“I am also rather convinced that the man with him is Omar Ous.”
“I concur. It is perhaps the most ambitious undercover operation I have ever heard of. An insane risk. Such a thing has never been done.”
“Neither has capturing a ninja. Yet I believe that our friend is alive and in unfriendly hands.”
It was the first time Daei ever heard curiosity in Zurisaday’s voice. “Can a ninja be broken?”
Daei looked at his scarred fist. “I have yet to meet a man who cannot, and speaking of the broken, our friends have finally overreached themselves.”
A purr of satisfaction came into Zurisaday’s voice. “Yes, they are friendless and alone, on foot, on the wrong side of the border.”
“I am sending you a team.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For a rangy guy Ous felt like a heavyweight. Of course one hundred degree heat and hours spent staggering through endless canyons in Afghanistan’s summer sun could put weight on a man, particularly if you were the one who had to carry him. Ous rode Bolan piggyback and drifted in and out of wheezing consciousness. The old warrior wasn’t spitting up blood yet, but the soldier was pretty sure the veteran had a pulmonary contusion. One or both of his lungs had been bruised when the truck had hit the creek nose-first, and he had met the dashboard.
They had walked away from the river and not found a water source since. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The temperature might have edged a degree or two away from one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. There was still plenty of time to die of heat prostration. Failing that, the temperature in the mountains would drop like a rock come sundown.
Bolan looked up as rotors thundered over the canyons. He stepped under a rock overhang and set Ous down. He watched from hiding as a pair of Pakistani army helicopters roared overhead. Ous’s voice was a rasp. “Perhaps we should attempt to contact them.”
“Why?”
“Well, the last I heard Pakistan and the United States were allies. Particularly their secular army generals.”
“That’s true, but there’s one problem.”
“What is that?”
The Pakistani army flies Pumas, Alouette IIIs and Lamas. Those are Dauphins.”
Ous watched the helicopters pass out of visual over the ridgeline. “You are very well informed.”
“I’ve worked hard to become so.”
“You think they fly under false colors?”
“I do.”
“And they hunt us?”
“We’re in the FATA, and the Federally Administered Tribal Areas don’t like the federal administration. Military helicopters tend to be bullet magnets in this corner of Pakistani airspace.”
“And our friends feel comfortable flying low and slow in a search pattern.”
“Someone spread the word,” Bolan stated.
“So what do we do?”
“Best I can figure, we have a long hike ahead of us.”
Ous sighed. He didn’t seem pleased by the prospect. “Ah.”
“The good news is that they aren’t gunships.”
“What is the bad news?” Ous asked.
“Dauphins can hold up to eleven passengers.”
“Two squads,” Ous calculated. “Half a platoon.”
“And they could be ninjas.”
“Well, if there are twenty-two ninjas, at least they are twenty-two ninjas without gunships.”
Bolan smiled tiredly. “You’re a good man, Ous.”
“I feel like a very old man.”
“I’d call you distinguished.”
Ous laughed and it broke into coughing. He looked at his hand and there were a few tiny specks of blood in his sputum. He matched Bolan’s weary smile. “Brother, let us walk a little farther.”
The Afghan stood, then sat back down again.
Bolan drew his machine pistol as he heard the crunch of boots in the gravel of the canyon floor. “Someone’s coming.”
Ous pulled his pistol.
Seven men rounded a bend in the canyon. Their shoulders were hunched as men did when there were rotorcraft in the air, and their eyes scanned the skies above as they moved. They wore local garb, and each man carried a Kalashnikov of some derivation. Their beards put Bolan’s CIA special to shame. They weren’t ninjas. These were guys who put the “Tribal” in the phrase Federally Administered Tribal Area. Bolan and Ous weren’t exactly slouches when it came to not being seen, and it took the troop of Pashtuns a moment before they became aware of the two men crouching beneath the overhang.
The Pashtuns spoke as one man. “Bismillah!”
They took in Bolan’s horrific visage and the holy man lying in the shadow wheezing. The soldier slowly lowered his pistol and shoved it back in his sash. These men were clearly not happy about the choppers in the sky, and Bolan figured his chances of hiking out of the FATA to the Afghan border with Ous on his back were pretty much zero. He played his last card. He looked up into the sky meaningfully and then at the gray beard who appeared to be the leader. Bolan spoke one of the few words of Pashto he knew.
“Nanawatai.”
The Pashtuns gaped in shock.
Bolan had just asked the tribesmen for sanctuary.
The headman gave Bolan a squint that would have done Dirty Harry proud. His men all clutched their AKs and looked to the headman warily. The headman took a long breath and pulled himself up with great dignity. The iron code of Pashtunwali had the old man by the short hairs, and they both knew it. He deliberately walked over and knelt to give Ous a consoling pat on the shoulder. The two men passed a few words. The headman stood and gave Bolan a bow. The soldier didn’t need to know the language. The headman had bid them welcome.
He might well have signed his village’s death warrant, as well, but Bolan figured the headman suspected that already. The old man nodded at two of his men and they solicitously put Ous into a seated two-man carry. Their efficiency told Bolan the villagers were no strangers to carrying casualties. The big American fell into step with Ous’s bearers as the troop of warriors reversed course and went back the way they came. Ous spent a little time speaking with the men carrying him. The old guerrilla seemed to be ingratiating himself. The stony reserve of the tribesmen carrying him went from smiles to a few rueful laughs.
Bolan’s forbidding form remained a source of furtive, wary looks.
They passed through passages among the rocks and over cliff paths that would have given a mountain goat pause. They came upon the village abruptly. About a third of the village was half carved, half squatted under a vast pocket in the rock face like a Hopi Pueblo. The rest spilled down the hillside and nestled next to a river. The other side of the canyon was terraced farmland. The village was like a little, hidden Shangri-la. Bolan gazed across the vertical acres of poppy flowers twining around river driftwood trellises.
This Shangri-la was dealing in opium rather than mystical enlightenment.
It wasn’t so hidden, either. Shell craters showed this piece of real estate had been fought over, and recently. At the sight of visitors, villagers began moving in all directions. Bolan noted that the women visible in the village wore headscarves but not the full burka. They peered openly at Ous sympathetically and at Bolan in concerned speculation. The women’s dress and behavior told Bolan the Taliban didn’t have control of the village.
A maze of ladders and steep steps took Bolan and Ous up into the cave section of the village. The headman put them in a carpeted cube of a room and steaming bowls of heavily dilled noodle soup arrived in short order along with the ubiquitous pot of tea. The headman and his right-hand man swiftly disappeared.
Ous fired up his pipe, hacked from his bruised lungs and put the pipe away.
Bolan checked the loads in his pistol. “Bad idea, brother.”
“Habit is stronger than reason,” Ous agreed. “The headman’s name is Bilal. He has sent someone to the next village. They have some sort of a doctor there.”
“Kind of them. What will they do next?”
>
“You have invoked nanawatai. As you may have surmised, Bilal was initially displeased but he has granted it and his men have gone along with it.”
“How long can we count on their hospitality?” Bolan asked.
“That is a good question. We are strangers. Though nanawatai has been granted, the situation must be investigated. I suspect the village elders are having a very interesting meeting about us. I have told them I am very weary and might we rest for a little while.”
“You had your litter-bearers smiling,” Bolan observed.
“Oh, well. I have fought beside Pashtuns before. I made all the correct gestures and pleasing observations that a visitor should.”
“They don’t seem to be Taliban.”
“No, indeed I believe the situation here in this village is tenuous.” Ous raised a questioning eyebrow. “You wish to continue the wandering imam and Mighty One act?”
“No, that one’s run its course and the satellite link to my translator and Keller are shot. Do you know how to cut hair?”
“The first job I ever had was that of a barber,” Ous admitted. “Though I may be a little rusty.”
“Then I’d like you to ask for a razor, a comb and some scissors.”
Ous spent long moments scrutinizing Bolan’s role camouflage. “Do you believe that is wise?”
“I think the God’s honest truth is the only way to go with these people, and I’d rather it be us pulling the big reveal rather than the bad guys ratting us out on it.”
“And how will we explain your miraculous transformation? If they believe that nanawatai was granted under false pretenses, the consequences may well be grim.”
“These people don’t like the Taliban?” Bolan asked.
“I believe they despise them.”
Bolan shrugged. “Well, do you think the villagers might be amused by the trick we pulled on their enemies?”
A slow smile spread across the old guerrilla fighter’s face. “They just might.”
THE MEETING NEARLY broke into a riot as Bolan walked in. The shawl and cap were gone. So were his Central Asia hair and beard. Ous had clipped his hair into a shaggy yet serviceable haircut. There was nothing Bolan could do about the cosmetic scar tissue lining the left side of his face and neck or his fake tan, but they were all the more startling with the mustache and beard gone. Bolan looked like a Special Forces operative who had long ago gone to the Dark Side. Shouting broke out among the village elders.
Bolan bowed to Bilal. “Salam.”
Bilal grunted back a surly “Salam” in return as Bolan helped Ous to a cushion and took a seat.
“Well,” Ous said, “what shall I tell them?”
“Everything.”
“Very well…” Ous began speaking in Pashto. He spoke for about fifteen minutes. He omitted names but otherwise told the villagers of his experiences since hooking up with Bolan. The village elders and warriors listened silently. Throughout Ous’s summation, the soldier received increasing looks of incredulity, disbelief and awe.
When he finished, a profound silence filled the room. Ous turned to Bolan. “They particularly liked the part about killing two Taliban with one dummy rocket.”
“Tell Bilal I am willing to answer any questions he may have. Translate for us directly.” The first trick in a situation like this was to maintain eye contact and talk to the other person as if they understood everything you said. A pro never looked at the translator. The translator never personally interrupted unless absolutely necessary. Ous seemed to have done this before. He took a seat halfway between Bolan and Bilal and slightly off to the side.
Bilal got straight to the point. “You have seen our fields.”
There was no point in denying it. “Yes.”
“The United States Military is dedicated to eradicating our fields.”
“That is in Afghanistan. This is the FATA. Pakistan is a valued ally of the United States, and the U.S. Military has no presence, much less jurisdiction here.”
“But,” Bilal protested, “the United States Military—”
“I am not a member of the United States Military.”
It was a very old page from Bolan’s playbook, but like a boxer with a sweet, right-hand lead it almost never failed to wow them even in the cheap seats. Stunned amazement reigned in the headman’s salon. “But you are an American?” Bilal asked.
“Yes.”
“But you are not a member of the United States Military?” Bilal pressed. “No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To prevent the Taliban from engaging in acts of terror,” Bolan replied.
“You seem to spend more time killing them.”
Bolan shrugged. “Can you think of a better way to stop them?”
Amused grunts ran around the room at Bolan’s wisdom. Bilal looked skyward and made a helicopter motion with his hand. “There is a man, his name is Saboor. He has—”
“I know him,” Bolan said. “He needs killing.”
The elders nodded and stroked their beards at the wisdom of this, as well. Bilal gave Bolan a very hard look of concern. “There is a man. A terrible man. A devil. His name is Syed. He came here two weeks ago and he—”
“I broke his arms and legs and gave him to the United States Military as a gift.”
The room erupted. Bilal broke translation and laid into Ous rapid-fire. Ous nodded and turned to Bolan. “I have told him that even in the camp of our enemies you were known as the Mighty One.”
Bolan locked his gaze with Bilal once more. “I don’t claim it, but some have said it.”
“What do you wish of us?” Bilal asked.
“The hospitality of the Pashtuns is known from sea to sea. My friend was injured in battle, and you have shown him and me every kindness. I fear because of it Saboor and his devils will come. This is Pakistani soil, sovereign, and I can’t bring the might of the United States Military to help. I have already endangered your village, but the danger will be less if we leave. For my friend’s sake, I would ask for one night of rest, a sack of grain, dried meat, and a bottle of water and we will leave.”
Bilal’s ancient face wrinkled. The law of nanawatai was iron, Bolan had just told the old man he would relinquish it and walk out with Ous into the FATA and die. Bilal was visibly moved by Bolan’s bravery. “You shame me.”
“Then I crave a boon.”
Bilal stroked his beard in sudden suspicion. “What is that?”
“If you have one, a rifle with a telescopic sight,” Bolan said.
The request was met with grins and a great deal of knee slapping. Bilal smiled happily. “My second son, Shahzad, will slaughter a goat.”
Bolan bowed in gratitude. “Salam, Bilal.”
“After you have been feasted,” Bilal continued, “we shall see about a rifle.” The old man’s hand creaked into a fist. “And then we shall bid this pig Saboor defiance.”
OUS RESTED comfortably on cushions in Bilal’s house with his fingers laced across a belly distended with roasted goat. Bolan cleaned his Stechkin and drank tea. They had been shown every comfort except one. No one had offered to let them use a phone, and Bolan had decided it might make things awkward to ask, at least until he and Ous had earned a little more trust. Bilal’s son Jadeed entering the room excitedly waving a museum piece. At one point it had been a British Lee-Enfield Mark VI infantry rifle. Someone had long ago given it a Monte Carlo-style sporting stock and a dubious-looking Chinese copy of a Bushnell six-power scope. Bolan removed the magazine.
The weapon took .303 ammunition, however the magazine was loaded with gleaming new Federal Power-Shok soft-point ammunition.
“Three-oh-three!” Jadeed grinned. It might well have been his only English.
Bolan clicked the magazine back in place, racked a round and pushed on the safety. “Yeah, .303.”
Jadeed handed Bolan a homemade bandolier full of homemade, 5-round charger clips for the WWII-vintage weapon. They both looked up at the sound of rotor
s in the distance.
Bolan knelt beside Ous. “Can you walk?”
“I need a rifle and perhaps a shoulder to lean on just a little.”
Jadeed helped Ous up without being asked, and the two men spoke. Bolan went outside. Bilal and several villagers stood with rifles in hand looking to the ravine to the east. The headman held up one finger, then pointed toward the eastern hills. One chopper had deployed its passengers. Bolan held up two fingers in question. Bilal shrugged.
Bolan had a bad feeling the village was being flanked. He followed Bilal down to the hill to the creek that split the little canyon. A nice six-foot adobe wall girded the frontal arc of the village, and decades of fighting had taught them to put in a firing step for ease of shooting over it. Bilal stepped out into the opening in the wall. It had no gate. Beyond the wall were pens for the village livestock.
Bolan stepped out next to Bilal. Ous came a moment later, leaning heavily on Jadeed. “You all right?”
“Yes.”
Armed villagers began lining the wall while women and boys drove livestock from the pens into the village. Bolan took a moment to peer down his scope. It seemed to be in order. There was no time to check its zero. He was just going to have to hope that its owner took shooting seriously. “There’s going to be a parley?”
Ous nodded. “In this situation it is traditional.”
“Ask him who’s got the back door.”
Ous translated. “He says the cliffs behind the village are insurmountable, and should they try to deploy men at the peak from a helicopter they will receive a very hard welcome.”
Bilal held up both hands as though he was behind the spade grips of a heavy machine gun. “Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah!” he proclaimed.
Jadeed happily mimed, holding a rocket launcher over one shoulder. “Toof!”
The villagers had crew-served weapons in the crags overlooking the village and the land behind it.
A man stepped out of the gully that led away from the canyon. It wasn’t Saboor. He was dressed like a soldier in Pakistani army disruptive camo and wore a dark blue beret. His uniform was devoid of rank or unit badges. He cradled an FN 2000 assault rifle. The weapon was Pakistani special forces issue. The rifle’s almost organic curves made it look vaguely like a submarine or a dolphin. The 40 mm grenade launcher tube mounted below the barrel spoiled the effect.
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