The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  “We got him,” Brisco said evenly, but her voice carried a trace of electricity. “Fifth vehicle in the file. That’s truck number five, counting the one that’s broken down.”

  “Understand truck five,” Garrett replied.

  “Truck number five in the convoy. We’ll be waiting,” said Bijay.

  “Okay, Grant, this is Control. You still with us?”

  “Yes, ma’am. What do you want me to do?”

  “Your lead vehicle is fixed. Get that convoy moving, just as if you fixed a routine breakdown.”

  “Then what happens?” Heber asked. There was a measure of irritation in his voice. “What are you going to do to my convoy?”

  “Just get it moving, Grant. Then take your station on the left flank and keep that fifth truck well in front of you. I’ll fill you in once you’re on the move.”

  Heber acknowledged, but he was not happy. First they tell me I got a bomb in one of my trucks, then some bitch named Control, who wants to call me by my first name, takes over my convoy and tells me to fake a breakdown. Now she tells me to saddle up and get moving. Christ, I wish I was back in a line Ranger company.

  “So what’s th’ word, Captain.” Sweeney was sitting on the front fender of the sweeper truck, drinking from his canteen when Heber drove up. “Are we broke down, or are we fixed?”

  “Get off your ass, Corporal. Get that hood down and get that thing moving.”

  “Yes, sir; right away, sir.”

  Corporal Sweeney dropped the hood of the truck, slipped back into his body armor, and climbed up into the driver’s seat. The big turbo-diesel caught on the first try and belched a cloud of black smoke. A moment later, the armadillo was grinding along the convoy road and leading the supply procession north toward Site South.

  The four gentlemen and one lady seated around a small conference table in the White House Situation Room listened to the voice traffic and watched the convoy stop on the Afghan plain, courtesy of the Global Hawk drone. Armand Grummell had been against this real-time following of events, more from considerations of deniability than of security. As Grummell patiently explained to the others, the problem would resolve itself favorably with the recovery of the second nuclear weapon, or there would be a nuclear incident. In the case of the former, nothing need be made public of the matter. In the case of the latter, the President would have to go before the American people and tell them that it had finally happened; the nation had experienced a nuclear terrorist attack. His speech writer was already working on the verbiage, just in case. But only Rita Westinghouse agreed with Armand Grummell. That they were watching and listening to the drama unfold was due to plain old-fashioned curiosity.

  “Hell,” the President had fumed in the face of Grummell’s objections, “if I’m going to have to deny something, I might as well know exactly what I’m going to disavow. Any way you cut it, it’s my ass on the line.”

  So there was a viewing gallery for the events unfolding on the Afghan plain with Convoy 127. While the convoy was halted, William St. Claire turned to his DCI.

  “Armand, how in the hell did they get that weapon on one of those trucks, anyway?”

  “There are any number of ways. Details of the construction project are not my forte, but we had to come to some balance between security and economic pass-through to the host countries. There are Pakistanis and Afghans working on this as well as our American crews. We know that al Qaeda has some very deep roots in the fabric of the Pakistani and Afghan society. Evidently, someone managed to get that bomb mixed in with the supplies headed north. And we have to assume that this someone is with the bomb, escorting it en route. It’s my understanding that we have long considered this a possibility; we just didn’t think it would be a nuclear device.”

  “How about the guy with the bomb?” James Powers asked. “Could it be Mugniyah?”

  “I seriously doubt it,” Grummell replied. “This would be a job for one of his fanatical followers, but then we will soon see, will we not?” While the President had been talking with Grummell, he had missed the events that led to the convoy’s resumed progress.

  “What’s this?” William St. Claire announced. He was on his feet, almost shouting. “The convoy is on the move again! What in the hell is going on?”

  They all watched as the lead vehicle began to generate a trail of dust, and the other trucks followed in turn. Soon they were all again moving north along the convoy road toward Site South. The President whirled and pointed to one of the enlisted Air Force communications men.

  “I want on that circuit. Make the connection.” The tech sergeant simply stood gaping at his Commander in Chief. “Now, son; move!” The sergeant fled to his communications station.

  “Ah, sir, I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” said Tony Barbata.

  “I quite agree,” seconded Armand Grummell.

  “It’s to your console, Mr. President,” the sergeant reported. He took orders only from the Commander in Chief.

  St. Claire glared around the table. The anger and frustration on his face stifled any further attempt to dissuade him. With a measure of defiance he leaned forward and stabbed the button that activated his speaker phone.

  “Control, this is POTUS; I say again, this POTUS. Why is that convoy again moving north?”

  Everyone at the table knew what POTUS, or President of the United States, was thinking. If that convoy made good another ten miles, he would be forced to order the Tomahawk strike. In his mind, William St. Claire would rather have the terrorists set off their bomb than have to order those deaths himself. A nuclear event would consume everything. The submunitions from the Tomahawks would rake the convoy like a giant claw, and there would be no hiding from the grisly aftermath.

  “Dammit, I want to know why—”

  “Silence on the net!” came the strong voice of Janet Brisco over the speaker. “Sir, I have no idea how you got on this circuit, but I must demand that you keep quiet. I have an operation to run and men at risk in the field. We have a shot at this, but you will have to stay off my circuit. I will tolerate no interference. Are we clear on that, sir?”

  You could have heard a pin drop in the Situation Room. President St. Claire stared at the speaker phone for a long moment. Slowly, the rage drained from his face, replaced by resignation. He slumped back into his chair and dragged a hand across his mouth and chin, then turned back to the speaker phone.

  “Very well. You do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

  “Cheeky bloke, wouldn’t you say?” observed Dodds LeMaster lightly. “I mean, who the hell does he think he is, anyway?”

  Judy Burks recognized the President’s voice and was incredulous, but said nothing, not wanting Janet Brisco’s wrath turned her way. The three of them stared at the moving convoy. Dodds deftly held the Global Hawk drone in a lazy orbit to keep the convoy under surveillance. He also maintained an ongoing electronic surveillance of the area in case their target made or received any cell-phone calls.

  “Dodds, I want a split-screen presentation. On one I want to see just the road and Bijay’s location. On the other, give me the front of the convoy from the lead vehicle back to the target truck. Expand it if you can to include Grant Heber’s command Hummer.” Moments later, the large display in the comm van complied; half of the plasma screen showed the lead elements of the convoy and the other an uninhabited piece of desert. Brisco lit another cigarette with the butt of her old one.

  “Bijay, Janet here. Can you see them?”

  “This is Bijay. I see the dust plume, but can only make out the lead vehicle. It will be a few minutes until they are abreast of us. It is the fifth vehicle, correct.”

  “That is affirmative—truck number five in the column. Garrett, are you in position?”

  “This is Garrett. We are coming around from the south now. Currently we are at fifteen hundred feet and will use the dust cloud from the convoy to mask our approach.”

  “Understood,” Janet replied. “Are your people ready to g
o?”

  “We’ll be there, one way or another,” Garrett promised. “Sergeant Major, give me a countdown as they approach your position.”

  “As you wish, Subadar,” Bijay reported with a hint of humor in his voice. “The lead vehicle will be here in perhaps two minutes; the target vehicle thirty seconds after that. Good hunting, Subadar.”

  Garrett scrambled forward in the tight troop compartment of the MH-60 and wedged himself between the pilots. The trailing vehicle of the convoy was just under the nose of the helo. Garrett told the pilots what he wanted and when, and they both nodded. They were former special-operations pilots; they had done this many times before. Garrett returned to the others in the rear of the helo. The four Gurkhas crouched forward expectantly. Like Garrett, they were dressed for urban battle—tan Nomex coveralls, vests with ammunition pouches and grenades, and their M-4 rifles. Each had a 9mm Glock pistol strapped to his thigh, and all wore close-fitting body armor and Kevlar helmets. Garrett tapped three of the Gurkhas on the helmets.

  “Do you have any questions?” They shook their heads.

  “All right, get down fast and get into position as quickly as possible.” All grinned with delight. The prospect of action clearly made them happy. No need, Garrett realized, for any words of encouragement or inspiration here. Then he turned to Janos, who sat apart with the fourth Gurkha. His name was Pun. He was humorless, for a Gurkha, and at a muscular six feet was the largest of the IFOR Gurkhas. Garrett put one hand on Pun’s shoulder and the other on Janos’s knee.

  “Pun, after the helo lands, I want you to find me and bring this man with you. If he resists or refuses to come, I want you to shoot him.”

  “I understand, Subadar,” Pun replied in a sober, matter-of-fact tone. “Do you want me to kill him?”

  “Not with the first round. Shoot him here,” he replied, tapping Janos’s knee, “then drag him to me. If he is still making a fuss, put your second round here.” Garrett stuck his finger in Janos’s ear, causing him to wince and jerk away.

  “You can’t do that!” Janos cried.

  “It will be as you say, Subadar,” Pun replied evenly.

  Garrett glanced down from the open helo door—not long now. They were a third of the way up from the rear of the convoy at three hundred feet. Due to the dust and the roar of the diesel engines, no one but Captain Grant Heber on the flank of the convoy knew they were there.

  “Thirty seconds,” Bijay reported.

  Garrett keyed his transceiver and spoke into the boom mike coming down from his headset. “Understand, thirty seconds.” Then to the others in the troop compartment, “Everyone ready?”

  They all gave him a thumbs-up, all but Janos. Pun slung his M-4 and drew out his pistol. He pulled the slide, chambering a round, and put the weapon on safe, all in one fluid motion. Then he gave Janos a devilish grin.

  • • •

  Bijay and his five Gurkhas were in a skirmish line, lying prone on the desert hardpan. They were four hundred yards from the road, and with their tan coveralls and chestnut-colored faces, all but invisible. They had moved to a rise with a good view of the convoy. Fortunately, this area had not yet been mined. Bijay watched the convoy through a small pair of Zeiss binoculars. Beside him, Duhan lay motionless, his cheek welded to the fiberglass stock of a Winchester Magnum 300. The long barrel and thick, pipelike suppressor was supported by a bipod. Camouflage netting had been draped across shooter and rifle to destroy their silhouette.

  “On target?” Bijay said quietly in Gurkhali.

  “On target,” Duhan replied.

  “Fire.”

  There was a sharp crack from the sonic boom as the hundred-ninety-grain, boat-tailed match round raced across the desert. The fifth truck in the column rolled to a stop, its nose drooping from the flat front tire.

  “Shot, over,” said Bijay.

  “Shot, out,” Garrett replied, and the helo dropped suddenly.

  The Pavehawk pilot, seeing the fifth truck in the file skid to a stop, dove for it. Midway through its stoop, a white cloud of steam erupted from the grill of the truck as Duhan’s second bullet tore through the truck’s radiator. Neither the driver nor the man in the passenger seat heard the shots. They felt the second one, but the metallic thunk was quickly replaced by the overcast of steam that filled the windshield. Instinctively, the Pakistani driver turned off the engine and leaped from the cab. Only then did he hear the beating rotor blades of the helicopter and look up. The thick fast-ropes had already been thrown from the helo, and the men were on them, racing earthward like drops of oil sliding down a string. The first Gurkha hit the ground, rolled once, and came up in a shooting crouch barely twenty yards away. The driver fumbled for a pistol in his belt. His effort earned him three bullets, Mozambique style—two to the chest and one to the head.

  The man in the passenger seat sat confused, momentarily wondering what had happened to the truck. When the driver killed the engine, he heard the beat of the helicopter and knew something was very wrong. He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small transmitter. There were two toggle switches on it, one black and one red. He flipped the black one and was extending the small telescoping antenna from the housing when he happened to glance out the window of the cab. There he saw a tall man sighting over a small rifle. Then he registered a vague thunk followed quickly by a burst of white light, not unlike what had happened in the truck cab a few moments before when the radiator exploded. But the white light faded swiftly to darkness and the darkness into eternity. He never felt the second bullet that tore through his brain.

  From the flank of the convoy, Captain Grant Heber watched as events unfolded. It was over very quickly, but he had been a Ranger long enough to know a superbly executed takedown when he saw one.

  “Jesus, sir, did you see that?” his driver yelped. “That’s gotta be Delta Force!”

  “Get over to that truck,” Heber yelled back, “on the double!”

  When Heber and the Humvee arrived at the scene, four small, efficient-looking soldiers were unchaining a wooden crate with black lettering from the bed of the lowboy. Then they took the heavy box by the four rope carrying handles and shuffled it over to the helo that was turning nearby. Heber looked from the dead man lying in the sand to the form with the shattered skull in the cab. Then he turned to the tall man in the black battle dress, obviously the only American in the attacking element.

  “You did all this for a generator?” Heber said, knowing full well the single wooden box chained to the rear of the truck cab did not contain a generator, in spite of the inscription on the crate.

  “Never know when you’re going to need one out here,” Garrett replied as he followed the Gurkhas to the helo. Heber almost had to run to keep up.

  “You guys are Delta, right?”

  “Something like that,” Garrett replied. He held the small transmitter gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if he was forced to handle a piece of excrement. The Gurkhas carefully slid the box into the troop compartment of the Pavehawk. Just outside the envelope of the rotors, Janos waited with Pun. Pun still held the pistol firmly in hand, leveled on him.

  Heber motioned to Janos. “Is he one of the bad guys?”

  “Naw,” Garrett yelled over the whine of the turbine, “he’s one of ours.”

  “Oh,” Heber replied skeptically.

  “You and me, Fred,” Garrett said, turning to Jano, “we’re going to take a little ride.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I leave you here with him,” Garrett said, motioning to Pun, “and he can handle it any way he likes.” The burly Gurkha holstered his pistol and drew his khukuri. The gleaming blade flashed in the desert sun. Janos turned and boarded the waiting helo.

  “I have men out there,” Garrett said to Heber. “Keep your men in close to the convoy until they’ve left. And thanks. You did just fine.”

  “What’d I do?” Heber stammered.

  “More than you know,” Garrett replie
d, and followed Janos to the Pavehawk. The single crewman stood at the door of the helo, connected to the bird and his pilot by a communications cable. Garrett leaned close.

  “This could be dangerous. Why don’t you stay here with the others?” Garrett suggested.

  “I go with my crew, sir. You ought to know that.”

  Garrett eyed him. Once a Specops guy, he mused, always a Specops guy. He leaped aboard and strapped himself in next to Janos. The crewman climbed in behind them as the Pavehawk began to crowd on power. It lifted gently, sandblasting those on the ground. As the helo banked toward the horizon, the four remaining Gurkhas, without a word, carefully made their way into the desert to join their waiting comrades. Moments later, the second Pavehawk came and collected Pun, Bijay, and the remaining Gurkhas. Heber watched them go, wondering what he was going to do with the broken-down truck and the two dead men, and just what he was going to tell his colonel in Karachi about all this.

  Janet Brisco and Dodds LeMaster, like those in the Situation Room at the White House, held their breath as the bomb was loaded onto the Pavehawk and lifted away from the convoy. Only when they were at a safe distance did Brisco contact them, and then it was all business.

  “Okay, Garrett, I’ve given the pilots a set of coordinates in the middle of nowhere.” Thanks to the relay from the MC-130, Garrett received Brisco loud and clear on his personal transceiver. “You sure you want to do this? You could just dump it now and clear off.”

  “Good thought, but let’s not leave any loose ends. We started this; let’s finish it. How long until we get there?”

  “I hold you about seven minutes out. Good luck.”

  The Pavehawk glided down to an isolated piece of wilderness and gently touched down. Garrett and the helo crewman hoisted the crate to the ground while Janos removed his backpack and a kit bag. Before the helo again lifted into the air, the crewman tossed Garrett a pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Then Garrett and Janos watched the Pavehawk disappear over the horizon. The number of those at risk from terror had been reduced dramatically. It had gone from close to a thousand at Site South, to well over a hundred in the convoy, to the five souls aboard the Pavehawk. Now there were only two at risk. Acceptable levels from a strategic perspective, unless you were one of the two. Garrett and Janos looked at each other. There was not a breath of wind, nor a moving thing in sight. Garrett held his rifle in one hand and the bottle in the other.