffered at the hands of the Haqqanis were causing him real trouble. He tried to ignore the pain, constantly shifting position, until he came up against Archer, who'd made himself comfortable and decided nothing was about to budge him. They drove for four long, miserable hours until night fell. Stoner estimated they'd covered less than one hundred klicks. A long way still to go, he tapped Greg on the shoulder and shouted over the noise of the engine.
"We need to stop for the night, and find somewhere we can bed down. If we carry on like this, we’re liable to drive off a cliff."
"Have you seen anything for the last hour? Any sign of human habitation?"
"Nothing."
Greg grimaced. “And I doubt we’ll find anything ahead of us. If I see a sign for a Holiday Inn, I'll be sure to stop and find us rooms for the night.”
At first, they managed to stay on the track. The clouds had disappeared, and they had moonlight and stars to light up the land. Greg was driving without headlamps, on the advice of Abbas Noyan.
"If we are to survive we must remain invisible. Switch on the headlamps, and they'll know we're coming before we make it halfway."
"I thought we were halfway," Stoner said.
The Taliban commander raised his eyebrows. "You haven't traveled this route before, and I have. We may have made half the distance in kilometers, but the next half is the difficult part. The going gets very rough.”
Almost as he said the words, Greg cried out in alarm, and the GAZ lurched off the track where the rain had washed the surface clean away. They were sliding down a steep, muddy bank. All they could do was hang on grimly to avoid being tossed out and wait until they reached the bottom. They were descending into a black nothingness. Then they hit, and the collision threw them out of the jeep. They landed in a heap in the soft, wet mud, surrounded by boxes, cartons, and crates that had tumbled out of the jeep. Only Archer managed to land well, between Blum and Stoner. The dog wore a quizzical expression. As if to ask them why they'd been so stupid as to come this way.
It’s okay for you, pal, four legs beats two anytime.
The three Afghans were unscathed, although covered in mud like they all were. Javed offered to climb back up the slope and find a way to get back on the track. He scampered away and was back a few minutes later.
"The track has disappeared along a stretch of about twenty meters, and there's no way we can get back up there."
"We'll have to find another way," Blum said, “There's no way I'm leaving the GAZ, not out here. Besides, we have the gear to carry. What do we have to go, about one hundred klicks?"
Noyan nodded. "About that. Perhaps we can find a way to drive out of this valley further along."
They'd been lucky. The jeep was still on all four wheels, and when Greg pressed the starter button, the engine ran. They piled the boxes back onto the vehicle and climbed aboard. Greg engaged low ratio and tried to drive out along the deep gully into which they'd fallen. The wheels skidded in the mud. They had to climb back out, get behind, and push to stop the wheels moving. The tires gripped the mud, spurting wet clumps of earth over them until they were plastered like circus clowns, but they kept pushing. After the first fifty meters, the ground was firmer, and the tires had enough grip for them to ride. They remounted, and Greg drove slowly. Their speed was reduced to less than five miles an hour, a fast walking pace, and he switched on the headlamps before they slipped into a deep ravine. Noyan cursed, told him he was stupid, but Greg shouted he couldn't see a thing, and if he ran without lights, they'd never make it. They’d fall into the first crevice they came across. A few meters later, he was proved right when the headlamps picked up the edge of a deep crevice. He drove around it, missing the sheer drop by inches. Noyan didn't make any further protests. A tacit admission he'd been wrong, and they needed to use the headlamps. Dawn was breaking when they finally drove out of the narrow valley they'd been driving along and rejoined the track, but Noyan was uncomfortable.
"This is a big mistake. Like I said, people around here will see us as hostile, and they have a simple approach to dealing with hostile strangers."
He ratcheted the action on his AK, and Nadiri did the same. Javed gave him a glance and picked up the AK he'd taken from the bank vault, doing his best to look fierce. Stoner carried the AK he'd taken from Chitral across his knees. They were prepared, but when it came, the ambush was a shock, and they almost had them.
One moment they were driving along the track, the next they rounded a bend and the road was blocked with boulders. After the fierce storm of the night before, it would have been a reasonable supposition that the fierce weather had detached the massive stones, and they'd roll down the hill. But the men in that jeep were no strangers to ambush, and experience told them the reasonable explanation was the most unlikely one. Traveling through bandit country, when the road ahead was blocked, there was already a simple explanation.<
br />
Greg was already jamming the brakes on, and he shouted, "Ambush!"
As he slowed the GAZ into the side, the first burst of gunfire hissed past them, two meters in front of the hood, where they would have been had he kept going. They were already out of the vehicle, and Stoner was scanning the ground ahead. Another burst of fire came, and several bullets drilled through the hood of the GAZ. None of them were hit, but he was able to see the flashes as they fired, and he picked them out level with the track, behind a ruined shepherd’s hut about one hundred meters ahead. He scanned the ground for cover. There was nothing, save for the steep drop at the side of the track, and with no other choices, he ran for it. Noyan and Nadiri were behind him, and they squeezed over the edge, hanging onto the steep slope with their fingernails.
He felt angry. They were barely halfway, they'd suffered the bone-jarring ride in the GAZ, tumbled down a steep, muddy slope, spent the rest of the night driving out of it, and now men were shooting at them. There was plenty to be angry about. He didn't wait to see if the two Afghans were with him. He slipped and squelched sideways along the bank, with the rifle slung on his back, holding onto the edge to prevent tumbling to his death one hundred meters below.
They were still shooting, so he had a rough idea of their position. When he estimated he was close, he finally looked sideways. The two Afghans were there, two meters away. Both men looked calm.
He mouthed one word, "Wait."
They indicated their understanding, and he slowly raised his head and looked across to the stone hut, now less than twenty meters away. There were five men, all armed with assault rifles. Four were taking potshots at the jeep while the fifth shouted orders. At the same time he was unsuccessfully trying to light a pipe, striking match after match, and he assumed they were sodden after the heavy rainfall.
He was so absorbed in his task he didn't notice the head staring at him from a short distance away. Which wasn’t surprising, the mud that had splattered his face when they pushed the jeep was effective camouflage. But still, they had twenty meters of open ground to cover, and there were five of them. With the help of the two Talibs he’d still be outnumbered. Even worse, the hostiles were sheltering behind rocks that made them a difficult target.
He was trying to work out his next move when he saw movement. Fifty meters past the ambushers, and with a sense of astonishment, he recognized Javed. Not just Javed, Greg was with him, and Archer. They were attempting to take them from behind. Not a good plan, for they were exposed to a casual glance, and the inevitable happened. The man finally lit his pipe, took a moment to look around, and he spotted them at once. With a sickening sense of what was about to happen, Stoner didn't hesitate. He looked aside at the two Talibs and snarled, “Now! Get at them. Charge, kill the bastards!”
He leapt to his feet and raced across the track, rifle slung under his arm, and firing from the hip. The two Talibs were right behind him, and they added their fire to his, spewing out lead at the ambush party. The hostiles saw them and stopped shooting at Greg's party coming in from the south, to line their guns up on Stoner and the two Afghans coming at them from across the track.
What saved them was the ambushers’ inexperience. With attackers coming at them from both sides, they hesitated. They fired several wild shots at Greg and turned to target Stoner. More bullets hissed overhead, and he ignored them. They were closing the distance fast, but not fast enough, and then Stoner's AK jammed. Probably the effect of the rain and mud, but a jam was a jam. He tossed it away and pulled out the Desert Eagles.
They reloaded and sent scores of bullets toward them, reaching out to hiss and spit past them. Most went high, and they ran on. Nadiri grunted when a bullet grazed his side, and Stoner felt the sting of a bullet slicing a chunk of flesh from his leg. Then all three men disappeared behind cover. They hadn't noticed the drainage ditch dug to prevent the track flooding during heavy weather, and they ran straight into it.
It was all that saved their lives. They’d been getting close, and even badly aimed shots couldn't fail to hit their target. Stoner and the Talibs were knee deep in water at the bottom of the ditch. He waded to the bank and pulled himself up, with Noyan and Nadiri right behind.
The ambushers had screwed up. They’d assumed they'd killed the three attackers, and now they turned their attention to the man, the boy, and the dog. Easy targets, and their supreme confidence was the biggest mistake of their lives. They stepped out from behind the rocks, still shielded from Greg's attack, but their backs exposed to Stoner, Noyan, and Nadiri climbing out of the ditch. The first they knew of their mistake was when he took aim with the big .50 caliber handguns. The Desert Eagles boomed out their awesome message of death. Beside him, the Afghans selected full auto and opened fire. Streams of bullets tore into the Pakis, and three died in the first volley.
Another man was badly wounded, and the leader, still with his pipe clenched between his teeth, started to run. He shouldn't have bothered. A German Shepherd is quick and surefooted, especially on slippery, sloping ground. He didn't make more than ten paces before Archer was on him. He held him by the arm, growling and savaging until Greg called him off. They came up to the terrified Pakistani and looked down at the shivering man.
He looked to be in his fifties, which in this country meant he was little more than thirty-years-old. He wore twin bandoliers over his shoulders and several daggers sheathed in his belt, as well as two large pistols in his belt, gunfighter style. They were 9mm Russian made Makarovs. He was the very image of a warrior, an authentic fighting man, except for the shivering. Stoner couldn't help but smile. The effect was like he’d dressed up for a Halloween parade. The guy was shivering in terror now his men were dead, and he had few illusions about the fate awaiting him.
"Don't kill me. Don't kill me. Please, I can help you. Tell me what you want."
The voice was like ice. "What we want is for you to die.” Javed had drawn his dagger and was moving toward him. The Pakistani shivered even more. There was something about the boy with the innocent young face approaching with his dagger drawn. Something elemental that would have sent a chill through the bravest of men. He looked up at them.
"Don't let him do it. Don't let him do it. Please, whatever it is you want, I can give it to you. Anything.”
They questioned him at length, and when he offered the services of his young daughters for their comfort, Stoner was ready to give Javed the go ahead to kill him, when the man said the words that saved his life.
"I can lead you to them."
"Javed, stop," he snapped. "Lead us to who?"
He sneered. “The women, of course. The hostages, I know where they are. The place they are holding them.”
“Who said we came for any hostages?"
A shrug. “Why else would anyone come to this place? There is nothing here except poverty, disease, and death."
“And travelers to ambush, rob, and kill.”
He gave a faint nod of acknowledgement. “There is that, yes.”
It wasn't hard to envisage the hardscrabble existence of people unfortunate enough to call this place home, and to feel sorry for them, until they tried to rob and kill you.
"Okay, tell us about these women. Where are they?”
“I can take you to them."
“If you want to live, you’d better tell us where they are, and make it fast."
He shook his head. He wasn't stupid and knew the moment he gave away the location his life would hold no further value for his captors. He stubbornly refused to talk, and Mohammed Nadiri moved closer, his expression fixed in a cold, gloating smile.
"I can make him talk. Give me a few minutes."
Stoner recalled the piteous, howling screams that came from behind the coffeehouse when Nadiri had gone to work to make the other man talk, and he held up a hand.
"Leave him. He could be useful."
The man smiled in relief, but the smile faded when Stoner added, “We can always kill him later.”
T
hey redistributed the load on the GAZ, and with the extra weight, the bodywork was down on the springs, almost rubbing the tops of the tires. The captive, whose name was Jamal Sama, rode on the hood, his hands tied to the windshield and his ankles to the front fender. When he protested the heat of the engine was burning his ass, Nadiri offered to put him out of his misery. He didn’t complain again.
They still had a long distance to travel, and Stoner was thinking ahead. Reaching them would be hard enough in this bandit-infested territory. But getting them out would be something else. They’d be followed and shot at every kilometer of the way back to the border and beyond.
The overloaded GAZ struggled to make progress along the rough, narrow track. Because of the heavy rains, in parts the surface was no more than a bog, and they had to dismount and push the jeep forward to make it back to solid ground. Eventually, the route climbed into the low hills, and they had less mud to contend with. They drove on, although the engine had started to splutter and misfire, due to the excess water that had drowned and soaked every cable under the hood. They crested a low rise and started down the other side. The going looked better, until they ran into a deep hole that buried the GAZ above the axles. Once again, they had to climb out and push, wading through knee-deep water. When they at last reached solid ground, the engine refused to start.
Greg opened the hood and delved in the engine to look for the source of the problem. Javed rooted around for dry rags to wipe the cables dry, and he started to work next to Greg. The boy was enjoying himself, a natural at understanding how to fix the mechanics and electrics of vintage engines; a promising start for a career as a mechanic, or to continue his sideline of vehicle theft, at which he'd already proved himself highly skilled.
With nothing to do but wait, Stoner began to quarter the landscape, searching for threats. Yet the region was deserted, and with good reason, a wasteland of potholes, mud, and scattered rubble, with no sign of any means to support life. Water occasionally hammered down from the skies during heavy rains, and later disappeared, soaking into the parched earth. There were no streams, rivers, or reliable roads. No huts, no villages, and no people. It was like they'd broken down on the surface of the moon. He was still searching around for movement when something caught the corner of his eye, and he glanced up. A tiny dot in the sky, and he watched it come nearer. He wasn't that worried. It had to be a Pakistani Air Force jet, and as far as he knew, they hadn't done anything to upset the Paks. Given time, they’d do plenty to upset Islamabad, but as yet, they were just innocent travelers, making their way across the country. He relaxed as the aircraft came nearer. It was also descending, clearly coming down to have a good look at them. He watched the Pakistani F-16 flash past in a thunder of powerful Pratt & Whitney F100 jet engine.