A Knife Edge

by David Rollins

  Wignall accelerated through an open square. Across the far side was another Humvee. I could see American Army engineers building a snowman with a bunch of local kids. One of them pitched a snowball at an engineer. It exploded against his Kevlar. The guy returned fire. The battle escalated. Based on this evidence, I was prepared to believe we were winning at least a few hearts and minds, though the Afghans were a wily bunch, as they'd proved to every uninvited visitor since the days when an iron sword was state-of-the-art in military high-tech.

  I received a thumbnail history of this country the last time I was here. It went something like this: Over the past couple of thousand years, after having a crack at it themselves, assorted kings, emperors, and generals usually put the job of subduing the Pashtun Afghans on the things-to-do list for their successors, just to give their next-in-line a lesson in humility. I'd witnessed the lesson myself on my last tour, and the fact that we were still here, years later, fighting the same people we were fighting back then, didn't bode well. And this time, the enemy had learned lessons from their buddies fighting the insurgency in Iraq. No way were they going to come and slug it out toe-to-toe with us like they did at Tora Bora. Not when it was so much fun to kill us slow. It's said the Pashtuns are only happy when they're at war. If this was true, they'd had something to keep them chuckling pretty much continuously since the time of Alexander the Great.

  I wasn't too familiar with Kandahar. I'd been here before, but only in transit on the way to someplace else. The town was an important transport hub in support of our effort here, and so a lot of attention had been paid to making the place as secure as possible. Occasionally, though, shoot-and-scoot squads still sent rockets or mortar rounds in from the surrounding countryside, or an improvised explosive device blew the lid off a light armored vehicle, or charbroiled a Humvee, just to keep us on our toes.

  Wignall slowed again to pass men herding a few donkeys and camels across the street and into a wide square that stank of unwashed animal and dung fires.

  A few homes and business were lit by electric lights but most burned oil or kerosene or wax for light. The temperature was hovering around the freezing point and there weren't a lot of people out. I figured most were indoors, hugging their stoves.

  Wignall took a sudden left turn. We dived through a small dark lane and into a largish courtyard. A tent was pitched in the corner of the open space, taking up one third of it. “Be it ever so ‘umble,” said Dortmund with a smile after the vehicle squealed to a stop.

  “Billy, grab the Special Agent's kit,” ordered Butler as he got out. I did likewise.

  Damian Mortensen appeared from behind the Land Rover. He gave me a nod by way of hello.

  “I'll show you around,” Butler told me. “Norris is the only one of our lads not here. He's inside. The other people wandering around are CIA and NSA. They're here to make sure we've got intel hot off the sats.”

  I looked for and found security cameras watching all entry points and common walls. I noted a number of claymore mines hung up high on the walls with command detonation wires taped together and snaking off toward one of the buildings. Maybe they were expecting a visit from unfriendlies—maybe from the GAO.

  Knowing the CIA's paranoia, there were probably also motion sensors buried inside and out, as well as other external cameras. The devices were small, and hidden or disguised. But our enemies weren't fools. Hidden cameras or not, we'd just driven into this place in a Land Rover. We might as well have been preceded by elephants on their hind legs playing trumpets. “Safe house?” I inquired.

  Butler cleared his throat and spat onto the snow. “The neighbors are all on our payroll.”

  I followed the SAS men across the courtyard. Beneath a small shelter with a corrugated-iron roof sat a couple of Honda generators, one of them purring softly. Corporal Dortmund lifted the tent flap. The floor was raised and made from interlocking metal planks. Inside, parked against the far wall, was a compact fork-lift, welding gear beside it, and a bench with a small lathe and drill press. Trooper Brent Norris was sawing the barrel off a Remington 870 pump. He looked up and gave a nod, which I returned. Painted white and strapped down onto pallets were three Ski-Doos. An M249 squad automatic weapon was mounted on the back of each. Two of the machines were equipped with trailers.

  “They're getting picked up shortly,” said Butler. “Ever driven one?”

  I shook my head. The only thing I'd ridden in the snow was an inner tube.

  “How about a motorbike?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Same deal, only easier. Select forward, twist the throttle grip, and go,” said Butler.

  Next stop was a large room with a fireplace. A gas heater filled the room with orange warmth. The walls were covered by maps, floor plans, and photos—some taken on the ground, some from altitude. The subject matter was limited to the facility. Various lines of entry and egress were drawn on the plans, then duplicated on the photos. Radio frequencies and call signs were printed on sheets of paper and hung on the wall. Set up on a large table in the center of the room was a model of the facility. The roofs of various structures within it had been removed so that the squad knew where to find stairwells and elevators.

  “I'm thinking you shouldn't take part in the assault phase, Cooper. We haven't worked together and there isn't time for you to learn our tactics and methods. We wouldn't want any accidents now, would we?”

  That depends who has them, I thought. I reminded myself that very few special-ops missions went like clockwork, and there was no reason to assume this one would be an exception to that general rule—especially given the truncated planning and rushed schedule.

  “We're going to leave you with a Ski-Doo and all nonessential gear half a mile from the facility, at this point here,” Butler said, landing an index finger on a cross already marked on an aerial recon photo, “and rendezvous with you once we have Warlord under control.”

  “Warlord?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Professor Boyle—Warlord is Washington's code name for the target. We'll go through the specifics of the op later. We've got another rehearsal planned tonight, with a follow-up in the morning.”

  “ Uh-huh,” I said. Sean Boyle, Warlord? An impressive title for a murdering dweeb with stupid hair.

  “C'mon, I'll show you where you can throw your kit,” said Butler. “You're sharing with one of the CIA guys.”

  “That would be me.”

  Another voice I recognized. I glanced at the open door where my least favorite spook was leaning on his crutches. We could crack open a case of Bud and call it a reunion.

  FORTY-ONE

  I didn't realize this was a physical therapy session,” I said.

  “One day I'm going to fuck you right up, Cooper,” replied Bradley Chalmers.

  “You two know each other?” asked Butler.

  “Not in the biblical sense,” I said, “though it sounds like Chalmers is eager.”

  “Part of the reason I'm here is to ensure Cooper doesn't poison this mission with his usual failure rate.”

  “So, another member of your fan club?” Butler said.

  I'd lost interest in sparring—Chalmers wasn't worth the breath. He and Butler could swap notes, stick pins in Vin Cooper dolls; do whatever made them happy.

  “Where's my gear?” I asked.

  “Let's keep moving.” Butler continued to lead the way.

  I followed Butler through the rest of the building, stopping at the mess to throw down some chow. The tour came to an end in a room where Dortmund, Wignall, Mortensen, and Norris were checking and rechecking various items laid out on the floor. Butler showed me to a couple of duffel bags. A name tag on each read “Cooper.” I added my own bag to the collection. I watched as Butler opened a steel locker. He pulled out a rifle as well as webbing stuffed with magazines. “Not sure what your preferred shooters are, but, being a septic tank an' all, I thought you'd at least be familiar with these.”

  “Septic tank?” I asked.
<
br />   “A Yank. Rhyming slang,” explained Dortmund.

  Butler removed the magazine, pulled back the Beretta's slide, and checked the chamber. It was empty. He reinserted the magazine and handed me the weapon, butt-first. Next he picked up the rifle and went through a similar routine. I repeated the investigation of both weapons. I preferred the heavier Colt .45 to the Italian-made 92F Beretta, which since 1985 had been the pistol of choice of U.S. Armed Forces. No issues with the M4A2 carbine, however: light and idiot-proof—some would say my kind of weapon. It was, however, equipped with a thermal telescopic sight I hadn't seen or used before.

  Butler told his men to go eat and they all filed out, leaving us alone. As they left, he informed me, “The ammunition for the M4 is the new Bofors armor-piercing variety. It'll punch holes in twelve-millimeter armor plate at one hundred yards, and does a good job of turning masonry into rubble at the same distance. You've got eight magazines loaded here with a tracer round three shots from empty. The scope is an ELECAN SpecterIR. It's a thermal job—be more useful and reliable than night-vision technology where we're going. It's only two times magnification, but it picks out heat sources like you wouldn't believe, especially against ice and snow. It's a great piece of kit—I'm also using one. The armorer has centered it, by the way. I know that doesn't mean much—normally you'd want to do that yourself, but there's no time left to get it done. For what it's worth, with the barrel warmed, it'll drop an inch over two hundred and fifty yards, three inches over three hundred yards, and, unless you really know how to shoot, forget about it after that. We've got a smorgasbord of antipersonnel grenades, smoke, whatever you want, and there's a box of nine-millimeter ball for the M9. I'm assuming you've brought your own handcuffs?”

  I had. I examined the carbine as he spoke. It was brand-new. I said, “Did you know Ruben Wright had MS—multiple sclerosis?” I switched on the scope and looked into the eyepiece. As we were inside in a room with no windows, there was nothing to see in the eyepiece except gray.

  “Jesus, you're not still going on about Wright, are you?”

  “The case isn't closed. So … did you?”

  “No. I didn't.”

  “And Wright's ex-girlfriend never mentioned it?”

  “Not that I recall. Did she know he had MS?”

  I ignored Butler's question. “So, Ruben Wright never seemed off-color at all? Not even a little?”

  “I guess the reason you're asking me these questions is because you don't think he committed suicide. You think I had something to do with his death.”

  I didn't answer. All I knew for sure was that I hadn't given Butler a good shake, and so I didn't know what might or might not fall out. Like most people, Butler wasn't comfortable in the silence, so he filled it. “Wright and I didn't get on—that's no secret. You could even go as far as to say we were barely civil to each other. But that doesn't mean I killed him.” He picked up an M4 from the table, removed the bolt, and gave it an inspection.

  His denial meant dick. Murderers don't usually admit to killing their victims. I'd even known killers who'd sworn they didn't do it even after being found with their bloody hands still holding the weapon. “Did you know your girlfriend was his heir?”

  “Girlfriend?” said Butler.

  I let out a sigh. “I visited McDonough in the hospital. She'd had an abortion, which I'm sure you knew about. Lying about your relationship with her makes me wonder what else you're lying about.”

  Butler licked his bottom lip and scratched his head, weighing the odds. He said, “OK, I lied about Amy and me.”

  “Why didn't you tell me the truth the first time?”

  Butler shrugged. “Broken ribs, smashed flashlight, shagging the dead bloke's bird… wouldn't have looked good for me, would it?”

  “And still doesn't,” I reminded him.

  “I didn't kill your buddy,” Butler insisted again.

  “Did you know Ruben Wright had taken a number of intimate videos of you and McDonough?”

  “Dirty bugger,” said Butler, almost proudly.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Yes; I mean, no—I didn't know.”

  “I suppose you also didn't know Amy McDonough was first in line to collect?”

  “Collect what?” he asked.

  “Framed butterflies. Money. What do you think?”

  “How much, then?”

  “Plenty.”

  He shook his head. “No, I had no idea.” He leaned against the bench, folding his arms.

  Just like McDonough, it seemed to me Butler didn't know, or didn't admit to knowing, much of anything. Did I believe him? The SAS were the cream of the cream of the British Army. These guys were handpicked for their intelligence and resourcefulness. They were committed and self-reliant. The way Butler talked, I had trouble believing he was capable of remembering how to tie his own shoelaces. “Have you been in contact with Ms. McDonough since Wright's death?” I asked.

  “Yes, I saw her once. To call it quits.”

  “Was that at a place at Laguna Beach called Miss Palm's?”

  Butler fixed me with a look that could break rocks. “You been following me?”

  “Just happened to be out for a drive,” I said. “It's a small world. Did you break up because Ruben's death spooked you? Or was it after McDonough told you she was having your kid?”

  Butler's ears went purple. Full of indignant anger, like I'd suggested something that had breached his code of honor, he said, “Amy told me she was on the pill. I was surprised to hear she was up the duff.”

  “So she tricked you into getting her pregnant? Or did you make her promises you had no intention of keeping?”

  Butler pushed out his chin. “Get off your fucking white horse for fuck's sake, Special Agent. Men have been tricking women into licking their dicks since we all climbed down out of the trees. Don't tell me you've never lied to a bird?”

  Okay, he had me there. I kept the acknowledgment out of my face. “Maybe that meeting down at Laguna Beach went the way it did for different reasons.”

  “Like?”

  “Like maybe you misjudged Amy? You were both after Ruben's money, and it was all going along nicely until Amy got pregnant and she told you she wanted to keep the child.”

  “Is that what that slut told you?” Butler's voice dropped to a whisper. He took a step into my personal space so that we were toe-to-toe. “Cooper, in less than twenty-four hours, we're jumping into a hostile country. I'm done with your questions. If I were you, I'd forget about Ruben Wright for a few days. I'd concentrate instead on how to avoid joining him. I'd also be checking my kit, especially the condition of your MC-5.” Butler pushed past, bumping my shoulder. The MC-5—the ram-air foil chute. It was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall. I'm not great with hints, but I did have the vague feeling that I might have just been threatened.

  * * *

  I packed and repacked the MC-5 twice, paying particular attention to the harness and suspension lines. I also thoroughly examined the oxygen system and mask. I then stripped the M9 and M4 several times each, and replaced the manufacturer's gun oil in both with a silicon-based type. I checked the M4's magazines, all eight, removing all two hundred and forty rounds and then replacing them, shifting the tracer to the fifth-last shot in each.

  At some stage in the evening, Butler and his men returned to go through their gear again. There wasn't a lot of small talk between them. I wondered whether that had anything to do with my presence, because there was absolutely zero small talk between us. Wignall, especially, went out of his way to have no contact with me—eyeball or otherwise. I wondered if Butler could sense that Wignall was the Judas in his ranks.

  I tested the batteries of the GPS I'd been issued, as well as the spare set, and did likewise with all other electrical gear I'd be taking in, from the Iridium satellite phone to the SpecterIR thermal sight. Everything appeared to be in order. Despite Butler's parting comment, I didn't expect to find anything amiss. Maybe he wa
s right—I needed to stop being a cop for a while and start thinking like Special Forces. He was also right in saying that my survival would depend on all my gear being present, accounted for, and in good working order.

  Aside from ammunition, weaponry, electrical equipment, and the usual survival gear like a hook knife for cutting tangled suspension lines, I made sure I had enough water-purifying tablets to last an extra four days in the field, as well as MREs—meals ready to eat—to last an extra day. I also threw in a dozen chemical hand-warming packs, half a dozen nylon cuff locks, and, finally, my lucky Smith & Wesson stainless-steel, double-locking handcuffs. I held the reassuring weight of them in my hand and couldn't decide who'd I'd rather slap them on—Boyle, Butler, or maybe even Clare Selwyn. I dispelled the happy thought. The sack called and I slept like a cadaver till after sunrise. When I woke, I was relieved to find Chalmers's bunk un-slept in.

  * * *

  After breakfast, I again checked and repacked all my gear, except for the MC-5, which I didn't want to disturb, having taken extra special care with it twice already. I then spent three hours in the briefing room with Butler and his men, running through the op with the latest intel from CIA and NSA, as well as getting the latest atmospheric conditions from CWT—Air Force Combat Weather. I keep hoping these people from CWT will look like network weathergirls, but they never do. Today's report was delivered by a couple of dumpy guys with dandruff. They promised nil wind, but low visibility with heavy snowfalls and cloud at 22,000 feet down to 7000 feet, the altitude of Phunal. Temps, of course, would be subzero. Ordinarily, conditions such as these would have guaranteed an abort. But, as it was only a matter of time before Pakistan killed a few million people on the subcontinent, I had the feeling we'd be going in anyway.