“Yes. I’m suggesting that everyone in this room would do the same. The only solution for me would be to pass my responsibility on to the next highest officer.”
Gubuz shot to his feet and began to pace. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. We can’t pass the country to the prime minister. I do not trust him. He received the position as a compromise.”
“I am a military man, I am not allowed to have such opinions.”
“It doesn’t matter why I appointed Sariev to the position, he has it now.” Thoughts ricocheted in Meklis’s mind. After a moment of swatting at them like a man swatting at a swarm of gnats, he said, “There is something else. The prime minster believes the person who helped Jildiz is Amelia Lennon, the diplomat negotiating the American side of the Manas Air Base. They were having a late lunch. If that is true, then the Americans may have sent a team to recover her.”
“How would they even know?” Gubuz raised a hand. “Never mind. They would know the same way we know.” He returned to his seat. “They would not do that, Mr. President. They have no right to send military forces onto our soil without our permission.”
“Yes, they would,” the general said.
“You can’t be sure.”
“It is what I would do, Mr. Secretary.”
Gubuz’s face turned red. “That’s a violation, a breach of our agreement. If word of this gets out the antigovernment proponents will have an even bigger reason to riot.” He ran a hand through his hair.
The phone/intercom on Meklis’s desk sounded. He rose from the sofa, left the conversation area, and walked to his desk. He answered, listened, then said, “Thank you.” Retrieving a remote control from desk, he turned on a small flat-screen television mounted to the wall a few feet to the left of his desk. “Gentlemen.” He waved them over.
The television was set to the local news station. On the screen a male reporter stood a few meters in front of a burning car. Meklis could see several bodies on the asphalt, each ablaze.
“. . . repeating, the vehicle behind us is believed to belong to the American military. We have reports that the bodies belong to soldiers posing as citizens. The cause of the fire is unknown as is the reason for American soldiers being in this part of the city . . .”
“God help us all,” Gubuz said.
A moment later the car’s fuel tank burst, sending orange and yellow flame crawling into the sky.
NASIRDIN TANAYEV WAS TWO blocks away from his destination when his radio crackled. “Three to One.” It was Rasul.
“Go One.”
“Done. Proceeding to next location.”
“Understood. One out.”
Rasul was on his way to the pharmacy, his arson job finished. Rasul was Nasirdin’s most faithful operative. They served together as mercenaries in several conflicts. He never questioned orders; never hesitated. He did as he was told without debate. He was also vicious, unhindered by a conscience and thrived on dirty work. He was the kind of man rogue generals and dictators needed to fulfill plans of domination. Rasul had no such plans, he just enjoyed what others found reprehensible. In that, he and Nasirdin were brothers. Rasul was more ruthless; Nasirdin more intelligent. Both were fine with the distinction.
Nasirdin raised the radio to his mouth again. “Six, report.”
Nothing.
“Six, this is One. Report.” Still nothing. “Five, this is One. Report.” More nothing. Concern mingled with anger. As Nasirdin neared the back door of the pharmacy, he set his Zastava M92 to full automatic and made certain the thirty-round magazine was properly fitted. It wasn’t like his men not to respond but fate had turned against him. What should have been a simple grab-and-go kidnapping turned to ashes in moments. The one thing certain in the life of a mercenary was uncertainty. Sometimes it seemed the simpler the mission the more could go wrong. Even the devil stubbed his toe now and again.
He moved down the dark alley until he found the damaged door his men reported. Across the alley was the broken window. This was the place.
The rear door was partially open like a narrow opening to a cave. He had no fear of the women, but he did have concern that one of his thick-headed men who couldn’t answer a simple radio call might mistake him for a soldier or police officer and shoot before thinking. If so, he wanted to be ready to put a bullet in the middle of their chests before they could do the same to him.
Leading with the M92, Nasirdin entered the small pharmacy.
Just inside the door he saw a few shelves and a pile of boxes. A storage room. He kept the barrel up. Was there someone else in here? Had the women found help? A dozen scenarios raced through his brain, most of which ended with gunfire.
He steadied his pulse and did his best to peer through the dim room. Although not shrouded in complete blackness, the place was dark enough to make quick movement inadvisable.
He paused and listened and heard nothing. No whimpering. No sobbing. No talking. Nothing.
Slowly, Nasirdin reached to his radio and tapped the talk button twice. He heard two quiet pulses from the shopping area of the pharmacy. No one responded. Nasirdin eased into the area and saw several aisles, and a long counter. Someone could be hiding behind any one of them.
Where were his men? Their last communication said they had found the women, but nothing since then. Light from a streetlamp pushed through the glass storefront. A small light washed the floor at the end of one of the counters.
Something else was on the floor. Two large, dark shapes. Nasirdin moved forward slowly, his ears straining for any sound, his gaze scampering around the room. He saw a large form on the floor, then a similar one a short distance away. The front door was ajar.
He didn’t approach the forms on the floor. He knew what they were. First he searched the store and found it empty. Only then did he return to the front of the store where his men lay unmoving. He picked up the tiny, plastic flashlight and tried to piece together what may have happened. He couldn’t be certain but it didn’t matter. His prey was gone, after besting two of his men.
He shone the light on the first form. The man stared back through unblinking eyes. Next to him was a fire extinguisher. He examined the device and saw bits of scalp and hair—hair that matched his man. He moved to the other man. He was curled in a near-fetal position. A large, damaged can of baby formula rested near his head. Blood dripped from his nose and ears. He, too, was dead.
Nasirdin swore in two languages, then spun on his heel, and kicked the first dead man in the ribs again and again until he heard bones snapping. “Fools! Imbeciles! He turned to the other man and stomped his head, then swore some more.
He walked away and calmed himself. How long had it been since they first announced they found the busted door? How long did it take him to deal with the men found by Rasul? He then added the time it took him to travel by foot to this spot. Twenty to thirty minutes. They had as much as a half-hour lead.
He snatched his radio. “One to Three. Come up the street side.”
“Street side. Understood.”
“Run.”
“Running.”
Ten minutes later a sweating Rasul arrived and listened as Nasirdin explained the situation. As usual, Rasul showed no emotion. He walked through the store then studied the men. “They did all this?”
“Some of it. They killed them. I may have contributed after the fact.”
Rasul nodded. “Understandable.” He returned to the front door. “Where was the light?”
“On the floor. At the end of this counter.”
Rasul tilted his head as he studied the situation. He walked around the bodies, and bathed the light on the floor. “Blood smears.”
“They left them both bleeding.”
Rasul shook his head. “This is near the spot where you found the light. One of them is still bleeding.”
> “Not enough.”
“Well, we will have to see she bleeds some more.” Rasul looked Nasirdin in the eyes. He was one of the few men who dared to do so. “We have another problem. One of the radios is missing. So is his Grach.”
Nasirdin grew angry with himself. He should have thought to check that. Each of his men carried a tactical radio. “Grach” referred to a Russian Yarygin PYa MP-443 pistol. This meant the women were now armed with a 9mm pistol carrying seventeen rounds in the magazine. They also had a radio.
He chewed the information. “They can’t call for help on the radio. We have the frequency locked down. But they can monitor our transmissions.” He paused. “Maybe that’s not so bad.”
“HOW ARE YOU DOING?” Amelia pulled Jildiz down another alley searching for a new place to hide. What she really wanted to do was make it into one of the mobs. She knew enough of the country’s history to know the last major riot had protesters marching on the White House, the center of government. That’s just where Amelia wanted to take Jildiz, but getting there wasn’t going to be easy. So far, she was able to avoid splinter groups of rioters, although she had that run-in with a small group of men. She was lucky to get away. That was the problem with men, they never expected the woman to fight back like a warrior.
But the plan was hampered by gunmen chasing them and Jildiz’s asthma made worse by tension, fear, and smoke-filled air. Her ability to run was extremely limited. Jildiz couldn’t run because she couldn’t breathe.
Jildiz took another hit of the rescue inhaler, leaned against a dirty wall, and tried to draw even breaths. She pulled the front of her blouse up to her nose, trying to filter the air.
“Tell me you can’t overdose on that stuff, Jildiz.” Truth was, Amelia needed a break as well.
“No chance. It’s safe.”
She looked at the woman. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you.”
“I didn’t know I was that transparent.” She used the inhaler.
“What should I know? About an overdose I mean.”
“You have enough to worry about.”
“Tell me, girl.”
“You know, you get pushy when gunmen chase you. You should get help with that.”
Amelia tried to look firm, put out. The expression lasted only a moment. She laughed, more from tension and exhaustion than from the humor in Jildiz’s statement. “I need help with many things. More than I care to mention. Now answer my question.”
“The medication is albuterol based. Too much leads to chest pain, high blood pressure, heart palpitations. Occasionally death.” She pushed away from the wall. “The same symptoms as being chased by killers.”
CHAPTER 17
NORMALLY, COLONEL DANNY WEIDMAN would be comfy in his bed but there would be no sleeping tonight. He had no problem assigning duties to his leadership staff. He did it all the time. It was what good leaders did: bring up better leaders. Conditions, however, demanded his attention.
He was Army born and bred. He started life at Fort Bliss, born to an Army cook father and high school teacher mother. Years later he had graduated in the middle of his class at West Point and wished he had graduated higher. Still, twenty-two years of applied work in the Army made him a full bird colonel. Not bad. Still he held no illusions that a brigadier general star was in his future. He had hopes of retirement in the next two years. He wished he could retire this minute.
“Ready, sir.” The aide activated the conference screen. The face of Colonel MacGregor appeared.
“Thank you, Corporal. I’ll take it from here. I’ll call if I need anything.”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal left the room.
“They look younger every year, Danny.” MacGregor looked like he was trying to conjure up a smile but the corners of his mouth were too heavy.
“You got that, Mac. The kid’s a whiz with electronics.”
“Aren’t they all? I’m starting to feel like a dinosaur.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Weidman bit his lip.
“Just say it, Danny. It won’t taste any better but you’ll be done with it.” Colonel Mac leaned closer to the camera.
Weidman pulled his shoulders back. “Local media is saying the bodies of American soldiers have been found burning along with a car. They had video.”
“Confirmation?”
“No. I would have to send in another team and I have it on good authority the bodies are being removed.”
“Good authority?”
“The prime minister called after the news aired the story. He expressed his sorrow and the regrets of his nation but snuck in a jab about American military running rampant through the streets of Bishkek. I started to offer a demonstration of what his city would look like if we were running rampant.” Weidman took a moment to swallow. Mac was right, bad news tasted bad. “He described the bodies as being men wearing balaclavas, helmets, dressed in black, and carrying American weapons.”
The video connect conveyed Mac’s pained expression. He didn’t jerk, didn’t react, but an ocean width and half a continent of distance couldn’t hide the emotional agony. Mac’s only physical response was an increase in his blink rate. “Did you confirm it was an Army team?”
“No. Of course not. I denied the whole thing.” He pressed his lips together. “There’s more. Apparently, the prime minister raised Cain with the embassy and they called the president. I’m under orders not to allow any other teams onto the streets.”
“That doesn’t sound like Huffington,” Mac said. “He’s always been on our side. He owes us. We saved his skin and that of his wife, not to mention the leaders at a G-20 meeting in Europe. This isn’t right.”
“Not by a long shot, Mac. I know it; you know it; but our hands are tied. I’ve had to shut down flights over the country. We’re focusing on work-arounds, but no matter what direction I send up a craft, it will fly over Kyrgyzstan dirt. I am effectively grounded. Which is just as well. I’m putting troops to work protecting the perimeter of the base and the aircraft. I don’t think it will come to this, but we may have to defend our assets. We’re not real popular with the locals. It’s always been tense, but this last year has been worse.”
“You said it was the prime minister who contacted you? Not the president? That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”
Weidman shook his head. “Sorry, Mac, but no. President Oskonbaeva has his hands full. He has riots in at least three cities, it appears several mobs are moving in on the government building, and someone tried to kidnap his daughter. He has the PM doing a lot of the communication work.”
Mac tilted his head back and looked up. Weidman wondered what he saw on the ceiling. “I know the answer but I have to ask.” He looked back into the camera. “Radio contact?”
“No. The team is using hand radios, no man-pack. They’re line of sight mostly and we’re too far away from the Bishkek to get a decent signal. If we were allowed to fly over the city, I could get a chopper within range in minutes.”
Mac rubbed his face hard. Weidman thought the spec ops commander would peel the skin from his skull. “The Army has trained me for many things. I thought Ranger training was the worst thing a man could endure, but I was wrong. This is. I’ve had to deliver bad news before, but these boys—these men—they were like sons.” He stared at the table in front of him. “J. J. has . . . he’s got twins on the way. Jose has enough kids to start his own school.” He paused then began to swear in an unrelenting stream of obscenities. Weidman let him rant. He had a right to. Sometimes cursing was all a soldier could do.
When Mac slowed the obscenities and curses, Weidman said, “Mac, I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t true. I’ll be here if you need me.”
“Thanks, Danny.”
A moment later, Weidman moved on to the next thing he didn’t want to say. “Mac, this stuff is going out over loc
al media. That means CNN or some other news agency is going to get wind of it, if they haven’t already. I wouldn’t doubt the PM will make sure the world news agencies get wind of this. It’s to his advantage. He would love for us to pack up and leave tonight.” Another pause. “Mac, you gotta tell the families before the news does. It might already be too late, but you gotta try.”
“I need confirmation, Danny. We don’t have proof.”
Weidman spoke softly. “Mac, we are two of the few people in the world who know we had special operators on the streets. We have to assume the dead men in the street are our boys. It’s your call, but if it were me, I’d tell them now rather than let the media do it for me. I don’t know your team well, but they seemed like good guys. Their families deserve to hear from the Army first.”
Mac rubbed his chin. “I want you to do something for me.”
“Name it.”
“You won’t like it.”
“That’s not a requirement, Mac. You know that.”
“I do. I want you to pull a team together. Make it a good one. I don’t care if they’re Rangers or Marines or Air Force spec ops. Just get me a team.”
“I’m under presidential orders not to send in another team.”
“I didn’t ask you to send them in, just pull it together. I’ll talk to the president.”
“And if he doesn’t want to see you?”
Mac interlaced his fingers on the desk surface. “He’ll see me.”
MASTER SERGEANT ALAN KINKAID sat to the side of the desk watching his boss hear the worst news a commander could. Mac looked to his longtime aide. The man hadn’t done field work in years but his body was still hard has a granite boulder. He knew for a fact the man worked out two hours a day. As much as that impressed Mac, Kinkaid’s mind was more impressive. He was a skilled administrator and had almost a sixth sense about things. Quiet, unassuming, Kinkaid was the only one who could keep Mac grounded.
“We’re going to DC, Sergeant. Make it happen.”
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